Author: jrfpatton
Feedback: jrfpatton@hotmail.com

Archive: At your pleasure.  Just keep these headers with it. OK
for awards consideration too.
Rating: R, V=3
Classification: X, A, MSR
Spoilers: through "Orison" in season seven only.
Author's Notes: to read all 20 chapters at once (and dustjacket!)
go to  http://www.fran58.net/new.htm
Disclaimer - These characters are owned by Chris Carter, Ten
Thirteen Productions, and Twentieth Century Fox.
Summary:  Mulder returns from an assignment to find a
disoriented Scully pleading to a felony. Her imprisonment leads
the agents on the trail of ghostly robbers and forces
them to question the bars between them.

     Prison of Innocents

The hair on the back of Charlie Duncan's neck stood straight up.
Something colder than air conditioning caused him to shiver.  The
security guard rose slowly from the table he'd been using to study
for college finals and looked down the long corridor of First
National Bank of Virginia at his partner.  Andy Paige was on his
feet too.

Oh hell! Charlie thought he had lucked into an easy part-time job
- the best one since he became a temporary security guard.  It had
been such
an easy gig he'd started studying on the job.  Easy until now.  He
took a quick look around hoping to God he saw nothing to be alarmed
about.

High arched ceilings, early 19th century marble columns that braced
and graced wide corridors, walls that seemed to do nothing more than
support a rotating art exhibit - First National Bank of Virginia spared no
expense for its customers and staff.  All this ambiance and college
money too.  He'd been thrilled.  They paid him to walk the floors of the
bank every hour from midnight to six a.m., listen for noises - never
anything more than his own breathing or his partner's incessant smoker's
cough -- and spend the rest of the night learning managerial economics.

Another sudden gust of cold air on his neck and shoulders had him
ducking as though he were under attack.  Still he saw nothing. The bank
was dark, silent.  Okay, he thought with a snort, the air conditioner
must be working overtime like his imagination.  He started to return to
his book when he heard a noise.  To his alarm, Andy Paige had drawn his
weapon.

"Stop!" Charlie shouted, pulling his own weapon.  He looked around
frantically for what had surprised Andy.  Charlie heard a shot.  He
thought he fired too then heard the report from a second gun.  The
young man's knees gave way, but he didn't feel anything even when he
hit the floor.  His blood soaked into the blue carpet in the hall and
he began to burn deep in his chest.  Charlie wondered where all the
shots came from.

Andy Paige stepped around him on his way to the vault.  His lips
moved but the voice didn't sound like Andy, "Damn fools! He got away
from me." The young man on the bank floor tried to breathe.  It was so
hard.

An angel watched Charlie.  He saw her eyes and knew he was dying.  He
wasn't afraid.  An angel had come to help him, why should he be
afraid?  The angel glanced in Andy's direction as he disappeared into
the vault, and knelt.  Everything felt unreal to Charlie and tainted by
red-hot blaze radiating from his chest. The angel put her hands out to
touch his right arm, but Charlie didn't feel it.  He looked into those
beautifully kind eyes that seemed shrouded by mist and fog -- and
blacked out.

Someone was still in the bank when he came around.  The fire in his
chest had cooled down and Charlie could feel a presence without opening
his eyes. "He on his way out." It sounded like a black woman.  The air
made a distinctive wheeze.  "If he die you die too?  Don't go in him
then."  The young man heard nothing until the woman's voice said, "Why
you hate being away?  You think yer body so bee-utiful?"

Charlie opened one eye painfully to see Andy in a grotesque dance with
the air.  "Free air," the voice from Andy's body said.  "I loves it.
Smells different."  No one else  was around.  Andy aimed at a small waste
can by a nearby desk  and kicked it down the carpet.  The tinny clang of
the small can echoed off the walls as it hit another desk.  "Damn!"
said Andy.  He looked at his foot with a painful grimace.

Charlie knew his angel was ashamed of Andy -- of something in
Andy.  He felt sorry for own angel, she seemed so sad.  He wanted to
reach out and tell her she was wonderful, thank her for helping him,
for being with him.  He didn't know where to find her, but she seemed
so close.

"Yer weakening me," said the voice in Andy.  The voice had a hint of
panic.  "I got to take them bonds outside -- then I let the boy go."

The cold settled over Charlie.  Just before darkness closed in again,
it occurred to Charlie that his great part-time job just got shot to
hell.
*****
FBI Special Agent Fox Mulder fidgeted at the airline check-in gate.
Tentatively he moved one foot out of line, then glanced over to see
if his partner was still watching.

Special Agent Dana Scully stood next to the desk in the boarding area
with her arms folded and his duffel bag at her feet.  When she raised
one eyebrow slightly to show she was indeed monitoring his progress
toward the airline ticket clerk, he flashed an innocent half-smile.
His foot returned to its original position and he shifted his weight to
make sure the morning newspaper under his arm was secure.

"Seattle?" said the clerk.

"Salmon capitol of the world.  I'm fishing for Big Foot
myself," Mulder said affably.

"Have a nice flight," said the clerk, pressing on to the
next customer.

"Big Foot?" said Scully.  She kicked his duffel bag with her toe.

"There haven't been any sightings in the northeastern woods," said her
partner.  " But I might get lucky."

"That's the kind of positive attitude we like to see at the FBI,"
Scully said.

Mulder tapped the newspaper.  "It's safe for you to go to work, a
federal judge says the FBI's not at fault for Waco.  Ever feel you're out
there alone, Scully?"  She answered with pursed lips and a scowl."We
should be looking for the phantom bank robber.  It says the guard
who robbed the bank two weeks ago had a ghostly accomplice," Mulder
said, thrusting the front-page at her.  "The wounded night guard said-'"

Scully took the paper, folded it, and handed it back without looking.
"It will be over before you get back."

"I feel like I'm being sent to summer camp so my parents can run around
the house naked," he said.

"That's a terrible thought," she said.

"Summer camp?"

"The other part," she said.  "Did you pack insect repellant?"

"Insects?" Mulder pulled his mouth down in disgust.

"It's only for a month.  Nice cool weather instead of a
hot Washington summer-."

"No phones, no television, no radio, no newspaper, no e-mail, no
take-out Chinese-"

"That's undoubtedly why they call it survival training," she said.
"They say the forest is beautiful.  All those junipers,
true cedars, hemlock-"

"I'll poison myself.  They'll have to send me home," he said.
"Why aren't you going?"

Scully rubbed her lips.  "They pulled your number."

"Women get drafted."

"Mulder, your flight's boarding."

He turned around to discover he was the only passenger
standing in the waiting area.  The tunnel into the aircraft gaped
at Mulder like a black hole.  He shuddered, "Why aren't you going?"
he said again, this time in a wistful whisper.

"You won't have to shave for a month," she said by way of encouragement.

Mulder took a strand of her hair between his thumb and finger absently,
then leaned close to give her his best sad eyed look.  "You'll miss me."

That was very true, Scully admitted.  She was finding it hard to let him
go for some reason.  Unable to resist, she kissed his cheek and gave him
a quick pat on the arm.  The power of suggestion made her believe she
could already smell pine on him.  "Wrap up your toothpaste and hang it
from a tree branch," she said.  "Otherwise you'll attract bears."

"Bears!" He held her at arm's length and their eyes locked.  She could feel
her pulse quicken as it always did when he looked at her like that.  "I
don't want to attract- bears," he said.  Then he did something
impulsive, but she thought later, very Mulder.  He kissed her.  She
responded to him before she had time or presence of mind to do anything
else.

"They're closing the door," she said, shaking inside from surprise and
the unbidden warmth.  What had been so natural now felt awkward, not a
part of who they said they were.

"Why would bears want my toothpaste?" Mulder said as she herded him
toward the gate.  "It's a generic brand."  She folded her arms across
her chest, but her chuckle followed him down the tunnel.
********
Still smiling to herself Scully drove back to J.  Edgar Hoover
building in heavy traffic.  Her uneasy feeling of the early morning had
lifted with Mulder's plane.  Like most mornings that began with air travel,
she awakened with a vague feeling that something bad was about to
happen.  Instead, she thought as two fingers tapped her lips, something
good happened.  Something probably good.

Mulder fought this last minute training session.  He'd even gone to
Skinner and returned fuming.  She knew he hated to take one minute
from the X-Files, although he admitted they had nothing pending right
now something might come up.  Safe bet.

Personally, she was sorry she hadn't been chosen.  Although she
normally preferred vacations near water, right now the northwest woods
sounded so free, open, fresh and -- she slammed on the brakes to avoid
a car --uncluttered.  Even survival training would seem like a
vacation.  As a person who prized quiet and the natural order of things,
she would appreciate a deep woods experience more than Mulder, who
needed chaos to breathe.

Traffic came to a complete stop.  She strained to look over
the car in front to see what was holding things up.  It appeared
to be an accident.  Where were the police?  Never a
cop when you need one.  Now she had to turn right and she was too
far to the left.  Beside her the cell phone chirped. "Scully."

"Hey, that tape you sent-"

"Frohike?"

He sounded worried.  "That tape-"

"What tape?"

"The one you sent last night.  Scully, it-."

"I didn't send a tape." She signaled to get into the right lane.  The
blue Corvette in that lane inched forward, refusing to let her in.

Bastard, she thought.

"What's the matter with you - putting funny stuff in your brownies?"
Frohike said.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Scully said,
smiling at the woman in the red mini-van who allowed her to pull
over one lane.

"I'm trying to tell you there's nothing on it.  It's blank.
A blank white sheet of paper wrapped over a blank tape."

"So we're talking about a blank tape that I don't remember sending
you?" Scully said.

"Maybe it was Mulder.  Is he there?"

"I just put him on the plane.  I'm late for work."

"I don't like it," Frohike said.

Scully could picture his eyes and jowls drop his face into
a serious expression. "I've been late before.  They get over it."

"Whatever was on that tape was very important," Frohike said.

Scully's eyes fastened onto the driver of a green sedan in
the next lane.  He looked slow, inattentive.  The perfect victim.
"Can we do this later?"  Scully pressed the accelerator and
darted in front of a green sedan in hopes of getting in the correct
lane to make a right turn two blocks later.  The sedan's horn blared.
"I deserved that," she muttered to the driver behind her.

"What?" Frohike said.

"I'm a little busy here," she said. She tossed the phone down and
just barely got into the right turn lane in time.  Her turn signal
clicked, the garage gate groaned mechanically, then clanged open.

As she pulled into the parking garage Scully thought with some
envy that in a few hours Mulder would hear the chirp of crickets,
the chatter of squirrels, the distinctive whip of wind through tree
leaves.  He would smell evergreens, earth, wood flowers.  She would
inhale carbon monoxide fumes.  She had to shave her legs every day.  He
would grow a beard and his face would be scratchy to touch.  She
decided not to dwell on that part.

Her fresh-air fantasies now completely evaporated, Scully
stepped into the underground garage aroma of car exhaust and
motor oil.  The garage was hot and muggy; her clothes began to
stick to her almost at once.  After she locked the car she didn't
notice the smell anymore, she was thinking about the work
waiting for her in the basement and realized she had no clear
idea of what to do.  Her purposeful steps slowed.  She scowled in
confusion as she opened the glass doors that connected the
garage and the Hoover building.

The hallways in front of the parking garage contained a
labyrinth of closets, storage areas, vacant offices and one
water fountain.  It all smelled like paper -- the odor of woods
after being subjected to a bureaucracy.  Framed photos of law
enforcement officers and gold or wooden award plaques hung along
the walls, so familiar to Scully now she scarcely took note of
them anymore.

As she leaned down to take a drink from the fountain she focused
on one serious photo of a rotund man in a brown suit.  Agents
were certainly robust in those days.

"Agent Arnold Calvin.  Killed in the line of duty, 1948.
One of two killed that month.  FBI agents have always been
prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice for duty.  You're late,
Agent Scully.  Come in.  Did you have an errand?"

Water dripped from her mouth but she felt all her saliva
dry up.  "Yes sir." Her feet moved.

"I understand you like tea.  I have some special tea brewing for you.
Sit here.  This reclines.  Put up your feet if you like."

Scully blinked a few times; she felt a little dizzy,
uncertain, and her stomach was upset. She had a funny taste in her mouth.
She shook herself from daydreaming, straightened her jacket and glanced
about the hallway.  Few people appeared in either direction.
She frowned and consulted her watch.  It was off.  At least she
hoped it was wrong.  Exactly how late was she? Surely Mulder's
plane hadn't been that far off schedule.
***********************
Scully was hiding something, Mulder thought as he watched Washington
grow smaller beneath him.  She was the worst liar he'd ever met and for
the last week she'd refused to look him in the eye, avoided close
situations where he could quiz her and actually seemed relieved when he
drew this wilderness-survival assignment at the last minute.

She was preoccupied and, in typical Scully fashion, threw up a wall
that he couldn't penetrate.  She even snapped at him twice last week.
He had gone over and over recent events for what he had said - or not
said - that might have sent her to the barricades.  Maybe it wasn't him.
A case? No.  Whatever it was, something was on her mind, something that
made her anxious and secretive. Something that she didn't want him to
know or share.  That hurt.

Yesterday everything shifted.  She came into the office as though the
problem resolved itself overnight.  He looked into the depth of her
eyes:  blue and clear.  No ripples.  He had stared in  bewilderment.
She cocked her head. Then her face glowed with understanding. "Stop
looking stricken.  It's only a month," she had said.  Amusement warmed
her smile.  He was so relieved to have her back he almost wiggled
like a puppy.

Mulder opened the newspaper, stared at the front page without seeing,
and finally turned the page.  Only a month.  He hated woods and trees.
He hated being cut off from everything. And he hated -- he didn't want
to think it, but the truth was right there on his lips  - he hated
leaving Scully.  He rubbed his mouth.  She was too surprised to punch
him and, in fact, unless it was wishful thinking, he detected some
enthusiasm on her part.

He couldn't imagine why he'd kissed her like that at the gate.  Maybe
it was the hide and seek she'd been playing. Maybe it was his
realization that a month without Scully was 30 days without true vision
or sound.  Maybe it was the look, the I'll-miss-you-look.  Mulder
flicked his tongue over his lips to see if any taste of her remained.
He missed her already and the ground she stood on was still visible
beneath him.  He groaned, squirmed in his seat, moved the newspaper over
his lap and straightened his tie.  Nobody was looking.

Good thing.
**************
Henry J.  Donaldson, assistant attorney general of the United States,
served at the pleasure of the Attorney General.  She wasn't very
pleased right then.

He scurried out of her office and down the hall with her sharp
reprimands ringing in his ears.  It wasn't his fault. He
wasn't an investigator and those he relied on had failed him.  That
wasn't enough to satisfy the gargoyle, however.  Donaldson fumed his
way down the corridor.

His pointed nose, wavy gray hair and thin frame, not to mention the
furtive way he scurried in and out of the AG's office, earned him the
nickname Squirrel among the law clerks.  Donaldson would have been
mortified if he'd known.  He considered himself a sophisticated bon
vivant, a decorated war hero, dapper dresser, and intellectual giant
whose wit captivated his interns and clerks.  His wife and son adored
him, his lover waited on him, and the young blonde man in the third
floor research office went down on him at least once a week.

His appeal was lost on the Attorney General, however.  She only wanted
results.  Henry Donaldson was short on results.  His biggest and most
confidential assignment, given him personally by the Attorney General
at his request, lay sprawled across the front page of "The Washington
Post" and a dozen major dailies.

Now the AG wanted to know why he was no closer to explaining the
ghostly robbery that appear on the front pages.  And if he couldn't
handle this foray into criminal matters would he like to return to tax
and security fraud? Revisit Treasury Department legal matters? Look
into insider trader schemes?  Donaldson had no desire to retrace
his career path.

Fortunately, the media didn't know that the bank robbery carried the
same MO as a major securities heist five states west just two months
ago, a brokerage house robbery in New York four months earlier and
God knows what else.

A California bond company lost millions in bearer bonds a year ago and
a clerk was killed.  In New York a trader died of a heart attack after
a robbery there.  Each case contained similar facts: office workers or
security guards - all solid citizens -- caught flat-footed late at night
stealing from employers.  None of proceeds had surfaced.  In each
case the authorities had a suspect and in each case the suspect claimed
to be possessed.  Rational explanations for all the robberies abounded
-arrests made, convictions in one case, plea bargain in another. Until
this bank robbery cast a pall over it all.  All the same MO --
except there was a living witness this time as well as the suspect who
claimed to be possessed by a black woman.

Furthermore, the witness swore an angel comforted him during this ordeal.
He even had the police artist sketch the face for him.  What Donaldson
had in his file was a pastel drawing that could be every fine-boned
woman with dark hair between 35 and 45 years old in the United States.

Henry Donaldson knew that face.

The first time he saw that picture he had to fight back tears.  He felt
like he had cramps and nearly doubled over from the pain of longing.
The whole world had suddenly gone mad.  He took a deep breath to calm
himself, to push back anything inside him that was weak and soft.
The pressure was too much for his feminine side.  He was losing his
grip.  Correction: he had lost it.

That was the source of his current dilemma.  He couldn't do the things
he had done 30 years - no, even five years ago.  Age, distraction, high
living and divided attentions cost him his power of concentration and
his ability to focus.  That was the real problem.  Thank God he had
always possessed a compartmentalized mind.  He always had the
ability to shut things off in little boxes until he needed them.  He
was a natural.  Now things were rapidly spinning out of control.
Donaldson wanted a Hershey bar and a shot of scotch, not necessarily
in that order.

He had a hunch about these so-called angels or ghosts -- ever since
rumors about the robberies began circulating around Justice.
Donaldson had been so shocked by what he found he immediately
volunteered to take on the task of resolving the case.

He had no intention of letting anyone else uncover connections, however
tenuous, between him and the two ghosts in the Virginia bank.  He'd be
ruined.  Exposed.

Henry J. Donaldson knew the truth of the statement that some people in
your life were never meant to leave you.

In his post-luncheon meeting with the AG, Donaldson tried to tell her
these cases were just strong coincidences and criminals trying to use
the insanity defense.  She accepted neither his rational
explanations nor the ghostly reports.  She wanted something of more
substance.

So far the attorney general's office had succeeded in keeping most of
the information about the crime spree out of the newspapers.  That
would not last, the AG warned.  Donaldson had a plan.  It was solid and
scary.  He outlined it for her.  Plans did not impress the AG.  Plans
are not solutions - her favorite phrase.

At least he bought more time, a few months.  He convinced her the crimes
had a pattern and that pattern would buy them months -- the time they
needed to set up a trap.  He skirted the details of this trap: the AG
wouldn't have believed him if he'd told her anyway.

He hardly believed it himself.  He thought it was all behind him.  Far
behind him.  Perhaps it could still be.  No, he had to stay the course
or else all the sacrifices - everything was in vain.

God, Donaldson hated the air of superiority around that woman, the AG.
Where others saw competency he saw politics and affirmative action at
their worst.  He stopped outside his office to straighten his French
cuffs and make certain his trousers had maintained their perfect crease
through this ordeal.

Now that he thought about it, he hated a lot of women right then,
including but not limited to the treacherous ones he hunted, the
tight-assed one who could flush them out, and the weak one who failed
to produce for him.  Women had taken over his life, Henry Donaldson
thought.

He despised being under a woman's control.  And he wouldn't stand for
it.  He never had and he never would.  He would not be his father and
smile while a woman emasculated him.

The Attorney General had no idea how badly Donaldson wanted this bank
robbing angel in his hot hands.  He felt his career, his life, his
experience, his training all pointed toward this one defining event in
his life.  He was equal to the challenge.  He took another deep breath.
He may have lost a step, but he was smart.  He thought ahead, planned.
He was still strong.  His handmade shirt suddenly felt tight.

Donaldson pursed his lips and his green eyes narrowed into
slits.  Stupid women jeopardized everything he had worked toward.
He pictured himself putting his thumbs on the cartilage in this
so-called angel's neck, squeezing slowly until her eyes bulged
out, the bones crushed and she struggled uselessly for air.  He
could do that; he'd done it to grown men in the Vietnam War.
That had been 30 years ago when he and a Marine named Walter
Skinner served in the same combat zone.  Skinner served with the
grunts in country; Donaldson was a spook.

Now they would be in arena together again and, as before,
on the same side with different purposes.  Donaldson smiled to
remember what this day held.  His gloom dissipated somewhat.
Walter Skinner had an agent under him that Donaldson planned to
grill and he couldn't wait to burn her lovely little butt.  Her
self-assured facade would crack; she would be scared and
confused, sick.  His spirits lifted and he felt a measure
of control return.

"Good morning, Mr. Donaldson," said a clerk in his office.

"Morning, Miss Ames," he said.  "I read your brief on Mann
v.  Ohio.  I have a question about the appropriate role of the
police in the search, but otherwise, excellent."  The clerk's
eyes widened.  She started to say something, but he held up his
hand.  "It's nice to have a bright young person like you working
with me.  Now, where the heck is that black FBI personnel file?
It was just here..."

He noticed he needed a manicure.
****
Mulder smelled so badly he disgusted himself.  He pushed
aside the soup of roots and berries his survival team of FBI
agents made for dinner.  His stomach was in revolt.  What he
wouldn't give right now for a steak.  His feet hurt, his hands
were raw from rope burns, and his stomach growled.  He wished a
bear would venture into the camp.  After almost three weeks of
nuts and roots, the half dozen men assembled around the campfire
would make short work of the largest grizzly.

What he wouldn't give to try out Scully's theory,
brush his teeth and attract a bear.  But he had no toothpaste.
All the trainees had been allowed to keep was their dignity and
a canteen of water. He couldn't shake an uneasy feeling about Scully.

The incident today with an agent from Dallas only reinforced it.  As
Mulder's life went, the drop had been a minor scare.  Mulder
stood atop a cliff with the group leader, tethered to the agent
from Dallas who was climbing up a cliff face.  The Texan lost his
footing, and tumbled down the cliff.  Mulder leaned against the
rope just as it pulled taut, nearly dragging him off the edge.

"Mulder! Don't let me go!"  The voice over the cliff sounded hollow,
far away -- and very familiar.

The rope cut into Mulder and burned his hands as he
attempted to pull the Dallas agent over the top.  As the man's
hands appeared over the edge Mulder leaned down and held out a
helping hand.  Instead of the burly Dallas agent, the face that
appeared over the cliff was Scully's.  He grabbed for her with
both hands and yanked her up.  She was light as a child.

"Okay, I'm fine!" the Texan said, panting.  He sat up and
wiped his brow.  "Partner, I sure am glad you were there..."
Mulder peered over the edge.  No one there but the rest of
the team standing several feet below and looking up anxiously.
Some shielded their eyes; others shouted "what happened?" None
of them was a woman, he noticed.

That night with the stars and the small campfire as the
only light, Mulder folded his hands behind his head and thought
about it.  He knew what Scully would say: she was on his mind and
he projected her image onto the man.  Mulder tried to find a
comfortable place in the needle and leaf bed he'd made for
himself on the forest floor.  The Texan, who snored loud enough
to register on a seismograph, settled nearby.

Maybe Scully was right.  Maybe she worried his subconscious
because he knew he'd crossed a dangerous line with her at the
airport, an unspoken line.  Kisses in stress and on New Year's
Eve were not like sweet kisses in airport gateways.  That was
stupid of him.  But unless he mentioned it, Scully would overlook
it.  She must tire of always being the strong one. Mulder smiled
into the blackness of the forest. He was going to mention it.

Campfire discussions ignited a new restlessness in Mulder.
Two of the married men missed their wives and didn't mind
sharing after the first week.  One conversation lead to another
to fend off boredom.  He refused to talk about his partner - he
only said he was teamed with a redhaired woman.  It seemed a
betrayal to say more-- but the men had already begun to kid him.

"Man that closed mouth is protecting something real
important," the Dallas agent had said and the men around the
fire laughed.  Mulder liked the Texan, but he didn't care for
that laugh.

Lying a thousand miles from temptation he admitted he
wanted something more from the partnership than she did-than he
thought she did.  He never asked what she wanted.  She never
initiated anything between them, but Mulder knew in his soul
that all they had to do was reach out and it was all there for
them.  Lovers, friends, partners.  The question in his mind was not
if but when.  And who.  As with most aspects of their lives, it
was a contest of wills - who would prove more needy? Who would
break first? Who would put the friend and partner at risk to
have it all?

Any other time his thoughts went to Scully this way his
hand went to his crotch.  But this time, this time he broke out
in a cold sweat of fear.  Now that he'd decided to approach her
about it, he dreaded it.

He could talk to her about spaceships, alien invasions, and mutants
while they were knee deep in blood, but he couldn't tell her that he
wanted a close encounter of another kind.  He could paint vivid
pictures of universal destruction, evil and darkness, but didn't know
how to show her all that she brought into his world.

He could be professional, but not personal -- not that personal,
anyway.  Maybe this far along in the game he didn't have the
right to anything different.  For years he'd been so obsessed
with finding his sister he had no clear vision of anything
beyond the X-Files.

She'd accepted that as a condition of their partnership,
embraced his mission and, fascinated by what she could not
explain, made it her own at huge personal cost.  He'd already
taken so much from her, maybe asking for something more was
obscene.

The belly-tightening undercurrent of sexuality that ran
beneath the surface of their partnership was one of the staples
of his life.  Somewhere along the line he'd grown fearful of
pushing it beyond talk, beyond a quick touch or a comforting
embrace.  Initially he thought she'd come to take his work and
possibly his life from him.  Then he wallowed so deep in self-
pity and doubt he could scarcely see her.

After that he feared to trespass on her innocence - she
seemed to him innocent of the darker forces of nature at
work in the world.  Life as his partner initiated her quiclder
and painfully.  Now he feared she'd vanish if she knew how he felt.

Through the hiking, repelling, fishing and daylight hours
of survival training, Mulder had little time to think of
anything but the task at hand.  At night, looking through the
trees at the stars, he thought about food with no fiber, a beer,
and a comfortable bed with Scully in it.

(Headers and disclaimer on Chapter One)

Prison of Innocents Chapter 2 of 20
 

Scully knew she'd been drugged.  Her eyes burned blurry and
her limbs seemed disjointed, like they didn't belong to her.  Her
mouth tasted like burnt leather.  She wasn't frightened; she knew
she was in a safe place, but there was an annoying chirp in the
air.

Her alarm sounded far away and -only it wasn't the alarm,
it was her cell phone.  "Where are you?" It was Ichabod - no, a
man who looked like Ichabod Crane.  Her attorney.  Waters.  Her
attorney's name was Bobby Waters.  No, Byron Waters.

Her head ached and her dry mouth creaked when she spoke.
"Overslept." It was a lie.  She'd been drugged.  She couldn't tell
him that.  He wouldn't believe her and her credibility would
suffer with one of the few people in the world who still thought
she had any.  Yet the unmistakable signs of it dragged on her
body.

It dawned on her she wasn't in her own bed.  She was in
Mulder's.  She lay naked in Mulder's bed.

She sat up, brushed the hair from her face and tried to
remember how she got here.  The more she tried to recall last
night's events the sicker she became.  An image of Walter Skinner
flashed through her mind.  Beyond that she couldn't imagine nor
did she have time to think before nausea ripped through her.

She barely made it to the bathroom.  She hadn't eaten much yesterday
and the greenish bile that came up was acrid.  Her stomach heaved
again.  She finally collapsed on cool tile under the sink and
opened her swollen eyes.  She realized from what she saw that
she'd vomited before in this bathroom, on her clothes.

She had to brush her teeth; she needed a drink of water.
Struggling to her feet Scully splashed water on her face and
flung open the medicine cabinet to see if Mulder kept aspirin,
an extra toothbrush.  Only aspirin - she took several - and a
dried up tube of toothpaste.  Her head felt ready to explode out
the front of her eyes.  She had to content herself with putting
crusty toothpaste on her finger.  Scully looked at it with
distaste, stuck it in her mouth to rub her teeth and tongue
vigorously.

She splashed her face over and over.  The cool water felt
good on her hot face and it fell across her neck and chest,
spilling down onto the floor.  She frowned, noticing small bruise
on the left side of her abdomen.  From? She couldn't think.
Scully grabbed a towel lying over the side of the tub.  The towel
smelled faintly of Mulder.  She buried her face in the towel and
rubbed hard.  She missed him so much her skin hurt.  Mulder.  She'd
gone looking for him last night.

No, not him.  Someone else.  She had gone looking for someone to find
Mulder.  That could only be Skinner.  Had she arrived at his apartment?
She must have.  She noticed another mystery bruise on the inside of her
right arm.  It didn't look like a needle mark.  It looked more like a
thumb print.

She staggered in her efforts to turn her body this way and that in a
search for needle entry.  Scully couldn't remember how she came by that
bruise or the one on her abdomen.  Her mind refused to focus.  Ideas
and random images bounced off her head like rapid-fire laser lights.

Only one notion remained constant.  Drugs.  Skinner.  A seething
fury began in her toes, burned its way through her loins into her
chest and incinerated the cobwebs in her head.

She wiped off the dark skirt of her suit and examined the
blouse.  Beyond immediate repair, she could see.  She tried on the
jacket without a blouse and decided it would pass if she kept it
buttoned.  Her pantyhose was still in one piece, thank God, but
she'd thrown up on her shoes.  She washed them off in the
bathroom sink, and pulled them on her feet as she waited for the
elevator.

She would kill Walter Skinner.  She would rip him apart
with her bare hands and once they heard the facts no jury of her
peers would convict her.  They might even canonize her.

Where the hell was her weapon? She didn't have one.  Skinner took
it.  That's why she was meeting with Ichabod - no, Waters.  Skinner
took her gun and her badge.  She would kill Skinner.  Saint Dana
of Washington.  It had a ring to it.
*********
"This is what angels look like," one of the survivalists
shouted to Mulder.  The Army helicopter began its descend to the
rendezvous site in the clearing beside them.  He clapped Mulder's
shoulder.  "Hell, I hope not," the man from the Dallas field office,
drawled.  "I had something a little-softer in mind." And he
illustrated with the wave of his hands.  All the men laughed.

Mulder wondered if they were half as anxious
to get out of the woods as he was.  What had he learned
from his month in the wilderness-that he hated eating tree bark?
That your partner could be trusted to haul your ass out of
trouble? That keeping your powder dry was good advice? He
already knew all that.  So he'd learned nothing.  One of the men
punched him in the side.  It had served to reminded of what it was
like to feel accepted.

He'd known that once, but he'd lost it in the many
years after "Spooky" Mulder had been born.  He appreciated the
camaraderie of his survival school buddies and found himself
enjoying their company.  They talked of football, baseball,
women, their partners, their jobs.  He hadn't done that in a long
time.  They liked and respected him now.  In a month these men
would probably laugh at any Mulder or X-Files jokes they heard.

They listened politely around camp and a few even seemed to
think his work was worthwhile.  The Texan in particular asked
intelligent questions.  Still, he knew the agents did not
understand how tightly his life and his self-worth remained tied to
the X-Files.  No one did.

Correction, he thought.  One person understood.  Mulder
wondered what had happened in the basement while he was gone.
Idly he speculated on how Scully would handle any anomalies that
might have filtered down the stairs.  He was amused to find he
had no idea - she was constantly surprising him.

Mulder grinned.  He'd turn up the heat a little.  It was time.
Somehow he didn't think it would surprise her.

The men climbed aboard the helicopter for the ride to base
full of good spirits and fell silent as the bird lifted off,
each anticipating his return home.  The married ones smiled, the
single ones grinned.  Mulder floundered in the middle.  "How are
the Yankees?" he shouted at the pilot.  The man gave the thumbs
down signal and that broke the tension - the trainees began to
whoop and stomp, reveling in their survival, their freedom.

"Agent Mulder?" A corporal holding his cap down on his
head took Mulder's arm the minute he alighted from the chopper.
The corporal guided Mulder toward the military airport terminal.
When he could speak in a normal tone the soldier said: "I've got
orders to wrap you in cotton and bring you to Washington."

Mulder understood.  He wasn't to communicate with anyone
but this soldier or have contact with the outside world until he
landed in Washington where, presumably, someone would pick him
up with further orders.  "Corporal, could you send someone to the
PX for me? I promise to stand in the shower for the next two
hours."

The soldier, who'd been downwind of Mulder, grinned.
"Yes sir, I believe you.  What do you need?"

After he told the corporal what he wanted, Mulder smiled
with the first anticipation of his homecoming reception.
He was, therefore, bitterly disappointed and somewhat
embarrassed to find Skinner instead of Scully at the base
airport when he arrived.

He felt ridiculous carrying a fuzzy brown bear under his arm.
He tried to hide it with his duffel bag.  Skinner gave no sign
that he noticed.  He merely ordered Mulder into the car.

"How was the trip?" Skinner said, nodding to the soldier
who waved them off the base.

"I am tired of picking leaves out of my shorts if that's
what you mean," Mulder said.

Skinner's smile was small and vanished quickly.  They drove
on in silence until Mulder said: "Why the secrecy?"

"We have a situation." Skinner reached onto the seat and
put a thick envelope in Mulder's lap.

Mulder took the envelope.  "What's this?"

"Came up while you were gone." Skinner focused on the
road.

"What's the mystery?" He pulled out the case file and
laughed.  "The names, dates, places are all blacked out," he
said.  "Are you joking?"

"It pertains to a law enforcement officer.  I wanted your
take without any prejudice."

"Do I know this guy?"

"Read the file."

Mulder read.  Finally, he said, "Okay.  Who is this? The
only mystery I see is why this man isn't in custody.
Circumstantial evidence alone it's a slam-dunk embezzlement,
dead to rights on the grand larceny, and little iffy conspiracy.
Is that what you wanted to know?"

"There's been an arrest.  It's not that simple," Skinner
said.

"It looks that simple.  Not an X-File."

"You of all people should know that things aren't always
what they seem."

"This is one for the Stupid Criminals Hall of Fame," he
said and dropped the file on his lap.

"There's another case.  I suspect you'll find this one more
challenging."

"You don't waste any time, do you," Mulder said.  "I still
have dirty socks in my bag."

"I can't wait for you to do your laundry, Agent Mulder.
I'm short-handed," Skinner said.

Skinner was right.  This case was more challenging.  It was
a bank robbery that he'd read about the morning he left, the one
Scully said would be cleared by the time he got back.  The most
interesting aspects of the case were the statements of the two
witnesses: bank guard Charlie Duncan, the victim, and his former
partner Andy Paige, the accused in the robbery.  None of the
stolen bonds recovered, ghostly women, millions of dollars.
Mulder lost his place.  His eyes drooped from jet lag and
exhaustion.

"I know what Scully says- that the guard shot his partner,
what are we doing on this case, no such thing as ghosts-" Mulder
said.

"Safe to say she doesn't care," Skinner said finally.

Mulder leaned back in the passenger seat, yawned again,
and scratched his stomach.  It felt so good to be clean and full
of red meat.  He fantasized about soft pillows, clean sheets,
Scully, a hot meal, and a 24-hour nap - not necessarily in that
order.  He smiled to think how domesticated he'd become - sheets
wouldn't have occurred to him a few years ago.  A bed didn't
occur to him.  That was her doing.  Before he even realized she'd
done it.  He wondered idly what other cases they had pending,
then considered how little he cared about the answer.  He didn't
care about the files that lay in his lap.  Mulder hardly
recognized himself.  Had to be all that fresh air, he thought.
*****************
When Skinner pulled up in front of Mulder's apartment he
looked up to see a light burning there.  He wanted to say
something, knew he should.  He couldn't.  Initially he felt he
should be the one to tell Mulder about Scully.  He intended to
tell him what he could until he saw the bear.  Scully was right.
Mulder would never believe her guilty.

Skinner knew what Mulder been like before he partnered
with Scully.  He had a feeling that things would be infinitely
worse for a while and he wondered for a moment if Mulder would
even be salvageable.  Skinner had done his best for the man - and
for Scully too, though they might never believe it.  Now it was
up to them.

"I'll remember what you said about this first case,"
Skinner said.  "Keep the files.  Bring them in tomorrow.  Take your
time coming in."

Skinner had to proceed very slowly.

What he really wanted to do was twist Henry Donaldson's neck off his
shoulders.  Why hadn't the man stayed dead? He thought when Donaldson,
his aide, and his jeep driver disappeared across the Cambodian border
that was the last anyone would see of him.  And for two years they were
right.  But Donaldson came back - drifting down the Mekong River
in the bottom of a boat to safety.  Now 30 years later he shows
up on the Attorney General's staff.  Skinner's boss again.

Skinner peeled away from the Mulder's curb like a teenager.
****************
Mulder stood at the curb with a small smile and tightened his
grip his duffel.  He took the front stairs of his building two
at a time.  Slipping the duffel bag onto his shoulder he had a smile
on his face that didn't show his teeth, but his anticipation shone
through.

Scully stood at the window overlooking the street; the only light
in the apartment was a desk lamp that had no bulb in it when he
left a month ago.  She had, in fact, been sitting in his
apartment, staring into his fish tank and thinking since an
afternoon visit with her mother.  She listened there to the
silence, the creak of the boards, the slamming of doors in the hall,
and one telephone call.  She let the answering machine pick it up.
It was a man with a Southern accent in an airport or other public
place.

"Mulder? It's Dallas.  Ah, listen, I'm here with some of the other
guys - just heard about your partner.  It's been all over the
news.  Anything we can do, uh, call-Uh-h, bye." Sounded like
Mulder made some friends.  She couldn't say the same.

When she heard a car pull up and a door slam in the street below
her heart jumped.  She instinctively knew Mulder was home.  She
watched him alight from the car with a spring in his step.  He
hadn't called from the airport, hadn't called when he got back
from training.

Skinner drove him straight home, no stops at the
office or her apartment.  Glad to be back too, she thought, and
followed his leap up the front stairs.  What's going on, Mulder?
*****************************
He dropped the duffel just inside the door.

"Scully?" Half-hidden in the shadows, he could only see
she wore dark slacks and a light shirt - and wore them well.  Her
fingers played with the cross on her neck as she did when she
was nervous or thinking.  He was a little on edge himself.

"Home is the hunter.  Thought you might like to see the bear that
wandered into camp." He handed her the stuffed toy.

Scully examined the bear at arm's length.  "Hm-m.  No
external injuries." She came into the full light and the sight
jolted him back a half step.  She looked ravaged:
thin, sunken dark circles around her eyes, pale, high cheekbones.
His stomach hit bottom first then he thought: cancer.

"You look-fit," she said.  "Forest air must agree with you."

Her gaze wandered to the files under his arm and her lips parted
slightly in dismay.   Mulder followed her eyes and he knew.

All of it made sense now --the training, the special ride home,
the blacked out file on the corrupt officer.  They were after Scully.

He cursed himself for a fool and threw the folders across the room.
He lost his focus for one minute, relaxed for one second, and they
had gone for his jugular.

The papers made a series of fluttery noises in
the silence and scattered across the floor.  He wanted to take
her in his arms and tell her over and over how sorry he was,
that he didn't know.  His muscles ached he wanted it so badly.
She looked to be hanging on by her last thread of dignity.  The
comfort and reassurance he wanted to bring would only please him
and break her.

So he didn't move.  He stood there clenching his teeth, seething.
"What's going on?"

Her shoulders lifted and fell.  "Anything they want,
apparently." Her voice sounded strong.  She appeared to be all
business; the bear caught in the crook of her arm was an
incongruity.

"As you probably read, I've been arrested on
charges of grand larceny, embezzlement, and conspiracy.
Signatures forged.  Witnesses bought and paid for.  Since leaving
the bureau I've been working with a private investigator to
crack some of their stories.  He's thorough, but not imaginative.
My brother Bill's choice." She smiled without mirth.

"Langly coaxed some words off a sheet of 24 pound, all cotton fiber
official government stationary that you'll find interesting.  And
there's a blank VHS tape.  Messenger service delivered it to
Frohike from me.  I don't remember sending it.  Messenger's gone."

For the first time she seemed to notice the bear in her arm.  "Not
much, actually." The fish tank air filter gurgled in the stillness.

Her control slipped a little and Mulder couldn't be sure if she
was talking to him or the bear.  "I always thought justice moved
slowly.  On the other side, it moves fast, very fast."

"Why didn't you find me?"

"Byers and Frohike flew to Seattle and spent a few days
hiking around.."

"We were in deep.  We even got lost - a first in that
program by the way," he said.

"No convenience stores to consult?" A flash of the old
Scully blazed by, flickered, and went out.

"Skinner could reach me."

"He's protecting you."

"I don't need anyone protecting me from you-" Mulder
kicked his duffel bag across the floor with a vicious grunt. "-or
anything about you."

The bag twirled across the wood floor; his words spun in
the air.

Her mouth opened and closed without making a sound.

He sighed, looked to the ceiling for inspiration.  "Sorry.  I'm
sorry - never there when you need me."

She laid a hand lightly on his arm.  After a few deep breaths he
covered it with his own.  He grasped the bear's ears, eased it out
of her arms and tossed it on the couch. "That's supposed to be a
souvenir, not a substitute," he said, pulling her into a hug.

Scully slipped her hands around his waist and laid her head
against his chest.  He could hear what he knew must be the hallmarks of
this ordeal-- emptiness relieved only by sweaty outbreaks of blinding panic
- ease out of her in a long, low sigh.  His body close to hers felt solid,
safe.

"We've been in worse places." His voice resonated through his chest.

"Lackluster, Wyoming comes to mind," she said.

"Frayser, Minnesota."

"Rabbit Hutch, Ky."

"Oh, yeah, a lot worse places," Mulder said.  He drew her
down beside him on the couch and waited.  They sat in identical
poses, hands folded, touching knees, touching shoulders.  She
told him what she knew, what she suspected - but he wondered if she
could bring herself to say the worst of what she feared.

"I seemed to have lost time again," she said.

"Sounds like a normal reaction," he said.  When she didn't
say anything, he added: "It's not an alien quickie.  That would
be my last thought."

"That was my first," she said.

"Scully!"

She surrendered her first real smile.  "Until the a few days ago I
wasn't sure.  Then I knew.  They drugged me.  Two weeks after all this
started.  I was sick.  I attacked Skinner the next day..at a hearing.
I accused him-nearly assaulted him.  I don't know why.  I must have
had a reason."

"Skinner's not the bad guy," Mulder said.

"I'm inclined to agree.  How can you be sure? You're always
so sure of him."

"It's logical."

"Logical?" One of her eyebrows shot up.

"Skinner has nothing to gain and everything to lose by
all this."

"I thought so too, at first."

"He put me on the case, and he may have pointed me in the
right direction." Mulder said.  Scully looked confused.  Mulder
nodded toward the scattered papers.  "That's not just your file.
It's that bank robbery.  The suspect says he is possessed by-"

Scully groaned.

"-Skinner must think they're related," Mulder finished.

"That case -that's diversion," she said. "It's nothing."

His pulse picked up -- his body's unconscious testimony that it wasn't
nothing.  He decided to drop it and come back later.  "You said you
were missing time.  Those blank times..do you think you were
hypnotized?"

"I believe we've been through the question of hypnotism before.
I can't --"

"--because a post-hypnotic suggestion could lead to-"

"Successful hypnosis is voluntary process," Scully said sharply.  "Nobody
can hypnotize you against your will.  And before you say it, no one
can give you a post-hypnotic suggestion that compels you to do
anything against your nature.  I can promise you that prison is
against my nature."

"Psychosis-inducing drugs?"

"That's what I suspect.  I'm having trouble identifying it.
There are some, not many that can be ingested without taste.  Of
those, fewer still that produce these symptoms.  There are no
needle marks -- that I can find."

"Did you do a full drug screen right after these..episodes?
Blood work? Urine test?"

"My attorney discouraged it," she said.

"So what did you find?"

The corners of her mouth turned up slightly.  "Nothing.  All
the tests returned as expected.  I even did a hormone test and
all that showed were markedly increased levels of testosterone.
That worried me at first.  But as it developed, it was nothing.  I
did a re-test a few days ago and all hormone levels were back to
normal."  She smiled to herself, then at him in a curious manner.

"Scully?"

"There would have to be way of administering these drugs
that I wouldn't notice-or recall.  How is that possible?"

Mulder grinned.  "You attacked Skinner? Leave any marks?"

She rolled her eyes.  She turned to him and he realized they were so close
her nose was almost touching his face. He should have moved away; she
should have. He was clean-shaven. She leaned over just a little closer
and touched his cheek as though inspecting the sharpness of his razor.
His mouth nearly watered at what - logically - came next.  She dropped her
eyes and rubbed her lips.  Now she looked embarrassed.  Scully would.
Hormones
or not, it would rankle her to appear as randy as an adolescent in heat.
Her cheeks colored as evidence of Mulder's theory.

Mulder put the bear in her lap.  "Hey, don't worry."

"I've assembled what I've got in files on the desk.  I
don't know what Skinner gave you.." She glanced at the scattered
papers across the room.

"Ideas mostly," Mulder said.

"You haven't said a word about demonic possession, body
snatching, doppelgangers, transcendental states, or the
possibility that I'm guilty of these charges."

"Some ideas are so far-fetched they aren't worth
discussing."  She caught her bottom lip with her teeth and nodded.

Mulder thought he saw a genuine smile waiting to break out.  His
fingers under her chin turned her face up to him to be sure.  Her
eyes shone, then faded into something dusky and sensual.  Mulder
had the distinct impression he was about to get luckier than a
man deserved.

Scully's lips closed on his and her fingers slid between
the buttons of his shirt.  Mulder moved to bring her closer, but
the bear lay wedged between them.  Scully didn't notice; she
appeared too preoccupied with his lips, his teeth, and his
tongue.  Her other hand wandered up his back, a fingertip teased
his spine.  Mulder's entire body sprang to life.

"I did miss you."

"I noticed," he said, bending to take her mouth again.

"I have to go." One minute she was afire in his arms, the
next she was gone.  "I have an errand to run." She strode to the
door and paused long enough to fling back: "Welcome home,
Mulder."

He sat on the couch stunned. Smooth line -"I noticed".  He
nearly smacked himself in the head.  He couldn't have handled that
worse.  The brown bear beside him agreed.  "Shut up!" Mulder growled.
He slumped back on the couch into something hard.  He'd
stabbed himself in the ass with the corner of one of Scully's
medical school textbooks.  When he flung it on the floor, several note
cards fell out.
***********************
Odd pieces of paper floated off the bed.  Mulder lay
squirming uncomfortably between the sheets.  He wasn't enjoying the
comforts of a civilized bed as much as he expected.  He had, in
fact, just finished going over the material scattered across his
apartment when he heard a scrapping noise outside.  It didn't
recur so he dismissed it and tucked the bear under the
sheets next to him as an afterthought.

Scully generated a lot of paperwork - she appeared to have written
down everything she saw or heard in the month-long course of her
investigation.  Her attention to detail was, as always, impressive
and this time, excessive.  He saw a connection immediately between
what was happening with Scully and the ghost in the bank guard's story.
He wondered why she hadn't mentioned it.  Surely Scully would
notice the same thing he did --unless she hadn't seen the second
file.  Or, unless her mental state had been compromised.

He didn't like the direction his thoughts were taking.  He had just
made a grab for another pillow on the bed when he heard the
apartment lock catch with a sharp click.  It was after midnight.

Mulder only had time to register a faint perfume on the
pillow in his hand when the intruder propelled him into action.
He pushed back the covers and grabbed the gun on the nightstand.
In the living room he heard rustling, a crack at the coffee
table, followed by a sharp "shit!".  He eased cautiously to the
bedroom door and peered into the dark.  His eyes took a moment to
adjust.

"Scully?"

Headers and disclaimer on Chapter One)

Prison of Innocents Chapter 3 of 20

Scully left the door open.  Her shoes, blouse and bra were gone.  In
the light from the hallway Mulder saw them strewn just inside his
door.  Scully herself was in the process of ripping off the rest of
her clothes on the way to the bedroom when she staggered into a nearby
chair and knocked it over.  He caught her up in his arms as she fell.

"Sick-" That's all she managed to say before she was.  He helped her
into the bathroom, sat her on the toilet seat and dampened one end of a
towel to clean her up.  He had to hold her - the bear had more stuffing.
She shivered, goose bumps covering her bare flesh.  Finding nothing else
convenient to put on her, he peeled off his own t-shirt and pulled it
over her head.

"What happened," he said, angry with himself for letting her go alone.

She tried to put her hands on his shoulders but failed. "Sleep-" she
murmured and fell against him.  He picked her up and carried her to the
bed.  She nestled down and sighed into his pillow as though snuggling
there was the most natural thing in the world.  Before he could decide
what to do next, she was asleep.

Mulder grabbed up the pillow beside her, intending to go to the living
room, then tossed it back on the bed.  It seemed absurd to sleep on his
couch after a month in the woods and toss and turn there while he
worried about what was happening with Scully in here.  He went into the
living room to clean up the mess.  When he returned, he stopped in the
bedroom doorway with his heart in his throat.

Her bare legs and arms glistened in the light from the outside windows.
He could see one perfectly smooth cheek peeking out from under his tee
shirt.   Hair lay across her face, the pillow and her arm.  She curled up
across her side and most of his.  He groaned.

Her breathing was shallow and labored, the way he would expect from
someone ill and asleep.  The muscles on her legs rippled and she moved
them slightly.  Her arm clawed at the pillow and her breathing remained
rapid and difficult as though she had to drag in air from a great
distance.

She inched over to cover more ground on the free side of the bed.
How could such a little body take up so much room, he wondered.
He slipped into his side of the bed, nudged her over gently, and
threw the covers atop both of them.

Only then did it strike him that his woodland fantasies
had come true - he was in a comfortable bed with a nearly naked
Scully.  Not quite how he pictured it, however.  Mulder propped up
his pillow lengthwise and rested against the headboard.  His hand
caressed her forehead, her hair, and her shoulders.  His fingers
traced her hairline, pushed the hair off her face, trailed down
to the softness of her shoulders.  He slid his hand under the
neck of the big shirt and sprayed his fingers across her back.

She was beautiful and her hot skin slid beneath his touch.  He
wondered if she had a fever.  He teased the hair on the back of
her neck.  This was not a good idea, he thought, not a good idea
at all.  He was all dressed up and nowhere to go for the second
time since he got home.  He sincerely hoped this was not a
harbinger of days to come.

He should never have let her go out alone.  He should have
noted her behavior was erratic, her judgment impaired.  She had
surprised him by announcing she had an errand and leaving in the
space of one minute.  Now she was ill, hurting, and he could have
stopped it.  He leaned down, pulled the neck of the shirt aside
and kissed her bare shoulder.  Sorry, Scully.  Again.  Still.

The depth of his feelings for her surprised him - and
would probably shock her.  He wouldn't have many chances like
this, Mulder thought, to be tender with her without the fear of
ridicule or rejection, to enjoy the feel of her on his hands, to
comfort her without trespassing on her strength, to love her
without jeopardizing what she held dear.

He shouldn't be doing this, Mulder thought with a stab of guilt.
She would think him some kind of pervert if she caught him.
Probably not, since she already thought him a pervert.
He groped for the bear in the bed and tucked it under her free
arm.  She took it in next to her left breast with a murmur.

He wondered why she couldn't take him in as easily.

He could be - wanted to be -- a gentle, considerate lover
for her.  She might be surprised to find he aspired to be those
things for her.  He surprised himself.  He could do it,
since that's what Scully needed, deserved.  Maybe a month in the
woods had been good for him after all.  Put things in
perspective.  Allowed him some space to examine what had been a
pretty sad life until she came along.

Mulder traced the length of one bare arm. Maybe she had tired of
waiting for him to take the first step.  Or maybe he didn't measure up
to her expectations.  Maybe today was an aberration, a stress-related
passion.  Definitely he should slide out of bed and sleep on the
couch before he went too far.  She moaned and he pulled his hand
away from the nape of her neck.

He adjusted his pillow and caught her scent on his pillowcase again.  He
realized she'd slept on it before. Wondering how that played into the
larger problem, he thought about what he did know, what he had read.

Scully wasn't drunk, though she acted like it in many ways.  She'd
thrown up enough to get most drugs or alcohol out of her system-unless
they were injected instead of ingested as she thought this afternoon.

Mulder switched on the bedside light and began examining her arms and
legs with a professional eye.  He saw what might be a faint bruise on
the inside of her right arm, but no needle mark anywhere.  He pulled
aside her hair and checked behind her ears, down her neck.  Her
breathing eased somewhat, becoming not quite so desperate.  Her color
had gone from winter white to slightly pink - that was a good sign.

Satisfied that she was all right, Mulder switched off the
light, pounded his pillow into submission and prepared for a
long night clutching the side of the bed.  Still better than the
forest - or his floor.  There was always the couch...

Mulder had almost drifted off when Scully found him.  He
flipped from his side to his back, nudged her over, and realized
that was only a temporary solution to the problem.  Presently she
began a slow ascent up his body until she nestled in the crook
of his shoulder.  She sighed and her breath fanned across his
bare chest.  He gave in.  This was the way she wanted it; she had
him.  He tucked her up between his chest and shoulder, brushed
his lips against hers, then closed his eyes, decided to enjoy
what he'd been given, and damn the rest.
********************
Scully woke slowly.  She didn't want to wake up at all, she
was so comfortable and warm.  Wiggling a little she found her
body tingled with a sense of pleasant ease.  Safety.  She drew in
a deep breath, let it go slowly and realized she had to go to the
bathroom.  This was such a nice dream she didn't want to wake up.
She was sleeping across Mulder.  Okay.  Very.  Still groggy she
allowed herself to rest awhile in the first peaceful sleep she'd
had in many nights, to revel in what it must feel like with
Mulder under and around her.

In this dream Mulder slept with his mouth  open, his perfect mouth.
He stirred and a slow, sleepy smile started.  She could now feel the
heat of him along her full length, the warmth of his arm across her back,
his possessive hand on her bare..

A shock went through her.  God, god, god..what happened here?
What happened that she couldn't remember?

"Morning." His voice was thick.  His hand tightened on her
ass, the reflex of a sleeper awakening.  With a small, strangled
cry she scurried back off the bed, dragging the covers with her.
"Scully?"

Her eyes darted around the room then settled on him.  She was
righteously indignant, panicked, no --- more stricken.  All those
things.  Her body shook and her words sounded like the crackle of ice
on windows. "What happened?"

"What?"

"Mulder..."

"I like a naked woman in my bed as well as the next man,
but even I have standards.  She has to be conscious -minimum."

Her eyes flashed.  "That doesn't tell me what happened."

He shoved the remaining covers off, sending her into a more defensive
posture.  He yawned, stretched and made a great show of nonchalance.
"You staggered in last night after midnight, shedding clothes as you
came and leaving your dinner on my living room floor.  I put you to bed-
even gave you the shirt off my back."

Scully plucked at the baggy shirt and saw it for the first time. The
fire in her heart and eyes went out, replaced by confusion.  She sat
down heavily on the bed.  Her shaking hands rubbed her cheeks.

"Can you remember --?"

"Nothing."

Scully cursed under her breath and wished that were the whole truth.
She remembered waking up content for the first time in so long she
could barely identify the feeling.  She remembered feeling happy - now she
was bereft and frightened of how powerfully Mulder affected her.  No,
she told herself.  Not now when she wasn't sure of anything.  Shit! Her
disloyal body let her down, her heart followed meekly, and her mind
abandoned her when she least expected it.  He might be the enemy.  No,
that wasn't right.  This was Mulder.  Then the problem was..Scully moaned.

The problem was she slept with him and couldn't remember.  Like a drunken
college kid.

Drugs. She was drugged.  This happened before.  She wanted to tell him,
turned to do just that, but he stood there with such a hurt expression that
she
couldn't.
*****************
She'd lie - or at least it was a perversion of the truth -- he
saw that much.  Scully never lied to him outright, but over the
years with him she became skilled at misdirection.

Mulder became more annoyed than angry. Her obvious relief that nothing
happened between them last night pierced him to the heart.  Waking up
in his arms was clearly not as nice as for her as it had been for him.
It inflamed him to find her so willing to make something ugly out of what
had been a sweet experience for him.

"I felt sick," she said.  She mumbled something else into her chest.
He couldn't hear what she said, but it sounded melancholy.

"Don't you think it's time you told me-"

She picked up a nearby pillow and flung it at him with a ferocity that
stunned him.  "That's how it works, isn't it? I tell you everything and
you say nothing!" Her lips, pulled back, revealed her bared teeth.  She
looked like a wild animal backed into the corner of his bedroom.

Slacked jawed, Mulder walked around the bed and she threw up the palm of
her hand-- a warning.  For a moment she skewered him with an expression
that promised more pillows or whatever else came to hand.  He rocked
back on his heels, relaxed and waited.  At last she drew her knees to
her chin and stretched his t-shirt over them to her ankles, clasped her
hands around her knees and stared at the wall.  She sat stone
still in silent mourning until he couldn't bear it anymore and
disappeared into the bathroom to do some grieving of his own.

Mulder showered quickly and opened the door to find his
bedroom empty.  Pulling out a little used bathrobe he followed
the smell of coffee into the kitchen.  She had dressed in her
filthy clothes of the previous evening.  Her lips, pressed into a
thin line, matched the tension in her face, the stiffness of her
entire body.  He had never seen Scully so defensive.  The air in
the stuffy apartment crackled.

"What's is this?"

"What?" His heart dropped along with his mouth.

"Why weren't you here?  You're never here !  You go on some training
mission where no one can reach you on the same day I'm accused of
corruption,"
she said in chipped  tones.  "Now you're back on the deadline for signing a
plea bargain- no call from the base, no call from the airport-no need for
a ride since Skinner picked you up.  Why is that?"

"I'm a victim -- "

"--a victim, Mulder, is someone led from her mother's house in
handcuffs.  A victim is someone locked in jail by colleagues."

His eyes rolled away from the heat in hers.  He was so off-balance.
He felt as though he walked into a movie that was half over.

"I mean, surely is this-this isn't some scheme concocted to prove a
point about ghosts or goblins or-" she said.

"Scully.."

"However much the end result might be positive for the X-Files-" She
stopped, the last visage of color leeching from her face.  Her hand
covered her mouth as though she were going to be sick again.

"Skinner tied me up from the moment we left the woods
until I got out of the car," Mulder said.  His was not the role
of rational partner and he felt uncomfortable opposite someone
who spouted unbelievable ideas then became irate when he tried
to refute them.  "They're trying to keep us apart."

After a moment she said, "They've done a good job." Her eyes pierced him.
"But why? What did you do in the woods besides hunt bears?"

"Nothing.  It was useless - to me anyway." His shoulders sagged.

"I never know what you're doing.  You never tell me any --"

"Not this." For a long, interminable minute she searched
his face.  "You know that.  Not this."

Her eyes darted back and forth across him as though reading him page
by page.  She walked across the room -- carefully keeping tables and
chairs between them.  She did not seem to be afraid, merely gauging his
worth, searching inside herself for some shred of evidence that what was
solid had become vapor.  His gaze followed her, pleading.

At last she stopped and grabbed onto the back of a chair. Her shoulders
slumped.  "It doesn't matter." Scully dropped her head and rubbed her eyes.
"If you know any part of this, I'm betrayed at my very core."

"You're playing into their hands," he said.

That stopped her in mid-flight.  He held her in the room by sheer force of
will.  The silence between them deepened and he allowed her the space.

Finally she said, "I had to think - to be -- like both of us.  It's
been-difficult."

He wanted to bring her fully back to him, but he didn't know how.

"Scully, is-is it like the television thing - you thought I'd betrayed
you then.  You had elevated levels of serotonin."

Her head snapped around and he could see her thinking it
over.  "I checked that."

"It doesn't seem the same?"

"That was fantasy.  What is happening now is-" She shook her head.
"This is real.  You have no idea how real.  There are signed documents,
statements--" She stood as unyielding as the wooden chair she
clung to and said, "I made coffee.  I'm going home to clean up. Where
do you want to work?  Here or my apartment?"

"You have better food," he said.  "I read over the files.  I
think we should stop looking at the specific charges against you
and focus on where this all comes from."

"I've got some thoughts on that." She checked her watch. "I have a
10:30 meeting with Waters." She realized he didn't know that name.  "My
attorney.  Byron Waters.  One of Byer's friends."

"I'll go with you."

"No need."

"You shouldn't go out alone," he said.

She thought about it.  "I'll wait until you have some coffee then.  You
look like you could use it."

"Did you want tea?" he said after a silence.  "Or am I out?"

"I bought more."

He poured a cup of coffee and sipped, waiting.  She
fidgeted with the kettle, a cup of tea and a spoon, then reached
in the refrigerator and came out with some strawberries.  They
looked fresh.  He wondered when she put them there.  She looked at
the berries, then at Mulder.

"I've been sleeping here.  I hope you don't mind.  I woke
up here two weeks ago."  Her brows knitted.  She spoke slowly,
speaking as if some memories had returned.  "I was deathly sick,
headache, vertigo.  But not as severe as last night.  That morning
I chased Skinner --" She blinked and turned to Mulder with an
"oh" of understanding on her face.  She put the strawberries
down.  "The drugs.  It's happened twice now, followed by mild
paranoid or psychotic episodes.  The first time the psychosis
wasn't as bad, but the physical symptoms..."

Mulder saw she had figured something out.  She knew, as he
did now, that there must be a pattern to what was happening to
her.  She had come up with that on her own.  He knew that would be
as important to her as the knowledge she'd acquired.  He watched
the tension in her shoulders ease further.  With it, some of the
electricity in the room also drained away.

They were back, Mulder thought.  Something was lost, but
something had been gained.  She reclaimed some confidence.  And he
had lost any illusions about his place in her life.

"What happens after those nights you can't remember?
Temporary insanity aside, what do you do?" he said.

"Residual effects?"  She shook her head.  "None beyond the
physical, the paranoia and confusion I noted earlier."

"No, I mean, do you act-" Mulder groped for words
"-contrary to your own interests."

"What are you suggesting?"

"That the drugs - if it is drugs -- are designed to make
you say or do things until you can't help yourself in this
investigation, to keep you from seeing the truth."

"What else could it be besides drugs?"

"Mind control-"

"What mind control!" Her burning cheeks told him how the
idea enraged her.  "You can't just take over someone's mind
without weeks and months of psychological work - work predicated
on trust, I might add.  To do it by force you have to have
optimal conditions to keep the subject in stress,
disorientation, or use some fairly serious drug therapy - it
just isn't possible in this case."

"Unless that person was willing."

"That's insulting."

"Unless they offered you something you wanted very badly."

"I don't want anything badly enough to make this kind of sacrifice,"
she said.

"What if you started out a willing participant, but
changed your mind? That might explain why you are physically ill
and tense after they-do whatever it is they do.  You're fighting
now, but you weren't in the beginning."

She hesitated.  It seemed to make a certain amount of sense to her.

"You said yourself you can't remember- it could be a combination of
things such as drugs, psycho-hypnosis," Mulder said.  "Just as you
said: powerful stuff."

"Most of the time I'm fine." She massaged her temple.

"Perhaps the selective memory loss is a screen - a way to
mask the identities of the people behind this," he said.

"I know who's behind it.  Skinner." The way she massaged her forehead her
head must be pounding. Her pallor showed  her nausea had returned with
renewed
virility, and her squinting told him the lights must be  unbearably bright
to
her.  "I-I have to get some aspirin."

He barred her escape.

"Tell me about your tenth birthday," he said.

"What? Now?" She put her hand on the kitchen counter to
steady herself.  She stiffened and swayed.
 

"Humor me.  Did you have a party?"

Scully regarded him as she would a madman.  She had to
think a minute, to come up with a vision of that day.  "Yes.  My
father was home on leave and he took me fishing afterwards.  Just
me.  Melissa didn't care, but my brothers were so jealous."

"Did you catch anything?"

"A big one.  My father had to help me reel him in." She
illustrated.  "We threw him back."

"Because you felt sorry for the fish."

Scully smiled.

He clucked and shook his head.  "Such a girl."

She stuck out her chin. "I bait my own hooks."

"I bet you do."

She folded her arms in front of her, but she seemed more
relaxed.  "Why are you so curious about all that?"

"Just wondered.  Ever talk to Skinner about this case?"

She nodded.  "I tried.  I went to his apartment."

"When?"

"Shortly after the arraignment." She suddenly seemed deathly sick.

Mulder watched as all the color left her face.  She tried to moisten
her lips with the tip of her tongue.  "Was there anyone else there
when you went to visit?"

"He was anxious to get rid of me, then suddenly he pulled
me out of the hall and into his apartment." Her eyes widened in apparent
surprise at what she remembered so easily.

"I'd call that a clue."

"He called me Agent Scully."

"He pulled you in his apartment and didn't even call you Dana?" He
watched her carefully.

"He called me 'agent.' He treated me as an active agent," she said.
Her eyes narrowed and her brow furrowed slightly as if she weren't
feeling well.

"Who else was there?"

"I-I--." Her will snapped.  She fled to the bathroom; he could hear her
retching.

Mulder learned something from his experiment.  Every time
she tried to think of a conspiracy her physical symptoms
escalated.  He worried that pressing her memory too much might
trigger a more virulent response and decided he didn't want to
find out.  At least he thought he had an idea that might help her
control it.

When she came out of the bathroom looking more dead than
alive, Mulder explained his theory.

"Direct my thoughts elsewhere to something non-threatening when these
symptoms appear?" She didn't sound like she believed it.

"The closer you come to remembering, the worse the physical symptoms
see to be," he said.

"That can't be any drug I know," she said. "Mulder, your idea makes no
sense."

"It worked."

"For a time."

"Better than nothing," he said.

"Infinitely."

"How does it happen? How do they administer the drugs?" he asked.

"And who exactly is they?" Scully said.

"I thought you knew."

"I have an idea - no proof.  Skinner is involved, Mulder.
I'm sorry to shoot down your logic, but he is.  I can't think why."

Mulder shelved that for the time being.  Scully's forehead
furrowed, marking the return of pain and nausea as the physical
symptoms of the drugs took over again. She must be right: Skinner was
involved.

"How's your mother, Scully?" Mulder grasped at the first thing inane topic
that came to mind.  "Still trying to get you to taste rhubarb pie?"

"Actually she hasn't tried once this summer."

"Have you seen her lately?"

"I visit quite a bit.  This has been hard for her.  She's
ill.  I've tried to get her to see a cardiologist." Mulder
watched the pain in her eyes recede slowly.

"Heart!"

"I'm concerned.  I can't get her to take it seriously and this-."

Her cheeks reddened and her posture became unyielding. "They came to
her house.  Two agents. They threw me against my mother's dining room
wall, searched me, handcuffed me--at the dinner table. With a dozen
news cameras on her front lawn."

Mulder felt all Scully's humiliation, rage, her impotent fury rise up in
him too.  "The circumstances of your arrest-isn't that a bit extreme for
a simple non-violent felony?"

"It's by the book - you should check that out."

"Why didn't they just call your attorney and have you surrender? Why all
the fuss? All the media?"

"The bureau is making a point."

He scoffed.  "The bureau wants something like this to go away quietly."

"Perhaps.  The strings go all the way up to the Attorney
General's office.  Langly was able to pull up a seal.."  She
couldn't finish.

Mulder watched the nausea slam into her again.  Her hand few to her
forehead as though she'd been struck.  She barely seemed to hear his
words anymore.  The heels of her hands ground into her eyes.

"The Attorney General's office?  That explains some things. When was the
last time you saw a felon go down in less than four months? This is four
weeks," Mulder said.  "Why is the AG in such a hurry?"

"It might be best-for my mother," she said.  He watched her knuckles
clutching the
counter turn white.

"To have a convicted felon in the family? Every mother's dream."

"To have this over and done with," Scully said. "To have some peace from
the stress, the reporters on her sidewalk, the tension of the process."

Mulder scoffed.  "You don't believe that."

"Sometimes I think I do." Scully took a couple of shallow,
even breaths to beat back the nausea.  For a moment there was
silence in the kitchen.

Mulder sipped his coffee, brought her tea over to the
table and motioned her to follow.  "What kind of tea is that?"

"Herbal," she said, taking the seat opposite him.  "Peppermint, I think."

"Peppermint?" He made a face.  "Not Earl Grey? Go away for
a month and the whole world changes."

She swallowed a little tea and made a feeling better sigh.  "Whoever is
doing this, I know there's some urgency.  The speed of this-case.
There must be a reason."

Mulder was glad to hear she felt better, but her pallor worried him.  Her
face still had no color at all, making her hair seem even redder.  "Are you
okay?"

"Do I look okay?"

"You look fine to me," he said.

She grunted her disbelief.

His eyes flitted around the apartment searching for a new
topic - a safe one.  "You left one of your medical books here.
It's on the floor over there."

She must have recognized it, realized why she'd brought it over
and felt sick again.  He watched the flee/fight response take over.
She pushed back her chair, picked up the book, tucked it under her arm
and started out the door.  "Are you coming?"

"Shouldn't I put on pants?"

(Headers and Disclaimers in Chapter One)

Chapter 4 of 20

Scully thought she'd feel better in her own apartment, but
she didn't.  She thought a shower would wash away the feeling of
dread, the helplessness, the panic. Mulder's clever mind-over-matter
parlor trick didn't work when her self-generated fears and
doubts created the upheaval.  The sickness of doubt,
guilt, regret, resentment, fear never left her no matter what
thoughts she put into her head.

This morning she discovered a new torment: the more she depended on
Mulder, the more she needed distance between them; the more she
realized how much he meant to her, the harder it was to be around him.
She knew it was not the case -- that was her nature.  When she finally
emerged from the bedroom, showered, dressed and ready for her
appointment with Waters, Scully felt no better than when she arrived.

Mulder met her outside the bedroom door tossing a couch
pillow between his hands.  "You said slept at my apartment - why?"

To be near you, she thought, to be somewhere close to you. God, to
smell you on the bed and feel safe for one minute.  "I thought someone
was in my apartment," she said aloud.

"Were they?"

"I don't know," she said.

"That's what we FBI agents might call another clue," he said.

"To what?"

"That's the question."

On the drive over to Water's office she said, "Mulder, on
the face of it do you think there's enough evidence to convict
me?"

"I don't think that's the face you should show a jury.
We've got lots of time before it comes to that."

She didn't, Scully knew.  She felt as she had with cancer,
as though time was being pulled away from her like the weave of a
sweater.  Her level of dread rose with the elevator to Water's office.

They sat for a time in the dusty waiting room.  Water's
secretary worked on her computer and filed a broken fingernail.
She worked on the nail under the desk where no one could see
such unprofessional conduct.  Scully concentrated on the potted
plant in the corner of the office.  It needed water.  It needed
sunlight.  It was probably already dead.  A crash followed by a
howl of fury startled the three in the outer office.  Almost
immediately the buzzer on his secretary's desk rang.  "You can go
in," she said to Scully.

Mulder whistled under his breath.  Water's untidy office
looked ransacked.  Waters nursed the fist he'd obviously slammed
into the desk.  "Who is this?" he snapped to Scully.

"My partner.  Fox Mulder."

"Out, Fox Mulder.  You're too damn late to join the party."
Scully scowled and Mulder put his hands on his hips.
Waters had black circles under his eyes.  "Anything said
between client and attorney is privileged.  Anything said between
us in the presence of a third party is not.   Your partner goes."
************************
Skinner had expected Mulder all morning.  He even thought about
warning his assistant, then discarded the idea. But he knew he made
a mistake the moment Mulder threw open his office door and Skinner saw
his assistant's frightened face.  He should have told her.  As it was
he only shook his head at her unspoken question.

"I forgot the files, but I'll bet you guessed that,"
Mulder said.  "You want to fill me in here? I know you didn't do
this to Scully - but I bet you know who did."

"Sit down, Agent Mulder."

"Gee, I'd like to stay and talk, but I have to pick her up
at her attorney's office.  Did you know your playmates drugged
her again last night?" Mulder came at Skinner head on.  The AD
ducked and locked Mulder's arms down in an embrace.

"Get hold of yourself, agent!"

Mulder shook off the arms and back away.  "How do you look
at yourself every day?"

"The same way you do," Skinner said.  "With both eyes open."

"What does that mean," Mulder said.

"I think it's clear Scully's in over her head-"

"Did you shove her in the water?"

"You are way outta line," Skinner said.

"I'm real short of tact right now."

"Keep your voice down!"

"Scully's innocent."

"I can't stop what's happening.  Neither can you."

"I can try."

"Use your head, Mulder.  Use what's been given to you!"

For a moment Mulder considered what the AD said.  In the
context of the two files in his apartment it made a certain
amount of sense.  Skinner let him go.

"Not all the work's been done on either of the cases I
gave you," Skinner said.  "There may be more out there."

"I hope I don't find you played a part in this." Mulder's
voice was dangerously quiet.  His body fairly quivered with
controlled violence.  "I hope I don't find you could have stopped
it."  Skinner said nothing.  When Mulder slammed the door Skinner
let out the breath he'd been holding, took his glasses off, and
rubbed the bridge of his nose.  Then he picked up the phone.
**********************
Water's office looked no better than the first time Mulder
saw it.  Scully sat in a wobbly chair with her hands resting in
her lap.  She tipped once, but regained her balance quickly, a
small island of serenity in the middle of chaos.

"Did you wait long?"

She shook her head.  "We just finished.  Waters went to file some
papers.  The, ah, the handwriting expert's report came back. I signed
those fraudulent reports.  It's my signature," she said.

"It only proves they have woven a tight web," he said.

"It makes me wonder..."

"If you could have done what they say? If you've lost your mind and
done something like this? " He knew he'd guessed right when she pulled
her lips together.  Mulder shook his head.   "You are the most honest,
honorable person I know.  Even under the most extreme conditions you
could not be anything less than you are."

Her smile was a pale shadow of what it could be.  "Just checking."

"Don't doubt yourself.  Don't let them do that to you."
Mulder said.  "If they cause you to question who you are then
their plan has succeeded beyond expectations."

She only moved enough to take a deep, cleansing breath.
"Someone's gone to a great deal of trouble to send me to
prison." He nodded in agreement before she went on.  "I've decided to
find out why and the only way I know to do that is to give them what
they want."

"Which is?"

"I signed the plea bargain," she said.

Shock seemed to steal his usual snappy response.

"After the agreement is accepted it's customary to wait at
least two weeks before sentencing.  Waters will negotiate for
more time.  That should be sufficient to-"

"Use yourself as bait?"

She shrugged.  "It seems to make sense more than what I've been doing."

"You might have talked to me about it," he said.  His mouth set in a
hard line.

"We can't crack it from without, perhaps we can from within," she said.

"We haven't had a chance yet."

"It's a risk, certainly."

"It's a big risk," Mulder said.

"Most of the investigation's ground work's been done-" She watched in
stunned silence as he stood up and stared at something over her
shoulder.  "You want to know the terms of the agreement, what's at
stake?" There was little force behind her words; she knew what was at
stake and so did he.

Mulder glanced down and watched her balancing act on the chair before he
shrugged," I don't have anything on the line."

Scully absorbed the blow, but it made her flinch.  She hadn't
accurately judged how much she hurt him with her unilateral decision to
bargain.  An undercurrent ran through all this that she couldn't
identify; she felt the same tug this morning in his bedroom and his
kitchen.  It went beyond the usual banter, the sexual tension that was
a part of their partnership.  If nothing happened, what did go on last
night?  Something, she knew.  This was unexplored territory.  All she
did know was that she had to fix what seemed broken here.

She considered her words carefully, hoping to save the
best ones for some future date when the world was in its right
order.  "I've known for some time how significant-that you are
essential to ...  I never told you-I thought there would be time
-- a better time-.  You've become- vital, really." God, she was
doing this badly.

"You are important to me too, Scully."

"And the work." Shit! She'd done it again. She saw it in his shoulders,
his lips, the lines across his face.

He stared at her in thinly veiled dismay, hands back on his hips.

"Mulder, I need my partner and friend with me.  You'll be my only way out
once I'm-" She couldn't bear to say it, "-inside." She dared to look at
him and flashed a quick, tiny smile.  "God, I can scarcely say the word."

Somewhere on the street a car honked its horn.  An emergency siren
screamed its alarm.  A child cried.

"It's a gutsy call," Mulder said finally.

"It's the right thing."

He nodded.  "It buys us some time and you some safety.  The
pressure is off them.  And we have a week or two to work."

"Aren't you curious about the terms?"

"Irrelevant," Mulder said.

"Interesting - and generous.  The plea is changed to nolo contendo -
no contest.  The prosecutor's giving away the store - apparently with
the approval of the Attorney General's office. Five to 10, no bar to
parole," she said.

"Never come to that."

"They wanted elocution, but I refused.  I won't stand up in open court
and confess to something I haven't done," she said. "They'll accept it.
They have what they want."
********************
Mulder insisted on getting something to eat.  Scully snapped at him and
ragged at the waitress.  If she had been a child Mulder would have sent
her to her room.  She ate ravenously and the glint in her eye spoke of
more conflict to come.  They argued about what they should know first.

Scully wanted to focus on those who were her primary
accusers in the conspiracy charge.  Mulder promised they would do
that, right after they interviewed the wounded bank guard and
his partner.  The former was at home, the latter in jail.  Scully
thought it a waste of time to interview bank guards on a case so
unrelated to her own.  She felt certain it was a dead end.  Even
if it wasn't, she had another reason for not wanting to
interview the accused guard.  She started to tell him, but in the
end he had to guess:  she didn't have any desire to go near the jail
where she had so recently been a prisoner- and might soon be again.

To her obvious relief Mulder drove first to the apartment of the wounded
man, Charlie Duncan.  His mother opened the front door of the duplex and
peered at Mulder's ID.  A little belatedly Scully remembered Skinner had
her badge and gun.  Mulder introduced her as a consultant.

Although his arms and lap were full of books, Charlie tried to welcome
them when they walked into the modest study.  It was a cozy place, a
student's hole, his space.  Scully's mouth opened as she took in the
entire room.  It was dominated by a huge desk and surrounded by posters,
cut out pictures, drawings, photographs and art works that depicted
angels.  Angels hung on all the walls, dangled as bookmarks, and were
pressed under the glass of the coffee table.

"'Xuse the mess," he said.  "I'm trying to make up work
from last semester, from, you know, when I was shot." He waved
them to a love seat, hastily picking up papers from one of the
cushions.  "What can I tell you? You're about the 20th person I've
spoken to about this."

"There are parts of your story-" said Scully.

"I know.  The woman who took over Andy's body-You think I'm
some kind of nut, don't you?" He ran his fingers through his
hair.  "I'm getting letters from everybody from Jerry Falwell to
the KKK.  Everybody wants a piece of this.  That's the craziness."

"In my experience people-in your situation often feel
strange things, see extraordinary things," said Mulder.

"Sometimes our bodies come to the rescue when we're injured," said
Scully.  "Endorphins kick in - we don't know how - and-"

"How do you explain the angel?  She was as real as you are.
She saved my life," Andy said.

Mulder felt Scully tensing to lash into Charlie so he said
quickly, "Tell us."

"I told the other FBI guys -- Scully thumbed through the file
in the hand with the jerky motions of someone very annoyed.
Charlie's story was sketched in.  Mulder knew the file and he could
imagine the men who wrote the cryptic words and what they thought of
Charlie's assertions.

"Maybe they didn't think it was worth mentioning in their
reports." Charlie said.  "I know what I saw.  I know she healed me."

"What about your partner," said Mulder.

"Andy?" He looked at Scully when he said it.  "You think
I'm making this up? It was his body, but it wasn't Andy in it.
For one thing, Andy was talking like a black woman.  I mean, he
never did that kindda thing for fun or a joke or something.  It
sounded so weird coming from him." Charlie snickered. "Everything
that night was weird."

There was a distinctively heavy silence in the room.

"What are you studying, Charlie," said Scully.  Her eyes
swept the room.

"Ah-h, management.  I'm a business major." His look zeroed
in on Scully again.  "I'm a realist."

"I can see that," she said.

Charlie rewarded her sarcasm with a small sigh.   "I've
been trying to find out everything I can about angels, you know."

"How well did you know the man who was on guard duty with
you that night?" said Mulder.

"Andy and I worked together a couplea times.  No great
smarts, you know.  But a nice guy.  Real straight shooter." He
touched his chest gently.  "Maybe that wasn't such a good thing."

"Do you think he shot you?"

Charlie seemed surprised by Mulder's question.  He turned
his hands over a couple of times.  "No.  I think it was the
angel's friend."

"Angel's friend?" Mulder said.

Charlie continued to wring his hands slowly.  "I never said this
before - I mean, nobody believed me about the other, so I never-.
But I looked up from the floor after the angel stopped the
bleeding in my chest.  Andy-"

"She made the bleeding in your chest stop?" Scully's voice carried a
tone that hinted of disbelief.

"That's what they told me."

"Who?"

"The doctors at the emergency room.  They said somebody
made the bleeding stop," Charlie said.

"Could it have been the EMTs?" said Scully.

"I wasn't bleeding when they got there," he said.  "Ask."

Scully gaped.

"About Andy?" said Mulder.

Charlie related the strange dance he witnessed and the
monologue written in the file.  "He just got out on parole-"

"Bail?"

"Yeah, bail, sorry.  I called him-"

"You shouldn't have done that," Scully said.

"Legally, maybe.  But he's in trouble that's not his
doing," said Charlie.  He stuck out his chin.  "Sue me."

"I think we'll visit him too," said Mulder

"Want me to call him for you? We've gotten to be close."

As they got into the car Scully said, "Angels don't rob
banks, Mulder.  And if every word of his story is gospel, then
that angel was in there to rob the bank too."

"I never said she was an angel," Mulder said.

"What is she then?"

"Maybe she's a missing person."

Scully slapped the file in her lap shut.  "Missing from where?"

Mulder shrugged.
********************
Mulder had become distant since the visit to Water's
office.  Scully realized she was succeeding in pushing him away,
so far away it might be impossible to bridge the gap.  No bureau
to fall back on, no friends to speak of, her family sick or far
away.  No Mulder.  The thought was chilling.  It was like being
deprived of gravity; she floundered and flayed, seeking something to
hold to until she discern up from down again.  She used the
handrail to plod up the stairs to Andy Paige's apartment.

"You okay?" Mulder asked.

Paige lived in an apartment above a grocery store.  The
studio apartment smelled faintly of onions.  Paige was a
tall man sliding into his 30s.  He wore his hair slicked back.  He
had just gotten out of the shower.

"I shouldn't be talking to you people without I first talk
to my lawyer," he said.

"Call him," said Mulder.  He nodded toward the phone on the
nearby table.

Andy threw up his hands.  "Nah, that won't make it any
different for me." He sounded morose.  Andy sank down on the
frayed couch, then remembered his manners.  "Please, sit down.  It
isn't pretty, but it's clean." Scully sat beside him on the edge of the sofa
and Mulder took the opposite chair.  Andy tried to smile.  "You want to
know where I put the bonds, who I was working with, why I did it.  I
gotta tell ya.  I don't have the bonds, I wasn't working with
nobody and I didn't do anything.  Have any more questions?"

"Tell me about this woman in your head," said Mulder.

"Why?"

Mulder shrugged.

"Why should I waste my breath? Nobody believes me."

"Try us," said Scully.  Andy regarded her with some
suspicion, then spread his hands out.

"Yeah, okay, why not.  Charlie's the only one who believes
me and he saw an angel," Andy said.  "So that's my only defense -
a guy who sees angels.  This whole thing's makin' me clairvoyant.
I can look into my future and see prison bars.  Miles and miles
of bars."

Scully shifted uncomfortably. A lump rose in her throat.

"What happened that night?" said Mulder.

Andy clasped his hands in front of him.  "I just punched in
my nine o'clock round, Charlie had opened his books - I mean,
that guy studied all the time - and I felt this breeze on my
neck.  Cold.  I took a look around to see about it and it was, ah,
well all I saw was eyes.  A pair of eyes in the air.  Like
somebody wuz trying to play a Halloween joke.  A pair of eyes
hanging in the dark with no head or body." Andy paused to gage
his audience's reaction.  They were both still and attentive.
Encouraged, Andy went on,  "This woman's eyes - or somebody --
called my name, real soft and gentle over and over and over.  The
eyes got bigger."

"What did she look like?" Mulder asked.

"She didn't look like anything.  She did all the looking."

"What color were the eyes?" said Scully.

Andy seemed surprised by the question.  "Well, they were
brown.  Big and brown.   And some woman kept saying my name over
and over and suddenly she was in my head." He turned to Scully.
"When I say she was in my head, I mean she was me.  We were one
person.  I drew my gun- I don't know what I was going to do with
it.  Shoot myself in the head? She was walking inside me and what
I thought and did was her too." Scully became paralyzed.  He
touched her fingertips on the seat of the sofa and  she felt a connection.
He whispered to her, for her. "She saw things inside me-private things."
His last words were desperate and still, "Things I think!"

Scully jerked her hand away.  She became dizzy, sick, her palms sweated.
She knew she was the color of chalk and she shrank back into the pillows
of the sofa as though they would hide her.

Andy appealed to Mulder.  "I went to a magic show once and this guy
hypnotized me. Had me quackin' like a duck.  It was like that -- only
times ten."

"Most of this isn't in the report," Mulder said.

"I never told anybody that part.  I-I didn't remember it
for a while.  I woke up in jail and I was sick.  Throwing up sick.
My head hurt like a three-day drunk.  By then everybody thought
Charlie and me was crazy, I figured, what would they think of that?"

"They would think you were trying for an insanity
defense," said Scully.  Her voice was shaky and her eyes darted
away from Mulder to Andy and around the room.  There wasn't much
to see, to hold onto.  Nothing extraordinary.  No angels on the
walls.  No eerie eyes peering from portraits or voodoo masks or
books on mysticism.  She wondered if she opened a cabinet jars of
black spiders would fall out.  "Mind if I look around?"

He shook his head and rubbed both hands on his face.  "I
can't remember much about what happened in the bank.  In the
hospital," Andy said.  "Police, my attorney - everybody asking me
questions and I couldn't remember anything.  It was like somebody
came and washed the blackboard clean! And every time I tried to
remember, it just made me blow chunks."

"You seem fine now," Mulder said.  He pointed in the
direction of the file in Scully's hand.  "It says you were a
handful in the hospital." Scully felt Mulder's eyes on her as she
peered into shelves, opened desk drawers.  She was searching, but
she was listening too.

"Man, I was scared.  Fighting scared.  I was so scared I
was crawling the walls and everybody who came near me was out to
get me.  Now, it's like a bad dream.  Sometimes I think it is, you
know? The kindda dream where somebody's standing in shadows
watchin' and when I try to move I feel like my pockets got sand
in them - I can't move ---"

"Mulder, " Scully headed to the door; she needed air. She needed to get
out of this apartment.  "I'm done here.  Thank you for your time, Mr.
Paige." And she was gone.

Mulder got up slowly to follow.  Andy grabbed his arm.  "Do
you believe Charlie?"

"About his angel?"

"Yeah, but I never saw or heard Zelda."

"Who?"

"Zelda - that's her name -- the angel that Charlie says
saved him."

"From 'The Great Gatsby'?"

"I never saw her.  I felt something like a rush of wind
around me, but I never saw her.  I knew her name, called her
name.  I asked her to help me too.  I was weak -" He looked at
Mulder and his mouth popped open.  "Say-you believe me!"

"I don't think you're wrong."

Andy shrugged.  "Listen, Mr.  Mulder.  I don't have any
family - my mother died a year ago.  I don't have a lotta friends
and Charlie's the only person in the world who'll talk to me
now.  I thank you for whatever you can do.  Hell, I'm glad that
you don't think I'm crazy."

Mulder handed him a card.  "If you think of anything else-"

"I think sometimes that all this happened-to do something
for me," Andy said.  He turned the card over and over between his
fingers.  "Maybe like to make me wake up-or see things
different-or be different."

Scully waited, arms crossed, in the foyer of the apartment building.
The cracked white tile in the foyer beneath her feet needed a good
scrubbing.  She picked up her gaze and saw her reflection in the glass
front door.  She bit her lip.  What had that guard really seen, she
wondered. His story frightened  her.  Something that scared him seemed
to be working in her too. She discarded his story of possession as
impossible, but deep within her Scully knew she couldn't throw out
everything he said.

In the door glass Scully saw her partner come down the front steps
into the foyer.  She tried to seem impatient - that would be normal
and, something else.  What else did she feel? Startled? Thoughtful?
Mulder took the steps one at a time, regarding her curiously as though
he couldn't decide what to make of her. Was she frightened? Scully
would admit that even to herself; Mulder's face grew annoyed.

"Paige -you know, don't you?" Scully recognized the accusing tone in
Mulder.  "You know exactly what he meant.  It's happened to you too."

"I don't know that for certain," she said.  "I never felt
possessed, nor the 'presence' he described.  I had the sickness,
the memory loss, and the rage- But those symptoms could be
caused by a dozen different things, all of them very much of
this world.  Stress, for example-"

"You weren't going to tell me, were you?"

"I knew you'd do just what you're doing - link the two,
thinking of ghosts and spirits and phantoms instead of something
real!"

"This is real! He is real!"

"He's a young man who made up a fantastic story to explain
why he tried to kill his partner and escape with millions in
bearer bonds," she said.

"What about Charlie?"

"He was nearly killed.  You and I both know what that can
do to you."

"Andy's guilty, then."

"It appears so."

"It appears you're guilty too." He flung the words at her
on his way to the driver's side of the car.

Her cheeks flushed.  God, this was familiar territory.
Wearisome, familiar ground.  "I grant you some similarity between
the cases.  I'm telling you there is no ghost in my head, no
mind-reading, no-"

"Didn't you learn anything?"

"What was it I was supposed to learn?" Outrage dripped
from her mouth.  "That fantasy is an acceptable way to avoid
facing your own fears, your own guilt? That-that chasing ghosts
and visions is easier than living in the real world with actual
human beings?"

Her words seem to sting him.  "Open your mind to ---," he said.

She gave the car door a vicious slam and stalked across the street
toward a bus stop.

Mulder watched her go, hands on hips. Out of the corner of her eye
Scully saw him torn between his resentment at her stubbornness, his
own pain, his desire to soothe her, and his fear of what gripped her.
Neither of them appeared able to end the current stalemate.  The
D.C. Transit Authority made the decision for him.  A bus stopped
and Scully suddenly and inexplicably climbed aboard.  Mulder jumped in
the car and followed at a distance.

How had it come to this so quickly, Scully thought.  What was she doing,
where was she going?  Running physically this time instead of mentally.
Scully sat on an aisle seat holding onto the handrail as tightly as she
could.  They had this argument hundreds of times, but never so bitter,
so hurtful.  Just when she needed him, when she ached for him, they
leapt down each other's throats.  Perhaps that was the heart of
the problem - this situation brought her dependence on Mulder
into sharp relief and she hated it.  Until now she always thought
of them as equals, freely given and freely accepted.  Now she was
his dependent.  She hated knowing that.

Scully rode the bus to the end of the line nursing her
guilt and frustration.  Her greatest fear she shoved into the
back of her mind until at last she knew she had to examine it.
It had nothing to do with Mulder -- and everything.  Scully had
reason to doubt her own abilities and he bore the brunt of it.

She hadn't been honest with him or with herself about that and
it was information he needed.  She was the last to get off the bus.
Scully planned to take a cab back to her apartment.  She
did not expect to find him waiting at a nearby corner when she
alighted.  He had not cooled down, she saw at once and she turned
to walk in the opposite direction.

"What else haven't you told me," he called after her.
People on the street stared.  She stopped and waited for him.

Heat from the cement radiated up her feet, her legs, her
stomach, her chest, her head.  "This is a new game we're playing,
isn't it? You run and hide, I play catch up," Mulder said.

"It's not a new game - but I generally do the catching
up," she said in a rush.  "I may go to prison in a few days for
something I didn't do.  All you offer me is more of the same.  I
hoped for more."

"No, you didn't.  This is exactly what you counted on." He got in her
face and when she turned away he followed.  "You depend on me to see
what is too irrational for you to see. That's what I bring to the
partnership.  It's not fair of me to expect you to do all the work
here." She couldn't look at him.  She studied her feet, the
neighborhood, the sidewalk.  "I won't let anyone separate us again,
Scully -not them, not Skinner-not even you."

Finally she raised her eyes to him, her lower lip
quivering slightly.  "I can't tell you what I don't remember."

"Meaning-?" An unwelcome smack of panic caught Mulder in the midriff.

"It's not just those things the guard described.  It's not a-a
blankness.  It's forgetfulness.  It's better some times than others." Now
that she started, Scully's words tumbled out of her in a rush.

"But sometimes I have to fight to hold onto simple things- diseases or
dosages of medicine or the names of poisons.  I can't remember who I
interviewed yesterday or when my mother's birthday is.  I have to write
everything down." Her  recitation of the facts seemed to frighten him as
much as it did her.  "That book you found? When I can, I re-read old
texts to remind myself of symptoms, diseases, the names of bones!  My
medical books-- I take notes to recall things I've known by heart.  I
wake up and don't remember where I've been or what I did last night,
but my-my high school graduation is perfectly clear.  Lately I can't
find my car keys, although I always put them in the same place.  I just
can't remember where that place is.  I can't read because-because I
can't remember how." She licked her dry lips.  "It's a form of-f
dementia."

"Could be that stress you mentioned earlier," he said.

"Could be."

"I don't sleep either."

"You mean you don't sleep well."

She said slowly, "I mean, I haven't slept more than two or three hours a
night in a month." Mulder's brow furrowed and she went on hurriedly,
fearful she would lose her nerve if she stopped now.  "When I do sleep I
wake up-I wake up, ah-I have these vivid images.  Pictures of a man
whose face is never visible.  But something is clear--."

"His eyes?"

Her nod was almost imperceptible.  "He comes to me as a friend, I'm not
afraid.  Then I see shadows of him holding me, pressing on me." She
watched Mulder's expression and hastened to say, "As a - I don't know.
I tell him to stop, to release me.  He says-he says I'm crazy.  And,
I-I know I am.  I run to get somewhere safe." She slipped a quick look
at Mulder out of the corner of her eye.  "I run."

He knows where she goes and it warms his heart.  "Who is this man of your
dreams, Scully?"

"I don't think he's a ghost.  And I don't think those
guards saw ghosts.  I see a human face in this."

"Skinner's?"

Her shoulders moved up and down.  "I think he knows who is-" She gulped
and finished with a whisper "-who is stealing my mind."

Mulder tried to speak, but couldn't.  He jammed his hands in his pants
pockets; his fingertips had become cold.  "We'll talk with Skinner," he
said.  "Later."

As she fastened her seat belt it dawned on her.  "It's worse right after
the drugs." She brightened.  "Mulder, the drugs wear off."

He didn't bother to point out the obvious.  The drug screens she'd
taken came up negative.  If drugs were involved they were not one of
the Heinz 57 varieties covered by the normal full screen.  Mulder was
relatively certain she hadn't been drugged.

(Headers and Disclaimers in Chapter One)
Chapter 5 of 20

Mulder always liked the federal court building in Washington.  He'd had
to come there so often it was almost a second home at one point in his
FBI career.  When he first began coming to the court he thought the pure
white marble exterior that carried into the outer chambers very
appropriate.  In those early days as a profiler and investigator he
thought of justice as not only blind, but pure.  He quickly picked up on
the dark streaks through the rock.

Waiting to be called as a witness enabled him to exercise his restless
nature by exploring the building at his leisure.  He soon knew all the
out of the way restrooms, small conference areas used so little they
made excellent reading rooms, the cubbyholes where he could close his
eyes for a time and rest without being spotted.  The building was old,
with massive heating and cooling ducts that opened into hallways,
conference rooms, and offices.  The architects had cleverly disguised
the vents with coverings of ornate and, to Mulder's mind at least,
extremely compelling metal designs of Dame Justice, her scales, the
American eagle and the like.

Mulder felt comfortable in the federal court building.  Under the
cover of tying his shoe or helping balance a load of papers in
his arms, Mulder had often leaned his back against the rock.  As
a result, few people came to court who appreciated the truth of
the expression 'cool marble' like Fox Mulder.

Until now, coming to this building had been a pleasure. Today on
Scully's first court date since signing the plea bargain, he hated it.
He never realized how foreboding, impersonal, and cold it could be.  On
this morning, the first of what Waters said would be many brief hearings
and motions on the plea bargain, Mulder saw the building for what it
was: a facade.
********************
Scully told her mother not to bother coming.  She could hear Margaret's
shortness of breath in her responses.  She tried to persuade Mulder not
to bother either.  As Waters told her, she would have to submit to
psychological testing, pre-sentencing interviews before incarceration
became a possibility.  It's not like television, Waters reminded her.
Waters seemed to think she watched a great deal of courtroom drama.
Even though she knew most of the things he was telling her, his quiet
recitation of the procedures proved oddly comforting.

Scully felt much better, stronger.  Each day that passed she regained
more control, clarity and memories --popcorn kernels recollections and
ideas exploded into her head at the strangest times.  Besides, as she
told Mulder and her mother, what could happen to her in a federal
courtroom surrounded by armed marshals and court officers? She probably
wouldn't be there five minutes herself.  It was, as her lawyer said,
pro forma.  Mulder insisted.  He had barely left her alone long enough
to shower since the night she stumbled into his apartment, into his bed.

She was glad he came the moment they walked into the main
courtroom.  She knew the man in the expensive suit who lounged a
few rows behind the prosecution table.  "Assistant Attorney
General Henry J.  Donaldson." Scully pointed him out to Mulder.
"Some war buddy of Skinner's.  What's he doing here? Why should
an assistant attorney general of the United States care about
this case?"

Mulder couldn't recall the face.  And he couldn't recall
the name either.  "How do you know he's a friend of Skinner's?"

Scully blinked.  "I must have heard it."

"Do you know him?"

"Yeah," she said, nodding her head slowly.  "I do.  I know
him-well."

"From a case?"

She lifted her shoulders and shook her head.

"From this case?"

Scully felt a prick of worry, the start of a headache.  "Maybe."

"Well, why don't I ask him?"

Mulder rose to do just that.  He was too late.  The bailiff
called the case, the judge entered and those in the courtroom
stood.  When they sat down again and the case called by the
bailiff, Donaldson engaged in serious discussion with the
prosecutor.  Giving him pointers, no doubt, about sealing the
her fate, Scully supposed.

Scully recognized the judge at once.  Amos McDonald.  She
knew the name, now she had a face to go with it.  She had been in
his courtroom several years ago giving evidence.  He was an older
man - seemed old to her back then if she remembered correctly.  He
had thinning white hair around an oval face splotched with red
and the impatient, arrogant air of authority that many judges
wore like their robes.   She may have testified in this very
courtroom, now that she thought about it.  Her eyes ranged over
the high ceiling, the polished wood railings, bench, desks.

She glanced behind her, at Mulder and realized the courtroom was
full.  She frowned.  Why would the main courtroom in the federal
building be full of spectators and, unless she was mistaken,
members of the press, for a mid-week, insignificant hearing.
Unless it wasn't so insignificant.  Her mouth went dry.

"Mr.  Waters-" Scully leaned over, but the Judge McDonald's gavel
cut her off.

"This hearing was set to accept the plea bargain agreement
in this case, then find another date for pre-sentencing and
another date for sentencing." The judge sighed and took off his
reading glasses.  "I have read this document proposed by the
prosecution and agreed to by the defense.  I can understand why
the defense is pleased, but I'm not certain why the prosecution
is so-magnanimous." The prosecutor made some noise as if to rise
and the judge waved him back down.  The judge stared at Scully
for a moment, pursed his lips and rubbed them.  "While it's
within my purview to reject this document I'm inclined to accept
it.  Does everyone understand? Miss Scully, do you understand you
are pleading no contest to these charges in exchange for a five
year sentence in a federal prison?"

Scully didn't move or breathe.  She had to keep reminding herself she
had done nothing wrong, this was part of a plan.

Beside her Waters jumped to his feet, "Yes, your honor.  We understand."

"I know you do, Mr. Waters.  I'm asking if she does," said Judge McDonald.
His eyes were slits.  "Miss Scully, have you been in my court before?"

Scully found her feet.  "Yes, Your Honor.  I was a witness
in a trial several years ago in this court."

"I remember.  A conspiracy case.  You were an excellent witness." The
judge leaned against the tall back of his black chair and rubbed his bottom
lip again.  "Strange, sad turn of events that brings you back.  Do you
understand what is before us?"

"Yes sir."

"Your attorney has explained it to you?"

"Yes sir."

"And you accept it?"

"Yes sir." Scully found herself drawn to the McDonald's face.  His
expression struck her as familiar, the depths of his stare somehow
penetrating, and she realized with a shock that he was disappointed in
her.  As though he were her father.  With very little imagination
Scully could see her dead father looking down intently upon her from
the bench - his eyes revealing how ashamed he was of his youngest child.
She flushed with guilt and shame.

"Are you aware that you are telling
this court that you do not dispute charges you stole money from the FBI
and sought bribes? That's as good as saying you're a common thief."

Waters protested and the judge noted his objection.

"Miss Scully?"

"Yes sir."  Scully's fingertips on the table before her were so damp
they left marks on the highly polished surface.  The judge continued to
stare at her and Scully knew what came next, what had always come next
with her father.  He had never spanked her, never struck her with his
hand, but his punishment was always more severe than her mother's.
More severe because it came from him, because she knew it meant she had
defied and disappointed her father.  No matter how rebellious she chose
to act, she always felt that keenly.  She glanced at Waters and started
to turn back to Mulder.

"Do you wish to make a statement?" Judge McDonald said.

"No statement, Your Honor," said Waters.  He shifted from one foot to
the other.

"No?" The judge looked to Scully.

"No sir." She reminded herself again she was a pawn, not a thief, but
the first role didn't please her any better than the second.

Judge McDonald spoke in clipped, even tones.  "This case
gives me considerable pause.   It speaks to a basic unfairness:
that a thief - whether she admits it or not -- should be given a
light sentence just because she is an FBI agent and the FBI
doesn't want to be embarrassed by further publicity."

Behind her Scully sensed Mulder's resentment on her behalf
and it buoyed her.

She determined to let her mind wander from the legal proceedings
and set her eyes on a place just above the judge's head, on the great
seal of the United States carved in wood and painted in brilliant colors
on the dais.  She focused on the blue.  She had seen such seals in all the
federal courtrooms she visited in this building.

"I see no need to set further dates, postpone hearings and
drag this out any more.  If the prosecutor and the FBI want quick
closure, then I am in a cooperative mood."

A shock of understanding shot up Scully's back.  She knew
what was coming before McDonald spoke and so, by the look of
him, did Waters.

"The plea bargain is accepted.  In accordance to the terms
of that agreement Dana Katherine Scully is sentenced to five years
in a federal correctional facility to be determined by
the Bureau of Prisons.  The sentence is to be imposed immediately.
Bailiff-." Scully lost the rest of what was said after
"immediately".  She knew Waters objected.  Judge McDonald
said something else.  There was a flurry in the back of the
courtroom.  Two marshals came up beside her.  Waters told her not
to worry.  It all happened at once.

She moved as though she were caught in mud.  When she
turned to Mulder his mouth parted slightly and he may have said
her name.  She took a half step toward him and his arm came up to
reach for her.  A marshal's hand curled around her shoulder at
the same time and he said, "This way."

A wave of outrage washed around her.  Scully shook off the
hand.  "Mulder..."

He leaned over, took her by the shoulders and pulled
her to him until the rail separating the defense table and the
spectators was the only thing between them.  She put the flat of
her hand against his chest.  Through his suit, through his shirt,
she could feel his heart racing, a mirror to her own.

"Apparently we're on a tight schedule." She managed to
pronounce 'schedule' as the English would - a vain attempt at levity.

"And I wager you've mucked it up.  I rather suspect this
was supposed to be over before I finished training."

"So we proceed as planned, only a little sooner than we
planned."

"And we'll know where and who to look for when you get
where you're going," he said.

His hand on her felt like the only solid thing in the world.
"My mother-"

"Got it." Mulder tried to capture and hold her attention.
Her wide eyes bounced around the room like nervous dots.  She just
needed to connect with him one time to settle them both down.

"Now I have to think like two of us." He grinned.  "Don't worry,
Scully.  I can do it."

"It does not fill me with confidence to see our witness
disappearing," she said and her gaze slid past him to Donaldson.
The assistant AG shook hands with the prosecutor, who seemed
dazzled.

"You be okay?"

She tried to slow her rapid breathing.  "I'll be surrounded by armed
guards.  What could happen," she said with a confidence she did not
feel.  She thought it strange that no matter how innocent she was of
any wrongdoing she'd ever been accused of, she always suffered as
though she were guilty.

"This isn't just about prison, Scully," Mulder leaned close to her ear.
"They're trying to break you."

His warning came not a moment too soon.  The marshal's hand
on her upper arm slid toward her hand.  She knew what came next.
One handcuff closed around her wrist.  She had done it a hundred
times herself to suspects.  Mulder made a move in the marshal's
direction.

"Mulder -- it's procedure," Scully said, blocking him with her upper
body.  She nodded toward the hall.  "Donaldson-"  A second cuff closed
around her other wrist.  She didn't want Mulder to see this.  She
forced a small smile.  "What do you suppose I would do here, Agent
Mulder?"  His lips tried to return her smile, but his eyes filled with
something akin to panic.

"This way," said the marshal and pulled on her arm.  Scully
turned and walked away between the two marshals with purpose in
her step as though it was her idea to go to prison and they were
merely tagging along.

Mulder checked on the progress of Donaldson as he headed for the
courtroom entrance and trailed after him.  Mulder paused at the
courtroom door to see the marshals and Scully, head high, exit a side
door.
**************
The sound of his name caused Henry Donaldson to halt - he knew who was
calling.  The man was dangerous -- and attractive.  He reacted to both.

"I don't have a lot of time, Agent Mulder," said Donaldson,
checking his watch.

"You know me?"

"I know that you are Dana Scully's former partner," he
said setting a brisk pace down the corridor.

"Why are you so interested in seeing her sent to prison?"

"I'm interested in all federal prosecutions under my
jurisdiction.  You should count yourself lucky this didn't fall
on you too." Donaldson waved at a colleague across the hall.

"I think I'm safe.  You can't send me to a women's prison."

Now Donaldson stopped.  "Look.  What do you want from me?"

"The truth."

Donald stood with both hands on his hips.  "The truth? The
truth is, Agent Mulder, you need a new partner."

"What do you know about the robbery of First Bank of
Virginia and the women who took over the bank guards?"

"Insanity defense.  Nothing else."

"Are there others?"

"I wouldn't know."

"More than two?"

A shocked look that flashed across Donaldson's face
rewarded Mulder's burst of insight.

Mulder made a mental note to run a more thorough computer check of
similar crimes.  Perhaps the Lone Gunmen would have better luck
with their sources.

"I have many cases and many responsibilities, Agent Mulder  I should
attend to some of them now," he said in measured tones.

"Out of curiosity, what prison is she being assigned to?"

"Does it matter?" Donaldson said impatiently.  Mulder
looked like he had grown roots, so Donaldson added, "I suspect
she'll be sent to the private facility in Virginia - AtoZ Penal
Institute.  That's where all female federal prisoners are being
sent lately."

"We'll be talking again I'm sure," Mulder said.  "I will
not take this lightly, Mr. Donaldson.  Whatever happens to Scully
you'll pay double for it."

"Are you threatening me?"

Mulder grinned.  "I've seen too many Dirty Harry movies."

Donaldson waved goodbye over his shoulder and continued
out of the building.  Walter Skinner needed to curb his dog or
this would get nasty.  Donaldson had hoped Dana Scully would not
be so strong at this point.  Hell, he'd hoped she'd already be
locked up.  Her strong will put everything 10 days behind
schedule.  He didn't like being behind.  Everything had to be
speeded up.

He smiled with some satisfaction to remember the
helpless fear that flickered across Scully's face when she
realized she was going to be handcuffed and imprisoned.  It was
so strong in her that he had felt it in his groin.  He had one
hope: if what happened in court today shook her spirit, then
prison would kill it off.  Which was what he thought would happen
to her all long.  He needed her weak and vulnerable.

Everything would move along faster then.   His career depended
on her.  Hell, everything he valued depended on her.  He checked
his watch; he was late.  Every damn thing about this was late.
He had some arrangements to make concerning Dana Scully.  He
couldn't afford to let her stay strong.

Soon the threat would be over.  He expected to feel better.  Instead,
his head began to hurt and soon Henry Donaldson felt as though he might
split in half.  Christ, he had to cut out enough time in his day to do
his mental exercises before he started to pee sitting down.
*************************
It was still summer, only July, Scully reminded herself.
A dry July too -- that's why everything along the road was
turning brown.  She wasn't imagining that even the plants around
her shriveled.  The trees, bushes and grass were all dying
prematurely of thirst and turning brown around the edges.  No
rain in sight, a crystal blue sky.  It wasn't fall yet, she
thought.  Not yet.

The prison van and its escort traveled down the
interstate, then turned onto a state highway and finally onto a
country lane in northern Virginia.

As she watched the ageless hills pass by en route to the
AtoZ Penal Securities facility, Scully's manacled hands made her
acutely aware of her own mortality.  She pictured them in five
years -- wrinkling, the skin no longer as elastic.  She turned
them over to study the palms.  Unless she could discover why this
was happening, her hands would be less agile when she was free
again to use them as she wished.

She hugged the side of the seat, scooting as far away from her
neighbor as possible.  She turned away to look out the window.
She wanted to cross her left leg, but the guards had shackled one
leg of the prisoners to a bar along the side of the seats.
Naturally it was her left one.

The risk she'd taken frightened her.  Scully felt her life
slipping past as fast as the miles, memories blurring like the
telephone poles along the road.  She lost so much time- not
carelessly, she hadn't thrown the minutes away.  What had not
been stolen from her she deliberately set aside.

All those things she wanted to get around to - children, research,
writing that forensic textbook - she shelved until none of it was
possible anymore.

Maybe her priorities were wrong all along.  She sighed and continued to
look out the window.  Her regret was what she hadn't done rather than
what she had done.  The hollowness in her stomach leeched into her chest.

From a distance the prison presented a formidable sight.
Accessible from only one bridge across a large creek bed that
was low from the drought, the prison sat in the center of
several open acres.  It looked like one of those multi-layered
urban high schools with slits for windows.  Surrounded by
pristine razor wire and wire fencing set in double rows, the
complex consisted of three main buildings and a series of
smaller guard or storage sheds.

What struck Scully was the blandness: cement blocks and gray, chain
link fence silver, black doors on land burned brown.  The facility
was a modern configuration that repelled any sense of humanity: it was
bulletproof, fireproof Plexiglas, steel, cement, and plastic. Scully
toured such a facility once.  Even the cells featured a reinforced
plastic or plastic derivative and everything in each cell, recreation
area or workstation was completely visible - one way private companies
reduced manpower costs.

Open facilities offered little privacy for inmates, but didn't require
as many guards.  In like fashion rigid rules and schedules helped cut
personnel by limiting choices and opportunities for escape or behavior
outside the norm.  Like other private prisons, AtoZ relied on technology
rather than personnel for security and spared little for rehabilitation,
nothing for ambiance.  No shrubs, flowers or decorative evergreens
marked the grounds or the land around the complex.  From the tallest
point in the prison Scully imagined the closest trees and flowers would
be mere dots on the landscape.  She measured the distance in her mind's
eye.  Escape in the open -- even in the dark -- would be almost
impossible, she thought, surprised to find herself thinking in those
terms.

The van stopped at a gate in front of the bridge.  Someone
in the back whimpered and several of the women sniffled.
Scully's hands and feet grew colder and colder.  She set her lips
in a firm line and lifted her chin.

"Oh Jesus, Jesus, my babies," the woman sitting next to Scully moaned.
Flushed, she began keen softly.  So did another woman close to the rear.

Scully had no words for her seatmate just then.  The
wounded sense of injustice she nurtured after the plea bargain
and sentencing, the righteous indignation she harbored over her
false arrest, and her sense of self held her strong until now.
With the gates of hell yawning open, Scully reached for the cross
around her neck and remembered they took it from her yesterday
after that awful day in court.

Court.  That day when she had nearly panicked, when she couldn't bear
the hands on her, binding her, pulling her away. When the only thing
she felt was Mulder.  She'd given him her life again yesterday.  Scully
closed her eyes, saw his face, felt his hand on her shoulder, her palm
flat on his chest, and held onto his promise.  Was that only yesterday?

For the minute and a half it took the guards to open the bridge and
close barricade behind the van, Scully stifled a gasp at the
suffocating horror she felt when the clang and clack of the gates
locked her off from the world.  Several of the women cried out as though
they'd been physically struck by the noise.

The van drove up to the main complex, a large garage door rolled up to
reveal a group of waiting guards milling around the cement floor.  The
door descended behind them and before the driver could turn off the van
engine a guard tapped on the passenger door with a nightstick.  Scully
closed her eyes and hoped for deliverance.

Instead, she was dragged into purgatory - that place where the nuns told
her souls are taken for purification from sins or to complete punishment
begun in the other world.

Not hell.  But close enough.

Inside it was all by rote, Scully realized, just as her arrest had
been.  The process made extraordinary by the slightest variation.
The personal made remarkable by the impersonal; an insignificant act
of kindness made significant by the absolute absence of compassion.

In the prison garage as the dozen prisoners unloaded, Scully's
seatmate stumbled off the bus and fell at the feet of an armed guard.
He stood, impassive and impatient. Scully got off and, hampered by the
manacles still on her hands and feet, helped the woman up.  Her
seatmate was so hot to the touch Scully wondered she hadn't noticed it
earlier, on the trip from the Washington jail.  Scully felt her forehead
and looked into her eyes.

"This woman has a fever," Scully told the guard.  His nameplate read
Sgt. Anderson.  "She needs to go to the clinic."

"Follow the line," he said.

"She's sick," Scully said.

"Follow the blue line."

"This woman is ill," Scully said.

"You a doctor," Sgt. Anderson scoffed.

"Yes, and I'm telling you she has a fever, her eyes are
bloodshot, she seems disoriented.  It could be pneumonia,
bronchitis, strep, any number of infectious diseases-"

"You're not a doctor.  You are nothing here," Sgt. Anderson
said.  Even the chains around the prisoners in the garage
stilled.  "Did you hear me give you a lawful order to move down
the blue line?"  The man tapped his hand against the nightstick
against his side as a warning.

Scully hesitated, and then saw nothing could be gained by
pushing.  A haze of rage against her impotence clouded her vision
for a moment.  She reasoned the medical exams would surely
pick up the woman's illness.

Scully shuffled in her chains on down the line, standing just
ahead of her seatmate as they entered a series of locks that lead
into large gymnasium in the main building.  Each time the metal
clanging shut locked the women deeper inside the prison Scully
flinched.  She could hear the woman wheezing and berated herself
for not noticing it earlier.

No one but the inmates expressed any emotion at all during
the degrading intake process: strip and cavity searches,
delousing, inventory of possessions, physical examinations, and
basic psychological tests.  The guards peering over portable
dividers set up in the make shift receiving area only
underscored the humiliation and intimidation.  Scully suffered in
silence through all of it, refusing to allow the faintest sign
of emotion to cross her face.

She drew the line when the superficial physical check-up by
a team of bored medical personnel that she knew obtained their
licenses from a cereal box passed on her seatmate.  The woman's
fever was noted, Scully's objection was noted, but she went on.

(Headers and Disclaimers in Chapter One)
Chapter 6 of 20

No one but prisoners brought in with Scully on the van tried
to comfort the weepers, encourage the stragglers.  None of the
men or women in uniform spoke unless it was to deliver an order.
And there were many orders issued by men and women who
might have been robots.  They spoke in sentences that all began
with "You will not..." and "If you..then you.." Rules and
consequences.

Had she sounded like this, Scully wondered.  Had
she been this removed from the human side of law enforcement?
Did she distance herself from everyone as these guards and
prison officials did? Was her outrage at the crime so potent it
obliterated the human element in the criminal and thus
compromised her own humanity?

Perhaps these prison officials thought, as she had, that
criminals deserved no better.  She was, after all, an admitted
thief to them.  A guard nudged her back to reality with his
nightstick and pointed to a hallway where the new arrivals lined
up.

In a hallway was a window where she was photographed again
and given a number.  At the next window she got two pairs of
jeans, three long sleeved work shirts, two white short sleeved
tee-shirts, one pair of white tennis shoes, four pairs of
white socks, and assortment of white cotton underwear and a cell
assignment.

Another door slid back.  The newcomers moved into the
main cell block.  The noise of 434 women in a space built for half
that number whacked the newcomers in the face like an invisible
hand.  Scully's seatmate stumbled into her.  While the newcomers
had no chains, their arms carried stacks of towels and blankets.

Scully shifted her load and turned to help the woman behind her.
The illness and fright made her face a splotchy red.  Scully
suddenly feared the woman had developed scarlet fever.

"Face front," a guard said to Scully.

She started to speak.

"Face front." He drew out the words.

Scully reluctantly released the sick woman and smiled some
encouragement, but her seatmate hardly noticed.

"Fresh meat!" screamed a woman in the cell block.  She was
in the first tier, first cell.  She had a missing front tooth and
a shrill voice.  "Fresh meat coming in!"

"Chrissake," said a tall guard.  His dark blue shirt and
pants contrasted against the gray wall.  He adjusted his collar
and stood in front of the cell as the newcomers walked passed.
"Where you learn this stuff? Don't you remember your first day?"

"Been so long I forgit, boss."

"Don't hand me that boss shit," the guard muttered and moved on.

The cell block had few bars.  The cells themselves resembled
cement boxes with reinforced plastic fronts -- frosted on the
bottom half and clear on the top -- that housed two women
apiece.  Only the doors retained the traditional bars.  Women
inside leaned on them.  A guard who lead the line of new
prisoners cleared the way of the hands, arms and feet protruding
out of the cell doors.

Inside, the cells had a toilet with no seat, bunk beds, a
dresser, a sink and a bookshelf.  All the furniture was bolted to
the floor.  Like gerbil cages, Scully thought as she gripped the
bedding she'd been given.  She noted the cameras mounted on poles
at regular intervals in the hallways and common areas that kept
an invisible eye on every inmate.

As the line moved up and through the rows of cells, the women paused in
front of a cell until a guard waved his arm in a circle, alerting
someone at the end of the row to open a door.  A prisoner stepped
inside and was ordered to shout, "Clear" to signal the guard to close
the door. The bolt in the cell would slam home, locking the prisoner
inside.  Then the line of new inmates, all looking neither right nor
left, moved on, up the stairs to the second floor, down the row of
cells and finally up
to the third tier.  The last cell in the last tier was Scully's.

"The penthouse," said one of the guards.  "For FBI agents who screw
up."

Scully looked at him and said evenly, "If that woman in section two,
cell six has an infectious disease it could spread through this prison
in a matter of days and overload your medical facilities."

Another guard waved his hand in the air, the bolt slid out, and the
cell door rolled back.  There was a pause.  Scully looked at her new
slip-on tennis shoes.  Manufactured in Taiwan no  doubt.  She didn't
think she could do it, could take those thin-soled shoes inside the
small box.  Then, amazingly, it was done.

"You must indicate that you are clear of the cell door," said a guard.

Her back to the door, Scully pressed her lips together and stared at
the
blank wall.  Token resistance, it meant nothing, but she felt better.

It startled her to realize resistance made her feel better.

"You are required to indicate that you are clear of the door," repeated
the guard.

"Sonvabitch.  I'm writing her up," said the first guard.

"Clear!" yelled a voice from the top bunk.

When the door bolt slammed in with the heavy thud of metal
on plastic, Scully started.  She could have sworn the bolt
pierced her heart.  She focused on a calendar propped up against the
back wall.  Nine days since Mulder came home, since she woke in his
bed.  Six days since she last felt sick.  Three days since she
last saw her mother.  Two days since she was free.  A day since
Mulder saw her led from the courtroom.

Quiet fell over the cell block.  The retreating steps of the
guards clicked and clopped on the concrete hallway and metal
steps, growing fainter and fainter.  Scully looked on the top
bunk and saw a thin knee and two small hands holding a magazine.
She moved closer.

"Can you read?" said a voice from the top bed.

"Yes." Scully said it with more confidence than she felt.

A tiny woman with cropped blond hair, narrow face, and
dancing blue eyes popped up and grinned down at her.  The woman -
she looked more like a girl of 16 -- studied Scully for several,
silent moments before thrusting the magazine in Scully's face.
"What is this?"

Scully shifted the bundle in her arms and leaned over to
read the print.  To her relief most of it made sense.  "It's, ah,
the Grand Canyon.  A new nature trail opened and this picture
shows the view from the top of the trail."

The elfin creature bounded down from the top bunk.  "I knew
it! I knew it was the Grand Canyon.  It just looked so much like
the African..I've never been to the Grand Canyon.  Have you?"

"When I was little.  My family took a vacation out West.  We
drove to the Grand Canyon." Scully threw her bundle on the lower
bunk and pointed to a spot in the picture.  "I stood right about
there." She looked into the double truck, full-color picture.
The reds, oranges and greens in the photograph seemed to bleed
into her and she felt a measure of calm.

"Is this someone who works there? A guide?"

"Ah, yes.  Park Ranger Tom Mathews."

"He looks very kind, don't you think?"

Scully pursed her lips.

"Did you go in the summer? Fall?"

"Summer," Scully said.  "Right about this time, actually."

"What was it like? Can you see it in your head now?" the
woman asked.  Her tiny nose wiggled.  Her rosy cheeks made her
blue eyes seem even bigger than they were.

Scully shook her head.  "No, sorry."

"Try."

It was like facing down a child.  Scully sighed in
exasperation, closed her eyes, and tried to remember.  "The
brightest color that day was red.  The canyon was full of reds,
from the earth and--"

"No," said the woman.  "Open your eyes. I want to see too."

"What?"

"Just open your eyes and remember what you saw that day
when you were a little girl.  You said reds.."

Scully retreated a step in the face of her cellmate's eagerness.  "Oh,
geez, I'm scaring you.  I'm sorry.  I got so excited about the Grand
Canyon I forgot.  But you're not too scared, that's good."

"Zelda!" The harsh whisper from the cell next door sounded
distorted from its trip through the walls.  "You watch yourself,
girl.  I can hear you planning a trip!"

"Am not!"

"You mind!" said the voice next door.

"I'm just talking.  I can talk to her if I want."

"Zelda ---"

The childlike expression on Zelda's face vanished.  She put her hands
in her hip pockets and stared at Scully.  "Who are you," she said.

"I-I'm not sure anymore," said Scully, shocked by the words that came
tumbling out of her mouth.

"Well, who do you think you are," Zelda said as though Scully had
made a perfectly appropriate answer.  "Because, the others want to
know. They're afraid of you."

"You're not?"

The elf shrugged.  "I have to be careful too."

"Why?"

"Everybody has something to lose," she said.  "Even in here, you still
have more to lose.  They say you're an FBI agent?"

Inexplicably Scully's eyes smarted.  "I used to be."

Zelda studied her new cellmate.  Scully couldn't remember a
more penetrating gaze, a more thoughtful probing stare.  She felt
strangely exposed, compelled to tell Zelda something, anything.

"I'm afraid of what this is doing to my mother," Scully
said.  Her own honesty took her breath away.

"Not your partner? You're not afraid of his pain?"

Scully's eyes flashed with more surprise. She tried to step back.
Her breath came in quick pants that she first attempted to disguise,
then control.

"Zelda!" The neighboring voice called.

"Everybody knows everything in here. It's like one giant beauty parlor
without the resulting beauty." Zelda walked to the front of the cell
and said to the woman next door: "I'm just talking, that's all,
Bernice.  What's wrong with that?"

"Talk where I can hear!"

"Get bent!"

Next door Bernice let fly a stream of creative oaths.

Scully sat stiffly on the edge of her bunk.  Zelda flipped her hands
back and forth.  "Don't pay any attention to Bernice.  She's the mother
of this pod.  It's her job to protect us, make decisions." She grinned.
Scully looked blank so Zelda continued, "Pod.  Six cells to a pod.
Four
pods to a rec room.  Keep your same pod for your whole tour but rotate
rec pods every year...Rec room's in the center of the pods and they
open
it three hours a day -- you get used to it."

"And Bernice is the mother," Scully finished.

"Ah-h.." Zelda said, "Surely you're familiar with studies on the
dynamics of women in prison.  Where men use sex, and violence to mark
territory or control their circle of influence, such incidents are rare
in a women's prison.  Women typically develop family units.  Within the
unit the strongest personality becomes the mother figure and regards
the women around as her children to protect, comfort, reward, punish --
"

"Recent studies detect an increase in violent incidents among female
prisoners." Scully sounded weary to her own ears.

"In the context of the family unit.  Domestic violence, if you will,"
Zelda said.

"Still violence," Scully said.

"Agreed. I didn't meet to imply it wasn't, I only meant
to say Bernice isn't bad.  I've seen worse.  She's inclined to
punish rather than protect, but ---"  Zelda looked uneasy.

Since it was obvious Zelda had said all she intended to on
the subject of Bernice's leadership qualities, Scully unrolled
her mattress and bedroll.  She realized she was tired - and
dirty.  After all the poking, prodding, examinations and
inspections, Scully wanted to shower.

But she wasn't free to choose.  Until she came up with answers she
would
have to bath on command, eat on command, go to bed when the lights went
out.  She had to tramp down her blooming resentment.

"Look, it isn't as bad as you think."

It was already worse than Scully envisioned.  She searched
her bedroll for a towel and something to wash with.

"The others -- they think you're a spy, you know.  A-a-a-,"
said Zelda.  She leaned against the top bunk.

"A plant," Scully said.

"Are you?"

"You'd hardly expect me to say so if I were."

Zelda's face was pure innocence.  It shone like the light of glory from
her.  She lifted one eyebrow in expectation, shifted her weight to one
foot and, it seemed to Scully, waited for her new cellmate to say
something else.

Without thinking Scully said, "I trusted a man I shouldn't have.
And I didn't trust a man I could have."  She blinked in surprise;
she couldn't imagine why she said that.  It made no sense to her.

"Well, ain't that always the way." Zelda appeared relieved.  She leaned
against the bars and spoke in the direction of the cell next door.
"She's no spy, Bernice.  Just trusted the wrong man."

Somewhere down the cell row a woman laughed.  "That so? Hey, the FB and
I trusted a man." A series of hoots, catcalls, and raucous laughs
bounced
up and down the cell row.  Scully watched her hands lace together.

"Zelda's the damn fool!" Bernice's voice next door was a threat.  "Shut
the hell up.  All of you." The cell row fell silent.  "Zelda, you know
nothing about nothing! You mind what I say!"

Crestfallen, Zelda scuffed her feet, shoved her right hand
in her jeans, and studied the floor for a moment.  Finally, she
pouted and drew a deep breath.  "I'll help you make your bunk,
Dana.  Then will you tell what it says under all these pictures?"

"You can't read?" Scully said.

"I used to.  My brain won't hold everything it learns.  I lost the
knack."

Scully gave her a small smile.  "The human brain contains
billions and billions of cells - most of them unused.  You can
learn to read."

"Even the cells in your brain are finite.  When they fill
up, you have to abandon something to learn more," Zelda said.

"You'd have to learn quite a bit for that to happen,"
Scully said.  It was like arguing with a child.

"Yes, you would have to know a great deal," Zelda said.
She looked wistful for a moment.  "No two objects can occupy the
same space unless they are on different levels of existence and
then, technically, they aren't occupying the same space.  You
have to give something up to get something.  Perhaps something
you prize - to obtain something you prize more.  It's true in
physics, philosophy, religion, human relationships.. I didn't
mind not being able to read when Ann was my cellmate.  I won't
mind now that you've come - if you'll read to me."

"Ann?"

"Gone."

Scully saw there was more Zelda didn't relish telling.

Zelda tugged on the sheet at a corner of Scully's bunk.
"She jumped off the railing out there.  They enclosed it after
she took off.  It was my fault."

"Why do you say that?"

"I knew she was in trouble and I did nothing.  Doesn't that make it
my fault?"

Scully busied herself with the other corner of the bed.
"Not directly."

To her surprise that pleased Zelda.  "You're honest," she said.

"You still don't trust me."

Zelda's laugh came out like a high-pitched chortle.  "You
can't ask something of me you're not willing to give yourself."

She looked as though she pitied Scully.

Perhaps her cellmate wasn't such a child after all, Scully thought.

They finished Scully's bed in silence.  Then Zelda folded a wool
blanket
from her bunk and dropped it against one of the cement walls.

"We can't sit on the bunks together," she said.  "Rules. You need to
requisition another blanket so we'll have somewhere comfortable to
sit when we read." She fetched her magazines and settled down.  Scully
sat beside her, leaned back against the wall, and opened the pages of
'National Geographic' for the previous October.  The magazine for the
previous January lay in Zelda's lap.

"Shall I start at the beginning," Scully said.

"Please."

"Do you want to hear the articles too?"

"Just the captions." Zelda said.

In their travels through the magazines Scully learned
Zelda had visited many of the places in the pictures.  Exotic
places like Sri Lanka, Cambodia, and Uganda.  Ordinary places
such as Houston, Texas, San Diego, California and Phoenix,
Arizona.  She knew Buddhism and quoted Tao.

"How do you know these places," she asked Scully.

"I love to read.  My father was in the Navy.  We moved a
lot.  I traveled after college for a few weeks, and I saw a great
deal --." She started to say she saw quite a few places in her
job.  A pang of regret lanced through her.

"I was a military brat too," Zelda said.  "My father was killed right
after I was born and my mother was in the Army. We traveled all over
the place."

"Where is she now?"

Zelda's face fell.  "I don't know.  MIA.  She served in Vietnam and..."

"I'm sorry."

"You would have liked her.  I was old enough to remember -I remember
hereyes," Zelda sighed.  "She taught me so much.  I don't regret that.
No, not that."

"My father is dead too," Scully said.  "I only regret I didn't have
more time with him."

Zelda regarded her with a renewed interest.  Scully felt as
though she had passed another test.  "You can travel with me,"
she said.  "I think you can do it--over time."

"Over time."

"Well, we got plenty."

Scully sat back and regarded her cellmate for a long moment.  "What are
you doing here?"

Zelda got up and stretched.  "That's a breach of etiquette.  Don't ask
why someone's here.  She wants you to know, she'll tell you." Zelda
moved back into a corner of the cell between the back wall and the beds
to change shirts.  "You're innocent, aren't you?"

Scully studied the sink across the cell for a moment.  "Yes."

"So am I." Zelda grinned.  "This is a whole prison of innocents."
She pulled a tee shirt off and chose another "You can hang your robe
at the head of the bed or
on the end.  Gives you some privacy on your bunk at the end, but
less air circulation.  Your choice."

Scully hung her robe on the end of the top bunk and it
hung over the edge.  Zelda approved.

Every night the line to use the one telephone on the row
wound down the corridor.  It was almost lights out by the time
Scully's turn came.

"Mulder."

For a moment she didn't know what to say.  She kept the
telephone pressed tight against her ear and opened her mouth,
but nothing came out.  With a hundred women breathing down her
neck and serious questions about the security of his end of the
line, Scully found she couldn't say anything.

"So, Scully, what are you wearing?"

She chuckled.  "Basic blue."

"Yeah," he said softly.  "Yeah, me too.  I'm trapped in a Salvador Dali
painting."

"The Divine Comedy, Inferno, Canto 23?"

"How'd you know?" he said.

"I'm surprised we haven't run into each other.  It's a fairly barren
landscape with nothing but a skull to block the view," she said.

"Hey! You got people waitin'!" shouted one of the women too far down
the telephone line to make it before lights out. The line jostled,
women cursed.

"Gotta go," Scully said.

"Scully!"

"Mulder?"

"I-I'm glad it's not a Fellini movie?"

"'night, Mulder."

"Shit! You gotta tuck him in every friggin' night?" said
the next woman in line.  She began punching in her prison number
to clear the system operator the instant Scully hung up.  She
never got connected.

From somewhere in the back of the line Bernice
materialized and took the receiver from her hand.  "Thank you, my
sister."

The two women stared at each other for a moment, then
the other woman dropped her eyes and walked away.  "Sure," she
said and walked away with only a sullen backwards glance.

"Doggie boy!" Bernice said into the receiver.  "You ready
to play fetch?" She laughed.  "I know that's right." Bernice's
eyes swept across the line, lingered on Scully, and turned to speak
with hushed tones into the receiver.  Everyone in line made an
effort to appear preoccupied.

Prison life surprised Scully.  She had set up expectations
and tested reality against them in a time-honored way to prove
or disprove theorems.  She discovered that thus far she hadn't
really known much about the realities of corrections.  That
realization frightened her.

She knew within a few days she couldn't use much of her
past experiences to predict the future.

One of the first expectations to fall was the notion that
a person raised in a military household who prized routine and
order would not find the rigid life of prison too difficult to
bear.

She despised it.

After that, her expectations fell like dominoes.  Although
she enjoyed quiet places, soft music, Scully possessed the
ability to tune out extraneous noises when she had to.  She had
no clue how the unrelenting noises of prison would wear on her.
And in such a short time.

She thought of herself as someone who could endure the
fallibilities of most people.  One afternoon with her pod and she
discovered she was actually very intolerant - but until now
she'd had a place to run.

She knew she was disciplined.  Stripped of her defenses,
her distractions, her support, Scully became seized by an
inertia born of having no purpose or direction.  Floundering, as
her mother would call it.  She didn't know what to call it.

Scully realized she was learning things about herself she
didn't care to know.

The routine wasn't hard to decipher.  The bell right
outside her cell sounded for meals, for the endless head counts,
for work, for outdoor exercise, for time in the recreation area.

Just when Scully thought the overcrowded cafeteria with the
sickening smells and uncomfortable stools that swung in and out
from the table represented the worst part of prison, she
received her work assignment to the laundry.  She had almost
decided meals were pleasant compared to enduring the heat and
steam of the laundry when she was braced for the first time.

Periodically guards would select inmates at random to face
the wall, arms high and feet spread, to search.  Often the
searches turned out contraband cigarettes, drugs, items pilfered
from work assignments.  The braces happened in hallways, cells,
conference rooms, and workstations - anywhere and everywhere
guards elected to frisk an inmate.

The first time a prison guard dropped a hand on her shoulder and
spun her around to face the wall she suffered in silence as a
female guard ran her hands over her body.  She understood the
reasons and the right of a guard to search a prisoner.  She got
through it by reciting any chemical formulas she could remember
and replaying medical procedures she recalled as being interesting.
It heartened her to know she could now remember many things she
thought she'd forgotten.

During her second week of prison she was braced twice: once by a
guard outside the laundry and the second in the library by an
officer whose hands lingered around her breasts until she allowed
a warning hiss through her lips. She filed an oral complaint with the
disinterested sergeant at the duty station.

The next time it happened -- on the Monday of the third week - she
was more prepared.  The officer slammed her against the cement wall of
the hallway so hard her cheek scrapped.  After he completed
the search, she said evenly, "Sgt. Anderson. Explain to the
staff that policy prohibits excessive searches and that in the
future I will file a written complaint with the director following each
incident. Every complaint, as you may know, requires a written response
from guards. I have nothing but time; you will be buried in paper."
He laughed in her face.

She wanted to bathe.  Right then.  While the feel of the guard's large,
beefy hands still kneaded her soul as they had her body.  He escorted
her back to her cell at a respectable distance.

Once inside she turned to him, stared for a moment and said distinctly,
"You have my permission to close the door now, Sgt. Anderson."

The guard scowled, the bolt shot home and he walked away with a
heel-toe, heel-toe clip in his step.  Over it all Angela and Bernice
guffawed.  Only the sound of his steps and the laughter of inmates
died down did Scully allow herself to lean against the top bunk, arms
folded across her chest.  She hoped her face had not betrayed her
outrage, but only reflected a self-contained, cold, determination.

Zelda giggled.  "Well done.  It'll stop for a time."

Scully looked up sharply.  "How do you know?"

"I know all kinds of things," Zelda said.

"But you can't read..."

Zelda spit mouthwash into the sink, then held up a finger.  "What
would you give up, if you could fly? Would you surrender your
ability to add and subtract?"

"To fly?" Scully shook her head.  "Not much of a incentive."

"Hmm-m, a concrete thinker."

Scully didn't bother to answer.  Zelda made room for her at the sink
and Scully wetted a washcloth.  She held it against her cheek.

"What do you want?" Zelda began to laugh.  It sounded pure
and open.  "Maybe you need to discover what's valuable to you
before we talk about what it costs to get it."

Scully scoffed.

"Something to think about," Zelda said.  She hopped up on her bunk.
"What else you got to do?  Nobody but me will talk to you."

"You, ah, want to read," said Scully.  Her hands fluttered
to the magazines on the bed, then watched as one or two fell off
at her feet.  She had no energy to pick them up.  She felt
desperately lonely, and, something else.  Something she feared to
say, even to herself.

"You're not alone," Zelda said.  "You've got to accept that,
enjoy it."

"You always seem to know what I'm thinking," Scully said aloud.

Assuming the attitude of a storyteller Zelda began: "The
grandsons of Noah and their sons built a great tower to reach
up into heaven, to the very throne of I AM.
As they built this monument to their ego, I AM grew
more and more displeased.  While they raised their tower, schools
weren't build, the poor went unattended, the sick died.
Determined to punish them, I AM made the language of men
unintelligible, so they could not communicate with each other."

Zelda crossed her legs. "Then I AM saw that no women worked on
the tower.  No women made bricks or carried things up the ramp
or even offered water to men working on the tower.  The women
stayed in the villages, caring for children, teaching, healing.
So I AM gave women the power to communicate without speaking,
to know without asking."

Scully sank onto the bunk and proceeded to count her fingers.
Zelda leaned upside down to look at Scully.  "You have
power you never imagined."

She swiped her mouth with her sleeve, and sat back up.  After
a moment Zelda said softly into the air, "You are the one.  I've
been waiting three awful years."

She glanced around furtively, took a magazine from the stack on the
shelf and grabbed a photograph out of the pages.  She leaned
upside down again and thrust it in Scully's face.  It showed a
grinning pixie with blue eyes, her arms draped around the
neck of a dark-haired little boy.  On the back it said "Scott
Deschamps, age 4."

(Headers and Disclaimers in Chapter One)
Chapter 7 of 20

"Your son?" Scully's finger wiped a trace of lint off the photograph.

"Taken last month.  His, ah, his foster mother brings him
once in a while." Zelda grinned.  "My smile, don't you think?
Smart too.  Intuitive beyond his years."

Scully handed the photo to Zelda, but she pushed it back. "Take him.
Make him yours.  That's all I ask.  You're honorable - I'm counting on
that.  Take him - it's all I want in exchange."

"Exchange?  For what?" Scully hurled herself off the bunk, a flying
bundle of raw energy, and placed the photo on Zelda's bed.

"Two things I'd give anything for: a safe home for my son
and-and to talk to my mother again."

"I don't understand, Zelda.  Is your son--?"

"You'll know everything when you need to know it." Zelda's face glowed
with happiness from something Scully could not see.  "When you are
ready I will be your teacher - and you will be free."

"Ready?"

"When your spirit is empty enough to fill." Zelda settled
into her bed.

Scully looked at the photo of the little boy on Zelda's
bed and reached to take it.  Scully held the photo lightly
between two fingers, but all her other fingers curled into  fists.

Zelda covered the fists with her hand. "Surely you know this isn't
the work of I AM," said Zelda.  "A more profitable avenue of thought
might be why you have to isolate yourself.  What it is inside you
that you feel you must protect at all costs.  You have to answer that
or you'll miss what's right in front of you - yours for the asking.
And
you won't be able to do what you came to do."

Zelda pulled a black sleeping mask into place, and settled between
her sheets.  "I'm bushed. Let's go to bed." Zelda liked the mask
because, as she had explained to Scully, she slept with her eyes open.

Scully eased back onto her bunk.  "What am I supposed to
do?" She realized no one but I AM listened.  "Zelda?"
Her cell mate slept.  Scully envied her the ability to fall
asleep so quickly and deeply.  Sometimes Scully could scarcely
detect her breathing.
**************************
The papers on Henry Donaldson's desk blurred.   He couldn't
stop thinking about Dana Scully and Zelda Deschamps, wondering
how they got along, how close they had become.  Perhaps Scully
would be able to read to Zelda by now.  When she sat at the
defense table in court Agent Scully had seemed uncertain when
she looked at the papers her lawyer handed her.

Donaldson had worked very hard on his plan to stop the
ghost bandits.  He alone of all those in Justice could deal with
this phenomenon because he alone knew how they could work it --
how it was possible.  He meant for no one else in the world to learn
about it.

Thus he'd considered every detail, countered every avenue of
escape, and tried to imagine every possible scenario, everything
that could go wrong.  It was what he did best.

He would use Agent Scully to uncover their next robbery target and
meet them at the scene. He would learn who was behind it all and deal
with them appropriately.  It would be done quickly.  And quietly.  The
FBI agent would never be a threat.  The web he and Skinner had woven
for Agent Scully was airtight. Who would believe an admitted felon's
ghost story?  There was no proof -- none -- that Agent Scully was
anything more than a dishonest agent.  Donaldson had seen to that
personally.

His one miscalculation was not seeing that Dana Scully could be so
strong and holding on until Fox Mulder returned.  Then she was
even stronger.  Not good for Donaldson's plan, but not fatal.  After
all, he chuckled to himself, she had to bend, but not break.  Not yet,
anyway.

She and her partner were separated now.  She would weaken, shrivel,
and eventually he could discard her.  Donaldson felt much better.
Nothing was really wrong; everything was merely behind schedule.

It was amazing good luck to discover Dana Scully amid the
unimaginative idiots at the FBI in the first place.  He had
almost despaired.

He thought it essential that the next woman he sent to
flush out the robbers should be open to the paranormal;
that's where he thought he failed earlier.  Her association
with the X-Files was such a plus that he'd been willing to deal
with Walter Skinner again.

Now he wondered if it was a mistake.  His feminine side had liked
Miss Scully - that should have been a point against her.  But her
attitude and bearing at their first meeting goaded Donaldson into
acting irrationally.  She was so smug, self-contained, and superior
he wanted to beat it out of her.  He enjoyed watching women like
her fall.

Now he frowned and worried his pen.  Perhaps he should have chosen
someone not as open to the paranormal.  Yet when he asked outright
about her beliefs she gave him some equivocal speech about proof and
"seeing things I can't explain".  All in all she'd seemed perfect for
his purposes.

Donaldson thought she might be easily manipulated too. That was
a plus.  Hadn't she transformed from pure scientist to space cadet.
The rumor mill called her "Mrs.  Spooky".  The implications were
clear: she only tagged along to be with Mulder.  And who could
blame her?

Donaldson shoved the papers away.  His face colored just
recalling the way Mulder's suit jacket fell over his ass.
Donaldson had to control these breakthroughs better.  The young
man on the third floor was bad enough, but an FBI agent?  Dana
Scully's partner?  Women had no shame.  He began to feel the
cramps in his abdomen again.

Christ, either he doubled his mental exercises or he might
as well go to Sweden for a sex change operation.  His heart leapt.

"Sir? Mr.  Britton from Senate Appropriations is on his way
over."

"Thank you, Mary." Donaldson said.  He could feel moisture
on his forehead.

And he wondered again how Dana Scully was faring in
prison.
***********************
Mulder knew Scully wouldn't do well in prison.  He'd
gotten permission to visit her a week earlier than most new
prisoners were allowed to have visitors.  Moreover, he received
special treatment the first time he came.  The prison guards,
privately contracted, seemed impressed with him.  He was law
enforcement, the FBI, one of them in spades.  They must not know
he and Scully were - are - partners.  They all acted as if he
were there to interrogate her.

He waited outside a door with metal bars to be admitted to
a hallway inside the prison.  At the direction of a guard at the
door, he walked down a wide corridor.  He passed a dozen people -
guards, trustee inmates, office staff - before he found a room
marked "Conference Rooms." He pushed the button next to the
door, smiled into the camera, and pushed open the door when it
buzzed.  A guard met him, frisked him, and directed him to a
door.  He used a key to open it.

Mulder stepped inside, feeling
the walls dangerously close for the first time in his life.
Hardly larger than a study cubicle at the Quantico library, the
room was split in half by a plexiglass wall.  His and hers side
of life connected by an intercom.  Mulder dropped into an
uncomfortable molded plastic chair and waited again.

After a few minutes a noisy clang announced Scully's
arrival.  The door opened and she stepped into the prisoner's
side of the cubicle wearing blue jeans that were too big for her
and a work shirt with the collar flipped up in the back.  The
shirt had a black set of numbers on the pocket.

Mulder rose and squashed down the panic he felt as she stood
in the doorway.  Washed out, small and uncertain at first, her eyes
swept the area before fixing on him - habit, an alert agent's way of
feeling out a room.  He hoped for a smile, a wink - something to
show him it was still Scully inside.  As she walked toward the
chair he continued to hope it was only the harsh white light
necessitated by the video cameras that made her skin appear
translucent.

She sat down, punched the intercom and inclined her ear.
"I don't see you waving a piece of paper in your hand or humming
excerpts from 'Midnight Special'.  Am I to infer from this that
you have not come to affect my release?"

Mulder clucked and patted his pockets.  "Must have left
those papers in my other suit."

"So this would be a fashion consultation," she said,
staring at his tie.

"It was on the rack all alone-it called to me." He
stroked the fabric of the riotous red and blue tie as gently as
a woman's skin.  Not any woman's skin, hers.

She caught him.  "Hm-hm-m."

Mulder dropped the tie self-consciously and cleared his throat.

"My mother says you've been very kind, Mulder."

"I'm taking her to the cardiologist myself tomorrow." He
noticed the mark on her cheek.

She put her hand over it.

"Industrial accident?" he said.  His voice sounded
perfectly calm, but she heard the rumble underneath.

"Cut myself shaving." She rolled her eyes to the cameras
in warning.  Her eyebrow lifted in a question.

"Ah, Skinner's pushing the bank thing," Mulder said,
glancing up at the cameras.  "I see a connection, but I ran a
check of similar crimes and guess what-."

"I can imagine."

"Scattered around the country over the last two years.   A
couple of convictions.  Same MO, same everything --.  I'm taking a
field trip tomorrow, but it all comes back to you."

"Not necessarily.  I continue to maintain you are trying
for connections where there aren't any.  What about the attorney
in the Jackson case who swore I demanded $5,000 to--"

Mulder shook his head.  "That's not the way."

"You can't ignore the obvious facts given you."

"I'm following the facts given me.  Just not all of them
given about you-directly."

Scully took a deep breath and exhaled.  When she raised her
eyes again she seemed calm.  An artificial calm.  Not the kind
that promised whirlwinds and thunder just over the horizon as
was so often the case with Scully, Mulder decided.  Instead it
was a calm like the quiet acceptance of the natural order of
things, the way winter follows spring and death follows life.  He
had seen flashes of this Scully during her cancer.  His spirits
plummeted.

Scully regarded Mulder with a sense of melancholy.  He was
tired.  Perhaps a little scared at being alone.  She understood
that.  He brushed a hand through his hair and it alarmed her to
see it shook.

"Back on the couch?"

"Hey, I like my couch."

"Mulder..."

He floundered.  "You?"

She gave him a quick smile and looked away.  "At least my
cell mate sleeps like the dead."

"Snores, huh?"

"You've dropped some weight," she said.  "Working out?"
"The beer and pizza diet."   At her scowl he added, "Veggie
pizza." He didn't add that she had also lost weight.

She folded her arms in front of her.  "The best of the major food
groups.  Personally, I miss my evening champagne and caviar."

"Who's your cell mate?"

It was a rhetorical question. Scully knew Mulder would already have
chapter and verse on everyone in her pod from the FBI database.

Scully's arms loosened.  "Zelda Deschamps."

"What a coincidence," Mulder said.  "I remember that name
from interviewing a former security guard.  How many Zeldas can
there be outside a Scott Fitzgerald novel?"

She scoffed.  "The Zelda I live with can't read.  She said
she used to, but can't anymore.  She likes pictures in National
Geographic.  She's into spiritualism --thinks she can teach me to
fly.  She looks and acts 16."

"A 43-year-old woman who looks 16 - maybe she's found the
fountain of youth.  She know you're a white-knuckle flyer?"
Mulder suddenly shifted on his chair.  "Can't read? Are there no
literacy programs in this prison?"

Scully remembered that was one of the apparent side effects of
the drugs, but she didn't see how it connected to Zelda.

Mulder took a handkerchief out of his pocket and, in the
guise of blowing his nose, covered his mouth and muffled his
words.  "Graduated magna cum laude from Virginia.  Doctorate in
religious studies from Yale."

Scully moved up to the edge of her chair, her lips parted
slightly.

Mulder rubbed his chin.  He seemed excited.  "This all fits
into something I read a long time ago on - " He appeared taken
by another sneezing fit.  "-Mind Meld."

"A comic book?" Scully turned sideways in her chair and
her fingertips rubbed her forehead.

"Have you read it?"

"I'm sure I can requisition it.  Should receive it in three
or four weeks," she said.

"I don't recall that it had pictures, but if I can find a
copy, can you think of anyone else who might be interested in
it?"

Charlie Duncan had talked about a black woman taking over
Andy Paige's body.  Scully's eyes widened and she placed her
hands flat on the ledge in front of her.  "This place has a very
eclectic clientele.  My neighbor, Bernice Johnson, for example."

"Ah, but can she read?"

Scully thought a minute.  "Couldn't say."

"Maybe she would like my comic book."

"Perhaps."

"I know you must be more excited than that," he said.  "Got
a theory?"

"I'm developing one."

"Feel like sharing?"

"Be careful who you trust."

"Always," he said slowly.

"I mean, I don't think you should talk to anyone, ah,
important," she said.  "I don't think he - anyone, that is --
should know what's-" She glanced at the spot where the cameras
whirred.  " -what you're doing."

"Have to say something," Mulder said.  "Something so
I'll have leeway to pursue this."

This.  Her freedom.

"He'd like to help, but can't.  I think the war isn't over
for him," Scully said, just as amazed at her words as Mulder
seemed.  She attempted to backtrack.  "You can't stay on one case
exclusively," she said.  "Let me work it."

"Not alone." Mulder knew immediately where she was going.

"This is a long term commitment.  You have to- to do other
things.  Skinner expects it."

"I told him to back off."

"You can't do that for much longer."

"I've got enough vacation time to..."

She licked her lips and Mulder knew he wasn't going to
like what she said next.  The lip thing -
that was a guarantee.  "You can't make this your whole life."

He tossed it off as unimportant.

"This can't be your whole life or it's your sister all over
again," she said.  "Pursuing shadows just out of reach, ignoring
everything around you." Scully's eyes softened.  "Don't do that.
Don't disappear again.  I need you.  Here.  Now.  Where you are."

He could feel her caress as surely as if she'd reached out and
touched his face.  Her lower lip quivered; she caught it in her
teeth.

He swallowed his outrage and willed her not to say
anything else, not to tell him what she thought she had to.  "I
have to go."

He pressed his palm against the plastic wall
between them. "Scully."

"Let me go." Her gaze remained soft but firm.  She
hesitated, and then touched his palm through the glass with one
fingertip.  He finally dropped his hand off the wall.  Her slight
smile showed her approval.

Scully walked toward the door as though she were going
into the hallway to find a report -- too preoccupied to talk to him
right then.  Except she had to have permission to leave, someone
had to open the door and allow her to go.  She pushed the button
next to the door once, then, with a touch of impatience, twice.

She looked straight at the door until a clanging at the metal
lock signaled that the guard disengaged the lock.  She waited to
hear a loud clack at the door before she reached for the handle.
Her square shoulders, her apparent indifference brought the
opposite reaction from him.

"I've never known you to quit," he shouted loud enough to
be heard through concrete, plexiglass and stubbornness.  Her
hesitation was almost imperceptible; the break in her posture
nearly invisible.  She didn't look back.

Suddenly Mulder wanted to kick somebody.  He sat still a
moment staring at the empty seat gathering his fury around him
like a tornado.  Angry with Skinner, with himself, and mostly
with Scully, he thought he'd damn sure start with Skinner.

He stalked out of the room and into the corridor so fast
he ran into a prison trustee busily sweeping the hallway.  She
was a tall black woman with arresting brown eyes.  He felt
himself drawn into them.  And suddenly she was holding him up by
the elbow and around the waist.

"Whoa," said the woman.  "You okay? You nearly went down."
Mulder didn't remember slipping, but he could have.  He
checked the floor for banana peels.  "Yeah, fine.  Thanks."
"No problem.  Have a nice day."

Mulder strode out of the prison hallway full of purpose -
he just couldn't exactly remember what that purpose was.  And his
car keys?  He patted his pockets before recalling he had to leave
them at the guard station.  The visit had addled him - and upset
his stomach.
*************************
The recreation area for Scully's pod - or the rec as the inmates
called it - covered an area roughly four times that of her
mother's living room with none of the comforts or style.  As with
the cells, the rec was plain cinder block on three sides and a
steel-reinforced plexiglass front so guards in the corridors and
the floor below could easily see what happened inside.

The inmates had no hammer or nails and they were forbidden to use
tape to hold posters or photos on the walls since it might mar
the paint job.  Consequently the rec lacked color or warmth or a
hint of personality.

Four security cameras swept the area.  A large television hung from
the left center column in the room and a radio/CD player sat on a
shelf on the far right column.  Both had been screwed to boards and
covered with wire so only the controls and screen could be touched
or seen.

A series of pinging, panging pinball machines and video games sat
bolted to the sidewalls.  Books, magazines, and a stack of board and
card games lay scattered on tables screwed to the floor.  More than
two dozen chairs, settees and couches completed the room's furnishings.
It was all new, already fading.

Here women from two pods could watch television, play games, talk, or
read.  Cell doors were left open.  For three glorious hours a day and
five on Sunday, the nearly 50 women enjoyed unstructured time to wander
in and out of their cells and the recreation room.  No one called it
free time.  Nothing was free.

Scully found it bland, institutionally depressing and, if she'd been
honest, a little intimidating.  The fact that she had once been law
enforcement also caused her no small concern in the rec room.  While it
was under constant surveillance no guards roamed inside.  Still, she
couldn't put off going in forever.  It turned out to be a non-event.

She was invisible.  She walked along the edges of the room, sat on the
fringes of conversations and worked puzzles - most of them missing
pieces just like her life.  The first week she got some curious looks
and hostile gestures, which she ignored.  The second week one or two
women nodded to her.  Then women began speaking.

Wary at first, Scully found she was relieved, even pleased.  Zelda
reported that she made her bones with the guard incident.  That guard's
hands were always too quick and Scully had slammed him.  The others
were impressed; Bernice herself had grunted a half-hearted approval.
Still, no one made an effort to approach her and most turned away when
she walked close.

She remained invisible and told herself she was content that way.
It was safer.  It was easier.  It was familiar.

Mulder's visit somehow changed things.  Zelda was right: in prison
everybody knew everybody else's business.  Most conversation died away
when Scully walked into the rec.  Bureau coffee rooms, offices and rest
rooms often fell silent when she came in.  It never bothered her.

For some reason it irritated her that these women gossiped about her.
She felt a dozen pair of eyes follow her as she crossed to a chair, a
green armchair with holes in the vinyl that offered little comfort but
a good reading light.

"Mail!" Bernice came in waving letters in her hand.  The women gathered
around and she handed them to an inmate who offered her a big toothy
grin. "Read 'em out, Mary," Bernice said.  She dropped an
official-looking envelope from the FBI in Scully's lap. "Somebody tell
me this special delivery for you."

Prison officials had already opened it for inspection.  Scully pulled
out the letter, but she already knew what it contained: her dismissal.
Termination for cause, cessation of benefits, loss of pension.  Formal
black and white proof that the FBI was through with her.  Scully licked
her lips and carefully folded the paper back into the envelope.  Only
procedure, she told herself, a form letter.

"Zelda! Trot your buns over here," Bernice shouted.  "Mary say you got
a postcard." She waved it in the air.  Zelda, who had been watching a
soap opera, turned in her chair and stared.  "Come on, girl.  Come get
it. I got one too.  Mary say we on a list of pr-eeeferred customers."

Zelda shook her head.  Without waiting anymore Bernice dropped it in
Zelda's lap.

"I can't read it.  You know that," Zelda said.

"Then have the new girl to read it for ya.  She reads all the time."
Bernice and her cell mate Angela wandered over to take up positions
on either side of Scully's chair.

"And look here where she be readin' today," Bernice said.

"This is Bernice's place," Angela said.

Scully checked something on a previous page and returned to the place
she was reading.

"I said-"

"Leave off," Bernice said.  "This child still new.  She ain't really
family.  Still things she don't know.  Now she knows this."

Scully merely cocked an eyebrow.

"Girl," Bernice said in a loud, but confidential tone.  "You did not
need to tell that stud-ly piece of ass he had your approval to do what
he been doing since you got here! But you did the right cuttin' him
out.
Time is hard enough without him weighin' on your mind."

Scully continued to read.

"Hey! I'm trying to be nice, here."

"As you see I'm trying to read."

Someone in the rec room snickered; another woman chucked.
Bernice's head jerked up.  All the women appeared occupied in
playing games, watching television, dealing cards.  Someone
cranked up the music and the drums beat behind Scully's eyes.

Bernice leaned down close to Scully.  "I'm talking to you!"
One or two of the women in the rec room edged closer,
anxious to see what would happen.  Someone made a nervous giggle.

Scully took the marker out of her book and laid it in her lap.
She moved her fingertip under sentences to give the appearance of
reading.

Bernice pushed off the chair, shaking it slightly, and
said to two women lounging nearby.  "So I'm standin' near the
door and she come from this big talk with her man-and she the
whitest white girl I ever seen.  Come out and she got such big,
bad crocodile tears in her eyes she can't even see where she's
goin'.  Pitiful." Some more women snickered and giggled.

"You're in my light," Scully said.

"On the other side, he's shouting," Bernice said to her
growing audience, "then he sat there looking hang dog, like he
was so tore up.  I ran into him in the hall - oh-h, it so-o nice
to be a trustee.  I thank you.  He got such big muscles in his
thigh.  And he was pacccking!"

She laughed and the women in earshot did too.  When several more w
omen joined the semi-circle around the chair, Bernice grinned.
cully gave her tormenter a blank look, then adjusted the book.

"Don't you want to know what he was thinking, girlfriend?" Bernice
put her hand across the pages.  "He was thinking how he gonna track
down his boss, and beat him into the ground for what he done to you.
What did he do to you? Anything you wanna share with the class?"

Scully enunciated every word, "Please move your hand."

The two women stared at each other.  Bernice's eyes, large
and brown, pulled at her.  Scully felt dizzy.  Slightly daunted,
she turned in the chair and put the book between them.

"You a fool.  If I had a man like that I'd still be under
him." Bernice tapped the book gently.  "I hope you got laid good
before you came in, 'cause you ain't gonna find nothing as
pretty as that around here."

Scully's eyes kept on moving across the page.

"And when you come out, he ain't gonna be there," Bernice continued.
"He forgot you before he got in front of the wall.  When I
looked into those eyes I saw me lots of store-bought women, naked
women doing things their mamas wouldn't like, doing 'em over and
over." A couple of women high five-d and laughed.

When she got no reaction from Scully, Bernice swore and walked away
before firing her last shot.  "Know what else? I saw you in his bed
wearing nothing but his shirt.  He had his hands all over you - helping
himself while you wuz dog sick."  She shook her head in mock disgust.

The sound of the women's laughter echoed in Scully's mind
along a hot wavy line from her head to her heart.  It rippled
over Scully in increasingly powerful surges.  Her mouth dried up.

She couldn't imagine how Bernice knew about Mulder's tapes, or about
Skinner or what Mulder wanted to do to him.  His hands on her while she
slept? She was vulnerable in his bed.  She had come to him for help and
safety.  If she allowed it, Bernice's scenario would explain a lot
about the way she felt when she awoke and the strange tension between
them the next day.  She gripped her book so tightly her fingers became
sweaty; she wiped her palm across her jeans.

Scully turned the page.  She couldn't remember what she'd just read.
From over the top of the book she could see Bernice's
feet moving away.  She released a long ragged breath and tried to
think.  It was easy to determine who Mulder's supervisor was.  As
trustee and pod leader perhaps Bernice had access to certain
prison records about Scully.  She appeared to be intelligent as
well as street smart -- so she made a lucky guess, a couple of
lucky guesses.

Scully wondered if Zelda said something.  Had she
mentioned the night she was so sick to Zelda? Of course not,
she'd told no one; she tried not to think of it herself.  And
when she did, she never thought Mulder broke faith.  She never
thought that was the source of the strange undercurrent between
them.  Whatever happened - Mulder said nothing happened.  What had
she missed? What was true, what was just in her head?

Scully felt guilt about her doubts.  Yet she couldn't seem
to banish them completely.  It flashed through her that as the
current dragged her further from shore the rock she needed to
stand on might be only sand.  Her face still buried in the book,
she unconsciously rubbed her forehead and chewed on her lower
lip.

"I can't let you do that, Bernice," Zelda said over the hubbub.
Scully's head snapped up.  The entire room fell into an eerie buzz
broken only by dialogue from the television and the music from the
corner of the room.  The black woman stopped abruptly.   "You can't
take him from her or she'll freak like the others."

Bernice wagged a finger and grinned, but there was no
mirth in it.  "Have you been peeking inside this girl's head?"

"Don't be insulting.  That isn't polite," Zelda said.  "You
have to be a fool not to see how they are bound together." She
looked at Scully, who was staring in wide-eyed astonishment, and
shrugged.  "Then again, she hardly sees it herself."

Bernice's mouth set in a cruel smile.  "I ain't happy.  No-
ooo." Someone in the back of the rec room said, "oooo-o" and
followed it with a nervous laugh.

"And when mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy," Angela said.

Zelda's shoulders sagged and she flicked her tongue over
her lips. The tension became a sweaty smell over the rec room.
Scully's gaze followed Zelda and Bernice into a corner of the
pod rec room. For a few minutes Bernice and Angela spoke angrily
to Zelda then Angela turned her back and while she was shielded
from the view of the surveillance camera Bernice acted.

To Scully's horror Bernice slapped Zelda's face and delivered
one blow to the stomach. Zelda turned sideways into the wall
while Angela and Bernice obstructed her from the camera.
Scully jumped out of the chair and found her way blocked by
an obese woman from the pod.

"Just a little family business.  Finished here? 'Cause if you are,
Bernice would 'preciate her seat back," said Mary, the inmate Bernice
used as a reader.

Scully clutched the book under her arm but by the time she got to Zelda
her cellmate had regained her breath.  Zelda stood as straight as she
could against the wall.  Scully dropped the book on the floor and would
have followed Bernice, but Zelda grabbed her elbow.

"She wasn't always like this," Zelda managed to gasp." Please.  This is
on
me.  All of it."

"I'm going to report it," Scully said.

Zelda merely shook her head and gripped Scully's arm even tighter.

(Headers and Disclaimers in chapter one)
Chapter 8 of 20

Margaret Scully knew Fox Mulder would be picking her up soon, but she
never expected him to be early.  She opened the front door with an
apology for not being ready on her lips and found AD Skinner outside.

"Mrs.  Scully.  May I come in?"

"Dana!"

Skinner's head moved side to side in a barely discernable
motion.  "She's fine as far as I know." He seemed ill at ease.

"Come in then, Mr. Skinner." But her voice and demeanor
held no welcome.

Skinner walked inside and waited until Mrs. Scully closed
the door.  Margaret and her daughter were alike in many respects,
he noted.  Both unyielding, uncompromising.  He
didn't know how to begin because he didn't know what title to put
with Dana Scully's name.  Finally he said, "Your daughter doesn't know
I'm
here, Mrs.  Scully.  I came to ask you something." She waited and
he continued, "I came to ask: if you could know that Dana is
innocent or be able to visit her -- which would you choose?"

Skinner studied her face for a moment and felt foolish.
Stupid, really, for coming.  He should have known what her answer
would be.

"I already know my daughter is innocent, Mr.  Skinner."

He nodded, more to himself than to her.  "So do I," he
whispered, ducked his head and left quickly.

When she closed the door Margaret Scully began to weep silent
tears of frustration.  The anger she harbored for Skinner, the
FBI, and those who pushed Dana into prison disappeared.  Margaret
recognized the nagging fear she had from the beginning of this
nightmare was the reality.  She knew now that her baby had
somehow chosen the path she was on - and that it had taken an
unexpected and deadly serious turn.

She wanted to tell someone and realized the only one who would
understand was Fox Mulder.  Margaret had some inkling of why
Dana was so attached to the man.  He was the only person who
understood so many things.

Margaret Scully's backache returned.
*****************************
"Scully.  Wake up."  Someone poked at her feet with a stick.  A stick
through the bars.  "Scully.  You got a visitor."

Two guards stood outside her cell.  Scully sat, immediately alert.
Realizing it was still dark made the alarm sound in her head.  The
cell door opened.  The alarm progressed from her head throughout her
body when Scully realized the guards led her to a conference room.
They handcuffed her before she could go inside.  It must be an
unsecured area.

It had to be Mulder.  This late it was either very good news or very
bad.
It was bad.  She knew the minute she saw him.  He didn't look at her
until
the guards left.

"It's your mother." Scully's stomach leaped into her throat.  "She
had a heart attack.  It's serious.  I-I just came from Georgetown
Memorial.  I called your brother.  He's coming and-"

Scully's knees wouldn't support her anymore.  She sat down heavily in
the nearest chair.  "I thought.."

"I thought she was better too.  I took her to the cardiologist you
recommended --."

"Fred Morton."

"She had an episode in his office," Mulder said.

"God!"

"It saved her life," Mulder said.  "I had no idea a backache in
women.."

"I must talk to him," Scully said.

"It can be arranged," Mulder said.

"I should be there."

"She's in and out of consciousness," Mulder said.  "She's not in pain
now.  I-I'll stay...until Bill arrives.  Dr. Morton is with her.
He's been great."

Scully's hands slid from her mouth to her lap.

"Her prognosis is guarded, but there are encouraging signs." Mulder
came around the conference table.

"The stress.."

"Hmm, Scully, guilt is my thing, not yours." He touched her shoulder
and she threw up her arms, jumped away.

"Prisoners aren't allowed physical contact with visitors.."

He pulled her stiff body up out of the chair into his embrace.

For one delicious moment Scully allowed herself to rest there. His hand
brushed her hair from her face.  She closed her eyes to imprint the
feel
of his hands on her memory, the sound of his heartbeat.

Then she pushed away, afraid he would see how much she wanted to cling
to
him, afraid of how quickly she could come to want what she couldn't
have.
She knocked for an escape, then muttered, "Thank you, Mulder.  Thank
you
for coming."
**********
For a moment she stood in the semi-darkness of her prison cell,
tracing the black outlines of the objects in the room.  A horrible
helplessness pushed against her insides, making it painful to
breath, difficult to stand.  The ache from the void where her heart
used to be hurt all the way down her arms and legs.  She must have
swayed.

She became conscious of her hand against the rough cell wall, then
the chill of it against her back as she slid down to the floor.
Cotton threads in her clothes catching in the rough cement made a
torturous pulling sound in her ears until she hit the floor.  For
some time she sat on the floor staring vacantly, knees drawn to her
chest, hands on her knees.  After a few moments Zelda took a similar
pose next to her. They sat that way for what seemed a long
time.

Presently Zelda said, "I understand about your mother.  I've spent
most of my life missing mine, trying to find out what happened to
her."  She sighed.  "I was 12 when we got a package with her personal
effects in it.  I sat for hours on my bed with the just fingering
things she had once held, reading her diary, all the papers she kept,
her pictures-"

Somewhere in the prison a woman began coughing and coughing.  When
she stopped Scully said, "My mother played a song at my father's
funeral.  It was special to them.  It was a-a connection for me.  I
couldn't get it out of my mind for a long time."

There was more silence.  Someone below them laughed, then the prison
quieted down to the normal clack, cling, clung of night.  A guard
made her rounds, paused when she saw them sitting there, then moved
on.

Zelda said, "I wanted to visit the Grand Canyon first, but I understand
You need to see your mother.  I'll take you to her."

Scully grimaced at the callousness of the words.  She bit her bottom
lip and her head went side to side as though to dislodge the cruelty
from her mind.  The air, the ground, the wall, the thoughts in her
head seemed so heavy she didn't think, she could bear the weight.

"We can, Dana.  I can take you.  Now.  If you will let me."

"How?" It was a desperate whisper.

"You are willing.  I can carry you."

"How?" Scully's lips quiver.  She rubbed them together.  "Tell me."

"Do you really you need to know all that? You demand so much proof,
but all the important things in life you know without it.  I can
teach you.  Later.  First, you have to let me have you," Zelda said.
"You will have to trust me to take you where you want to go."

Scully bit her lower lip to stop its trembling, but a tear escaped
down one cheek.

"Who's with her now?"

"I-I don't know.  Soon Mulder - my partner - will be.  Maybe her
doctor."

"Hmmm-m," she studied Scully's open expression of wariness, doubt.
"Let's try the doctor.  You know him?"

"Fred Morton.  Cardiologist.  She had a heart attack."

"I will need to put my hands on you, to look into you and see what
you don't want anyone to know," Zelda said.  "Is it worth it to you?"
Scully gave it a moment's thought, then nodded.

Without waiting for more Zelda scooted in front of Scully.  She put
her hands on Scully's arm, on the tender skin under the elbow, and
began a gentle massaging motion with her thumb.  Scully closed her
eyes and willed her muscles to let go.  They were happy to cooperate.
It felt good. She sighed in comfort.

Zelda smiled to see her relax.  One of Zelda's hands slid down to her
abdomen and Scully tensed.  Zelda found and began a gentle pressure
over her left ovary.  Presently the discomfort eased.  Scully's
toes began to tingle, her leg muscles quivered.  Her senses went on
high alert.

"Don't fight me.  When you fight something it is out of fear.  You
cannot be afraid of this.  You have to be open to it.  Open to
things you never thought possible.  Open your eyes, Dana.  If you
want to see-know anything-- you must first open your eyes.  Think of
that doctor's face.  Think of being with him.  See him." Scully
obeyed.  "Unlock your hands, your arms, your legs.  Open to the
infinity possibilities of human minds.  Make yourself available to
the spirit that lives in each of us.  Dana.."

Scully tried to visualize Fred Morton's face.  Chubby cheeks, a
Hitler mustache, dark, sad eyes.  Then he flitted away from her.  She
tried again, catching the memory of a joke he told her, his off-key
laugh.  She didn't feel anything, sense anything different.  She
didn't think she could surrender.  She listened to Zelda chant her
name over and over and tried not to think at all.  Then she couldn't
think.  Nor did she want to.  She felt better, lighter.

"Don't be afraid.  Slowly give yourself to the light-" Zelda's voice
came from somewhere very far away.  Colors within the cell became
brilliant, the room brighter and the room began to merge into one
flash of light.  A roar of a thousand voices, a burst of yellow, then
a picture of her mother in her head grew larger, more defined, the
outline of her face and the features in it grew sharper, clearer.

She could see her mother lying in a hospital bed, could feel the
soft skin of her mother's arms under her hand, hear the raspy in-
take of breath as oxygen poured into her mother's lungs from the
tubes in her nose.  Scully realized she was cold, that it was cold in
the room and the light above her mother's bed was nearly blinding.
The sheets and blanket radiated white and blue.

"Mom," Scully called softly.  "Mom."

Margaret Scully stirred.  Her eyes fluttered open.  Her voice
croaked.

"Is it--?"

"Hi," she said.  "How are you feeling?" She realized she had a
stereoscope around her neck and took it off.  The familiar act of
putting it in her ears and listening to her patient's struggling
heartbeat provided her with a measure of comfort and control.

Her mother blinked her eyes.  Once, twice, several times as though to
clear them.  "Fox?"

"Hmm, no.  He's gone."

"He was here --." She must have remembered something.  "Dana? Are you
free?"

Scully smiled.

"Fox..be so pleased," she said.  She reached for Scully's face and
Dana shut her eyes to receive her mother's touch.

Instead, she found herself thrown against the cell wall, gasping, a
searing pain in her abdomen, her hands flaying in air for purchase.
They fell on Zelda's shoulders and she instinctively grabbed them as
though her cellmate could save her from tumbling into an abyss.

"Couldn't hold ..both..long," Zelda panted as though she'd run a long
distance.

She peeled Scully's hands away and laid back on the floor to rest.
"Great Jehovah! That man-.  And you --" she pointed at Scully and
snickered, "Going into your doctor mode.  What a tussle!" She
laughed at the ceiling.  "Can't put two doctors in the same head."

Scully sprang away, scrambling to the other side of the cell like a
bug.  "What was that? What just happened?"

Zelda sat up and arched her back to relieve an ache.  "You have a
real talent."

Scully made a sound of alarm, a gasp of fear.  She felt a bitter
aftertaste in her mouth, her stomach rolled; sweat popped out all
over her.

Zelda didn't move, but held out her hand.  "In a few
minutes you won't remember.  You'll feel peaceful.  Just breathe in
and out.  Breathe with me.  The sickness will go away.  The fear will
go.  Focus on your own breath.  In and out."

And they breathed together until Scully couldn't hold her eyes open
any longer.  She slept curled up in the corner of the cell.

Zelda watched Scully succumb.  There remained a faint glow around her
even after her consciousness dimmed.  Zelda hugged herself with joy.
She rocked back on her heels, then put her forehead on the cell floor
and her lips moved in prayer.  She blessed I AM, Allah, Vishnu,
Jehovah, Abba - for sending someone who bore such favor to her aid
at last.
**************
Margaret Scully had something important to tell Fox Mulder, but she
couldn't remember what it was.  She opened her eyes and saw him
sitting in a chair not three feet away.  She watched him staring out
the window for some time.  Presently he seemed to shake himself awake
and frown as though his stomach hurt or he felt dizzy.  Margaret
frowned.  Fox looked as bad as she felt.

"Hi." He got up and bent over her the way - now she knew what she had
to tell Fox.

"Dana was here," she whispered.  "She was here last night."

"I-I must have missed her," Mulder said.  His throat hurt terribly
just forcing the words out.  His eyes burned from the stuffiness in
the room.  And he wanted to believe Scully was free just as her
mother said.  But he had seen otherwise last night while Margaret
slept.  He patted the woman's arm.

Now Margaret remembered the rest.  "She wanted this, Fox.  She is in
this trouble because she chose this."

"Mom!"

Mulder backed away as Bill Scully came into the room and kissed his
mother.  He didn't want to watch this reunion.  He and his mother
never shared the affection Margaret had with her children.  Idly
Mulder wondered what Margaret gave or possessed that kept them bound
together as a family.

"Agent Mulder-" Bill Scully held out his hand.  "I want to
..thank you.  I appreciate what you've done."

"Fox?"

"Mrs.  Scully."

"You believe me, don't you?  She was here.  Where Bill is now.  Do you
think it matters that she chose this?" Margaret's question was
breathy, barely audible.  She had used most of her strength calling
his name.

Mulder smiled.  "I believe you.  And I think it does matter."

"Could I speak to you, Agent Mulder, ah-h-" Bill Scully jerked
his head toward the door.  In the hallway he seemed uncertain what to
say next.  Finally he said, "You seem to have a way with the women in
my family.  First Dana believing in everything from
aliens to Santa Claus and now, mom..."

Mulder shifted his feet.  "So you know.  The only people in her room
last night were Dr.  Fred Morton and a nurse - a male nurse."

"Delusion."

"That would be Scull-Dana's -- word for it," Mulder said, wondering
what his word for it was.

******

Scully went through an impressive list before concluding "vacuum" was
the word.  And evenings are the worst for that panicky sensation of
weightless emptiness that stretched out to eternity like the River
Styx.  Even on the outside trouble seemed to magnify
at night, but in prison evenings were god-awful.  The paint detail
had been at work today and the cell block corridors smelled of paint,
disinfectant and despair.

The despair and disinfectant always hung in the air.  The paint
underlined everything.  She couldn't do this for five years, Scully
thought.  And she damn sure wouldn't.  She couldn't direct her
thoughts to ridiculous nursery rhymes in hopes she wouldn't vomit, or
count the number of tiles in the walk from the cell to the bathroom
then multiply them by the number of tiles on the ceiling
of the rec room in hopes she wouldn't go insane.

Over three weeks of her life had disappeared, vanished in a routine
not of her making.  Her mother lay in a hospital room and she
couldn't go to her except in dreams.  She was so restless.  She must
have paced the floor all night after Mulder's visit  -- she fell
asleep in the corner of her cell.  She understood why Zelda's former
cell mate had leapt from the top floor of the cell block railing, but
Scully felt homicidal, not suicidal.

The women prepared for their showers.  They stripped, put on
bathrobes, draped a towel over their arm or shoulder and lined up
outside their cells on command.  Scully clutched her thin cotton robe
with its huge plastic buttons in one hand, fingered the rough towel,
and followed Bernice's broad back down the halls.
Doors clacked and clanged.  Metal on metal changed to metal in plastic.

Scully knew where she was by the sounds around her.  If she looked to
her right Scully could have seen the sunset through the only panoramic
view of the outside world the women had.  Most of them took the
opportunity to gaze over the balcony and beyond the prison.  It was
a silent solemn passage.

Never one to long for what she couldn't have, Scully rarely glanced
outside.  The women waited in a narrow corridor for their turn to
enter the shower area.  A guard handed each woman a plastic tray with
her washcloth, toothbrush and toothpastes as she filed into the
shower room.

They moved in groups of six and eight into the room of sinks and
shower stalls to wash up in privacy - one of the few times the women
gained any time with minimal supervision or observation.  Only a lone
camera in the shower room monitored the women in the large shower room.
At the end of 45 minutes to an hour, a guard knocked, the women lined
up,walked out the opposite door, handed their trays to the guards there
and marched back to their cells.  The clean up crew hosed down the room
with disinfectant and next group then entered the shower.

Scully left off counting hallway tiles.  Instead she listed the
things she hated: silence from the guards, silence from her fellow
inmates, constant talking, continual noise, hot water steaming up
from the sheets and towels in the laundry to burn her face and hands,
reading about diseases and treatments she'd never have reason to see
then forgetting what she read, lining up for showers, lining up for
meals at 5 a.m., noon and 5 p.m.  Exactly. Lights out at 9 p.m.
Having someone dole out the elementary essentials of life like
soap.  Getting permission to leave a room, come in a room, buy a
candy bar, watch television, sit down on someone's bunk.  God, she
hated it all.

She put her plastic tray on one of the sinks and started to unbutton
her robe to get into the shower.  Ahead of her, water splashed as a
dozen shower nozzles opened up.  Steam rose and billowed throughout
the room. She had to change something or she'd
certainly lose her mind or kill someone.  She looked up and noticed
shower water was running, but no one stood under the sprays.

They had her before Scully could react.  They grabbed her arms,
stuffed a wet washcloth in her mouth and slammed her down on the
long wooden bench bolted to the shower room floor before she even
realized the women in her pod surrounded her.  The back of her head
cracked on the wood and a flash of light streaked across her eyes.
She grunted in shock more than pain and began to struggle.

Plastic trays balanced on the bench scattered across the tile floor.
Someone twirled a towel around her face and tied it behind her head to
keep the washcloth secure in her mouth.  Scully thrashed and kicked
until Bernice grabbed her chin.

"Stop fighting, girlfriend.  You're caught.  Things go easier if you
don't fight."  Scully fell still, her nostrils flaring with the
effort of getting enough air and her eyes narrowed in fury.  "That's
good." She patted Scully's cheek.  "Let's check her out first.  Get
that robe off."

The women pulled the robe away while Scully kicked,
elbowed and tried to gain some purchase with her feet.  She landed a
glancing blow off Angela's cheek.  Angela would have struck her but
Bernice grabbed her arm. "No marks," she said.

The women forced Scully back onto the bench.  Bernice looked over
her naked body carefully.  "Looks clean." She poked some bumps on
Scully's shoulders, punched a finger in her ears, nose, between her
toes, knees and under her breasts.  She ran her hands through
Scully's hair.  "Feels clean. No devices I can see or feel here."

"We gonna-." Angela grimaced and pumped her finger through her fist.
Scully's eyes widened, then narrowed in fury.

Bernice gaped at Angela.  "You think the feds would put a bug---?
You're crazy."  She grinned down at Scully, then at Angela.  "But
you can have a go at her first, if you want."

Excited, Angela moved forward and Scully began fighting again.

"I'll do it."

Everything stopped.  The women holding Scully seemed surprised to see
Zelda shoulder her way closer- they relaxed their grips slightly.
Seizing the momentary advantage, Scully used her legs to jackknife
up and throw one of the women against a shower stall.  It took
several minutes to force her back on the bench.

Bernice adjusted the gag, pushing the washcloth so far back in her
mouth Scully thought she'd have to swallow it.  "You pack wallop for
a little thing."

"Bernice-let me," Zelda said.

Bernice shook her head.  "Na, Zelda.  We definitely saving you
for an emergency.  I want to see what kindda reading we
get here first."

"You don't trust me." Zelda pouted.

"Angela needs the practice."

"Angela can't do it.  She will never--" Zelda picked Scully's robe
off the tiles.  She squeezed the water out.  "Dana's too strong for
Angela.  Even with Angela's hands on her, Dana won't --you're
just gonna wear her out."

"Weell, she got five years to rest up," Bernice said.  Furiously
Scully struggled against the women who held her pinioned.  "I went
visiting last night, to see what that handsome FBI partner of yours
was thinking.  Whiskey and naked women.  He ain't giving you a
thought.  All night he sucked on a bottle and the face of the woman
on the bar stool next to 'em.  A blonde, I think she was."

Mulder doesn't drink. Scully's words garbled in the washcloth,
but there was no mistaking her tenor or the growl in her throat.

"You're making this hard," Zelda said.  She squatted beside Scully's
head and folded her hands together on her knees.  "Look, they're not
going to hurt you.  They can't hurt you unless they shake you and
you fight.  Understand." Scully stopped moving and lay back on the
bench.

"Good.  Try to relax, to open yourself.  I know you can do that.
It'll be over soon."  She stood calmly, fighting to manage her own
fears.  She had no idea Bernice planned to test Dana tonight.  Zelda
had inadvertently weakened her cellmate by taking her out last
night.

Angela settled over Scully and took her face in her rough ones,
forcing her to look at her.  Her dark brown eyes glinted; the
overhead shower room lights wreathed her head.

"Dana Scully," she said and began repeating the name over and over
in a monotone as if it were a magic charm.  Scully felt a pressure
on her arm and a hand moved over her stomach to press into her
abdomen.  There was already a bruise and Angela's thumb felt as
though she were boring through skin and tissue into Scully's uterus.
The pain gradually receded, taken over by the sound of her name and
her reflection in Angela's eyes.

Scully grew less frightened, less angry, and more embarrassed by her
willingness to surrender to the hypnotic chants and pressures.  She
felt herself pulled into Angela's eyes, into Angela against her will.

It felt like her dream, her dream with her mother, but this was
terrible.  Hurtful.  Terrifying.  Scully struggled.  She wasn't sure,
but she thought the last sound she heard was her own grunts of
fury.

And then she could resist no longer.  There was no point.  No
reason.  She became warm, comfortable, and even content.  She
sighed, her eyes closed, the strength went out of her muscles.  She
drifted in a gentle breeze watching the world beneath her rotate
slowly in pale colors of rose, green, yellow...

How beautiful, she thought.  How wonderful.  Her essence, her inner
eyes, her soul floated effortlessly above the world -- so light,
open, airy, free.  She was home, secure, relaxed.  She stretched
herself in contentment.  Safe at last in her own mind.  Scully
wandered aimlessly down bright corridors of mirrored doors, each
beckoning her to open it first.  Mulder, she laughed, where are you?

"What's so funny?" Scully turned, surprised to see Angela soaring
beside her.  The older woman's darkness pierced Scully's light.
In that horrible instant Scully knew Angela was in her head, a living
presence in her mind.

On the bench Scully began screaming through the gag and thrashing
against the women who held her.  Angela fell back.  She lay on the
tiles stunned and panting.

"See," said Zelda to Bernice as she watched Scully bucking and writhing
on the bench.

Bernice looked at the puzzled faces of the women around her. "What the
hell?"

"She threw me out," Angela said.  She rubbed her eyes and slumped on
one elbow.

"Damn!" In spite of herself, Bernice smiled at Scully with
admiration.  "See anything while you were there?"

"Buncha doors.  A big black door." Angela said between pants.  "Some
man all over the place.  Boyfriend, maybe."

Scully blinked rapidly against the light, sucking in air as hard as
she could, frantic eyes searching for escape or help.  She found
Zelda and her eyes narrowed in reproach.

"I didn't lie to you.  Don't fight!" Zelda said to Scully.  She
turned to Bernice.  "Don't do this, Please.  Not now.  You know she
needs a rest between--"

"Shut up," Bernice said.

"You can not risk it.  You could lose her!"

"Shut the hell up." Bernice shoved Zelda away.  She approached Scully
with caution, settling beside the prisoner before taking Scully's
face in her hands.  She twisted Scully's head around painfully.  The
cloth in her mouth muffled Scully's indignation.  "Come to Mama.
Let's see what you really got."

Where were the guards? Why didn't they hear? Why didn't they check?
Scully felt sick, weak.  She shut her eyes.  The episode with Angela
taught her that much.  Her head throbbed, eyes burned, and she could
feel nausea pushing up in her throat.  Someone in her mind, someone
else in her thoughts.

To Scully it was more invasive and damaging
than anything she'd ever experienced.  She shook her head ferociously
against Bernice's hands.   No, never again.  She heard doors
slamming.

"Hurry up! This ain't the longest shower on record, but it's getting
close," one of the women said.

"Pinch her nose," Bernice said.

Someone put her hands across Scully's face and cut off her air.
Scully opened her eyes and as she did she felt Bernice grab
them as if they were prizes.  The chanting began.  Something punched
into her arm, her abdomen.  She grunted against the painful touches
but could not resist.  Scully felt herself disappearing.  She
screamed one last time into the gag.

The room grew deathly quiet.  The sound of water spraying and the
pipes hissing bounced around the room like echoes.  Angela moved
into the water and began to lather up.  Finally the women released
Scully and dashed into the showers.  Zelda untied the gag and pulled
the washcloth out of Scully's mouth.  It had drops of blood on it.
Zelda frowned and threw it into a corner of the shower room.

Scully heard laughter, singing, water splashing, the slap of bare
feet on wet tiles.  She tried to moisten her lips and turn her head
slightly.  A headache threatened to split her in pieces.  She
started to move, but found her limps so heavy and sore she could
barely lift them.  When she tried to pull up, one arm fell onto
Bernice's back.

Bernice struggled to sit up.  "Lord have mercy.  You are strong.  Get
cleaned up.  Can you make it?"  Scully didn't move.
"Here." She leaned down and drew Scully to an upright position.

"Sick," Scully managed to say.

"Yeah, baby, I know.  We had to be sure.  Had to be sure.  Things
gonna be different now.  You sit this one out." Bernice rubbed
Scully's shoulders gently.  Then she laughed and tossed her robe off
on her way to the showers.

"Zelda, get Dana somethin' cold for her head." Bernice stepped into
the nearest stall: "Now that's cold!"

"Get your own shower!" Someone said in a good-natured challenge.  Two
women laughed, a bar of soap flew up in the air, and someone else
squealed as water play erupted in the shower room in earnest.

Zelda continued to bite her fingernails.  Then she reached out to
Scully: "Let's get your robe on.  Lean on me, let me help you stand."
It was a mistake to get up.  Immediately a wave of nausea sent her to
her knees and she began to vomit.

"Concussion," she gasped to Zelda as a black curtain blew across her
eyes.  "Call the guard!" Zelda said to a woman who stood gaping from
the first shower stall.

"Hold it!" said Bernice.  "Drag her into this stall."

"Why?" said Angela.

"How can she fall and hit her head in the shower if she ain't wet?"
******************************
The Lone Gunmen had broken the code that had stymied them and
obtained Donaldson's sealed personnel files from the Pentagon.  Next
they pursued the records of his mission into Cambodia.

They called Mulder at once and he could picture them frothing at the
mouths.
Frohike especially couldn't bear the
thought of Scully in prison.  He'd seen too many movies.

"Donaldson was a spook," said Langly.

"A very spooky spook," Frohike said.

"He disappeared with his driver and his aide in Cambodian.  They were
missing for two years, assumed to be MIA.  Then Donaldson comes back
with the story of how they had been captured.  According to
Donaldson's report - verified in part by indigenous personnel -- he
and his aide Lt. Anthony Barker of Pittsburgh, and the driver Sgt.
Amelia Peterson of Baltimore, escaped the Viet Cong and eventually
made their way to Quinghai Providence in China -- the headwaters of
the Mekong," said Byers.

"They couldn't perform their original recon mission for some reason,
so Donaldson pushed them further and further into the Mekong on
another.  Something he felt explained why the North Vietnamese were
so fierce."

"He was looking for patriotism?" said Mulder.

"They were looking for a native tribe that produced superior
warriors.  It was a legend, a myth," said Byers.  "Warriors of such
prowess they killed with their minds."

Mulder became extremely interested.

"Donaldson had a rep for the weird.  For believing anything his
sources told him.  He was real -- goober," said Langly.  "But he
must have hit the jackpot.  What they discovered in the Mekong got
classified top, top secret."

"What were they originally supposed to do," Mulder said.

Langly shrugged.  "Ordinary recon.  Nothing to worry about or they
wouldn't have assigned a female driver.  Donaldson claimed he had a
source, a sure thing."

"Probably more to it, but that's all we could find," said Frohike.

"War's over, Frohike," Mulder said.

"For most people," he said.

"Anyway, Donaldson comes back skin and bones, clutching a torn knap-
sack and a his hat for some odd reason.  He was half-crazy.  Told
fantastic stories of  temples, rituals, monks that helped him
survive, native servant girls, and a kind of love that 'possesses a
man completely to the detriment of his mission'."

"Think he was braggin' about his sex life," said Mulder.

"How do I get there?" said Frohike.

"His initial report was pretty much dismissed as ravings.  His aide
was killed and his driver died of fever.  He escaped.  The Army put
him to work, but in short order they gave him a commendation and trip
home," Byers said.

"There is nothing in the record again about monks or temples."

"Monks held him prisoner?"

"Well, you know what they say about what goes on behind closed
cloisters."  Frohike's eyebrows went up and down.

Mulder scoffed.  "What kind of monks holds prisoners?  They have a
quiet, meditative life.  An-and they don't force people to join them.
Just the opposite, in fact."

"Whatever happened, it changed him.  Until his disappearance he was
an average officer - ambitious, but just average.  Actually he was a
little stupid.  After his disappearance he became a superman - an
erratic genius who could be gentle and reasonable one minute,
homicidal and uncontrollable the next.  They figured it was post-
traumatic stress.  His sources became golden.  He became known as
practically infallible kid."  His work done, Byers turned to Langly.

"He went into law school, graduated top drawer.  Nice trick for a guy
that just barely squeaked out of a second rate college," Langly said.

"Too many fraternity parties?" Mulder said.

"He made up for lost time.  He married rather well .. a West
Virginia coal heiress ...and begins a series of insightful
investments.  His portfolio's shrunk lately for some reason, but he
still has money running out of all orifices," Langly said.  "No
political aspirations, keeps in the shadows.  He's a mover and shaker
at Justice."

"And his sex life-" Frohike whistled.  "All over the map."

"Here's the other side of him.  He's generous - Planned Parenthood,
NOW, League of Women Voters.  Rather unusual pattern of giving,"
Byers said.

"We also went back to see who owned AtoZ like you asked," Langly
said.  "The employees.  And some big holding company that we are
still tryin' to peel the layers off."

"But, get this, most of the corporations owned by the holding company
are hospitals, schools in low income neighborhoods, hospice, day
cares, nursing homes.  All top of the line, good reps," Langly said.
"This company ain't makin' money, but they're makin' a lot of people
happy."

"Except the prison," said Frohike. "It's understaffed. Lots of
accidents.  A real hellhole."

There was an awkward silence.

"What does all this have to do with Scully?" Mulder said.

The three men looked at each other.  Finally Byers said, "We don't
think it has to do with Agent Scully in particular.  We believe it
has to do with someone at the prison."

"I know that.  Who?"

"It will take some time to run down the histories of staff and
prisoners there," Byers said.  "See what connection - if any - they
have to Donaldson."

"Right now the only connection is the Big Guy," Langly said.

"I can't talk to Skinner," Mulder said.  Three pairs of eyes stared
at him.

"Maybe he's a victim too," Byers said finally.

"That's what I'm afraid of," Mulder said.
 

(Headings and Disclaimers in Chapter One)
Chapter 9 of 20

An annoying light burned and circled Scully's eyes.  She blinked and
gave it a half-hearted and ineffectual swat.

"Good! You're awake."

Scully tried to swallow, but her throat was so dry it hurt to try.
"Have an ice chip," said the voice beyond the tiny light.

Scully opened her mouth and fingers wrapped in plastic
gloves appeared from the darkness to place a chip of ice between her
lips.

"Light.." she said at last.

"Yeah, sorry." The small light snapped off and was replaced by a
larger, softer glow further off in the dark.  Now Scully could see
an older woman with her dark hair up in a bun.  She wore a lab coat
and a stereoscope around her neck.

"I'm Dr.  Otis.  Clare Otis.  I was hoping to meet you soon under
different circumstances."

Scully's eyes closed.

"Nope.  Awake up.  I, uh, retired from practice two years ago, but
they couldn't find anyone crazy enough to treat convicts, so here I
am."

"My head.."

"Hurts like a big dog, I'll bet.  You correctly diagnosed a
concussion, Dr.  Scully.  Can't give you anything yet for that
mother of all headaches you've got, ya know."

"Hmm."

"Any allergies?"

"No."

"Any recent surgeries?"

"No."

"Anything you want to tell me?"

Scully hesitated.  "No."

"You got bruises on both your arms.  Do that in the shower too?"
Scully grabbed her right arm and saw a bruise near the vein.  She
groaned; nausea nearly took her under.

Well, we'll see," said Dr. Otis.  "I double as the prison
psychiatrist too, so you have to talk to me sooner or later.  That's
how these private penal companies make money, you know, the staff
pulls double duty. I don't mind really.  I'm a stockholder so when
AtoZ Penal makes money, so do I.  "

Scully's head hurt so dreadfully she feared the pounding would move
to the rest of her body if she moved or spoke anymore.  She started
to drift off again.  Dr. Otis shook her patient's shoulder.  Scully
trembled and made an effort to listen.  She failed.  "Don't doze off
in the middle of a conversation."

"Hmm-m."

"Not much of a conversation, though.  I'm doing all the talking.
You're not saying anything.  Why is that?"

"My life story for two aspirin and a piece of ice," Scully said.  She
wondered if that came out right; her mouth felt like it was full of
-wash cloth.

She jerked, flayed by a fleeting memory of an assault on everything
most precious to her, most jealously guarded, most holy. She
closed her eyes then opened them to see if Dr. Otis noticed anything
unusual.

"What was that," Clare Otis said, writing in Scully's chart.
"That shudder? And don't say 'muscle spasm.' You don't strike me as
someone
who scares easily."

"Headache," Scully said.

"Mm-m," Dr. Otis said in a tone meant to convey she would let the
misdirection
go for once. "Now, Dr. Scully, would you give one of your concussion
patients
two aspirin?"

"My patients are already dead," Scully said.

"Hum--Not a good cure rate, then." Dr.  Otis took a cup and rattled
the ice in it.  She dipped her fingers inside, took out a chip and
slipped it into Scully's open mouth.  "Won't want that to get around
- nobody will want to come to the clinic."

Scully's eyes widened in hope and judging from the creases around her
mouth
Dr. Otis obviously saw something in Scully's response that she liked.

"I can work here?" Scully whispered.

"Yep, if I say so.  That woman had scarlet fever - the one you fussed
about on your first day.  Another good catch.  She could have died."
Dr.  Otis put the ice cup down and rolled back the sheets.  "Let's
see your arms."  She held Scully's right arm up, noted the bruises
again, and dropped it. Satisfied, she did the same with her other arm
and both legs.  "Good muscle tone.  What do you think?"

"Slight to moderate concussion."  She shivered beneath the sheet and
light blanket.

Dr. Otis pursed her lips.  "Slight to moderate? With unconsciousness?"

"How long?" Scully asked.

"Three hours."

"Three hours!"

"I did a CT scan at the local hospital... negative -- and brought you
back.  You don't remember?  Still say slight?"

"With the scan and in the absence of continued high blood pressure or
low body temperature, yes," Scully said.

"The headache behind the eyes?"

"It'll go," Scully said turning her face away.

Dr. Otis nodded.  She reached for a blood pressure cuff over
Scully's head.  "What do you remember last?"  Her patient stiffened.
"From a medical standpoint."

"Water running.  A crack on the back of my head.  Visual pain --
streaks of bright lights that blinded me, actually."

"You don't remember people crawling in your head?"  She tightened the
cuff around Scully's arm.  Scully whipped around so fast the nausea
threatened again.  The last vestige of color drained from her face.
"Why do you say that?"

But Clare was preoccupied with taking Scully's blood pressure.
"Almost normal.  Little high.  You forgot to mention vertigo," said
Dr. Otis.  She bent over and cranked the head of Scully's bed up
slightly.  "It'll pass. I think you are right.  I think the
concussion is slight.  I think the nausea, tremors, visual pain comes
from something else."

"What else." Scully could barely breathe.

"You tell me."

Scully closed her eyes and willed the throbbing, pounding to stop.
Blessed sleep took her almost at once and she let go of the pain.

Dr. Otis allowed her to sleep.  She tucked the sheets around her
patient.  The woman on the bed would have blended into the white
sheets without that red hair.

She picked up Scully's chart and wondered what to write in it.
Concussion, certainly.  What else.

What else could she write: that Scully was the fourth case like this
that she'd seen?  That one died later as apparent suicide and two
were transferred to a psych hospital?  Should she set Dr. Scully on
suicide watch?  She didn't seem suicidal, but neither had the other
inmate.  The other inmate had been crazy.  Sane one minute, crazy the
next, and off the railing the minute after that.

Dr. Otis' pen tapped on the paper.  Dr. Otis didn't understand what
was going on in her prison.  She thought this patient might.  Clare
Otis had no plans to lose her.  She wrote: "Confined to clinic, 24
hours".  She was uncomfortable with sending Scully back to the
general population so soon, but there was no way to keep her in the
infirmary longer.

Nevertheless, Clare Otis was going to stay on top of this one.  She
went to get some coffee.  While she was up, she searched for Scully's
records on her computer, printed them out, and brought them back to
the bedside to read.

"Dr.  Scully?" A finger poked her away from a deep, safe place into
the cool, dim light.  She could smell stale coffee.  "This is your 3
a.m.  wake-up call."

It was medical school all over again.  "I'm up.  I'm up."

Then she remembered.  Dr.  Otis smiled down at her.  Every hour on
the hour during the night she had awakened Scully to make certain the
concussion hadn't become coma.  "You look tired," Scully said.

"Night's still young - unfortunately, I'm not anymore." Dr. Otis shook
out a thermometer and Scully opened her mouth.  "You seem more alert.
Headache better?" Scully closed her eyes and opened them quickly.  "I
take that as a yes.  Things are looking up.  I'll give you more ice as
soon as I get this reading-" She looked at the thermometer.  "Normal."
She offered Scully some ice.  "Anything else I can get you?"

"Agent Mulder." Her eyes widened as if she'd surprised herself by the
request.  Dr. Otis thought about it.  She recognized the name
immediately from Scully's folder - her former FBI partner, and her most
recent visitor.  Maybe Dr. Scully would tell him what she wouldn't tell
her doctor.

"Okay," Dr. Otis said.  She knew she'd made the right decision when
Scully
relaxed into the pillow with undisguised relief.

Dr. Otis took Scully's file back to her desk, punched in her code for
an
outside line and ran her finger down a form for emergency numbers.  She
found Fox Mulder listed with two numbers.  Glancing at Scully she noted
some color returning to her patient's cheeks.  Now we're getting
somewhere, Dr.  Otis thought.  Knowing the hours law enforcement
officers
kept, she tried the cell phone number first.
*****
Mulder came immediately as she knew he would.  Scully could sense him
near long before she could see him or feel his hand on her arm. When
he called to her, she swam through an ocean of warm water to reach the
surface and answer him.

"That's not the sexiest hospital gown I've ever seen you in," he said.
"Puke green with a peek-a-boo neckline."

She pawed at the opening on the gown.  "Morning?"

"I haven't had breakfast yet." He hadn't shaved either.

She glanced around to find Clare Otis reading in a chair across the
room.  Clare threw them furtive glances but kept a discreet distance.

"Dr. Otis says you don't play well with others," Mulder said.

"I know.. I told you... I didn't want you on this..."

"I didn't hear that.  You said not to focus entirely on this case."

"You never listen."

"Aren't you glad?"

"Maybe.  Sometimes.  All right, this once."

He studied her, brushed the hair off her face.  It looked as though
his touch on her forehead hurt so he took his hand away.

She closed her eyes, "What is this, Mulder?"

"Can we talk about mind control?"

"Yes." Her exhale of capitulation seemed noisy in the quiet clinic.
And scared him.

"Lots of experiments by the military," he said.  "Some of them fairly
successful.  Lots of talk about classified experiments -- especially
during the Korean War and Vietnam Wars.  Sense a pattern here? It's
killer stuff."

"Is it?"

"Sure-even in the movies: "The Manchurian Candidate", for instance."

"X-Files?"

"You know them, Scully.  Pusher..."

"The result of a physical anomaly," she said.

There was only a hitch in his recitation.  "Rev. Orison put an
entire prison to sleep.." Mulder let the rest of it go.  He knew she
would automatically see herself shooting an unarmed Donnie Pfaster in
an act of revenge or self-preservation.

"Mass hypnotism," she said.

"What are you looking for?"

"Something more than illusion, parlor tricks, gimmick mind reading
games," she said.  Every word seemed an effort.

Mulder's head screamed yes, yes, thousands of cases, dozens of proven
incidents.  This time what she needed from him was some rational
explanation, something she could to hold onto.

"Outside the cases we've seen, what people normally call mind
control is the power of suggestion blown larger by stress, bad
food, sleep deprivation.  Any of that in your life lately?"

"Do you think it's possible for someone to enter your mind and know
what you know, see what you see, think your thoughts with you? As
the bank guard said?"

"That what happened last night?"

She grimaced.  She appeared to have trouble thinking and when he could
see muscles ripple, her body rebel.  "Yes -- don't know."

Mulder thought he would be as sick as she looked.  "That sure, huh?"

She almost laughed, then closed her eyes against the effort.  "Not
sure of anything."

His hand clutched hers tightly and he pressed their linked hands to
his cheek.  Her eyes fluttered open then seemed to reach for him.
"Okay, one thing."

It was almost a tangible thing: Mulder sensed waves bringing her back
to shore, the sand between her toes again, and the sand turned to rock
under her feet. He felt relieved.

"There's also the mind meld I mentioned before," Mulder said, stirring
himself from the comfortable place they were together.  "I've read more
about it.  Talked to a few spiritualists.  People enter your mind,
learn what you know and use it to control you, even transport your
spirit.  It exists in legends primarily, although I have heard of it in
some Far Eastern cultures.  Tibetan monks, for instance, claim they
achieve perfect peace only when they are one with the mind of the Dalai
Lama.  You think this is related somehow to last night?"

Before she could answer, an image of Henry Donaldson leapt into
Mulder's head.  Donaldson, his monks, and his companions on the
mission.

"I don't know what happened last night.  I can't explain it," Scully
said.  In her report Mulder saw she was trying to concentrate on giving
an accurate, impersonal account of what she could recall, but the
horror obviously became too great, the sickness too virile. "The worst
kind of intrusion-things I would never share-things I hardly dare to
think myself. It was intellectual rape!"

"Scully, let go of this for a minute," Mulder's voice was firm. "Think
about a-a baseball game. Your favorite, uh -- baseball game."

She regarded him blankly, then they both grinned.

"Okay, your favorite symphony," he said.

"It's okay. The worst of it's gone now."

"Happened before?" Mulder's thumb tenderly stroked her cheek, her jaw.

"Never like this.  Never." She stared at him, then dropped her eyes.
"You know what happens."

"I saw you sick, fighting delusion, angry.  You never recall the
attack that brought it on."

"Yeah."

"Is that what you mean? The sickness, delusions, rage?"

"I haven't been sick in a long time.  Things were clearer.  I could
read.."

"You couldn't read?"

"I've been-using your trick - like now." She paused and he heard
something that sounded like "six times six equals 36" stumble out of
her mouth. He was quiet for a while to let her finish the
multiplication
tables.

Mulder thought she'd fallen asleep until she mumbled," I saw my
mother."

"Did you?"

"That night-you came.  Zelda took me-" Scully closed her eyes.  It
seemed nice to remember it. He could see the corners of her mouth
turned.
"In my dream, she took me to the hospital
to see her.  It was so real."

"For your mother too."  He dropped that into the air.  He thought he
saw that ghost of a smile flicker on her lips.

"Mmmm.  Fred's more interested in the night nurse than my mother."

"The guy?"

"The blonde at the desk - one with the chest."

"Good taste." Mulder made a mental note to talk to Fred Morton.

"He thinks mom is going to be fine," Scully said.

"So he tells me."

Scully nodded, eyes still closed.  Mulder started to touch her shoulder
then it struck him that Morton had cancelled his visit with Mrs. Scully
the previous afternoon.  His partner came instead, explaining Fred woke
up with a stomach virus.  Mulder wondered.

"Scully-"

She didn't open her eyes.  "Yeah."

"Before last night -how did you feel?  You said you could read
more. What else?  Any more vivid dreams?"

She opened her eyes.  "No dreams." She looked distressed.  "I can't
trust if what I do recall is accurate memory or-or a dream."

"Let me sort it out."

"Flashbacks of men in suits that I don't recognize."  Scully began to
fade again.  "- a woman I knew at the academy - Ann Millard -
newspaper pictures, guns, women-"

"That could be your life passing before you," he said.  "Ann Millard?"

"Hmmm.  Not seen her since the academy.  Killed in the line."  The
pounding in Scully's head suddenly became unbearable.  She touched her
head as though to keep it from spinning off her head.  Mulder looked
to Dr.  Otis.

"What does Ann Millard have to do with what's going on?" he said.

"Don't know.  Way I feel now -- connected somehow." She didn't open
her eyes, but she griped his arm.

"So we use your sickness as a barometer of how hot or cold we are on
this case," Mulder said, grabbing a nearby basin.

Scully heaved.  Dr. Otis moved toward them.

"Not much more, Agent Mulder.  In fact..."

Scully's eyes flashed blue and dangerous.  "No!"

"Five minutes," said Clare.

Mulder waited until the doctor turned her back to whisper to Scully,
"I'm going to submit this to Law Enforcement Journal - when the
investigator becomes vilely ill, the case is nearly solved."

"Breaking new ground," Scully said.

Mulder's tiny smile faded.  "It's worse right after whatever mind
games they play.  You know that.  You're very vulnerable now.  You
need some time where no one can get to you until your head clears."

"How?" She flung her arm over her eyes.

"I'll speak to Dr.  Otis..."

"No!" She said it too loudly, then dropped her voice.  "What if-she's
...involved.." Sleep.  Scully looked as though she wanted so badly to
sleep.

"What's going on?" Dr. Otis returned at double time.  She felt
Scully's racing pulse.

"Vertigo," Scully said.

"Time to leave, Agent Mulder.  Let her sleep."

Scully sighed.  She couldn't fight anymore.

"A minute," Mulder said.  He dropped his voice and put his mouth next
to Scully's ear.  In the dark behind her eyes she heard the desperation
over his words: "Tell me you're undercover.  I'd probably kiss you."

"I wish," she mumbled.

"Later," he said, gently brushing the hair off her clammy forehead.
"I'm not kissing someone who might throw up on me."

"Ha..." She dropped into sleep and Mulder let her go.

Clare watched Mulder pull the covers over his partner's shoulders and
tuck them around her.  "A word, Agent Mulder?"
****************
Dr.  Clare Otis married the man she loved when she was in her late
20s.  He was a fellow medical student, brilliant, gentle,
understanding.  He was the only thing she loved more than medicine,
than the healing of the human body.  They lived together 40 years,
raised two sons, and helped deliver one of their five grandchildren - a
granddaughter with wisps of red hair -- before a heart attack
killed him two years ago.   She turned to her other love, to medicine,
to heal her wound.

Clare Otis knew what it was to love and live with a man.  And even if
she had no psychology training, the woman she was could have
recognized another woman who truly loved a man.  These days she
didn't see many men and women outside her own family who had a sense
of self and gave themselves freely to each other.

Instead she saw a lot of co-dependent personalities, enablers
married to drug or alcohol dependent mates, or emotionally immature
men drawn to emotionally crippled women.  She saw so little healthy
give and take between a man and woman committed to each other that
she'd
didn't recognize it at first.

But, lord, it was a pretty thing to see.

Out of the corner of her eye, Dr. Otis watched the FBI agent and his
convict ex-partner act out their love story in the early morning
light.  Their tenderness with each other made Dr.  Otis glow just to
remember her own love. She missed her husband.  She was glad of this
job to dull the pain of losing him.

She had anticipated some problems with the work, but not others.
She was too soft for a prison job, Dr.  Otis realized.  She should
be in private practice.  The inmates took advantage of her.  She
expected them to get over on her often and they did.  She had to
toughen up, she knew.

She had not counted on this mystery in her clinic: the death that was
ruled suicide nor the two inmates who were rational one day and
psychotic the next.  Dr. Otis did not think herself a fool, but the
illnesses made her feel like one.  Now she felt the answer lay within
her grasp.  Until Mulder arrived she saw Dana Scully as just part of
the problem.  Now she realized her prisoner might be the solution.

Mulder and Scully's relationship raised questions in Dr.  Otis' mind
- questions she didn't normally ask.  She never concerned herself
with a prisoner's guilt or innocence since a court had determined
that already.  They all claimed to be innocent; Clare never allowed
her patients to evade or excuse culpability for their crimes, since
that was part of why they were in prison to start with.

Dr. Scully was different.  Her case file raised questions of guilt
or innocence for Dr. Otis that could be dismissed separately but not
cumulatively.  Dr.  Otis rubbed the bridge of her nose and her tired
eyes.  Out of habit and experience she had slipped Scully into the
role of manipulative woman with Mulder the besot lover.  In the
morning light she could see that clearly wasn't the case.  If he was
in love, it was no more than she was.

Dr. Otis began to rethink the matter.  Even given their mutual
attraction, why would a trained investigator continue to believe his
partner innocent in the face of overwhelming evidence and her plea
bargain?

Scully's actions raised another question.  While she robbed the FBI
blind and held defense lawyers up for thousands of dollars in
bribes, she apparently kept Mulder clear of her felonies -- an
unselfish act that didn't happen often among female criminals.  Later
she didn't blame him or involve him at all.  In fact, she tried to
keep him at arm's length.  He would have none of it.  A strong woman
and a strong man, Dr.  Otis thought.  That didn't jive with women who
wound up in prison.

And what did she plan to do with the money, Dr. Otis wondered.
Scully didn't seem vain or in need of funds.  She seemed self-
contained and disciplined.  In fact, the one security tape Dr. Otis
had seen of her new patient and the FBI agent was enough to show her
Scully played by the rules, Mulder pushed them.

Dr. Dana Scully did not fit any known profile of a female criminal.

Dr. Otis gave some thought to an undercover operation.  If so, it
was real good, she thought.  No hints in the official record, plenty of
official transcripts, newspaper clippings and all the trappings of
a genuine crime-and-punishment scenario.

The tape Dr. Otis pulled of Scully and Mulder's visit was nothing more
than she expected from of a prisoner and her ex-partner.  No, it was
more.  They talked about cases, the weather, family, his tie, and the
prison food-ordinary conversations made so intimate by the participants
that Dr. Otis felt like a dirty voyeur.

Their partnership was beyond professional and probably stronger than
either of them admitted.  Dana Scully held another fascination for
Clare Otis: medicine.  Clare had a feeling Dr. Scully didn't crave
the personal, human side of the profession as much as the scientific
puzzle presented by a body that didn't function according to the
blueprints.  Still, she loved the art - they had that in common.

After talking with Mulder about his partner, Dr. Otis requested a
prison shakedown in hopes of turning up a pressure syringe that
might have injected Scully with a new drug she wouldn't be able to
identify from blood samples.  She wanted to eliminate the possibility
of drugs first. Then, Dr. Otis would use the prisoner's love of
medicine and Fox Mulder to get what she wanted from Dr. Scully.
********************
When Scully woke again the light was so bright and irritating she
shielded her eyes before opening them very far.  Mulder had gone.
She knew that from the emptiness all around her.

Stirring a little she heard with irritation glasses rattling, metal
clanging, a harsh laugh down the hall, a broom or mop slamming
against the baseboards.  The prison was awake.

She wanted to scream for everyone to shut the hell up.  The moment
passed, but she became aware of a bitter aftertaste in her mouth
that was somehow familiar.  Scully pulled the blanket around her chin
with a huff.  Every voice, every noise seemed amplified.

"No way, Bert."

"Doc, it's not my call."

"I won't let you do it.  She's sick.  What could she possibly do in
here anyway?"

Scully heard the unmistakable leather squeak of a policeman's holster
harness.  The curtain opened and the sergeant of the guard walked
in.  Without a word to Scully he pulled the sheet and blanket out
from the foot of the bed.

"What-what are you doing!" Scully sat up too quickly and her head
spun.

The guard grabbed her ankle, enclosed it in a manacle and secured
the chain to the footboard. Scully kicked.

"This is contrary to established policy. This is a secure area and no
restraints are required.  Come back!"

As an apparent after thought the guard covered her exposed foot up
before he left.

He never spoke or looked directly at her.  Shocked, then enraged,
Scully kicked at the manacle, the footboard.  A clanging noise that
reverberated through her head was her only reward.  She didn't feel
better at all.  She heard someone applauding outside.

"Way to go, Bert.  I, for one, feel much safer knowing that a
very sick, 105 pound woman can't wander around the clinic," said Dr.
Otis from  somewhere beyond the curtain.

"You don't like it, talk to the director."

"I will, don't worry."

"Ah, Doc.  Really.  It's not hurting her and she is a special case-"

"She's especially sick, you mean.  I didn't object to the manacles
outside the prison, even though I thought it was overkill for an
unconscious prisoner.  But this, this is barbaric."

"She's been trained-"

"Are all you people buffaloed by the fact that she was FBI?"

"Orders, doc." The leather squeak faded away.

Anger and bitter frustration burned Scully.  She lay very still,
willing herself not to feel the shackle.  Willing herself not to
feel like an animal.
Scully closed her eyes.

The curtain parted.  "Hi.  Feeling better?" In the daylight Clare Otis
appeared heavier, her hair grayer.  She plodded ahead as though too
weary to do any better.

"This is outrageous," Scully said to the ceiling.  She laid stiff and
straight, pressing into the mattress.

"I couldn't agree more," Clare said.  Taking a thermometer she stuck
it in Scully's mouth and took her pulse.  "Better." After a minute
she read the thermometer with approval and wrapped Scully's arm in a
blood pressure cuff.

"I think we can graduate you from ice to chicken soup.  Wanna try?"
Clare paused to read Scully's blood pressure, grunted approval and
reached over on a nearby rolling tray for a steaming mug.  Scully had
no appetite, but she accepted soup from Dr. Otis anyway.

"You know, your lethargy, nausea, memory loss, and tremors aren't
necessarily symptomatic of concussion," Dr. Otis said in a
conversational tone.  "Ever had this before - ever seen it before?"

"No."

"Never?" When she got no answer Dr. Otis said: "I have." Scully
stopped sipping soup and glanced up.  "Three times, in fact.  You're
the fourth, Dr. Scully.  One of them died - apparent suicide.  The
other two became psychotic.  What do you know about that?"

"Nothing," Scully said, taking a tentative sip.  The broth was hot
and too salty.

Dr. Otis took Scully's right arm and turned it over.  She gently
probed the bruised area but found no needle mark.  She frowned.  She
tapped Scully's arm several times and raised her eyebrows; it was a
question Scully chose to ignore.

Clare Otis turned down the sheet and examined Scully's stomach and
abdomen.  As expected there was tenderness and she drew a wince from
her patient when she examined the area.  Clare pulled the sheet back
up, noting Scully's hands curled into fists.

"Never saw this before, huh?" Frowning Dr.  Otis tucked Scully's arm
under the sheet and made some notes on her chart.   "I forget you're
all liars, thieves, murderers and con artists.  I keep asking a
question and expecting a straight answer.  I keep giving respect and
expecting it back."

She started to leave, then thought better of it.  "You know, I'm
tired down to my socks and I've got something here that I don't
like.  Now here's the deal, Dr. Scully.  I've got an hour's worth of
patients waiting for me.  When I come back you have answers or you
won't see Agent Mulder for a long while."

"You can't suspend my visitor's privileges." Scully sat up sharply.
"I haven't done anything."

"I can not only suspend them, I can put Agent Mulder on the list of
unacceptable visitors so you don't see him for five years.  You
think I can't figure out you were fighting last night? I can send
you to isolation too." Dr. Otis said.

"Do it."

Clare looked askance.  "Really? You wouldn't mind?"

Scully drew her lips together and refused to look at Dr.  Otis.
Clare  could almost feel the heat rising off her patient.
Scully's fists slammed them to the mattress when Dr.  Otis closed the
privacy screen around the bed and left.

Damn, Scully thought jerking the covers up.  She couldn't be cut
off from Mulder, not now.  She couldn't risk connecting the dots
for Dr. Otis until she had a full picture of what was going
on and who was involved.  She wanted to take Dr. Otis by the throat.
The urge was so strong it shocked Scully, made her arms tremble.
Her hands opened to grip the sheets and she kicked at the shackle a
gain with an angry grunt.

Scully suddenly realized she could think without debilitating
headache or nausea as long as she kept a cold, penetrating fury
aimed at some point in the future.  And that anger was a fertile
incubator to birth plans for a safe haven.  It pleased her because she
saw it as a way to return a portion of what she had received.

(Headers Disclaimers in Chapter One)

Chapter 10 of 20

The cafeteria was the noisiest place in the prison --high
ceilings, plastic and concrete, stainless steel and too many
people in too little space.

The prisoners ate in two sittings, perched on swinging stools that
fastened to the tables.  The inmates packed into the cafeteria
quickly since good seating was at a premium.  Dr. Otis released
Scully at just as lunchtime started.  The guard escorted her to the
cafeteria and watched until she took her place in the lunch line.
She waited, coiled and ready, her fists clenching and unclenching,
her muscles tensing and relaxing.

Scully accepted anything the workers wanted to put on her
plate and picked her seat carefully.  She walked to grab a seat
in the cafeteria that put her back against the rear wall.  She
sat there only a few minutes when she saw several of her pod
mates point at her and wave.  She ignored them.  As soon as they
got through the line, Bernice plopped down next to her, while
Angela claimed the seat across.  Zelda tried to sit in Scully's
line of vision, but Bernice shoved her aside.

"Girl, you sure look better," said Bernice.  "We were
startin' to figure you were gonna serve the rest of your time in
the infirmary."

Scully poked her Jello.  It wiggled obscenely on the plate.

"You gonna eat your cake?" said the woman next to Angela.

"Yeah, she gonna eat it," said Angela.  "Get your fat hands
off.  And she gonna eat your roll too." Angela reached over, took
the woman's roll and tossed it on Scully's plate.  It landed in
the gravy covering the mashed potatoes and splashed onto
Scully's shirt.  Everyone at the table broke into snickers and
giggles.  Scully's face remained blank as she cleaned the
potatoes and gravy off with a napkin.

"Look here, no hard feelings," Bernice said with a
chuckle.  "We'll have peace in the family.  You have any more
troubles, you come to me."

Scully stood up suddenly, knocking over her plastic water
glass.  She slammed her shoulder against Bernice's body, twirling
the woman's stool into the table and pinning one of her arms
between the table and wall.  Scully could scarcely see, scarcely
feel.  Her vision clouded around the edges, her skin flamed and
she felt as strong as a dozen men.

Grabbing Bernice's free hand Scully wrenched Bernice's thumb and
bent it back.  As the woman yelped in pain Scully said, "I handle
my own trouble." She took Bernice chin in hand.  Scully's teeth clenched.

She put a point on her words by speaking directly to the black woman's
ear and twisting her thumb until it dislocated: "Don't do that to me
again.  Never! If there is a next time, you'd better kill me
because I will surely come after you." There was no mistaking
the venom in her voice.  Bernice continued to scream, but Scully
was too consumed by the power in her violence to hear her
victim, the whistles blowing, or the guard's orders to step
back.  "You aren't my girlfriend or my mother!" Scully said.

In a corner of her darkness she heard Mulder call out: "Scully!" She
whirled in the direction of the voice but
couldn't find him.  She popped Bernice's thumb back into its
socket just as the two blue uniforms slammed into her.  Bernice
screamed once and fell to the floor crying and holding onto her
hand.

Two lunchroom guards pulled Scully away - fists flying,
elbows slashing, and feet kicking -- while a third tended to
Bernice.  The women in the lunchroom erupted into whistles,
catcalls, screams, shouts, thrown food, milk, and tea.  Scully
caught a fleeting glimpse of her pod mates as the guards dragged
her away.  Two of the women looked at Scully with a new respect
but it was Zelda's expression of dismay that registered.  The
guards flipped her against the wall and wrenched her arms back
to cuff her.  She hardly felt it.
******************************
On her way into the director's office Dr. Otis passed
between Scully, sitting shackled on one bench between two
guards, and Bernice, shackled on the opposite bench next to
another guard.  She scowled at both prisoners, noting no physical
damage beyond cuts and bruises.  Bernice seemed subdued; Scully
appeared ready to go another round.  She tapped her fingers up
and down, her legs jiggled and she looked as though she might
jump out of her skin.

Clare nodded toward Bernice, "Anything broken, Dr. Scully?"
Scully shook her head.  She glared past Dr. Otis to Bernice.
"Nothing broken -- this time.  Dislocated thumb.  Severe
sprain.  Ice, aspirin, rest should do it."

"What about you?" she asked, noting Scully's dilated pupils.  But it
was the malice and aggression in the prisoner that struck her.  This
was not the woman she had seen in the surveillance videos, the woman
she heard about from the in-take personnel, the woman brought into
her clinic, or the one described in such poignant detail by Agent Mulder.

"I'm fine."

"I think you should pee in a cup for me," said Clare.

Scully shrugged as though it were of no importance.  "Why not do a
blood test while you're at it?"

"Good idea." Clare said.  "Maybe a spinal tap?" She knocked once
on the director's door.  The prison was in lock-down.

After several moments the door opened and Bernice went into the
director's office.   Scully sighed and leaned back in her seat.  The
guards beside her shifted warily.  Scully's heart rate slowed
somewhat; but she kept feeling strong, invincible, justified.  And
she was going to get at least two weeks in solitary confinement.
Maybe when she came out she would be herself, or close to it.

For now she allowed herself to enjoy this rush, the joy of savagely
attacking and hurting someone who had wronged her.  She felt none of
the remorse or self-incrimination that marked her murder of Donnie
Pfaster.  He deserved it too - why had she berated herself up all
this time?  She now had an inkling of why serial killers couldn't
resist another murder, why soldiers loved war, why boxers fought past
their prime.  Scully felt like beating her chest and hollering in
triumph.

In the back of her mind it all terrified her in some vague fashion.
When the prison director called Scully into his office, the guards
took hold of her upper arms and the restraint chains made a clanging
noise when she tried to throw off their hands.  The two men pulled
her into the office, nostrils flaring and her eyes drawn to menacing
slits.
***************

Dr. Otis leaned against the edge of the director's desk.
"You still seem a tad upset, Dr. Scully.  What if we just forgot the
whole thing? You go on back to your cell."  Clare got a flash of
panic from Scully that she'd thought she'd see.

"I think we'll give her two weeks minimum isolation until
we can get her arraigned for assault.  After the arraignment,
we'll see," said the director.  His mouth barely moved when he
spoke.  He leaned in to Scully's face.  "More time.  You're gonna
die in here, Scully, you don't watch out." He told Clare, "You
got to get a tougher hide, Clare.  You've got to learn to deal
decisively with violence.  We have to teach them that this kind
of behavior won't be tolerated.  You have to treat them like
children until they learn to behave."

Clare didn't pay attention to the director.  She was far too interested
in Dr. Scully.  The prisoner reacted to the director's remarks with an
involuntary shudder, a twinge of outrage, an undercurrent - a growl -
of anger.  Where had all this come from in Dana Scully?

"I'm going to make certain you get what you need, Dr.
Scully," she said.  "However, it's not going to be a vacation."

"Don't be ridiculous," said the director.

"Unless we find out what caused this, all we've done is throw her in
the briar patch," Dr. Otis said.  "And the resultant expense of
hospitalization will not, down the road, improve our profit margin."

The director tossed the pen on his desk away from him.

"Dr. Scully, tell me what you would do for a patient who
behaved in a psychotic fashion - in a situation where a previous
patient had turn psychosis into suicide."

"I am not suicidal!"

"That doesn't answer the question," Dr. Otis said.

"I was defending myself!"

"You would order a suicide watch.  A jacket restraint-"

"No!"

"A sedative-"

"I'm not psychotic!"

"Then what the hell is going on with you?"

Scully blinked as though her vision had blurred, a red lapped up from her
neck to her face.  Clare heard a growl, then a scream, a primal yelp of rage
and frustration.  Clare Otis jumped out of Scully's reach.

"Get this piece of trash out of here," the director to the guards.

"No!" Scully said, fighting against her captors.  "I'm not
suicidal! No!"

"Infirmary first."

"Ah hell, Clare," the director said.  "She'll just tear it
apart.  You want to treat her in isolation, knock yourself out.
But I'm not risking her anywhere else."

Clare Otis watched sadly as the guards dragged a screaming, struggling
Scully down the hall.

"Where are you going now? We have to fill out paperwork-"

"Getta a kit.  I have a couple of tests to perform on those prisoners
and I want to do it immediately," Dr. Otis said.

The director glared.  "It's a waste of time and money."

"I don't think so, George.  I'm convinced there is - something
wrong here."

"You think that red-head is a psycho?"

"She is now.  I want to know why."

George smiled patiently and scratched his head. "Lookee, Clare, not
everyone who becomes violent is suffering from a mental disorder."

"This prisoner has no history of violence.."

"Chrissake, she shot people!"

"And got a commendation for it!  She was an FBI agent!"

"All I'm saying is that she has a history of violence, even if she
was on our side at the time," the director said.

"I have to run some tests," Clare said in a firm voice.

The director waved her away with a sigh.  "Do it then.  Just
take somebody with you.  Remember she's a special case.  She's
been trained to do some damage with her hands."

"Oh, George, you believe everything the FBI puts out?"

"I was warned about her.  I was warned to take extra security
precautions," said the director.

"Who? For heaven's sake-"

"Someone who is familiar with her FBI record.  Someone at
Justice.  A fellow stockholder who doesn't want his kid's
university to wind up being the local community college."  George
said with a touch of pride in his authority.  "Go look what she
did to the guards.  Then tell me I'm overreacting."

"She'll be in a jacket," Clare said.

"All the same..." The director stopped and rubbed his jaw.
"I don't want any more people hurt today.  I don't want you
hurt." His eyes softened. "You're too willing to believe, Clare. You're
too willing to think even these women are valuable."

She shrank back. "Don't you?"

George rubbed his forehead. "I've been in corrections 27 years.  My
illusions are long gone."

"You don't believe someone can change her life around?" Clare knew she
sounded like a college freshman.

"Well, maybe some of them. But that one -" George jerked his thumb in
the direction the guards took Scully. "That one's not gonna make it."

Something flared in Clare; she recognized a gauntlet when one was
thrown in her face. It stiffened her resolve not to let Scully go down.
"You could be right, George. All right.  I'll take someone with me.
But I want those tests done ASAP."

"There's something else to consider here," George said.  "You're a
stockholder just like I am.  We're under scrutiny here by the
government and our fellow stockholders.  After that suicide and other
unfortunate incidents - well, we can't afford any more trouble.  And
we can't afford to let our head count go down.  Not if we want to
remain profitable."

It should have made her angry.  Instead Clare nodded.  "I've got
to do this, George."
 

The work on Bernice was easy for Clare to do.  Bernice sat on her bunk in
isolation quiet, compliant, defeated, almost dazed.  She provided a urine
sample, which Dr. Otis labeled carefully, and submitted to a blood test with
only a grunt when the needle slid in her vein.

Down the hall they could all hear Scully banging against
the cell walls and door.  She screamed and swore at the guards,
the restraints they were putting in place, God, Bernice, Clare,
and the uncomfortable bed - not necessary in that order.  Dr.
Otis put a band-aid on Bernice's arm and watched the prisoner
out of the corner of her eye.

"She still sounds a little unhappy," Clare said in a conversational
tone.

"Yeah," said Bernice, wetting her lips.  "She's freaked."

"Whatever you did to her- - I wouldn't do it again," Dr. Otis said.

Bernice shook her head.  "I didn't do nuthin'."

"Well, you're not the mama anymore." Bernice's look that told her she
guessed correctly.  Pod 34 had a new leader.

"We're ready for you, Dr. Otis," said a guard.  She had a cut over one
eye.  Clare frowned. As soon as the doctor and guard left, the cell
plunged into darkness.

"I'll be happy to look at that for you," Dr. Otis said to the guard.

The woman dabbed at the cut.  "It's nothing.  A scratch.
Damn that Scully-she's little but she fights like a full grown
man-like somebody on PCP."

"Maybe she is," Dr. Otis said.  "That's what I'm hoping to
find out.  I need two, three guards.  Female only." The guard
opened Scully's cell and the light came on.

The woman in the cell made Dr. Otis gasp.  She didn't look
human; the eyes blinking against the light were those of a caged
beast.  The heaving and panting of her chest made Dr. Otis
fearful Scully might have a seizure.  With the jacket on and
her hair tangled and tossed, Scully seemed feral.

"Get out," she panted.  "Haven't you done enough?"

"I've got to have blood and urine samples.  I'd like to do
a spinal tap, just to check on--"

A smile curled around Scully's teeth.  "Try it."

"Is that what you want? Take a few deep breaths, Dr.
Scully, and listen to me.  Can you? Can you understand me?"

"Take this off," Scully growled.

Clare shook her head.  "I've seen this.  Before you do
yourself or anyone else any more damage, I'm going to stop it."
Scully appeared interested, but not mollified.  "Can you complain
about that?"

"Remove the restraints," Scully said between clenched
teeth.  The jacket had her arms laced in front of her.  She looked
small wrapped in the dirty white canvas.

"I can't.  As you know I can take the blood from a vein in
your leg or your scalp.  And I can catheterize you if necessary
to get the urine sample.  I'd rather not.  I want you to
cooperate.  But I have to have them now, Dr. Scully, before your
body processes whatever is causing this."

"Do it -- if you can," Scully said.  She used her bare feet
and her back against the wall to push herself into a defensive,
sitting position.

"I'm sorry.  I know you don't want this but I don't think
you can control it.  When we're done I'll give you a sedative,"
Dr. Otis said and motioned to the guards.  Three of them moved into the
cell and held Scully in position on the mattress.  Dr. Otis cut away
Scully's jeans and secured her samples.  It took all four women.  It
took close to an hour.  As promised, Clare administered a sedative when
she finished and after a few moments the guards released their hold.
Scully turned on her side away from them and her body shook.  Clare
pulled a blanket up to cover her prisoner.

"I'm sorry." Clare Otis touched Scully's shoulder, knowing how much she
would have hated what had been done to Scully.

"I'll get you for this," Scully said, choking on her rage and humiliation.

"I'll come back to check on you."

"I will fucking get you!"

So what kind of results was she looking for? Clare Otis asked herself as
she walked back down the isolation hallway.  She had no real expectation
that drugs caused all this, yet it seemed chemical in nature, something
that preyed on a human's more violent natural instincts.  She asked the
lab for a full screen for drugs and alcohol and, as an afterthought,
reserved some of the samples in hopes a night or two's reflection might
be inspirational.  George was going to kick at the cost of these tests.
**************
Henry Donaldson tried to stop, but the gravel under his feet gave him
little traction.  He nearly fell on his ass.  While he was flaying his
arms around trying to keep his footing it was easy for the man standing
in the path to grab him by the tee-shirt and sling him into the bushes
by the park trail.  His captor had shadowed Donaldson until he left the
regular jogging path.  Branches from the bush he'd been tossed in now
poked the thinner man and his bare legs had cuts and scratches on them.

"What the hell!"

Skinner twisted the front of his tee shirt and hauled Donaldson
to his feet.  "Call it off."

"Turn loose of me," Donaldson said.  "You friggin' ape!
Jesus Christ, Walter, have you lost your mind?"

"Word is Agent Scully's teetering on the brink of that
right now," Skinner said.  He had tried to warn Scully.  And it
hadn't taken long for him to discover he'd been right.  He
thought he had taken precautions to protect her, but he knew he
hadn't weeks ago when he discovered only blank videotape where
he expected eight hours of color picture and sound, and blank paper
where he expected signed documents from Justice.  When Donaldson
came to him with this idea, he should have refused to entertain
it, much less allow Scully to agree to it.  He'd been negligent.
He couldn't let her die for Donaldson's ambition as the men in
his platoon had.

Donaldson straightened his clothes.  "I don't know what you mean."

"I'm talking about one of my agents in trouble."

"Walter, I can't imagine what you're talking about." Donaldson took two
or three steps back into the path.  Walkers came by this way. People
would see them.

"There was a riot at the prison.  Scully's in isolation and she's
nearly-" Skinner stumbled over his words."-she's nearly insane."

Donaldson looked horrified.  "Are you sure?" Skinner thought the man
might cry.   "Are you sure?"

"Not for a few more days.  But I'm not waiting to find out."

"I suggest you step back and take a deep breath."

"Get her out."

"Do you have any idea how much time, money and effort -
not to mention favors - went into this operation?" Donaldson
said.  "This is the best --I mean the best -- shot we have at
stopping these women and perhaps preventing a murder."

"Not at the cost of Scully's life," Skinner said.

Agent Scully was aware of the dangers," Donaldson said.
"FBI agents have always been prepared to make the ultimate sacrif-"

"Don't wave the flag in my face."

"She knew the risks."

"Not all of them."

"But you did, right? You knew I was a-a double-headed snake."

Skinner said nothing.  Donaldson forced a laugh. "Vietnam.  Christ, you
never get over it.  I made a mistake.  You think I wouldn't change it if
I could, if I could bring those men back? I didn't know my source was VC.
How could I?"

"This is not about Vietnam," Skinner said.  "It's about Agent Scully."

"Walter, I'm surprised at you.  Truly.  You are showing a
great deal of concern for someone who is merely a subordinate."

Skinner decided to let Donaldson think what he wanted.

"I've asked you before, now I'm telling you: call it off." He
pointed to his chest and leaned in close to Donaldson.  "You
forget.  I know the truth."

"Of what? You may think you know something, but you have
no proof.  I always knew you hated me, blamed me for that
massacre, but this -- accusing me of- of what?  No, wait.  Revenge
can't be the sole reason.  No -- you were very close to this
woman, weren't you? You and Agent Scully.  I'm shocked, Walter.
Yes, shocked that you would lie for Miss Scully.  Your career is
in jeopardy- you could go to prison too."

"This isn't about jeopardizing the operation, is it? You
have something else out there.  Not that I wouldn't put it past
you to sacrifice her life for your career.  But it's something
else too."

"I'm a man of facts.  Here are two big ones: First, there is more than
sufficient documented evidence to convict your Agent Scully of the
crimes with which she was charged.  Second, I did you a personal favor
in engineering that plea bargain and sentence.  Saved the bureau some
face.  I have a letter to you to that effect.  My secretary typed it,
my aide delivered it personally."

"You get her out or I will." Skinner said.  His eyes shone dark and deep.

"Get her out? How?" Donaldson scoffed.  "She's an admitted felo--"

Skinner took him by the throat and choked off the last part of the
word.  His expression didn't change the entire time he watched
Donaldson turning red.  For a moment, a split second, Skinner thought
about what it would be like to keep on squeezing until Donaldson choked
to death.  In his mind that he saw himself in fatigues and Donaldson in
an officer's uniform.  This is how he had pictured it would be when he
learned of Donaldson's role in the Vietnam ambush.

None of that would help Scully.

Donaldson fell on the path gasping for air.  Skinner didn't
move for a long time.  He knew Donaldson was right.  His word
against his superior's - and all that evidence they had both
manufactured against Scully.  He still needed Henry Donaldson.  He
nudged Donaldson with his toe.

"You stupid sonovabitch," Donaldson gasped out.  He rubbed his throat.
"When this is over, she'll be out! With honors! With everything she
wants! I knew, I knew you..didn't have the guts-to tough it out."

Walter Skinner turned and walked back down the path.  He'd
listened to all the lies he intended to from Henry Donaldson.
He couldn't talk to Mulder.  Scully still needed a contact,
a support system.  He racked his brain for ways to open doors
that Mulder could walk through on his own.  He had one idea.

Scully's tape of the nightly meetings with Donaldson was blank.
His had been carefully erased and damaged, so much so that the
FBI lab had no luck pulling anything off it.  Maybe Mulder knew
of someone with greater skill.  He would make sure Mulder got the
tape.

Donaldson wanted to yell "asshole" after Skinner, but
couldn't find the breath or the nerve.  He sat on the gravel
pulling air in as fast as he could.  Finally he threw a fistful
of rocks in Skinner's direction.

He got to his feet and brushed away the pebbles embedded
in his skin.  Bad luck about Scully's mental state.  However, if
she didn't go crazy this operation was back on track.  Obviously
she'd been tested.  If she survived they would accept her.

When this was all over Donaldson would have to do something about
Skinner.  That afternoon he told his secretary the marks on his neck
came from a disagreement with AD Walter Skinner of the FBI and sloughed
it off as a quick loss of temper soon forgotten.  On his way home
Donaldson dropped an anonymous note in the mail threatening his life if
he didn't arrange to release Dana Scully.  His secretary opened it the
next morning, and he feigned shock before dismissing it.
*****************************
Scully slept.  Wrapped in her own arms she drifted in deep,
dreamless, bottomless sleep.  She would have gladly remained in
this warm darkness forever - in a peaceful sea of blue, a navy
black ocean broken only by people urging her to drink and
shining lights in her eyes.  At last she recognized one of the
faces beyond the lights.

"Hmmmm." Her mouth felt like cotton.  She lay flat on a
rough mattress that smelled of mildew - or maybe something
worse.  Her eyes, soft and bewildered, fell on Dr. Otis in a
question mark.

Clare slipped her hand under Scully's neck and helped
raise her up to drink.  The water ran cool on Scully's sore
throat - it felt as though she'd been screaming for hours.

"Still feel like killing me?" Clare said.

Scully's eyebrows knitted together.  She drank
again, recognizing two of the guards who stood poised behind the
doctor on the balls of their feet.

"Look into the light." Clare examined Scully's pupils, noting they
were now normal.  She listened to her chest, checked her reflexes, and
looked into her ears and throat.  Nothing out of the ordinary.

"Welcome back." Clare nodded to the two men behind her. "Yeah, it's okay."
Clare began unbuckling the straps.

"Okay from what?" Scully asked, afraid of the answer, afraid Clare
would change her mind about the restraining jacket. She was weak,
a dull headache pounding like a drummer just behind her eyes.  She
had a stale taste in her mouth.  Her muscles felt sore and crammed.
And she was filthy.

"You went crazy, Dr. Scully.  No nice way to put it.  You popped your
cork.  I kept you sedated and monitored you for the last 48 hours.
That took the edge off.  Even so--" She whistled appreciatively.

The jacket slid off Scully's arms and shoulders to her relief.  She
jerked it off the rest of the way, putting the guards on alert, then
rolled her shoulders and stretched her arms.

"Pretty safe to say you've got a nasty temper." Clare
nodded to the guards to leave them alone.  They seemed reluctant
until Clare motioned them out again.

"I recall food all over the place and people screaming and -"

"Yeah, well, don't remember too much out loud until you talk to your
lawyer.  You're going to be formally charged with several counts of
assault."

"Blood test?"

Dr. Otis frowned  "I am sorry about that."

Scully rubbed her scalp.  "No, I don't believe -- I didn't
give you much choice.  Did you find any... ah,mm-m, any results back?"

"What do you think I'll find?"

"White blood cells..I-" Scully paused only a beat.  She remembered one
extraordinary thing about her last round of tests.  "Increased hormone
level.  My testosterone should be off the chart."

Dr. Otis looked shocked.  "And Bernice's?"

"I'm guessing.  Slightly elevated.  Test her today or tomorrow and
it's back to normal."

Clare made a note.  "I'd better ask the lab for some hormone levels, then."

Scully leaned back against the wall and sighed.

"I've been trying to get you to help me with some mysterious cases I've
had in the infirmary.  You didn't seem interested.  Are you now?"

Scully said nothing. She almost didn't care.

"This happen to you before?"

Scully looked away. She wanted Dr. Otis to leave her alone.

"What the hell is it?"

"I don't know," Scully said.  It came out a bit testier than she intended,
though not by much.

Clare thrust an official looking piece of paper into her hand.  When
Scully opened it, all she could comprehend was the seal of the Justice
Department.  She gave up trying to read and shoved the letter away in
frustration.  She looked at Clare Otis, moistened her lips and said,
"Are the letters on this paper..are there typos in this?"

Clare glanced at the letter.  "No more than usual.  Why?"

"I can't read it." Scully rubbed her eyes.  She drew her
knees up, clashed her hands together and chewed on her knuckles.

"Is there something wrong with your eyes?"

Scully forced herself to leave her eyes alone.  She blinked several
times.  "No.  Just a - it's nothing."

"You're not a very good liar. You don't sound like you've had a lot
of practice at it," Dr. Otis said with a sigh. "You'll be out of
here soon, Dr. Scully.  Back to the pod." Nothing registered so
Clare went on.  "You'll be in charge there."

Scully blew out her disbelief.

"You have a real chance to do some good," Dr. Otis said.

"Why would you say that?" Scully said. "O-or even think it in the face
of clear evidence to the contrary!"

"Oh, call it intuition," Dr. Otis said.

Scully studied Dr. Otis.  She looked embarrassed, as though she
realized what a naÔve thing she had said. In her place Scully knew she
would be thinking that no matter what her gut said, her intellect told
her that she wasn't dealing with an FBI agent but a convicted thief
and shakedown artist - a violent one.

"Or faith, Dr. Scully, call it the power of things unseen."

"You have power you never imagined.." Scully's knees dropped and she sat
up, her mouth a small O of understanding.

"Power?"

"I-I don't believe violence is power," Scully said.  She heard the
words fall into the air. She was remembering - something. "Violence
changes nothing fundamental - I can't believe that's it."

"I couldn't agree more," said Dr. Otis. But she was clearly puzzled.

"I want -- I need to speak with Agent Mulder."

"I'll bet you do." Clare shook her head.  "You don't seem to grasp the
significance of all this.  That letter explains it.  You're in
isolation for two weeks.  After that your privileges are restricted.
You can call your attorney once a week - that's it.  No other visitors.
Sometime within the next few weeks you'll be taken back to federal court
for arraignment on assault.  We used to have arraignments here but so
many lawyers objected we don't bother anymore.  There'll be a trial
and you'll have additional time to serve."

Scully absorbed the information without comment.

"Your mother's doing better.  Much better, I'm told."  Dr. Otis stood.
"I'll bet you'd like a shower. I'll okay it." Scully rose with her, slowly
and painfully. Scully tried once, then twice to say something, but she
couldn't seem to force the words out.  "You have to trust somebody,"
Clare said, trying to be encouraging.

"Agent Mulder," Scully said.

Clare shook her head sadly.  "There has to be someone else."

"Not now.  Maybe never."

The doctor's jaw dropped in surprise. Clare seemed to think about it.  Then
she nodded.  "I could call him..."

Instinct.  Imagination.  Intuition.  Scully plunged ahead using the measured
tones of one accustomed to ticking off such items.  "I've experienced this
two-three times.  Escalating symptoms with each incident. Strong
physical reaction followed by mild psychotic episodes.  No drugs I
could detect."

"Stimuli?"

"Unknown."

"Nothing?"

"That's often the case with an X - with the work I do-did."
Scully closed her eyes and swallowed against the headache and nausea
she felt pushing against the blurriness of her mind.

Clare shook her head.  "I find that hard to believe."

"A perfectly logical reaction." Scully couldn't look at Clare, and her
disappointment sounded more like impatience. "Beyond that I can't -
won't - speculate."

Clare's shoulders fell.  She had already planned to contact
Agent Mulder before Dr. Scully went back to the pod.  She just
thought she might be able to have a better idea of the problem
before she saw him.  Without such information she could have to resort
to what she considered a rather cruel method of insuring Agent
Mulder's cooperation.

(Headers and Disclaimers in Chapter One)

Chapter 11 of 20

Fox Mulder watched the videotape of the cafeteria fight and the
isolation cell in silence.  He knew Scully was segregated.  Skinner
had told him and he had secretly cheered her ingenuity.  He had no
idea how she'd accomplished it.  Skinner had not told him that.

After a time he no longer felt Clare Otis' eyes on him,
he only knew so much sorrow he couldn't move his arms or legs.
Scully's rage skewered him, pounded through him.  His impotence
mocked him.  Scully.  He turned away and stared at his "I Want to
Believe" poster.

"Can I keep this tape?"

"Sure.  I'm sorry, Agent Mulder.  You understand now what the problem
is." Dr. Otis said.  She'd been watching his jaw clench and relax,
clench and relax.

"I want-I need to see her."

"You can't.  She's in isolation, then on restriction."

"I'm a federal officer and she's material to an on-going investion-"

Clare frowned.  "Don't go there."

Mulder sprang up. "I don't think you understand.."

"I'm well aware of that. Agent Mulder. That's why I'm here. But I know
this much: you try to pretend you're investigating a case with her help
and her life will be a living hell when she gets out of isolation."

"That transparent?"

"It's a pretty good rule not to go to the well twice with the
same bucket," Clare said.

"Is she-?"

"She's better.  She'd recover faster if she'd eat something.  She has
another week to serve in isolation then her lawyer can see her.  Then
she'll go for arraignment at the federal building - assault charges."

"Someone's poisoning her.  Before her arrest, conviction, even now."

"Why-and who?"

"I don't know.  But it has to do with the prison.  Something going
on there."

"What?"

"Mind control, remote viewing -- a-a mind meld that enables women in
your
prison to become one with specific targets who work in art galleries,
banks and brokerage houses.  Once they enter the mind of their targets
they commit robberies and leave stolen goods for an accomplice to
retrieve," Mulder said in almost one breath.

Clare gaped.  "You're not serious?"

"That's what Scully would say."

Clare gave Mulder a tentative smile then chuckled as though she knew
all along he was teasing.

Mulder's answering smile was dazzling.  "How can you help me, Dr.
Otis?"

"I've had other three cases with symptoms like Dr. Scully's." Clare
produced copies of the medical records.  She started with Ann Millard.
His reaction surprised her.  "Know her?"

"FBI.  She died in the line of duty.  A shooting.  Ambushed
while tracking down some drug dealers.  How do you know her?"

"She died in our prison.  Suicide.  I pronounced her myself," Clare
said. "She was undercover?"

"It would seem."

"What was she investigating?"

"I don't know," he said.

"Somebody must know."

"Not necessarily."

Clare hummed.  "You mean an FBI agent could work undercover and nobody
in this building know anything about it?"

"Your tax dollars at work," he said.

Clare expelled her frustration in a loud huff.  "Dr. Scully too?"

"I suspect so. I wish I could prove it."

"Because if it is, it's a callous disregard for her personal safety -
and sanity."

Mulder couldn't look at her.  He only saw Scully's rage playing against
his
skull.

"This is way over my head."

"What else do you know?" Mulder said.

Now Clare grinned, "Your turn."

"I know you saved Scully's life by putting her in restraints and
locking her in isolation," Mulder said.  He touched Clare's hand.
"I know it was a hard thing for you to do."

"I'm told all Dr. Scully does now is sit on the floor and stare at
the wall.  She folds her blanket up and sits on it against the wall--"
Into his puzzled expression she said, "We don't allow prisoners to sit
on each other's bunks. If they want to talk they fold up blankets
and sit together on the floor.  She's talking with someone, Agent
Mulder. She's obeying the rules and sitting on the floor to talk
with someone." Clare patted his hand because she seemed to have an
idea who Scully was talking with in that isolation cell. "Here are
other cases."  She shoved copies of the files at Mulder.  "Keep them."

"What do all these women have in common?" Mulder asked. "Besides the
obvious - all Zelda Deschamps' cellmates."

"They were all extremely bright.  All loners.  No long term
relationship to speak of - no children, husband, long-term
lovers.  From what I could discover they were all adrift, all
passive aggressive.  Seemed full of doubt about everything but
their crimes.  They felt justified as if their frauds and lies were
a normal part of doing business."  She paused and tried to think.
Mulder had spread the pages out on his desk and his head swiveled
from one to the other.

"In my opinion," Clare continued, "these women just didn't feel guilt
or remorse.  Not proud of what they did, exactly -- well," she pointed
to a photo, "all but her.  This woman was a con artist who bragged she
could get a mark to think anything she wanted.  Now she can't hold a
rational thought herself.  I haven't had a chance to work with Dr.
Scully much.  Any of this fit her too?"

"Some." Saying more would violate whatever privacy Scully
had left and Mulder wouldn't be the cause of that.  "I've read
Zelda's record - anything more you can tell me?"

"She's very quiet.  Never the slightest trouble.  Maintains
she did not kill her husband - but if you believed that you'd
have to believe we have an entire prison of innocents.  Very
self-contained.  At peace.  She does seem to like your former
partner." Clare paused.  "Off the record? I think she's the only
inmate who doesn't belong in prison."

Mulder smiled.  "That include Scully?"

"You saw the tape.  She's a danger to herself and others right now.
She won't talk to me."

Mulder thought about that for a moment.  "What about an
African-American inmate named Bernice?"

Clare rubbed her hands together.  "Ah! Dr. Scully bumped her off."

"Killed her!"

"No, no, no.  Took her place.  That's what the riot was
about.  Dr. Scully attacked her and dislocated her thumb,
effectively taking over the leadership role of her pod or family
group.  Bernice's an amazing story.  Bernice Johnson, now 34, is a
graduate of the Wharton School of Business in Pennsylvania.  Her
father was a full professor of physics at MIT and her mother
teaches romance languages there.  Bernice speaks three languages
fluently - or did.  One of the brightest, most articulate women
I've ever met.  She was in an extremely abusive domestic
situation at the time of her arrest.  She and her latest lover were
convicted of securities fraud three years ago.  Big case - even
attracted lawyers from the Attorney General's office."

Mulder sat up straight in his chair. "Go on," he said.

"Well, you talk to Bernice now and you would swear she was born and
raised on a Georgia plantation or-or someplace in the 'hood.  We
suspect she's running an illegal activity from the prison, but we
can't catch her.  She's vicious and violent -- completely different
from anything I read about her at intake or in her early days.  Prison
is great, isn't it?  Sure changed Bernice."

"She was Zelda's cellmate?"

"She was already an inmate when Zelda came," Clare said. "They were
together a long time-- about a year-- then Zelda applied for a new
cellmate.  Shortly after that Bernice became the mama-the pod leader."

"Scully's now the mother of a group of criminals?" The idea seemed to
amuse Mulder.

"If she can control whatever this is inside her -and if she wants it.
That's the way it works," Clare said.

Mulder leaned forward and clasped his hands together on his desk.  "Dr.
Otis, look in the encyclopedia under self-control and there's Scully."

"Then prison has already changed her too, hasn't it? How nice. Our job
is done."

"I don't believe it was the prison - it was happening before she was
incarcerated."

"Which reminds me.  Dr. Scully had me do some tests. Blood, urine- I
even performed a spinal tap.  I checked the hormone levels of various
samples: one from the time of her initial injury in the shower and
another after the, huh, that tape.  And I gotta tell ya, Agent Mulder,
outside a male in his prime I've never seen testosterone levels
as high as Dr. Scully's.  The most recent results: testosterone
dropping, estrogen on the rise."

"Do another one."

"When?" she said.

"Give it a few more days," Mulder said.

"What am I looking for?"

"I don't know," Mulder said.  "But you'll see it."

"I like Dr. Scully.  I wish I knew how to reach her."

"I say the same thing all the time."

"Last time I spoke with her, she asked why I still trusted her.  I said
something like, 'woman's intuition.' A light bulb seemed to go on.  She
said,' You have power you never imagined.' She wasn't talking to me."

"Maybe she was." Something clicked in the back of Mulder's mind. "You
are right to trust her."

Clare looked at him in disbelief, then a slight, small smile pulled
at her lips.

"You think my judgment's clouded," he said.

"That would strike me as normal."

"I trust her because time after time she's proven herself - in the
field,
in the lab, in the office. I would be dead many times over without her"
Mulder said. He could not allow himself to be angry in this defense of
Scully.  "She's an exemplary agent - you should check out her record."

"Perhaps I shall."

"I'll make it happen for you," Mulder said.  He waved a hand around the
office. "This is the nut and kook department. Agent Scully is the voice
of sanity and reason."

Clare Otis hoisted herself from the chair. "I don't have
much control over what happens to her out of my clinic, Agent Mulder.
But I can require her to assist me during infirmary hours.  That will
offer her some protection - and perhaps give us time to find answers."

"I would appreciate it very much. I need to ask you one more favor.
Don't talk to Scully about this.  Don't tell her anymore about what
you know or discover or that we talked at all.  I have a feeling the
more she knows about this, the more danger she's in. Maybe you too."

"Based on?"

"Men's intuition."

Dr. Otis chuckled.  "What shall I tell her?"

"Say -- just tell her you saw me.  That's all," he said.

"That's all?"

Mulder leaned his cheek on his hand.  "Yeah."

Dumbfounded, she said, "May I be blunt?  You and Dr.
Scully...involved?"

He shook his head.

"Why the hell not," Clare Otis said.
**********************************
Mulder carried the videotape up to Walter Skinner's office.  He had to
wait a few minutes for Skinner's last meeting to end.  And he waited a
few minutes in front of Skinner's desk while he signed some papers.
When Skinner looked up, Mulder was respectful, businesslike and calm.
It worried Skinner.

"Scully's in isolation.  No visitors, no calls.  I can't get to her.
You can't get to her.  Someone else can and did."  Skinner chewed on
his teeth for a moment and Mulder held the tape. "You should see this."

Skinner winced during the viewing of Dr. Otis' tape and
that was the only thing that stopped Mulder from pulling his
weapon and shooting Skinner right there in his own office.
When it ended Skinner ejected the tape, turned it over
in his hand several times then said, "Do you have any other
videotapes of Agent Scully in your possession?"

"Two, I think.  One is blank -- the one Scully sent to
mutual friends.  Another arrived in the mail with no return
address.  Both are safe.  Dr. Chuck Burks at the Advanced Digital
Imaging Lab at the University of Maryland is coaxing some
pictures and sound off those tapes.  He says maybe, but he can't
deliver yet.  What's on them?"

"I can't help you," Skinner said. "Agent Mulder, think of this as a
bank
robbery case. Don't think of it as anything but ghosts in a bank or a-
an
insurance company."

"Is this a game?"

Skinner pointed to the television.  "Does that look like
she's having fun!"

Mulder's jaw clenched.  "Why am I in the dark?"

Skinner considered his next words.  "I can only say that
anything I tell you could endanger her further.  And you are
still vulnerable, Agent Mulder."

"Vulnerable? Is this about protecting me?"

Skinner shifted his weight to another foot.  "You are a
direct link to Agent Scully.  You are her partner; you know her
better than anyone else.  People know who you are and can reach
out to you anytime of the day or night."

"What people? How?"  But Mulder knew how.

"The case is a certified X-File, for what that's worth," Skinner said.

"How do we get her out?" Mulder said.

"You already know.  Solve the bank robbery, solve the X-File."

"Will I find Donaldson at the end of it?" Mulder said.

"I hope so," Skinner said.  "I certainly hope so."

Mulder thought a minute.  "Chuck has the tape that was
erased and Scully's was blank.  So where is the original? If
someone were to conceal tapes where would he or she put them?"

"Are you suggesting Agent Scully-"

"I'm asking your opinion on a hypothetical situation, sir,
that's all."

Skinner's hands went to his hips.  "You don't think Agent
Scully or anyone else who might have done this would be foolish
enough to keep the original."

"Nixon kept the White House tapes," Mulder said.  He saw
Skinner remember something; it was clear as if he'd spoken the
words.  He rubbed his forehead, deep in thought, as he walked
behind his desk to sit.

"Agent Mulder." Skinner studied the papers on his desk for
a second.  "I can't tell you how much I regret this situation."

"I'll be sure to tell Agent Scully, sir.  If she can remember
who you are - or who I am."
*********************************
Intuition.  Imagination.  Power.

Scully spent the hours sitting on a folded blanket in the floor of her
cell staring at light patterns on the opposite wall.  She still
couldn't read.  The quiet of the segregation area maddened her -
she wouldn't have believed such a thing possible a few days ago.

For the first day or two she had to be disciplined in her
thinking to avoid blinding headaches that could make her curl up
in a ball of pain or virulent nausea that kept her losing weight
at an alarming rate.

It seemed safe to think about the human body - her body - and all
the chemicals or hormones or electrical impulses that she knew
governed its functions.  She still couldn't recall all she once knew
about the way hormones acted in concert to make human beings aware of
their surroundings, able to deal with their environment, and bore on
intellectual pursuits and creativity.

She made it a mental exercise to try to trace the
science of thought in the human brain and to recall those
theories, studies and research reports that dealt with the role
of hormones in firing neurotransmitters in the human brain.

Gradually she was able to recall the role testosterone
played in aggression, and estrogen's recently discovered impact
on the ability of certain natural chemicals to bind on receptors
and thus control learning patterns.

As the days passed she began to catalogue what she could
remember on mind-reading - something she always regarded as a
fairy tale until she met Gibson Praise.

From Gibson she knew certain genetic remnants, inactive
DNA in most humans, could be "turned on" in some people to read
minds.  She presumed Gibson was born with this active remnant
and that was how he won chess tournaments and his case
demonstrated how all humans could be "mind readers" if this
genetic remnant became active.

Was that part of what was happening to her?

It had to be another element in the instinct, intuition, imagination,
and
power conundrum.  What she didn't know was how it all interacted.

"Look, Dr. Scully, you aren't eating and you aren't
drinking much.  I think the nausea has passed," Dr. Otis told
her.  "You can't be afraid to test the waters here.  If you don't
do better, you're going need intravenous fluids."

The worst of the sickness passed. It may have been gone for some
time, but she had been conditioned by experience to equate illness
with certain reflections, and thus avoided them.  Scully realized she
wasn't just afraid to test food on her stomach.  She also had been
loathed to let herself think about dangerous things and the
people who made them dangerous to her: Bernice, Zelda, and Mulder.

As one week became nearly two she began, reluctantly, to
ponder those things and entertain theories that normally fell
into Mulder's purview --- remote viewing where persons claimed
they were able to project themselves into another place and see
what was going on there, transcendental states that were semi-
conscious awakenings, altered consciousness that changed the way
the brain perceived reality.

She could no longer consider the possibility any of this
was drug-induced.  It was obviously a natural phenomenon, using
the body's own chemicals against the brain.  None of it made sense
to her.

Mulder, does it make sense to you, she asked the patches
of light as they grew, then shrank against the walls and
ceiling.  Intuition or instinct.  Imagination.  Power.
How do those things fit together, she asked him.

Mulder, how can apparently normal women transcend their bodies,
fly around the world, and possess someone else's mind?  That
defies all the laws of nature, of science.  She couldn't grasp a
single piece of quantifiable evidence that would support the
authenticity of that.  Yet no one suggested these women were
anything but flesh and bone.  Laws of physics were like any other
kind -- they could not be broken without penalty.

"Haven't we seen a number of cases where electrical energy
or sudden chemical flashes caused ordinary people to do
extraordinary things," Mulder said.

"Lift cars off babies, run miles when they could barely
walk? Adrenalin surges, yes."

"Then, Scully, if human beings are capable of doing such
examples of super physical strength, how much of a leap is it to
believe humans can do the same type thing with their minds?"

"Apples and oranges, Mulder.  Projecting yourself into
someone's mind isn't the same as breaking the broad jump record
to avoid a car!"

"Both have to do with a chemical imbalance."

"I grant you that."

"Chemicals normal to all humans such as estrogen, testosterone,
adrenaline?"

"All right."

"We've also seen that certain cultures and religious
persons can attain higher mental states than most of us thorough
prayer and meditation," Mulder said.  "We accept remote viewing
as fact."

"In some circles it is accepted as fact.  I still don't see
your point in this broad leap."

"What if the heightened mental states and the chemical imbalances
aligned, interacted?"

"And carried through air to different parts of the world-how?"

"Electricity? The freed spirits carried to a destination
on currents of energy and directed or attracted to opposite
chemicals or hormones in the host."

"It's not possible, Mulder."

"I'll bet if we could test one of these women before she
possesses someone, the estrogen level would be astronomical.  And
somehow the electrical energy generated by that hormone would be
attracted to the testosterone in the victim."

"Certainly there are chemical changes during transcendental
states, but the type of hormonal imbalance you're suggesting is
too extreme.  An-and that's to say nothing of the electrical
energy that would have to be generated.  The person would
spontaneously combust! Nothing to suggest this possibility has
ever been seen or documented."

"It happened to you.  People walking around in your mind,
seeing what you think-"

"Wait-"

"--and who you think about, knowing what you feel and who you
feel it for, seeing what you see and-"

"Mulder, stop."

Bernice - and maybe Angela too - saw how you, a sworn
officer of the law, a professed Catholic, a moral person, a
woman of standards - murdered a man in cold blood."

"No!"

"No what, Scully! They didn't see or you didn't kill Donnie Pfaster."

"Look, I don't regret it - you yourself said that in the
final analysis I saved lives."

"Are we there yet - the final analysis? If you asked them, is that
what those criminals would say, the ones who snuck a
peek at your memories?  Did they see beyond that big black door -
- or did they open door number two and just think you were crazy?"

"Door number two?"

"Where all the abduction memories are stored.  The images
of what happened then, the tests.  You know, the aliens who
helped themselves to your body as these women availed themselves
of all your secrets."

"Mulder!"

"You wanted an open honest talk with me."

"About this case."

"An open and honest discussion about work, about anything
that isn't really vital to our lives."

"This is vital to our lives - to my life, at least."

"You are my life, Scully."

"This is serious."

"You think I'm not serious? What have I ever done to make
you believe I'm not serious about that?"

"We're partners."

"So that's it.  Well, I hadn't really thought about it that
way: Work as an agent of seduction."

"Seduction?"

"Courtship, then.  Scully, I bring you demons as bouquets,
ghosts as dreams to share. I introduce you to my alien relatives..."

She scoffed.

"I bring you all my monsters to slay."

Scully felt her heart quicken.  "I must not do a very good job.  I
hear them chasing you in your sleep."

"Hmm-m. Maybe you should be there with me then."

"Mulder, you don't sound like yourself."

"You never think I'm right, but you have to admit here
that I'm close.  Maybe it's seduction -- does that mean love in
the workplace is sexual harassment and in that context, am I the
harasser or the harassee?"

"What are you talking about?"  It came out as a moan that
Scully could hear in the cell.  "I need you to focus.  Help me
find a rational explanation."

"Not my job, Scully.  Let's see-we work together - hmm-m,
if work in this context can act as an agent of seduction that
means we have an X-File."

"Of course it's an X-File! These women, this prison is
unexplained paranormal phenomenon.  It's what we do."

"That's what I do.  Part of it anyway.  What do you do --
apart from observing?"

"I'm involved.  What do you think I'm doing here?"

"You are doing what you always do - evade.  You can't even
have an open honest discussion with me here."

"Mulder-"

"You're an observer in life.  You won't participate - no,
that's not the word.  What do you contribute beyond trying
desperately to avoid becoming engaged in anything you observe."

"I refuse to engage in personal attacks."

"See, I'm right.  You refuse to engage."

"Could we stay on point? What do you know that can explain
the present phenomenon? Any theories?"

"I think the work explains it, Scully.  In that sense that
brings us back to what we were discussing earlier.  I suppose the
work is the most important thing in our lives."

"Why are you talking like this, Mulder? I need you --"

"So maybe, in the final analysis, that's it.  While they
were poking around for your secrets, those women discovered how
you feel."

"Nothing.  They saw nothing of importance."

"Those women saw how you really feel.  Tsk, you must have
been mortified."

"Mortified?"

"Feeling, that most degrading fact of life.  The ultimate
X-File because feelings can't be touched, quantified, or
controlled.  Not really and not forever.  You're afraid they saw
how much you feel for me.  Afraid someone will know you love me.
That would make you a clichÈ, wouldn't it?  In love with your partner."

"I don't believe this."

"Come on, you're eatin' this up."

"You better eat this up," said the guard.  Her creased
pants bent a little to look into Scully's eyes.  "Come on.  Snap
outta this before the doctor hooks you up to a bag."

"I'll eat something later.  Thank you," Scully said.

The guard seemed reluctant to leave.  "Okay then."

The cell door shut with a hollow clang, the bolt slammed
into the lock, and she looked for Mulder against the wall.

"Okay, then. Think about it, Scully.  Another example of a
lifetime habit: taking older, more mature lovers whose body you
accept because you don't really trust yourself and you want to
follow someone else's lead.  You don't think you are fast enough,
smart enough, good enough!"

"You are out of line."

"Poor Tom, Jack, Daniel Waterson-"

"Mulder, I never said -"

"No, you never say anything, do you?"

"How do you know Daniel Waterson? I've never mentioned
him."

"I trust you to go it alone. I think you're fast enough, smart enough,
good enough.  I just don't think you should have to.  Why would you
want to, Scully?"

"Mulder," she whispered into the shadows.  "Are you here?  Now?"

The shadows turned black.  Her dinner sat untouched on a tray near the
door.  Shaking her head as if to clear it, Scully pulled herself onto
the bunk, exhausted.  "Mulder," she mumbled as she closed her eyes.

(Headers and disclaimer on Chapter One)

Prison of Innocents (12 of 20)

This isn't right, Scully.  Mulder's lips moved, but no sound
came out. He nodded out the front car windshield in the direction
of Henry Donaldson - at least it looked somewhat like Henry Donaldson
- in the street in front of him.  What's wrong with this picture,
Scully?

Mulder had been thinking about the various permutations of
mind-melding that he'd discovered and, like pieces of a round
puzzle, tried pounding them into the square peg of Scully's
situation.  He wondered exactly where Donaldson fit.  Mulder knew
he was a big fat piece. A piece Scully might see if she were here.

"My head is going to explode," Mulder said aloud, knowing
he would never talk this way if Scully were really with him.

What did power, instinct, intuition and Scully -
especially Scully - have to do with the ability to become
absorbed into another human's mind? He could sense her
next to him, hear her exasperated sigh at his flights into the
absurd.

He had been spending a lot of time reviewing his life with Scully-
particularly the time since he returned from survival training. He'd
begun to remember things she said -- at the time he thought her words
angry misjudgments brought on by what they had thought were drugs.
Things like: "...surely this isn't some scheme concocted to prove a
point about ghosts or goblins" and "the end result might be positive
for the X-Files.." The words had seemed out of context and vastly
out of character then.  Mulder wondered if they were statements from
her subconscious and as such more true than either of them realized.

The coffee in his hand sloshed over and burned his fingers.  He
hated this; he depended on her.  Not just to figure out parts of
the equation he couldn't see, but to make sure he didn't kill
himself.  For example, Scully would never let him drink the muddy
brew in his hand.  "That's lethal," she would say.  He expected
her to reach for the cup, grimace, and say --

"So don't drink it.  I'll take it if you don't want it."

Frohike slid into the passenger seat beside Mulder.  Langly had
just relieved him.

The Gunmen were certainly right about Henry Donaldson's
sexual preference.  It was all over the planet.  What was he doing
with a dog!  Mulder watched Donaldson, now dressed as a
transvestite, prance out of a pet store like the poodle
on the end of the leash.  He had been following Donaldson for
about a week, spelled by the Gunmen.  No one had slept much and
Mulder had a cut over his eye from a pimp who took exception to
"his lady" being tailed.

"Who are these pet store owners?" said Mulder.

"I thought you knew," said Frohike, blowing across the coffee lid.

"I checked them out. Nothing to connect them to Donaldson. The man
is retired Army -- that's the only possible connection." Mulder said.
"They're nice next door neighbor types."

"Donaldson wasn't well liked in the Army first place," Frohike offered.
He'd just burnt his tongue. "Army people don't usually like queens in
drag in the second place."

"Whose next door neighbors are they,"  the Scully in his head asked.
"They act as though they're taking care of Donaldson in drag."

"Anybody owe you a favor," said Frohike.    "He's too cautious.  We
need reinforcements."

"Maybe we can cut back on surveillance," Mulder said.  His
eyes burned.  His musings about Scully had given him a headache.
And an itch he could not scratch with Frohike in the car.

"Hate to do that.  Got the makings of a best-seller here,"
Frohike muttered.

Mulder forced himself to study the picture of the
Assistant Attorney General Henry J. Donaldson strutting his
stuff on the street in a tight sheath dress and heels, dragging
a yipping white poodle.  Goes to show you never know about some
people, he thought.  Three hours ago this man was a dignified,
self-assured attorney presenting a complex case to an appellate
court.   Mulder shook his head.  This guy - madam, he/she - has
two or three sides to him.

And that was it.  Mulder sat straight up, spilling
coffee down his shirt.  "How many women does Donaldson
know? I mean, in his life.  How many in his life!"

"Including clerks - dozens," the Scully in his head said. "We
can't check them all.  Besides, even if we could how will we
decide which one knows his alter ego?"

"What about his past?"

"What about his wife?" Scully said. "At the risk of repeating myself,
who are these pet store owners?"

"We need reinforcements," Mulder said.

Frohike threw up one hand.  "Didn't I just say that?"
*************
The two weeks in isolation cleared Scully's head just as
Mulder suggested.  First she hadn't been able to remember much.
Then, the day before a guard came to escort her to the main cell
block she admitted to herself she remembered too much.

Her mind filled with images of Mulder in hot flashes of lust that
became nearly orgasmic at times.  She seemed to recall with vivid
clarity every time he touched her.  Recalling that kiss at the
airport roused such waves of heat in her that she could only breathe
in short, shallow pants.  Mulder was extremely fortunate she was
behind locked bars.  She took a deep breath and expelled it, then had
the decency to blush.  Zelda would probably be able to guess why
her cellmate's cheeks looked so rosy after two weeks confinement.

To Scully's dismay, Zelda greeted her return to the cell
with cool civility.  She rebuffed or deflected attempts at all
but superficial conversation and left for the recreation area at
the first opportunity.   Scully opened her locker and immediately
missed the picture of Zelda's son Scott that she had placed
there.  Zelda's message couldn't have been clearer. Scully pawed
through Zelda's belongings, causing her collection of special sale
postcards to scatter across the cell floor.  Scully picked them up
and studied them a moment.  What a strange thing for Zelda to collect.
Zelda never said anything about them when Scully read them aloud.

And Bernice!  With a pop Scully recalled hearing Bernice say she
received one too.  Scully hurriedly put the cards in a neat stack on
Zelda's shelf.

Task complete, she continued searching for the photo and
found it in the first place she should have looked: Zelda's favorite
"National Geographic" magazine.  Her heart plummeted.  She pressed
the magazine against her chest and crawled into her bunk.  She
sat with her back against the wall, her legs drawn up.

What had changed, she wondered.  After two weeks in
isolation she was - as she had always been, really - still
isolated.   Even after mulling it over for 14 days Scully had not
a single explanation about why she was here or how to
escape.  She was no longer befuddled or confused.  Just scared and
painfully aware that she could not meet the most minimal expectations
of anyone.  She was tired of carrying it all herself. Who would she
allow to help: Mulder, Zelda, her mother?  God?

Memories kept popping back to Scully like the burst of firecrackers.
Like the lustful ones of Mulder she almost wished she couldn't
remember.  She didn't want to recall the look of disappointment on
Zelda's face in the lunchroom.  The violence she'd committed that day -
the level of murderous rage she was able to sustain - overwhelmed her.
She felt disgraced.  She wanted to tell herself that in her right
mind she could not, would never, do those things.  The ghost of
Donnie Pfaster mocked her denial.

Perhaps this prison was her penance for murder.

Perhaps this prison was her penance for allowing the viciousness of
the acts she witnessed to find a place within her.

Perhaps this prison was the penalty for not acknowledging what was
before
her all along.

She should have known she could not deny impact of the
things she'd seen and heard merely by choosing to pretend they
didn't bother her.  She should have realized that keeping the
worst of it locked inside would eventually wear down her
humanity like droplets of water smoothed away mountains.  No
one notices and one day there is a valley instead of a hill.  She
had not noticed - or cared.  Perhaps Mulder saw but he shielded
her, keeping her from seeing the worst she had become.  He called
out the best in her and reflected it back to her because he
loved her.

"Ahh."  Shock made her suck in air.  She didn't question
it, nor for once, did she turn away from what she saw through
open eyes.  "Mulder, I'm sorry."  Her knees slid down and she
stared at the wall.

She saw the corners of his mouth pull back,the lines in his face
crinkle, and his shrug.  "You don't owe me, Scully."

"Not owe," she said, stroking his face.  His cheek felt
warm and faintly moist as though he'd been crying.  "Not an
obligation."

"A pleasure?" Mulder suggested.

"Yes!" she said.  "A gift and a pleasure.  I'm not afraid of
you."

"Not even a little?" She felt his kiss in her palm, on the
throbbing vein under her wrist.

She grinned.  "Perhaps I'm afraid of what I am without you."

"A little fear is a healthy thing," he said.

"Can you forgive me?"

"Not my forgiveness you need," Mulder said.

"Dana?"

"I'm not convinced there is a Higher Power, Scully, but if
there is, I'm fairly sure you're not it," Mulder chuckled.
"Shouldn't you leave the God thing to God?"

"Yeah," Scully said with a smile.  She tucked her hair
behind her ear.  "Perhaps I will give it up." She heaved a great
sigh of relief and released herself at last from the shackles of
guilt and fear.

Now she must find the courage to return to full freedom,
to Zelda's I AM and accept the forgiveness offered there, the
final release she craved.

She was not -- had never been -- alone.

As Zelda had said.

"Dana!"

"My God!" she breathed, knowing it was true, all of it.
The imagination and intuition she owned was the source of power.
Zelda had told her that truth from the first.  How that power was
generated wasn't as important as how it was used.  Once she
accepted that the rest was all so simple.

Zelda's face swam into focus.

And regarded her with mild curiosity.  Scully couldn't seem
to catch a good breath.

"Dana," Zelda said, "uh, I was wondering -- can I have
that magazine, please?"

"Would you like me to read?"  Scully said at last.

"Thank you, no."

Scully scooted off the bunk, noting that Zelda backed away
from her a step or two as she did so.  "Let's see.  We haven't
been to Nepal."  Scully held up the magazine and Scott's picture
fluttered to the floor.  The two women stared at each other.
Scully dropped her eyes and after a second's hesitation picked
up the photo.

Zelda took the picture from her hand.  "I'm sorry," she
said.  "It-it isn't your fault.  You aren't who I thought, that's
all."

"I'm not who I thought either," Scully said.  "But I will be."

Zelda said nothing, but cocked her head and the hint of a
smile stole across her lips.

"Can you help?"

Zelda shook her head.

"Can't? Or won't?"

"Can't." Zelda put her hands on the magazine.  "You are not alone.
You have to believe that."

"I do, actually.  For the first time." Scully surrendered
the magazine.  She went to the sink and patted cold water on her hot
face. When she finished, Zelda had disappeared.

Tears coursed down Scully's cheeks, unbidden and unnoticed
until they dropped onto her shirt along with the water she had
not bothered to dry from her face.  She wiped them away with the
heels of her hands and splashed more water on her face.
She suddenly needed people close.  And noise.

She couldn't recall ever feeling it so strongly.  Instead
of being content to listen from a distance, she wanted voices
nearby talking to each other, to her and laughter - lots of
laughter.  Content with solitary pursuits most of her life, she
became frantic to see people playing games, watching television,
dancing to music on the radio as some inmates did.  She longed to
have the pounding drums from the music in the rec room
reverberate in her chest instead of the solitary beating of her
heart.

She tucked a book under her arm as a prop and went into
the recreation room.  Still, when she walked through the open
door of the recreation area she almost lost her nerve.
*******************************
Conversation stopped.

The only sound came from the booming bass of a song four
or five of the inmates had on the radio.  Overhead the television
played a soap opera.  Scully searched for Zelda and found her
lounging in a chair watching "Days of Our Lives".

Silence became a violin string quivering for a bow to strike it.
Scully swept the room slowly and all the women became
engrossed in whatever they had been doing.  Gradually the noise
level picked up.  In one corner of the area an argument broke
out.  The dancers turned up the volume.  Scully's relief was
almost tangible.  She walked to a chair with a decent reading light.

As she made her way across the rec room it occurred to
her that she had inadvertently headed for Bernice's chair again,
for the green chair where Bernice sat every day to settle
disputes between inmates, dispense advice, box ears, and dole
out special privileges or cigarettes.

Now the empty chair drew her like a dangerous but forbidden treat.
Scully wondered if Bernice was in the recreation room yet.  She
didn't dare look around and it was too late to take another chair.
After a moment's hesitation Scully sat down, cleared her throat and
opened the book.  Her heart pounded.

She hoped this breech of protocol would not spark another incident.
She had seen that the woman could not only be verbally cruel, but
physically abusive with her so-called family.  Whatever happened,
Scully vowed
she would not permit herself to respond in kind.  She could not --or
the person she believed herself to be might disappear forever.

She discovered she could read a few more words.  Not that
it mattered.  She was only waiting, moving her finger under
sentences for effect, listening to the sounds around her, and
praying Bernice and her cellmate would let this go by.  Over the
top of her book she saw two pairs of feet, one planted firmly
and the other shifting.

"Mama, Laquintia stole my comb and brush right outta my
locker.  My aunt sent me that new comb and brush last week," said
one of the women.  Scully recognized the speaker, a convicted
forger who whined all the time.

"Nahuh, na.  That ain't so! I found it in the bathrooms,"
Laquintia said.

Scully glanced up to make certain they were talking to
her.  Then she held out her hand.

Reluctantly the aggrieved party delivered the brush and
comb.  Scully studied them a moment.  "Laquintia stole this.  Looks
like darker hair over lighter." She handed the set back to its
owner.  "Go wash both these things immediately.  Lock up your
locker from now on.  There are thieves about.   Laquintia.." she
nodded at the tall, frightened woman in front of her, "didn't we
go through this same thing a few weeks ago?"

Laquintia's eyes grew wide and she cringed, clearly
expecting to be struck.  "Na, please, I-I don't never get--"

"Sit here.  On the floor.  Beside me.  Every time you come in
here come right to this spot and sit.  That way I can keep an eye
on you," Scully said.  She didn't bother to see if Laquintia
obeyed.  It had suddenly dawned on her that no matter what else
the women in the room appeared to be doing, everyone's attention
focused on her.  She cleared her throat again, adjusted her book,
and bent her head into the pages.  A half second later Laquintia
sat down.

"Can you read," Scully said without looking up.

"Mostly."

Scully handed her the book.  "Good.  Read to me.  My eyes hurt."

Laquintia found the place Scully pointed to.  In a moment
she said, "This thing? I gotta read this - I don't know half
these words!"

"What you don't know, spell them to me," Scully said.  She
folded her arms across her chest, leaned back in the chair and
closed her eyes.  She could barely feel her toes -
the blood that had rushed to her head must have come from her
feet.

And maybe this was what she was sent here to do.

Redemption.  An ancient word for the timeless, elusive reality that
followed repentance.  Scully felt the waters of salvation rush in, tiny
rivulets of cold sweat down her neck and back, in her palms, on
her forehead.

Scully searched for Bernice and located her sulking with
Angela in the corner of the large room.  Her brown eyes filled
with resentment.  When she realized Scully sought her, she turned
away.  The hostility remained in the slant of her shoulders and
arch of her neck.

Laquintia stumbled over another word and tapped Scully's
arm.  "Spell it," she said, then repeated the word until Laquintia
pronounced it correctly.  Laquinta faltered again and this time
Scully not only pronounced it, but also explained what she could
remember about the hypothalamus.  Not much, actually.  The young
inmate tripped along and groped for words for an hour before
Scully, patience exhausted, called a halt for the day.

"I gotta do this tomorrow, Mama?" asked her sullen prisoner.

"Scully.  My name is Scully.  I'm the mediator - temporarily.
But yes.  You must do this tomorrow and the day after and the
day after that.  Perhaps you'll become proficient."

"You think that's right what it say in here about the
hyper-something making us mean or nice?"

"To a large extent the hypothalamus determines our moods.
We govern our own behaviors," Scully said.  "That's one of the
things that makes us different from animals.  We are supposed to
control our emotions."

Laquintia laid the book in Scully's lap.  "That don't sound
right to me.  Feelin's is feelin's.  You can't help that."

"You can govern what you do with them," Scully said.

"I don't think that's good.  You gotta let 'em out
sometimes," Laquintia mumbled.

"Some of them," Scully said.

"Yeah, uh-huh." There was doubt mixed with a little sarcasm. Scully
realized she was being challenged to account.

Scully tapped the spine of the book against her palm
thoughtfully, then rose and walked across the rec room.  A couple
of the dancers tried to coax her into joining them.  Two of the
women engrossed in cards invited her to play.  One made her
laugh.  A short skinny woman asked her advice about her husband.
A few women looking through some magazines glanced at her and
smiled.

When it became clear where she was headed, the room stilled.
Bernice started out of room.

"Wait."

Bernice stopped but Scully had to speak to her back.  "I
apologize for striking you.  That was unconscionable," Scully
said.  She watched the book tap against her hand for an instant
then looked up.  "I have no excuse for my behavior, but I want to
assure you it won't happen again."

The room became quiet as an empty church.  Below, the
noise of other recreation areas, shouts of other prisoners on
other floors, and the clanging of metal doors punctuated the
silence.

Bernice turned and studied Scully for a moment.  One side
of her mouth began to curl and her hands balled in fists.
Scully dropped her arms, but her shoulders and her gaze
remained steady.  Open.  Vulnerable.  Unafraid.

A cruel smile crawled over Bernice's face; her eyes hardened.
"I had me a fine lover - like yours.  Took me a while to
realize I had no friends, hardly anyone I spoke to at the office.
Who would understand?  He wuz my only friend.  He beat me 'til
I wuz too scared to do anything but what he wanted.  Made a big
impression." She stood back, glanced at the surveillance camera, then
focused on Scully. "Yur man don't beat you.   Not with his fist. So
how cum you mind him...be so scared you don't please him?"

Scully's lips parted -- but it was the only indication Bernice's
words meant anything to her.

"He don't think of you now," Bernice said flatly.

Deep in Scully, the barb hit.

"You know why men rule women in society?" Bernice's voice
carried this time.  "They are willing to be violent.  Women have never
been, yet we are capable of more violence than men.  We gotta
stop being afraid of our potential, and exercise it wisely."

Bernice leaned into Scully's face, her voice a husky, hollow noise that
hissed through the rec room like a poisonous spray.  "Don't tell me
you don't know power.  You've killed -- my sister."

"What kind of power is it that eats away at you piece by piece," Scully
said.

Bernice snorted in disbelief.

"Reducing human interaction to violence changes us into less than we
were meant to be -- changes anyone into the basest of creatures,"
said Scully.

"Look what it did to you." Zelda stood behind Scully's
left shoulder.

"You taught her?" Bernice said.

"No."

Bernice turned her widening grin on Scully.  It was black
and ugly and her chuckle sounded like a threat.  "This be a
damn fool standin' here."

Scully didn't move.

Over Scully's head Bernice glimpsed the women in the rec
room.  Several gathered behind Scully.  None of them turned away
from Bernice's glower.  More women moved up.

"It stops here," Scully said.

The two women stared at each other.  The brown eyes that
had taken by force what Scully would never have given finally
blinked.

"Fuck off," Bernice said and strode out of the area.

Scully let the air ease out of her mouth.  The tension in
the room deflated the same way.  Then she tucked the book under
her arm and started back to the green chair - only this time one
of the dancers insisted she get in their circle.  When she
demurred, another took her hand and they drew her in.  Within a
few minutes the dancers collected a crowd, persuaded others to
join and even coerced Scully into trying some of the steps.  The
drums and bass guitar beat into her back, against her chest.  The
laughter and joking of the women around her lifted her.  Like the
others, she soon lost herself in the celebration, in the
circle.

>From across the room Zelda watched Scully's awkward
participation - and ducked her head to hide a smile.  She put the
tips of her fingers against the top of her forehead, and bowing
slightly from the waist toward the East, she recited a prayer
from the book her mother sent her years ago: "And here meets the
first circle which, from the beginning of time, O Lord, you did
ordain to nourish and sustain Your handmaidens.  From the power
of the first circle ripples flow out and join others.  And so
is the Your universe kept in harmony."

Scully discovered Zelda still flipping through pages of
"National Geographic".  When she went to the sink to rinse out
her mouth, she found Scott's picture jammed into a corner of the
mirror.  It was a start.

Scully slid into her bed and sat against the wall, spent and shaky.
She continued to sit there even after lights out, eyes open and her
spirit reaching for the One she thought had abandoned her at the
the prison gate -- if not miles before.

The morning bell startled Scully awake.  She had no idea
she even fallen asleep.  The arms she thrust into sleeves felt
heavy and awkward.  Zelda said no more than "Excuse me," when she
wanted to use the sink. This morning the inmates lined up to march to
breakfast and took a circuitous route to the cafeteria.  Repairs
to lights in the usual corridors gave each inmate another chance
to cross the bridge-way in front of the huge window that allowed
them to gaze at what lay beyond them.

"Sun's comin' up! Lookit!" shouted one inmate and a logjam
developed on the bridge as prisoners pressed to see what they
seldom had an opportunity to glimpse.  From somewhere in the line
behind Scully two inmates began to push and shove, swear and she
heard a distinct slap as inmates jockeyed for a way to see.

Scully stepped out of line and glared at the women.  She didn't
know them, but she stared at them and soon the bumping
and shoving stopped all down the line.  A prison officer hurried
up from the rear to restore order but there was nothing to do
when she arrived.

"Get back," she barked to Scully.

Scully obeyed at once.  The female officer sized up the orderly
group of prisoners and heaved a sigh of relief.  She paced the
bridge, going up and down the line of prisoners as they waited
for the congestion ahead of them to ease.  Finally the officer
stopped beside Scully, inclined her head to catch Scully's eye
and nod ever so slightly.

The sun burst over the hillside outside; Scully felt warmed.

By noon she was hot.  Extremely.  Her hands and face had
turned red from the steam coming out of the machine used to
press the blue prison shirts.  Once Scully saw a shirt with her
own prison number on the pocket come onto the machine and was
tempted to leave the press down until the shirt ignited.  It
might have except for Laquintia's intervention.

"You needs a drink, Li' Mama," she said through a plume of
steam.  "Me too."  They stood at the water fountain drinking deeply
until one of the guards meandered over and motioned for them to return
to work.

After lunch and group therapy sessions, those in the
laundry exchanged work details with those who had been mopping
floors throughout the prison.  So far Scully avoided being drawn
into the therapy discussions; she thought it pointless.  The young
counselor was condescending and the inmates responded by being
ridiculous.  What Mulder could do here, Scully often imagined.

Her group spent the last session discussing community responsibility.
Scully had rolled her eyes.  What did that therapist know of
community?  The only thing Scully could say for group sessions
was that the meeting room was comfortable and the posters on the
wall interesting. The only time it was at all worthwhile were the
times the group met with Dr. Otis.

Once, after group, Clare had asked Scully to stay behind. "What would
it take to get you to open up?"

"It's not you."  Scully said. "What I've seen has made me less willing
to try again.  What you've seen has only made you more determined."

"George - the director - calls it naivetÈ," Dr. Otis had said. "When
does naivetÈ become dangerous, Dr. Scully?"

She didn't know. Scully hadn't been naive in a long time.

Scully thought about naivete now. She hadn't been this exhausted in a
long time.  Mopping, sweeping, scrubbing walls was cooler work than
operating the laundry press, but altogether more physical effort
than Scully had expended in two weeks.  Assigned to the
cafeteria after her morning in the laundry, Scully watched the wet
mop head spread across gray linoleum when she dropped it out of
the bucket then expand or contract as she pushed or pulled with the
handle.  Ahead of her and behind her inmates performed the same
monotonous ritual for most of the afternoon.

She didn't believe she had the energy to eat, to
shower, or even sit in the rec room.  The others sensed her mood
and only Laquintia, sitting beside her , spoke.  She read
a few pages in the book Scully gave her, then gave up.  Scully
didn't prompt her to go on. Laquintia seemed content to sit.

Seeing the book closed, one of the inmates walked over as
though to talk with Scully.  Laquintia frowned and shook her head
as if to say, "not now." Undaunted the inmate
handed Scully a drink in a plastic bottle.

"I tell you what, you don't fatten up this prison gonna
get a bad rep," said the woman.  "You look like this is Dachau."
She didn't look as though she'd missed many meals.

Scully tried to smile, but it was too much trouble.

"Yeah, well - could you do something about these walls? Is
it not depressing as hell?" the obese woman said.

"I couldn't agree more," Scully said.  That sentence might
be her last; she didn't think she could move her lips again.

"Why can't we paint a picture, a mural, or somethin' if we
can't hang nothing."

"You know anyone who can paint a mural?" Scully asked, her
interest piqued.

"Maybe," said the woman.

"A mural of what?" Scully said.  "For argument sake."

"Woods, a forest.  Doesn't matter," the woman said.  "They
won't let us.  I asked."

"They won't permit it?" Scully sat up.

The woman shrugged.  "I'm heading a detail to paint this
whole area, starting day after tomorrow.  I asked if I could put
a mural on that wall and the sergeant said it has against the
rules to deface property.  He didn't look at my sketches.  How
does he know that's defacing?"

Scully held out her hand and wiggled her fingers.  The
woman put several sheets of paper in them.

"They're very nice," she said.  A few women gathered around.

Laquintia held them at arm's length, then grinned.  "Yeah,
they very nice."

"So how do we get these drawings on that wall," Scully
said.  "Ideas?"

"We could use the paint we got," said one woman.

"I used me some blue in the hall last month.  And yeller
last week.  We gots mor' colors somewhere," said another.

"Yep, I could mix colors.  Won't be great but-" the artist
said after some consideration.

"What about labor," said Scully.

"I'll help," said a woman lounging near the pinball
machine.  "I can draw a little.  So can Mary over there."

"Say we even get it up," said the artist.  "What's to keep
them from painting over it?"

"What do they want that we could give them in exchange for
the mural," Scully said.

"Peace and quiet," said one inmate.

"Work faster," said the artist with a grunt.

"Make 'em money," said Laquintia.  "So what we gonna do?"

"First we get it up, then we bargain," said the forger,
who, Scully noted, had dropped the whine for this occasion.

"Easier to beg forgiveness than ask permission?" said the artist.

"Something like that," Scully said and wondered if Mulder
would believe this if he heard it.

"What else," said Laquintia.  "Open up.  Let's hear what ya
thinkin'."

Half hour later Scully asked for a meeting with the
sergeant of the watch and requested several women from her pod
be transferred to the rec room paint detail.  To her dismay it
was Sgt. Anderson, one of the guards who had wrestled her from the
cafeteria.  He was hostile and reluctant to entertain any request
from her, pod leader or not.

Scully decided to take a different tact other than the
straight-forward appeal she'd planned.  Instead, she explained
that all the women on the list had experience painting and thus
could work faster.  And she told him the workers had run out of
paint, submitting a list of the paints required for trim, walls,
and ceiling.

The guard snatched the list from her hand and scrawled his
initials on it.  "Pod leader," he said with disdain.

(headers and Disclaimers in Chapter One)
Chapter 13 of 20

Scully lay atop her sheet and blanket that night too hot
and too tired to sleep.  An unexplained restlessness filled her.
She had sense of growing urgency about this prison, Mulder, her
real life.  If she could just talk with him, Scully felt sure she
would understand more.

Perhaps his pieces of this puzzle would fit hers.
There, as in everything else, they fit together.  The
hard experiences and their own abrasiveness had worn off their
points, rounded their edges until now they fit together.  Apart
from Mulder she felt adrift, imperfect, wounded - as though
large piece of flesh had been torn from her side.  Now she felt more
like herself.

A Dana Scully she recognized, but who had changed.

She didn't think all the change in her was healthy.  Worst of
all, she couldn't define for herself the nature of her
alteration.  Certainly she had never been one to use loopholes
to achieve her goals or test the patience of authority.  She
believed in rules, regulations, the letter of the law.

She would ask Mulder: How had she changed?  He would see, although it
would displease her to hear him tick it off for her.  Bereft
of the counsel she'd come to rely on, she opened herself to the
Infinite, praying as she had not been able to do since she was a
child.  Not even Mulder's grave illness, which altered her
perceptions of reality, or her own had pushed her into the lap
of God as this awareness of the changes in herself.  Her prayer
was simple, really: "Don't let me go."

When she blinked, she was still mortal.  Still human.  With
a human yearning so potent it surprised her.

She closed her eyes but they popped open.  Mulder's face
projected against the bedsprings above.  Compelling, bold images
of Mulder, of being with him, on him, next to him pounded into
her.  She grabbed the mattress with both hands, saliva pouring
into her mouth.

"Dana."

Scully stiffened.

Zelda slid off the top bunk and leaned on it to stare down
at Scully.  Finally she nodded to the opposite wall.  "Let's sit
over there," she said.  She pushed herself away from the bed,
stretched, yawned, then plopped a folded blanket against the
wall.

After a moment Scully followed.

"I didn't want to interrupt your prayers - I AM has missed
you." Zelda hugged her knees.  She waited until Scully took a
similar pose beside her.

"I owe you an apology, " she said.  "I said when you
were empty enough I would fill you.  That was arrogant and
foolish of me.  Only two of my many sins.  You must fill yourself
with -- but you know that.  I can give you a little relief from
what you're fighting now.  It's the least I can do.  Tomorrow, I
swear.  Tomorrow I will teach you what you need to know - to
defend yourself, to do what you must."

Zelda offered her hand. Scully grasped it and they linked fingers for
a moment.  "I'm sorry, Dana. I was so busy wrestling my own demons I
didn't take time to help you with yours.  You almost slipped away.
I made that mistake with Ann and lost her."

"Ann Millard." The name fell out of Scully's mouth.

"Your friend from the academy," Zelda said.  She gave
Scully a gentle poke in the ribs and a big grin.  "See, I've
known you from the first."

Scully licked her lips.  Ann had been undercover here.  With Zelda.

"Let's do this."

"Do?"

"Imagination - even a powerful one - can only take you so
far.  It is the spark.  Then you have to trust your own intuition.
But - that's for tomorrow.  Tonight let's go to Mulder before you burn
up," Zelda said and made her eyebrows go up and down in a suggestive
leer.

"No, I don't want to-to invade him."

"You'll know everything you want to know."

"I know everything I need to," she said.

Zelda slapped her knees.  "I was wondering when you'd get
around to that."

"He's too strong, anyway."

"You could do it.  Bernice did.  Did it to you too."

Scully rolled her head and fixed her eyes on a place where
the ceiling met the wall.  "She saw in him what was within her
experience to see.  In me she saw the fear and guilt that was
hers too."

"You could do it, Dana.  He would allow it.  Still, a man as
intuitive -- and needy -- as your partner, there could be
another problem."

Scully already suspected what it might be.  Panic
clawed at her.  For a moment they both listened to the noise of
the prison bedding down for the night.

"I killed Michael," Zelda said.  "My husband.  The crime for
which I was convicted."  Scully said nothing, so she went on: "I
loved him to distraction."  Her laugh held no mirth.  "That's a
real good way to put it.  Distraction.  He distracted me from what
I knew to be true.  He still comes to me sometimes.  Laughing,
calling to me, touching me in ways that make me soar.  Singing -
he has a terrific voice.  We go to Brazil, Arizona, India."

She paused, then licked her upper lip and said, "Strange
that I never feared I would disappear in him."

"Disappear?"

"Millions of women do. Subvert who they are and what they want for
the sake of a man who can't wait to take it." Zelda looked at Scully
and Scully squirmed. "To become nothing - to know, feel, and see
nothing in and of yourself."

"Yes!"

"You can look inside a man and become one in ways beyond the
physical.  But I always chose, as you do, not to violate
Michael's trust and test the patience of Allah.  Maybe if I had,
I would have recognized Michael's weakness."

"Or maybe you would have become lost in him forever."

"Or that.  A real possibility as things turned out, as
easily as he could manipulate me." Zelda took a long breath
before she began again.  "He wanted to fly, you know, as I do --
as you will.  This is not what I AM has given to men.  I knew
that!  God chose to bless men with other gifts." Zelda's head
dropped to her chest.

"What... other gift?"

Zelda popped up in surprise.  "Why - us.  The gift of women."

Scully laughed - it burst out of her in a gloriously clear
gush -- and Zelda punched her in the ribs playfully.  They
giggled together, before falling into comfortable silence.

"But, in the end, you taught him."

Zelda regarded her from beneath her eyelashes.  "I'm no
angel."

"I didn't mean -"

"Because I loved him.  I taught him.  He was slow at first.
Then, it was -- incredible.  Amazing.
Liberating.  Until the day he never came back.  I thought he was
right behind me.  I waited.  I went after him, back into the
mountains and the mountain guide shown in the "National
Geographic" picture.  I sat by his body for hours - days -- and
waited."

"The authorities thought you killed him."

"They were right," she said.  "I lost Michael, our son, my
freedom - for a time I even lost Abba.  Big thing to misplace,
huh?  Because I didn't love Michael enough.  When it mattered --
when I knew it mattered -- I didn't love him enough."

She leaned her head against the wall.  "Maybe I was meant to
serve only as a bad example." She grinned and tilted her head
towards Scully with a deep groan.  "I'm tired.  I'm ready for this
to end.  I want Scott to be safe and have someone to love him.
You're tired.  Your doubts press on you and your need is getting to be
a  physical pain - for both of us.  Sleeping above you is like
bedding down on a stove."

"It's, ah, the estrogen rush that follows each episode.
This one is lasting, um, a long time." Smiling, Scully lowered
her head and studied her fingers.

"Yeah, well, I understand that.  Just follow my lead as
before -- and try, I mean try hard -- not to get carried away
this time."

Zelda scooted around on her bottom to get in front of Scully.

"Is it difficult to learn this - mind manipulation?"
Scully asked.  She tucked her hair behind her ears out of the
way.

"Oh, no," Zelda said cheerfully.  "Not difficult to learn.
But very easy to forget."

Scully continued to stare at her hands.

Zelda said, "You want to see him, don't you?"

Scully's eyes shone in the security lights from the
hallway.  "Yes.  But I want to talk with him more."
******************
Mulder swore he wouldn't do this again, but here he was
concentrating on the pencil stuck in the ceiling tile over his
head.  He knew it was going to fall.  He willed it to fall.  He
waited for it to fall.  He held out his hand in anticipation as
he stared.  It landed on his head the minute the janitor slammed
the office door.

"Mulder?"

His feet came off the desk and hit the floor.  He grabbed
the pencil and put it behind his ear with an air of nonchalance.
"Still working.  You can't clean in here yet, Amman."

The young janitor began dusting shelves in the office.

"I'm going soon." Mulder tried to find the pencil on his
desk.

Amman pointed behind his own ear.

"Yeah, uh, thanks." Mulder jerked the pencil down, started
to flip open his yellow legal pad of notes when it struck him
that Amman, the Lebanese janitor charged with cleaning the FBI
offices for the last year, had called him Mulder.  He gave Amman
closer scrutiny.  Amman looked as he always had.  Tall, muscular,
dark, clear-eyed and sober.  "Can you come back later?"

"Okey-dokey," Amman said.  He continued dusting and picked
up the trashcan on the opposite side of the room.

Mulder looked at the papers on his desk again.  Zelda
Deschamps, serving 25-to-life for the 1996 murder of her
husband, magna cum laude, scholarships, awards, master's degree
then doctoral, yes,yes, yes.  Mulder read on through her
psychological profile - which he noted could easily have been
his - the basic facts of her life: raised in a foster home after
her grandmother died; dad died young and military mom killed in
Vietnam; Worked with Greenpeace from 1985; jumped ship in Asia
when the Japanese threatened to board the Greenpeace boat; no
record until 1990.  Something in this file should speak to him.

Something about Zelda Deschamps was worth putting Scully into a
prison cell with her.  It was right there - Mulder just couldn't
see it.

He shoved that file aside and pulled down the pages with
Henry Donaldson's profile on it.  Something here might correlate.
Maybe he should go through it line by line.  Something metal
clanged.  His head jerked up and Amman, still holding the trash
can, smiled sheepishly.

Mulder stood up to gather the files together so he could
go home -- then stopped.  The last file Dr. Otis left him was
Scully's.  Her photograph was stapled to inside folder cover.  He
stared at it for a long time, rubbing his thumb over the bottom.

Without realizing what he did, Mulder sat down again, his eyes
blurry but focused on the grainy black and white image of his
partner.  The edges of the photo ran together.

He became aware that Amman stood right behind him.  The
young man moved his hands just above both Mulder's shoulders,
then down his arms.  Momentarily paralyzed by shock, Mulder
watched Amman put a hand on Mulder's chest.  He could smell
onions from janitor's dinner.  His breath tickled Mulder's ear.

Mulder sprang to his feet, flustered.  "Ah, look, Amman,
you have the wrong idea here."

Amman appeared eager, expectant.  He took the pencil from
Mulder's desk, underlined something and looked up to see if
Mulder understood.

He did not.

"I'm not-- you can't...I mean, I don't need your phone
number.  Look, ah, can-can you just go.  Go." To his horror it
appeared Amman might cry.  "No offense, I'm just not-interested.
Really.  Flattered though - " He pointed repeatedly to the photo
of Scully.  "Not interested, okay? Understand?"

"Okey-dokey," Amman muttered.  He picked up the waste can
by Mulder's desk and closed the door behind him.

Mulder collapsed into the chair, released the breath he'd
been holding into his cheeks and grinned.  Scully would laugh at
him - maybe he'd never tell her. "Mulder." He had never heard Amman
say anything but okey-dokey.

Mulder always presumed he couldn't speak English.  He looked
at the marks Amman made on the files, then leapt out of the chair,
flung open the door, and ran into the hall. Following a noise,
he found the young janitor retching in the restroom.

"Sculleee!" Mulder shouted to the ceiling, the walls, the
door.  "Scullee!"

Amman looked at Mulder as though he were insane.  Which, Mulder
thought later, he might be.

**************

The conspirators stood outside the freshly painted rec
room and nodded to each other like players in a World War II spy
movie.  Using requisitioned paint, colors had been mixed and
secreted around the rec room in small buckets collected from
various work sites.  The team of painters took positions along
the wall and the women who would run interference congregated at
the entrances of the rec room.  The surveillance camera made a
sweep and the preliminary work began on the wall.

The guard monitoring the surveillance cameras served by
the rec area cameras made a habit of concentrating on the women
and their movements, not the scene behind them.  So he noticed
nothing amiss for about half an hour.  Then he sat up.  The second
pass confirmed it.  He grabbed up the microphone and notified the
third tier guards that prisoners had painted flowers and trees
on the wall of the rec room.

So many prisoners clogged the entrances and were so slow
in moving out of the way, the sergeant and the duty officer had
to shout orders to clear a path.  The two guards searched the
women's expressions, demeanors and noted nothing but amusement.

One at a time they obeyed each order to back away.  They seemed
respectful - even happy.  Sgt. Anderson glanced back at the
officer with him in bewilderment.

When the last woman stepped aside the guards discovered a
half completed mural of a woodland scene on the wall.  Colorful.
Bright.  The artists, brushes dripping, continued their fevered
work until the sergeant yelled for them to stop and back off.

"Is there a problem?" said Scully.

"What the hell is this?" The sergeant's face colored red.

"This has to come down.  Get some paint over that."

"Actually, sergeant, the paints and colors are from the
approved list published by the prison," Scully said.  "The
requisition list, signed by you, and the work detail names, also
signed by you, are in order."

"It's against regulations," the sergeant said into Scully's face.

Scully folded her arms and shifted her weight to one foot.
The other foot rocked back and forth on her heel.  "Nothing in
the regulations or specifications prohibits this.  The
regulations only state the paint and colors must be come from
prison stock and approved by staff."

"It comes off."

"Are you saying you would rather cost the prison at least
$500 in paint and labor than permit this mural to remain? I
think these women have a great deal of talent, don't you,
sergeant?"

The sergeant gave it some thought.  He looked over the
mural, walked up to it, and stood for a moment, tension playing
up and down his neck.

"Let's go," he muttered to the duty officer and they began
to leave the rec area.  The women let them pass unimpeded and
began to cheer until the sergeant whirled around to Scully.  "Pod
leader," he spat out.  "What's needed here is some-some
discipline..and responsibility.  Not flowers and trees."

"It requires a great deal of discipline and creativity to
achieve objectives within the limits of rules and regulations,"
Scully said.  "As all civilized people will attest."

"And you would know all about that, wouldn't you Special
Agent Scully."

She said nothing and she didn't flinch.
***************
Scully stood outside the barred doors of the clinic
speaking through an intercom and camera to the guard sitting in
a master control room.  "I was told to report to the clinic for
work detail." She saw a mop and bucket just inside the infirmary
door and pretended not to care that it probably had her name or
rather, her number, on it.

"Turn.  Lemme see your number."

Scully shifted so the number on the top of her shirt
pocket became visible to the camera.  The man in the booth
checked it against the one he'd been given.  Seconds later he
buzzed Scully through the first door.  She waited until the door
closed and the second set of barred doors slid open.

A feeling of homecoming swept over her as she surveyed the
clinic: white sheets, charts, a computer, drug cabinets behind
unbreakable glass, trays of instruments locked in cases.  The smell of
antiseptic and alcohol.  Within her reach.

Dr. Otis beckoned to her.  "I'm glad to see you.  My feet
hurt and I want to visit my grandchildren." To Scully's surprise
Dr. Otis thrust a clipboard listing patients and their diagnosis
into Scully's face.  "Welcome to the clinic.  Don't disappoint me,
Dr. Scully."

"I'll do my best," she said, hardly daring to believe she
was free of the laundry, of the mop and pail.

Clare snorted.  "Don't thank me yet.  We get more patients
through here than the average emergency room - it's a mercy the
injuries and illnesses aren't usually as severe.  Five a.m.  sick
call through 8 p.m.  lights out.  An hour for lunch and another
for dinner in the mess - nothing if we're busy.  Two hours
afternoon break in the rec room when I can let you off.  I want
you up there too.  You'll be the physician on call, but a
guard will have to observe you anytime you're here without me.
Is that acceptable?"

"Yes."

Clare handed her a stethoscope and watched Scully finger
it affectionately.  Right then she decided it had been worth the
knock down, drag out battle with administration to allow Dana
Scully into the clinic.

The stethoscope triggered a memory for Scully.  Her mother.
The night she went to visit her mother.  It had seemed so real.
She could remember the feel of the metal and rubber of a
stethoscope.

She could remember her mother's heartbeat. Irregular compared to
the strong pounding of Mulder's heart under her hand, no, Amman's
hand.  Mulder had jumped away from her.  She shook her head.
When it happened she knew it was real. She and Zelda laughed about it.

Now? It had to be an illusion, a trick, a dream.

Except for a dig about not being about to control Scully
and teasing her about selecting a target that spoke little
English, Zelda had been ecstatic last night.  She had made a
discovery.  Scully had been only too glad to wait to hear it.  The
trip exhausted her.

But she did not feel sick, or angry.  And she woke up in her bunk
instead of curled up in the corner of the cell.

"Here's a lab coat - you'll have to roll the sleeves
until we can order a small.  These are all mine," said Dr. Otis.
Scully slipped her arm in the sleeve.  The starch and white
of it was like a caress.  She'd almost forgotten.

Her eyes flitted around the infirmary: the beds with pale
green blankets, the desk covered in medical magazines and charts,
the shiny rolling trays of cotton and bandages.  She noticed the little
things about each one.  Amazing how she missed the ordinary items
of life, the handy things most people take for granted: pencils
with sharp points, paper, paper clips, tape.

"Anything else you need?"

"Do you have anything to stick pictures on the wall?"

"Not tape." Clare thought a moment, wandered to the desk
and pulled out a sheet of gummy-stic.  It looked and felt like
thick yellow gum that had already been chewed.  The packet lay
next to Clare's set of keys to the drug and instrument cabinets.
"They won't let me use tape on the walls either.  I use this.
Take it."

Scully slipped it in the pocket of her jeans.  By tonight
inmates could put up their own pictures and posters in the rec
room.  After tonight the rec would belong to the women who used
it, not the institution that built it.

"Dr. Scully, you gotta put on some weight or you'll blow
away," Clare said.  "Are you ready? Your first patient is--"

"Ah -- Dr. Otis.  I was wondering if you... Have you had an
opportunity-"

"I saw him."

Scully's eyebrow arched and waited.

"I saw him, Dr. Scully."

Scully played with the stethoscope then looped it around
her neck.  Either Dr. Otis didn't see Mulder or he didn't trust
her enough to send word.  In either case she couldn't trust Clare
Otis.  That was the message Scully received.  "Where shall I
begin?"

Clare pointed to a curtain.  "There.  Stay away from the
instrument case, the drug cabinet and the computer.  If you need
something, I'll get it.  In the beginning you'll be supervised
closely, then -- we'll see."

Scully nodded and started off on her new duties.  At least,
she thought, she wasn't in the laundry anymore.

She was stronger, getting better every day.  She would find
a way to get to Mulder.  No matter what Zelda said, the very idea
of the mind meld did frighten her - the power of it was too
great for a human being to own.  She wasn't sure of the morality
of using someone else's body without permission and knew it was
ethically indefensible to leave them sick and defenseless.  She
wasn't sure she could or even wanted to fly.

Scully pulled back the first curtain and introduced herself to
the inmate there.  Judging from the apprehensive look, the woman
already knew her.
******************
Atty. Byron Waters couldn't remember feeling so nervous.
He'd received more complicated messages from more people than a
nuclear engineer working on a government rocket.  He'd adjusted
his glasses a dozen times since entering the conference room in
AtoZ prison.  What he'd been asked to do - what he was going to
do - would lead to his disbarment he felt certain.

While Byron Waters professed the radical faith, he rarely
practiced it. He rose from the table when the door opened and
his client stepped in.  Waters became livid; Dana Scully wore
handcuffs. Restraints to a meeting with her attorney while in a secured
facility.  He started to protest but she shook her head and he
contented himself for the moment with some loud huffing and puffing.

"I am an officer of the court. I understand you don't wish to make
an issue of the handcuffs, but I can't let that go by." Waters popped
open his briefcase.  "I feel more like a messenger than an attorney,"
he said.  "Before we say anything else, remember I have to
report anything illegal.  That's not privileged."

"I don't anticipate anything illegal emerging from our
conversations," she said.  "I don't suppose you have a cell phone?"

"Not permitted." Waters smiled his apology.  "Well, uh, I do have
some messages.  Byers and cohorts send their regards - Frohike said
something distinctly suggestive, which I will not repeat--"

Scully chuckled. "Nothing else? No letters?" She was disappointed and
somewhat alarmed.

"Agent Mulder asked me to show you this.  He said you'd understand."

She knew what it was even before he dangled her necklace
in front of her.  She held it across the ridge of her hand and
caressed the gold cross between two fingers.  "Thank you, Mr.
Waters," she said in a soft voice.  She couldn't take her eyes
away from it.

It glittered with so much promise.  She could tell
Mulder had been wearing it; heat - salty, sweaty Mulder heat -
warmed her fingers where she touched it.  Before she could stop
herself she pressed the cross against her cheek.  Chagrined now,
she licked her lips and handed it back.  Waters held it aloft for
a moment, then slipped the necklace back into a plain white
envelope.

She tried to fold her hands on top of the table, but it
was awkward in handcuffs.

"Why are they so afraid of you," Waters said.  "I've read
what they put in your record - they are all afraid."

"I think they were told to be," Scully said.  "I think
this-" She indicated the handcuffs.  "-is supposed to be more
than a security measure."

"What?"

Scully waved it off with a flick of one hand, a motion
that meant her other hand had to follow.  "Doesn't matter.  It
isn't effective anymore."

"Agent Mulder wanted me to ask if you remembered your
badge number?" She recited it.  "Your email access name and
code?" She nodded.  "He said to ask if you knew that your
cellmate's mother disappeared with a man named Donald-"

Scully stood up so fast her chair nearly fell backwards.
Startled, Waters jumped too.  "I'm going to take that as a
negative," he said.

"Did Mulder say anything else about Zelda?"

Waters shook his head and they slowly sat back down.
"Then tell him Zelda has a dark-haired son, a four-year-
old named Scott Deschamps.  He's living in Maryland with a foster
family named Turner. Tell him to tread lightly." She stopped.
"Tell him to tread very lightly.  Scott is extremely important to
Zelda. He is her life.  Make certain Mulder understands that."

"Zelda's son.  Tread lightly.  Very important.  Okay." Waters
thought about writing it down and actually took out his pen,
then thought better of it.

"Anything else?" She fingers massaged her forehead.  It was
aggravating not be able to speak to Mulder directly and openly.
She swore she would never take that privilege for granted again.
Her palms sweated and her heart raced.

"He has somehow persuaded FBI agents from Dallas, Denver,
Phoenix and Miami to join him in working to clear you.  He said
their efforts have sparked a renewed conviction in him that ugly
men do not make pretty women no matter how hard they try."
Waters said.  "I have no idea what he's talking about."

"Nor do I."

"Oh, and he did say to expect some action soon," Waters
said.  "He seems very anxious to get you out of here.  He was most
emphatic that I tell you he is - and I hope this does not refer
to a weapon - he is gearing up the Midnight Special," Waters
said.

"It's a song, Mr.  Waters.  It refers to freedom from prison," she
said.

"Which may be difficult.  And that brings me to the assault
charges."

"When do I go to Washington?"

"Next Tuesday.  For arraignment.  Nobody's in a rush about
this but Agent Mulder.  So let's go over some things.  I need to
explain this to you, get your signature on some papers, and
prepare a defense.  I don't have much time," Waters said.  Anxiety
burned in his belly.

"Mr. Waters, will you tell Agent Mulder - please tell him
I'm fine," she said.

Waters saw her face turn blood red and he wondered about the
truth in the message she asked him to deliver.

(Headers and Disclaimers in Chapter One)

Chapter 14 of 20

After two days in the infirmary Scully understood why Dr.
Otis said her feet were killing her.  Scully couldn't wait to
prop them up.

She returned to the cell, lay on the bunk and
elevated her feet.  In all the work of administering shots,
sutures, exams, weeding out malingers from those genuinely ill,
Scully hadn't the time to reflect on Water's visit or last
night's illusions.

Above her loud sigh of relief she heard snickering from
the door of the cell.  She raised her head to see Laquintia and a
friend standing outside.  Since inmates were not permitted to
visit in each other's cells, they only leaned against the bars
outside and peered in.

"Don't get up.  That such a nice picture," Laquintia said.

"You go to hell for lying," Scully said and swung her legs
off the bed.

"This fool can't read," Laquintia said.

The woman folded her arms in defiance.  "Can read a
little."

"Did you sign up for the adult literacy program here?"
Scully said.

"It full."

"It is full," Scully said.  "Well.  Have you always read 'a
little' or did you once know how to read a lot and have now
forgotten?"

"I ain't like you, Mama.  I never knowed."

Scully bit back a correction and instead said, "Laquintia,
if I can requisition books for you to use, you teach her.  You
read fairly well."

Laquintia grinned.  "If she ain't too dumb, Scully."

"Shut up!" the woman said.  She hung around a minute, then
wandered down the row to speak to another inmate.

"Bernice still ain't happy," said Laquintia.

"I'm sorry to hear it," Scully said.

"She say you won't give none of us our splits."

Scully leaned against the bars and arched her eyebrows.

"When Bernice and Zelda goes to do a job, we all gits a
cut.  We got families live off that.  Now you come and we wanna
know if we still gits to keep part of the money?"

"I don't know of any thing in the works," Scully said.

"Then how cum Bernice and Zelda got they cards already!"

"Nothing happens without me."

"Bernice say we got to all git ready to make sure you gets
yur beauty sleep."

"Bernice," said Scully with a touch of ice in her tone,
"controls nothing.  Not even herself."

Laquintia reiterated. "She ain't happy." Into Scully's disdain
she added, "Jest so's you know."

"Laquintia, how do you get your money?"

"I dunno. It come like magic in my mamma's bank."

"Electronic transfer?"

Laquintia shrugged.

"Would you please find Zelda for me?"  Scully's forehead wrinkled in
concentration.  She walked slowly on aching feet to the sink, found a
washcloth and rinsed it out.

As soon as Laquintia disappeared Scully picked up Zelda's cards
on the shelf by the sink and rifled through them.  The cards that
purported to be advertisements dealt in everything from art to
antiques to department store sales.  Tuesday was the 12th.
The last card offered an odd 12 to 23 percent off.  Obviously, the
robbery must  occur between the 12th and the 23rd.  One card was
antiques and art.  The card before was a stock of white linen
sale.  Another told them to bank on bargains at Virgil's
Department store.  And before that a starving artist's getaway in
Florida.

The names on the cards were strange-yet oddly familiar.  It would
come to her in a minute.  She replaced the cards in order knowing
there was something in them she had missed.

When Zelda came in, Scully said, "Beauty sleep?"

"Oh, yeah.  I was going to explain tonight," Zelda said.  "I
alluded to it earlier.  Rather important for us not to be
disturbed when we leave our physical bodies.  Moving them,
disturbing them too much could result in-"

"Not coming back," Scully said.  "How did you know I
wouldn't try to wake you one night when you were off seeing the
Bahamas or-or attending the Metropolitan Opera?"

"You were too confused - and since you don't get enough
yourself, you value sleep too much to disturb someone else."

"When the authorities found Michael's body, they moved it,
didn't they? That's why he couldn't find his way back."

"I begged them to leave him alone.  Now he's buried,
decayed -- lost."

"Except when he comes to you," Scully said.

"Except then." She hopped up on her bunk in one jump and
let her legs dangle off the edge.  "As long as we're telling
secrets, tell me how you plan to stop this."

"Stop what?"

"Our robbery of Lipscomb's Auction House.  We have our
window of time.  We have the drop-off site.  We'll get pictures of
the men involved in a few days in department store sales
catalogues, or something then - woo-wooo -- the ghosts strike again,"
Zelda
said.

"When were you planning to tell me?"

"When you couldn't stop it."

Scully scoffed.  "Why should I even try?"

"Because that's what you will think you have to do."

"No, no," Scully shook her head fiercely.  "I don't believe
that.  I don't have any memory of-of an undercover operation.  I
have no memory of a deal, a plan - nothing."

"People have lots of things buried in their minds.  Things
they can't deal with.  Things they're afraid of."

"I don't believe my purpose is to stop a robbery," Scully
said.

"I didn't say that's what you were sent to do.  I said
that's what you think you have to do."

Scully leaned against Zelda's bunk and chewed on her
knuckle.  "Why would I put myself in such a position? For a
robbery conviction? I can't imagine."

"And you have a vivid imagination," said Zelda.  "What do
you value?"

Scully still fumed.

"I do this because Bernice will have Scott murdered if I
don't.  I value his life above everything else."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Why? What can you do about it?" Zelda laughed.  "I only
meant for this to be a one-time deal." She ran her fingers
through her hair.  "I had what I wanted - Scott's college money.
The next time the card came... but Bernice didn't want to quit.
It was powerful for her.  She has friends, co-workers on the
outside-"

Scully sagged onto her bunk and Zelda said, "What do you value most?
Until you can answer that, you won't know why you're here."

"Is-is it Bernice?"

Zelda laughed.  "Oh no.  But she likes it.  It-it feeds her.
I took her with me that first time.  She'd been learning to fly.
She was quite capable.  It was a mistake.  A terrible, terrible
mistake.  She's very good and works at it all the time."

"But it changed her."

Zelda nodded.  "She's been trying to teach Angela and,
well, you saw for yourself how that's working out.  I think
Bernice's about to give up and--"

"Then who is it?"

"I don't know," Zelda's answer was tentative.

Scully looked askance.

"I don't.  Bernice and I get these postcards-"

"Even the first time with the-" Scully realized she had no
idea where it had all started.

"The insurance company in upstate New York.  It was so
simple, so easy.  I could even rationalize it.  Who likes the
blood-sucking insurance companies?" said Zelda.  "It hardly
bothered me at all.  The first sin led to all the others: the
theory of Original Sin demonstrated in modern, everyday life."

"A postcard?"

Zelda beamed.  "Right.  In code, of course." She leaned
over, took several off the shelf, and handed them to Scully.

This time Scully saw it immediately.  "Pig Latin!"

"The name of the target - and maybe some pertinent data
about the target -- is always in pig-Latin," Zelda said.  "Looks
like a misprint or, in some cases, just an odd name.  The ranges of
dates are the prices or sale discounts.  A child could see it - I
picked up on it the first time I saw one.  My mother and I used
to use pig-Latin at home when I was little when we didn't want
my grandmother to know something.  A game.  Something between us
two.  I thought we were so clever.  My mother's diary, her book,
the last thing she touched, inscribed to me, written in pig
Latin--our special language.  Her last present to me."

"You believe your mother is involved?"

"My mother is dead.  I just don't know how."

"Who would know about it, then?"

Zelda seemed to give the matter some thought.  "I don't
know.  And I have considered the question more than once.  I think
now it must be Henry Donaldson."

Scully took a few thoughtful steps then said, "You know
Henry Donaldson was with your mother when she died in Vietnam?"

"I discovered it last night.  With Mulder.  I might have
learned more from Donaldson's file if you hadn't had your mind -
and that boy's hands - on something else! Last night is a perfect
example of why mother said it was dangerous for two women to
occupy the mind of a one man."

Scully was no mood to be teased.  "You knew about Donaldson
and your mother before."

"I never knew his name.  The military never told me."

"Do you also know Henry Donaldson was instrumental in my
incarceration?"

Zelda shook her head. "But I knew he prosecuted Bernice. He
was on her case a long time."

"Donaldson," Scully said. "He must be
the accomplice who picks up the proceeds from the robberies."

"Not necessarily.  Once I was taking bonds to a drop-off
site outside a brokerage house and I saw someone in the shadows
there.  I didn't think it was a man.  Too small, short-"

"Another accomplice? A stranger? A homeless person?"

"Could have been anyone." Zelda shrugged.  "Just an
impression.  I was a little busy -and in some else's body.
Frankly, I was more concerned that the body I was visiting could
be in danger.  Can't stay outside a mortal body very long or -"

Scully knew or what.

"Turns out that person did me a favor - started screaming
and that warned me the police had arrived.  The police might have
shot me-the body, I mean.  Can't hover very long.  And you can't
at all, Dana.  Not for years."

"I just want to defend myself," Scully said.  "No more -- incidents."

"Well, you've got some exercises to toughen up.  In a pinch
you could fly - provided you could apply pressure points and he
was a, well, suitable host.  I wouldn't try anything - or anyone
- ambitious just yet," Zelda said.  "Practice, Dana, practice.  If
you want to come with us, practice."

Scully stopped pacing and closed her eyes.  "I-It's a terrible
responsibility."

"You're still afraid of it."

"A healthy fear," Scully said.  "Mingled with a degree of disbelief."

Finally Zelda said, "There's something I haven't told you.
Something I've known for a long time.  I should take a third on
this next trip."

Horrified Scully said, "Me?"

"Sure can't be Angela. We could do the job with two, but that would put
us -- and the men we've chosen to invade -- at risk. Bernice's solution
is to kill the third guard. I can't do that. Come with us, Dana."

"No." But she felt a tug, a pull on her to agree.
Intuition.  Aloud she said, "How is this going to help?"

Zelda shrugged.  Her legs swung back and forth on the bunk.

"About the split?"

"Oh yeah.  The families of the women in the pod - all 12 -
get some help from these robberies.  Besides the college fund,
Scott has a trust- so he won't be a financial burden to you."

Scully put her hands on Zelda's knees.  "I would never
consider your son a burden.  You have my promise.  I will keep him
safe until you come for him."

"You can't give your heart to him if you believe I'll come
and take him away," Zelda said.  "I won't come for him, Dana."

"Someday." Scully's hands gripped Zelda's knees.

"I said he was yours and that's what I meant.  You have
Yahweh's Hand on you.  I could see it when they brought you in.
On the day you know I've told you the truth, remember your
promise."

Scully began a thoughtful pacing of the cell.  Zelda
resumed swinging her legs back and forth and humming an absent-
minded tune.  Then she glanced at the clock in the corridor and
slipped off the bunk.  "Oops.  Time for my soap," she said.  "'Like
sands through an hourglass'.."

Scully bit her knuckle, lost in thought.  She was missing
something.  Something Mulder would see.  Something that Mulder
needed to know.

Gradually it dawned on Scully that what she wanted most, what
she valued most -- was the one thing she shouldn't have:
communication with Mulder.
***************
"I'm beat," Clare Otis said.  She dropped a pen on her desk
and rubbed her eyes.  "What did we see, half the population
today?"

Scully plopped down on a chair next to Dr. Otis.  "We've
got a possibly appendicitis -- and one tonsillitis I wouldn't
send back to the population just yet."

"Did you give the tonsillitis an antibiotic?"

"She needs one, but I have to have the key to the medicine cabinet,"
Scully said.  She watched carefully as Clare logged off her computer,
unplugged the mouse and put it in the desk drawer.  Scully had been
observing Clare Otis log on and off for several days and now she
thought she had the passwords and codes memorized.  "And you have to
leave word that I'll have to give her another injection during early
morning clinic."

"Okay.  Here." Clare tossed her the medicine cabinet keys.
She watched as Scully unlocked the door, selected the medicine
and stood back to allow Clare to see everything she was doing.
Clare seemed to appreciate that Scully honored the need for supervision
and didn't make the situation too awkward.

Scully disappeared behind a curtain and presently emerged
with a used syringe and empty vial in her hand.  She tossed them
away and peeled off her latex gloves to dispose in the biohazard
waste bin where Clare could observe.  Seeing everything was in
order, Clare picked up her things and started to leave.

Scully waited until Clare cleared the first door before she called,
"Dr. Otis.  Your keys."  She held them up.

Clare tossed her a key chain through the bars.  "Lock them
up in the desk drawer.  I'm running late."

Scully unlocked the drawer and hastily dropped the keys into the
drawer. Before she closed it she ran her hand over the drawer lock,
stuffing it
with yellow gummy stic from her finger and preventing it from
catching when she closed it.  She walked the key chain to the doctor.

"Why aren't you tired?" Clare grunted as she accepted the
keys through the bars.  "Must be nice to be young."

"If it's alright, I'm going to check in on curtain four
once more.  I think she's more scared than sick, but--" Scully
said.

"I'll leave word.  Don't be too long," Dr. Otis said.  "Oh..
you won't be here tomorrow.  You have to go to Washington."  Clare
groaned.  "Amazing how quickly I got used to having you around.
See you in a few days.  Good luck."

"Thank you," Scully said.

It was a relatively simple matter to time the rotation of
the infirmary cameras, unlock the desk drawer and access the
computer.  When the camera swept the area the guard only observed
Scully next to the desk pouring over a chart.  He could not see
the mouse had been reattached and the monitor was on.

Scully logged on with Dr. Otis' passwords and numbers, then signed
Into her email account.  Hurriedly she wrote to Mulder: "12th to 23rd.
Lipscomb's Auction House.  Donaldson."

She had scarcely scrapped off the yellow gum from the lock
and secured the desk drawer when the night officer strolled
through the infirmary.

"Doc says you shouldn't stay late," he said.  His eyes
roved the office, clearly showing his distrust of Scully and his
belief that she shouldn't be here.  "What are you doing?"

"Charts," Scully said, swallowing hard.  Her heart raced.
"I had to finish them.  Who's checking on the patients tonight."

"I am.  There's a problem, you'll be the first to know.
Let's go," the officer said.

She hid the residue from the yellow gummy stic in her
palm.  Just before they left the infirmary the officer gave her a
perfunctory frisk and let her go.
***********************
A disinterested guard in a sweat-soaked blue uniform
helped Scully out of the prison van into the garage for the
Washington jail.  The stuffy burnt oil and trapped carbon
monoxide smell reminded her of the FBI parking garage the
morning Mulder left.

She'd been thinking about forests and wilderness training when she
walked in to work that day.  The day Skinner called her into his
office and suspended her.

Her feet were chained together; her sore wrists and
feet secured to her waist through a loop on her leather belt
restrain.  The belt around her waist was too tight and pressed
under her diaphragm, making it necessary for her to take small,
shallow breaths.  Scully mentioned it once to an apparently deaf
prison guard who was riding shotgun, then resigned herself to
suffer in silence.

She paused after getting down from the van to
straighten the ankle chain.  Even so she would be ridiculous
hobbling along.  She did not dismiss this as procedure, instead
understood it as part of the continuing attack on her spirit.
She recalled with dismay how well it had worked earlier.

Before taking that first awkward step she felt a wave of heat as
though she stepped under a heating duct.  Searching for the source
she saw Mulder gazing down from the second floor observation room.

He was clenching his jaw, she could tell even from that
distance.  She stared at him a moment letting his open affection
wash through her, wishing he wouldn't watch, then walked
straight through the garage into the intake area.  Before the
door to the garage closed, she glanced up again; Mulder had
vanished.  She wondered if she ever really saw him or if the damn
belt so constricted her oxygen she hallucinated.

Mulder, are you here? Now?

"This way," said the guard behind her and nudged her to
the left.

Scully's sudden look into the observation room sent Mulder
ducking behind a pillar.  He hadn't meant for her to see him, but
he wanted to catch a glimpse of her.  He wished he hadn't.  It
maddened him for her to be weighted down, chained like that.
Even worse, he felt tears of angry frustration rise in him that
he could not burden her with.  Her upturned face, searching the
garage, then the room for him, looked the same.  She seemed
better.  Mulder straightened his suit jacket and left for the second
floor men's room.

Scully sat in first floor receiving for almost an hour, presenting
the very picture of forbearance she did not feel.  She watched the
marshals, jailers, and sheriffs shuffle paper, process other
prisoners, and drink coffee.  She presumed she was waiting to be
called to reception, to the room where inmates could have visitors.
The summons never came.  She was almost relieved.  It would be very
difficult to speak to Mulder of mundane things right now.

She let her mind wander.  Hers would be the first hearing on the
docket the next morning.  She would wear her own clothes.  Silk
blouse, stockings, heels.  Amazing that such a thing could
lift her spirits.  Wearing the clothes of a free woman, the person she
was inside, in her head.  She decided to practice what Zelda had taught
her and discovered her cellmate was right: it was hard to learn but
easy to forget.
*********************
The conference room Scully had been led to by the court officer
seemed out of the way.  But it was large.  Huge, in fact, compared to
other lawyer/client cubbyholes she'd passed as a marshal led her down
the hall.

The federal marshal left her alone to wander around the room for a
moment, gaze out the large window cover with a heavy mesh screen,
touch the old wooden chairs.  The room had no pictures or posters;
the only thing worth looking at was the intricate design in the
oversized ornate heating vent in the wall overhead.

But, the room had been painted recently, Scully gave them points
for that.  Still, there was a musty odor that hung in the air.  She
walked around idly,listening to the rats scratching in the walls and
vents, appreciating the feel of hose, heels, a skirt and blouse.
Comfortable, businesslike clothes that hung loosely on her but suited
Scully, fit her mood.

Except for the handcuffs around her wrists she would almost imagine
herself waiting to interview a suspect herself.  She expected Byron
Waters any moment and began reviewing the list of things she wanted
him to relay to Mulder.

So it surprised her to find Henry J.Donaldson standing in the
doorway with the marshal.  His briefcase
dangled by one finger; he held nothing else in his hands.  He
regarded her as he would an old, trusted friend.

"There you are! What are you doing up here?" Donaldson
turned to the marshal.  "I have to speak with this prisoner
alone."

"Sorry, Mr.  Donaldson.." the marshal began.

"Don't worry, John.  I'll take full responsibility."

Scully stood motionless.

"Thank you, John."

The marshal sighed and left the room with a glance back at
Scully.

She waited until the door closed before she said, "You've
made them all think I'm an axe-murderer."

"How do you know you're not?" Donaldson said.

"Sir?"

He gave her a pleasant smile.  "Please.." He pulled out a
chair and motioned for her to sit down.

She approached warily, but took the seat he offered.  He
leaned against the arm to regard her.  "I understand you've
had a bad time of it.  I'm sorry.  However, your service is of
the highest caliber.  Rest assured you, Agent Mulder and the
X-Files will work unmolested, under the protection of the
Attorney General's office from now on."

"Yes sir," Scully said.

"So, I take it you've had some luck, then? What is the next target?"

Scully's face grew hard.  "I'd like to know something."

Irritation flitted across Donaldson's face.  "Certainly."

"What happened to Zelda Deschamp's mother?"

Donaldson grabbed her arm at the elbow and she felt his
thumb pressing in on her.  "Dana, that is not your errand," he
said.  She felt the tension go out of her limbs.  She relaxed,
then caught just the merest hint of something - cruelty, panic,
self-satisfaction, pity -- behind those green eyes.  "Dana
Scully, you have an errand to run."

She tried to push out of the chair.  Her arms and legs refused to
move.  She closed her eyes and began the defensive exercise Zelda
taught her, hoping she was not too late. The pull of his voice and
her conditioned response dragged on her ability to focus.

"Open your eyes, Dana."

They fluttered without her consent.  His voice came now
from far away, wreathed in a bright, greenish light.  He repeated
her name over and over and she fought to keep from succumbing.

"I'll take your oral report, Agent Scully."

"Yes sir."

"I congratulate you on your success.  The next target?"

She told him everything - time, date, place, people-- hearing the words
come from a place deep within her mind.  She concentrated on releasing
the fear, the hate, the dread.

"Agent Scully, your mission is almost complete.  Your service is
appreciated.  As before, you will not recall this conversation."

"Yes...sir." The words stumbled out of her mouth.

Scully fixed on Mulder.  She visualized his face, the touch
of his hand on her shoulder, the crinkles along his cheeks when
he grinned.  She remembered his habit of chewing sunflower seeds,
his boyish grin, his 2 a.m. telephone calls that woke her from a
sound sleep and propelled her out of her world and into his.

"Do you understand, Agent Scully?"

"Sir.."

"You will wipe this all from your memory.  Tell me you
understand your instructions."

"I understand..."

She focused on her mother: the texture of her hair against
Scully's face when they hugged; the laughter when wind whipped
it out of her mouth in winter; her quiet resolve that brooked no
disagreement; her sweeping devotion to her daughter.  Scully
would want to know what happened to her mother.  She had to ask
something.  For her mother, no, Zelda's mother.  For Zelda.

"Sgt. Amelia Peterson -- what happened to her?"  The droning
repetition of her name faltered.  "Zelda is still searching."
Donaldson gave a horrified, high-pitched squeal and backed
into the conference table.  He doubled up as though stricken with
severe abdominal pains and collapsed across the table, groaning.

He uttered a few moans of agony, fell into silence, then picked
up a stammering chant of Scully's name again.

"No-" Scully's eyes closed, gray clouds in pillowing puffs
closed again.  From somewhere door hinges screamed.

"Are you alright?" Donaldson said as the marshal swung the
door open.

Waters stormed in behind him, his face a bright red.
"What's going on here?" Waters said.  "Just what the hell is
going on?"  He stared at Donaldson, then Scully.  "You okay, Miss
Scully?"

"She looks sick," the marshal said.

Waters flung his arms out in exasperation.  "I repeat --
what the hell is going on here?  Why is this man even in the same
room with my client?"

Donaldson waved his hand as if it were of no importance.
"She said - she said she had information for me that could be
vital in stopping a planned robbery of a federal facility.  On
behalf of the prosecutor I came to offer a reduced sentence in
return for this information.  I-I realize I was out of line
speaking to her without her attorney, but as she used to be law
enforcement..."

"You bastard!" Scully breathed.  Her nausea and headache
nearly made it impossible to speak.  She opened her eyes, fixed
on a spot in the ceiling and began the mental gymnastics of
thought and form that Zelda explained.

"I don't believe the government should oppose an insanity
defense, Mr.  Waters.  I find your client seriously disturbed!"

"I think that's enough, Mr.  Donaldson," Waters said.  "Your
actions thus far are grounds for censure - or even disbarment."

"I'm not worried.  But if you want to talk deal, let's
talk."

"Let's," said Scully, head swimming.  "Vacate the plea.  I
want a trial on the original charges and an immediate bail
hearing."

Even Waters regarded her as insane.

"Ah, Dana," he began.

She stood, leaning on the table as close as she could get
to him.  She bore into his eyes with her own.  "Let me go, Mr.
Donaldson.  Now.  Tonight," she said.

A sheen of perspiration appeared on Donaldson's forehead
and upper lip.

He swung his attention to Waters with a see-what-I-mean
express on his face.  "Down the hall for a moment," Donaldson
said.  "I took a chance, a big chance that might cost me my job.
It-it, well, let me explain."

"Step outside, Mr.  Donaldson.  Let me make certain my
client is okay."

Donaldson nodded to the marshal and they left.

Waters threw his briefcase on the table, snapped it open
and pulled out a white handkerchief.  He handed it to Scully and
said, "In case you sneeze or need it for something else.  This
room is, well, it's drafty."

"Thank you," she said.

"Can you stand alone?"
She nodded, her breathing coming easier now and without
headache or nausea.  She felt better.

"You'll need it if you stand near drafty vents," Waters
said.  "I'll be right back - as soon as I deal with Mr. Donaldson
and I want a full report on what he said to you."

Scully nodded, following his eyes as he stared at the
heating vent in the far corner of the room.

"I think you'll want to read some of these motions before
I file them.  I'll be back in, oh, six minutes," he said and
swung his wrist up to check his watch.

She stared at the door after he closed it behind him.  What
had happened?  Donaldson could do what Zelda did.  That much was
clear to her now.  Her stomach rolled and her head rumbled.

Scully stumbled over to the heating vent and sat down
under it.  And Zelda or Zelda's mother's name caused a big
reaction in Donaldson - had it or was that a dream? The marshal
came back in to monitor her.

"You okay? You look real pale," the marshal said.  "You
want a drink?"

She nodded and put the handkerchief to her nose and mouth.
The marshal handed her some water and that's when she heard the
unmistakable thunk of the vent cover hitting the carpeted floor.
She poured water into the handkerchief, dropped the glass,
grabbed a breath and pressed the wet cloth to her face.

Mulder.

The marshal drew his weapon and looked up as a gas
canister and fell onto the carpet.  It was the last thing the
marshal saw before he collapsed.

Scully stood on a chair, dropped the handkerchief and made
a jump for the lip of the vent.  She caught the lower rim.  Her
hold slipped just as two familiar hands grabbed her. The cuffs pulled
and tore at her wrists. The residue of the gas and bungled mind-meld
left Scully disoriented; the world spun.

Lying on his belly, arms outstretched, Mulder hooked his
foot around the corner of the shaft for leverage and yanked her
into the vent.  Once she was inside he unhooked a mask off his
belt and shoved it toward her.  She slapped it over her mouth and
began to breathe sweet oxygen.  Mulder's eyes came into focus.
She wanted to smile. He banged an elbow getting the handcuff keys
out of his jumpsuit pocket.

Mulder inched backwards into the main line of the vent
shaft and she followed.  The strain of their locomotion against
the metal made the vents echo a plong, blonge noise.  After the
first short branch, they made better time - it was downhill.
Scully crawled after him on her stomach, propelled by
gravity and her elbows and knees.

Mulder turned another corner and she started after him, but he
stopped her and indicated another branch.  She nodded to show
she understood.  She could see wrinkles around the mouthpiece of
his mask and understood he was smiling.  She crawled away down
the opposite shaft, flushed and breathing heavily.  She didn't
have far to go.  The second vent cover she encountered had been
loosened.  She began to climb out.

"Agent Scully!"

(Headers and Disclaimers in Chapter One)

Chapter 15 of 20

From the top of the stairs Mulder could see AD Skinner
pacing outside the door of the courtroom where Scully's hearing
was to be held.

"This is running late.  Where have you been?" Skinner said.

"Bathroom," Mulder said straightening his tie and jacket.

"Upstairs?"

"It's cleaner."

Skinner detected an odor of dusty and mildew.  He opened
the courtroom door for Mulder and said, "You sure?"

The two men sat uncomfortably on the wooden benches for a
long time.  Skinner grew restless.  Mulder was miles away.  He
would see her again today, talk with her, hear her voice.  He
sighed impatiently and appeared to scan the room in boredom.  It
was jam-packed. He glanced around, nudged Skinner and they
scoped out the room together.

"What's this?" Skinner said.

"Obviously the news media believes she's going to be
executed today."

Skinner adjusted his glasses and turned in his seat.  "I
accept responsibility for this," he said to Mulder.  "I want you
to know that."

"If I know Scully she had something to say about it," Mulder said.

"You do know Agent Scully and that's exactly why you are
in the dark," Skinner said.

Mulder rubbed his mouth; it spoke his impatience with that more
clearly than words.

"It's a long story," Skinner said.

"I'd like to hear it sometime," Mulder said.  "Soon."

Skinner stared at him and, after a moment, nodded slightly.
Mulder crossed his legs and tried to think of seeing
Scully again.  Soon.

Skinner shifted in his seat.  "This is running late," he
said again.

Mulder studied the great seal over the bench with some
interest.

Skinner got up and walked out the door of the courtroom.
Mulder sat quietly, no expression on his face, his hands resting
in his lap.  His feet, however, moved up and down on the balls
and back on the heels.  After a few moments Skinner hurried in,
leaned down and whispered to Mulder, "She escaped.  They're
searching the building.  They've searched her lawyer's car.  The
building is sealed."

Adrenaline rushed to Mulder's arms and legs, but he forced
himself to be casual.  "No need to stick around here, then, is
there?"

Skinner grabbed Mulder's arm and fairly hissed, "They will
shoot her.  They are within their rights to shoot."

"I'm sure she thought of that," Mulder said.

It took four hours for Mulder and Skinner to clear the
building.  Everyone and everything was subject to search.  Mulder
counted two dozen uniforms and an unknown number of agents.  Both
he and Skinner were questioned, although there could be no doubt
they were both in the courtroom long before the escape.

Mulder drove home cautiously, very aware that he was being
followed.  A block from the court he pulled out his phone and
punched in her number, hoping - no, knowing - he would hear her
voice soon.  He heard only a dozen rings.

Mulder slammed the phone shut, tossed it on the empty seat
beside him and rubbed his mouth.  Good thing traffic was light.
He waited for his chance, made an illegal left turn and headed
for Scully's apartment.

No sign of her.  He drove home.  The Gunmen were waiting.
They looked like whipped dogs.

"She jumped out of the garbage truck somewhere along the way,"
Langly said.

"You didn't see her, didn't notice?" He yelled.  He didn't care that
the three men in front of him seemed miserable enough.  What if his
instincts about this escape were wrong-he couldn't bear to think about
it.

"She took the little duffel bag," Frohike volunteered.

"I feel much better knowing she has clean underwear," Mulder
said.

"Agent Mulder, did it occur to you that Agent Scully might
not be, exactly, prepared for this escape," said Byers.

"Meaning what, exactly?"

"That the same physical and mental stresses of the mind meld she's
been subjected to might have-" Byers didn't want to be the one to say
it "- might have had a permanent effect."

Byers may have said it, but Mulder had clearly thought of it already.
Mulder's phone buzzed and he fumbled in his haste to answer.  "Yes,
he's here." He thrust the phone at Byers and listened to him say
"yes, uh, huh, huh-huh, okay.  Thanks."

When he handed the phone back Byers said, "That was Bryon
Waters.  He said Agent Scully seemed very distracted, ill, and a
little hostile when he saw her last.  He also said Henry
Donaldson was alone with her when he came into the conference
room."

"That's a violation of her civil rights," said Frohike.

"He's the one who's been playing with Scully's head from
the beginning," Mulder said.  "He laid the foundation and now
he's building on it."

"Who knows what he's done to her.  That is one seriously
screwed up dude," Langly said.  "We may have put our foot in it
this time."

Mulder stayed home three days never leaving the phone.
Call, Scully, he pleaded to her.  Call, damnit!
Three long, endless days of worry.  Three days of telling
inquisitive policemen and agents that he didn't know where she
was.  Three days of lying to her mother, reassuring her that
Scully was safe.  Three days of berating himself for arranging
her escape.  Three days of racking his brain for places she might
go, then charging out to discover she hadn't shown.

Three longer nights.  He slept - when he dozed - with his
cell phone in his hand.

He was fixing coffee on the morning of the fourth day when
he suddenly knew where to find her.  He could have kicked himself
for being an idiot -- and her for scaring him to death.
************************
Scully unlocked the door, stepped into the apartment and knew
she wasn't alone.  She saw it at once - the overstuffed chair
angled slightly wrong, a table lamp that seemed just a fraction
of an inch too far to the right.

She began to back out of the door slowly, the grocery bag still in
her arms.

"Don't make me run you down."

She froze.

Mulder appeared in the doorway between the kitchen and
living room.  He leaned onto the door frame, the muscles in his
arms tensed from holding his weight and his jaw clenched tight.
The sun from the kitchen window shone at his back through his
white shirt and his tie hung loosely around his neck in a noose.
Scully couldn't recall seeing him so furious.

"Come on in."

She shut the door and set the groceries down on the hall
table along with the apartment key.  He didn't move, but his eyes
raking over her made her strangely self-conscious.  She touched a
stray end of her hair.  She never liked her own hair color much,
but now that it was covered with a black rinse she felt
unnatural.

Mulder snorted.  "This place stinks.  The bureau couldn't do
any better than hot and cold running rats?"

"Did you come to criticize the accommodations -- or take
me back?"

His mouth went slack, then closed in a determined line.
Panic fused his arms and legs with the strength he didn't think
he could have found otherwise.  Mulder covered the distance
between them in four or five quick strides.  She stiffened, but
refused to move.  He wore an impassive expression until he stood
within an inch of her.  He stopped and leaned down as if
confiding a secret.

"Scully, they've done something to you...and you-you aren't
seeing things as they are...mentally.." His face was that of a
tortured angel.

"I was," she said, nodding.  "You're right.  I was...and you
talked me through it."

Mulder knew they hadn't spoken in weeks. "This was a mistake.
You understand you could get killed.  I made a mistake."

"Actually, I thought it demonstrated good insight." She needed him to
see beyond his fears, beyond his wounded pride, and her
deception.  Of all the things she worried about, she most feared
his need to protect her.  She couldn't let him take her and she
didn't know how to stop him.

"Please understand," he said.  He put his hand on her the
way he would a suspect.

"Mulder, all those times you asked me to believe you, to
follow you on nothing more than faith... You have every reason to
doubt.  I'm asking that same faith of you now."

Mulder wavered.  He had come to take her, to hold her
against her will if necessary, to make certain she wouldn't be
hurt until he could straighten things out.  He hadn't considered
that she would be one step ahead of him.  Again.  Arrogance on his
part.

"I'm fine," she said evenly.  "For the first time in a long time..."

He took a moment to study her.  This Scully had a different
lilt to her chin, a customary glint in her eyes that marked her
as the hunter instead of the hunted.  Her carriage was familiar;
her hands steady again.  He felt ashamed; he'd almost put her in
restraints.

"I-it's the hair," he said and dropped his hands.  "Had me
fooled."

The breath whooshed out of her mouth.  "I think it's
Frohike's fantasy color of the month," she said.  She sat down on
the armchair, her knees suddenly weak.  "I thought for a minute
you weren't going to believe me."

He fought the urge to put his arms around her and draw her
next to him.  It made him appear fierce, almost angry.

"How did you find me?"

"It occurred to me to try the obvious.  Our FBI
undercover identities, safe house," Mulder said.

"I knew you'd come to that eventually," she said.

"You scared the hell out of me.  Mind telling me what
you're doing?"

"It was instinct.  I took the chance you offered.  I
followed Langly through the maintenance room and crawled behind
him down the garbage chute - and let me say that is an
experience I don't want to repeat.  I waited until the Gunmen
stopped at what seemed like a great distance from the
courthouse.  It was relatively simple to-"

"I figured the rest," Mulder said.

"I know it - all of it.  Some of it is still unclear, but I
thought talking with you might clear it up.  The problem is, I
can't prove any of it.  It's too improbable to believe.  The
prison, the women and how they are used- the power." Scully
said.  She knew she was talking too fast.  "You were right.  The
robberies and prison are all related."

"I know," he said.

"How?"

"That was the only possible explanation for what happened
to Andy Paige.  And there was a case in Los Angeles - you didn't
get to see that one.  I interviewed the men convicted in the
theft - two young night clerks who simply walked a $1.2 million
watercolor out of an art gallery and left it in the alley behind
a post office.  They told basically the same story you and Andy
do.  Sickness.  Violence.  Memory loss."

"Who's doing this?" she said.

"Don't you know?"

She appeared to concentrate.  "I know Zelda and Bernice
carry out the robberies.  They assume the identity -- the person
-- of guards, clerks or any man with easy access to the asset
they wish to steal.  They take what they want, then leave it
outside for an accomplice to pick up," Scully said.  "The police
don't search for other suspects since they have one or two right
in front of them who are clearly guilty."

"Women do this to men--only men?"

"Not exclusively, but it's easier for women to enter the mind of men.
It requires no physical contact, there is--"

Mulder couldn't resist.  "Not much fun."

"Apparently the key to the success of what you call mind
meld is interrupting brain patterns.  Since estrogen release is a
key factor in "fertilizing" the neutrons that fire-."

"So women get inside the head of men and take over.  This
is almost a clichÈ, Scully."

"Bernice bumped into you in the hallway outside the
conference room after our first visit."

"That's right.  I don't remember slipping-"

"And afterwards you were sick?"

He shrugged.  "Bad burrito."

"Sad? Poetic? Sentimental, even weepy?"

"Bad burrito."

"Mulder, not every unsettling experience in life can be
attributed to refried beans."

"Most things," he said.

"Bernice saw things in you-"

"Those weren't my thoughts, Scully.  I found just them
there," he said.

"You knew nothing to change their opinion of me as just
another felon.  Anyone who came to visit me was under suspicion.
Everyone at first."  She hesitated.  He could sense the pain she
would not show him.  "After.. afterwards --they weren't afraid
of me."

"How did they get to you?"  But he didn't really want to
know and she obviously didn't want to tell him.

But she said, "Not just me.  Several other women, including Ann
Millard. They must have trapped her and discovered she was there to
expose them.  They must have driven her to jump over the railing."

"Can they reach you now?"

"There are barriers, techniques to block intrusion.  Mental
self-defense if you will.  Zelda taught me a few.  Just in time,
as it turned out.  I've been trying to recall who..."

She'd lost him.  His eyes bore into hers in an uncomfortable,
penetrating
way. He was mad, yes, but she saw sorrow behind it all.  "Mulder?"

It was startling because he said it as though he could
barely stop himself from slamming his fist into a wall,  "Why didn't
you tell me where you were?" He threw up his hands and his voice became
even louder and angrier.  "No! Let me say it! You were protecting me."

His fury drew the heat from Scully. "I was protecting myself."

"From?"

She didn't say anything at first.  She spent a few moments
examining her fingers as they ducked in and out of each other.

Finally, she said, "I needed to feel.. like myself."

Mulder knitted his eyebrows and his hands flew to his hips.  "Which is
how?"

"Normal."

"Normal?"

"Mulder, this mind meld technique involves the stimulation
of estrogen as a enhancer.  Research in the late 1980s discovered
that estrogen affects mental capacity, intellectual skills - and
some researchers are following this path now in hopes of
treating Alzheimer's.."

"You're smarter than me because you're a girl? And...?"

"My hypothesis is that in this mind-meld, stimulation of
estrogen, ah, disrupts normal body processes and results in
firing neurons, specifically those in the hypothalamus, that are
not normally called upon.  In women this is expressed in the body
as testosterone.  This creates a chemical imbalance of estrogen-
producing neurons vis-ý-vis the ones which produce or require
testosterone.  This imbalance is, thankfully, self-correcting
over time through a surge of, ah, estrogen as well as - well,
that explains why there is extreme violence or hostility in a
female victim immediately after an intrusion and it explains the
sickness, particularly in an unwilling host-"

"-or hostess-"

"-Or hostess.  Such imbalances escalate with each incident
and take longer to reverse.  There is a surge of estrogen, which
apparently activates..." She licked her upper lip and ventured a
glance.  "..certain other reactions as well."

Mulder's anger dribbled away.  He stared at her in bewilderment and
took a minute to process what she said.

He was being deliberately obtuse, Scully thought.
Gorgeous, sexy, and definitely, deliberately obtuse.  She shifted
her weight to her other foot and cleared her throat.

Finally he started a slow, sultry grin. "Are you trying to say this
thing leaves you horny and you were afraid you'd force yourself
on me?"

Her cheeks flamed and she made a visual circle of the
room.  "Something like that."

Mulder bit his lip to keep from laughing at her discomfort.  He
leaned down and whispered, "What makes you think you'd have to use
force, Agent Scully?"

Scully gave a feeble, embarrassed chuckle.

He took her right elbow, noting a wince, and guided her to
the couch.  He sought a comfortable place amid the worn out
cushions, finally gave up and just sat down.  She perched on the
edge beside him.

"It's all for a purpose, Mulder.  Revenge.  Greed, power,
these out of body experiences that.."

"You say that like you're surprised."

"I said I owed you an apology."

He shrugged.  "You were hardly in a position to make a
rational judgment.  Do you remember that Donaldson visited you a
few days ago?  What does he want from you?"

"I have a vague notion.  My memory comes back in fits and
starts."

"You know he is capable of mind-meld.  That's what he has
done to you."

"I can't recall hearing of a man who can do this.  The only
case I remember is Zelda's husband, who died as a result."

"Here's another interesting coincidence," Mulder said.
"Henry J.  Donaldson used to be head of the securities and fraud
task force -- the one that arrested Bernice."

"Donaldson has a lot of connections to the two women involved in
this," Scully folded her arms in front of her.  "I don't believe in
coincidence."

Mulder chuckled.  "You believe in Divine Intervention?"

A pop exploded in Scully's head.  She saw
Donaldson bent over the conference room table, heard him chanting
her name.

"He doesn't want me to remember! He doesn't want this
charade to end yet." She hesitated.  "I think I'm supposed to
stop the next robbery."

Mulder seemed disappointed.  "I wanted him to be the man
behind all this -- or at least the accomplice.  But he has no
discernible motive - he's independently wealthy, has a
prestigious job, nice family, good reputation -- somehow I don't
think he's a criminal."

"I don't either, although I would actually pay money to
make it true," Scully said.  "No, he wants the robberies to stop,
to expose Zelda and Bernice."

Mulder's lips pursed.  "Done.  I got your email.  I presume
you informed him of all the particulars too.  So why aren't we popping
beer and peanuts to celebrate your release?"

Now it was her turn to shrug.  "I don't know."

"So this is an undercover operation?"

"Essentially.  Yes -- I don't know."

"Don't know?"

Scully made a strangled sound in the back of her throat.
"I just feel this is my-my job.  To stop it all.  Whether
Donaldson began it and I allowed it -- this is why I went to
prison."

"A mission from God.  All you need are sunglasses and a
blue suit."

She glared at him.

"Say you're right.  That would explain why you were
convicted so fast and so easily.  It's an X-File, so that
explains why it came to you.  And the ability of these women
would even explain why your memory of any undercover operation
was wiped clean by drugs or some hypnosis," he said.  "It would
also tell us how that hypnosis worked --you cooperated.  At least
in the beginning."

"It's not hypnosis.  It's the same sort of mental trickery
Zelda uses," she said.

"Maybe it started as hypnosis... or something like it to weaken your
mental defenses.  Gradually -- and without Skinner's knowledge --
Donaldson introduced the mild meld to erase your memory and
impair your ability to defend yourself.  He wants to keep you in
that state."

"It makes a certain sense. With Skinner present, Donaldson is someone
I might have trusted enough to-to submit. Ann Millard's murder would
have been a good motivation for that kind of action." She gasped.
"Mulder,this next robbery needs three women. Three, although it could
be done by two.  How did he know the next target required three if he
didn't pick it himself?"  She thought about it. "Unless three was the
number Zelda picked -- to include me, to reduce the danger."

"The danger to whom?"

Scully shrugged. "To her, Bernice...the men whose bodies they will take
over." She pursed her lips. That sounded right. Zelda needed
a third woman to control the third subject and keep Bernice from
killing or maiming him to keep him quiet.

"There is another more serious problem," Mulder said.  And he looked
as though it frightened him.  "Think about this a minute, Scully.
It's such an elaborate ruse - falsified documents, signed reports,
judicial manipulation.  A tape of the arrangements, legal
documents to free you, the 302 assignment sheets gone.  Damaged
or missing.  It's too elaborate to justify as merely cementing
your cover."

"Why so much?"

"He doesn't want you to come out of that prison at all -
at least not as a whole, credible person.  And not for a long
time."

Her eyes widened," And maybe he doesn't want to merely
expose Zelda and Bernice, he wants to silence them forever."

"With you a non-factor and the two perpetrators dead or
gone, Donaldson has stopped the robberies, silenced the women,
and eliminated any credible witnesses to this bizarre crime."
Mulder said.

"Skinner--"

"He has an axe to grind.  Thanks to some faulty information
from Donaldson, Skinner's platoon was wiped out."

"My God."

"But this scenario doesn't give us the whole picture."

"It leaves open the question of who concocts the robberies, selects
targets, picks up the assets?" She shook her head.

"Maybe you know something he doesn't want exposed." Mulder leaned back
against the couch.  "It can't be something as simple as his aberrant
lifestyle."

"Aberrant lifestyle?"

"Mr. Donaldson likes to transform himself into a woman and walk with
a poodle up and down the street to attract men and whistles.  Then he
or she returns the poodle to a couple in a pet store and comes out as
the Donaldson we know and love," Mulder said.

"A poodle?" Scully laughed.  "You're not serious."

"Well, I don't know what other kind of dog it would be. Looks like
one."

She couldn't stop laughing.  She sagged against the couch back next to
him and they lounged there shoulder to shoulder.  After a while he
said, "Does that hair stuff wash out easily, because I'm in trouble
here.  I was expecting a redhead and I'm having a problem relating to
someone who-" he stumbled, "--isn't."

"I'm not really your partner," she said.  "I was.  But as you can see,
I've changed." She was uncomfortable with the game all of a sudden.

"I'm glad you're here," he said. "Whoever you are."

She pushed herself off the couch and picked up the groceries she'd
left by the door hours ago.  Scully spent some time putting groceries
away, examining the fruit and vegetables for bruises or signs the
stay outside refrigeration damaged them.

She felt him walk into the kitchen and come up behind her.  She
closed her eyes against the heat of him so close.  Her hand squeezed
the orange it held and studied its tough skin.

"I promised myself that when I had the chance to speak to
you openly and freely again without codes or disguises I would
never take the privilege for granted." She placed the produce in
the refrigerator and shut the door.

"What's stopping you?"

Scully glanced around the kitchen.  She'd cleaned it-cleaned the whole
apartment from top to bottom.  Washed the linens, scoured the tub,
burned the scented candle she purchased- all to avoid thinking of this
very question.  She couldn't say anything.  She looked at him, mouth
moving like a dying fish. Mulder, pull me out.

He opened his arms and she fell into them nearly groaning with relief.

"Why does this come so easily to you?" she said against his chest.

"Maybe it's too irrational for you to consider."

"No," she said, "for us, for as long as we've been good friends, it is
the most natural, logical thing in the world."

He pushed her off his chest gently so she couldn't hear his heart
break.
"You are my partner, my friend," he said.  "Both of us with many roles
to play in each other's lives.  Maybe some we haven't explored. Can we
play cook now.  I'm starved."
********************
Mulder clearly had something in mind besides a vegetation dinner.  He
picked at his plate.  But it had been so long since Scully had eaten
fresh vegetables and fruits that weren't old or cooked to death she had
wanted nothing else for the last four days.  Mulder watched her eat.
She needed to.  He passed her the butter.  When she was almost finished
he put down his fork and played with a piece of French bread.

"What I want to know is, why did you agree to do this, Scully?"

"Something I wanted."

"What do you want badly enough to go through hell to get," Mulder said.

She put her fork down and swallowed hard.  She even took a drink of
wine before she said,  "Zelda keeps asking me that.  What is of value
to me?"

"What do you tell her?"  Mulder thought for a moment she might say it.
He willed her to say it.  He wanted it so much his lips moved for her.

"The X-Files," she said finally.  "I think I value that most, what we
do - what we do together.  That we do it together."

A slice of bread, doubled over, paused half-way into Mulder's mouth and
fell back onto his plate.  She was getting there.  Almost there.  "I
value that too.  And I wouldn't want to miss anything."  He picked up
his plate and hers, then headed for the kitchen sink.  She couldn't
see, but he smiled.  "You want the shower first," he asked.

"Yes, thanks." She got up from the table slowly, thinking of what he'd
said.

She undressed in the bathroom and turned on the spray. Frohike - she
could see no one else behind this - had included some scented soap,
a lavender votive candle, and her perfume in the small duffle bag she'd
pulled out of the garbage with her. Only one change of clothes and
underwear. But perfume, candles and soap. She washed the skirt and
blouse and underwear she had just worn, draping them over a towel rack.
She sighed with fatigue then stepped into the shower.

"I wouldn't want to miss anything." Mulder's phrase resonated within
her. She soaped her body. Had she missed something?  She spit water out
of her mouth and allowed more from the spray to fill it. What was she
afraid she'd missed? Her hands, busy lathering shampoo in her hair,
stopped in mid-task.

The night he came back from training. She missed that -- she missed
him.

(Headers and Disclaimers in Chapter One
Chapter 16 of 20

It should have been a huge moment: deciding at last what was of
real value to her, what she truly feared losing. It should have
been a surprising, illuminating, flash of light across her psyche.
Scully reviewed what she had told Mulder and realized actually the
answer was one of those no-brainers. Something she'd always known.  One
of those things investigators overlook because they are standing too
close.

Or, in this case, not close enough.  Not nearly close enough.

Mulder, who was outside the bathroom collecting a blanket from
the bed for what promised to be nightmarish hours on the couch,
heard her laugh.  He knocked.  "No having fun in there without
me," he called.

The water shut off.  When she poked her head out she was only
wearing a towel.  "Can I borrow your tee shirt," she said.
"Frohike forgot to pack anything to sleep in - I wasn't
expecting overnight guests."

"Frohike?" Mulder said.  "I packed for you."

She arched an eyebrow.  "You picked this hair color?"

He shrugged.

She ripped the shirt out of his hand with sneer, and closed the
door.  She reappeared a moment later wearing the tee-shirt.  He
fingered the tip of her wet hair, now more red than black.

"Looking more normal all the time," he said.  She gave him a
quick smile and went into the living room.  He permitted himself
a fleeting look as she retreated, then cursed under his breath.
He hustled into the bathroom and climbed into a cold shower.

Scully noted the pillow and blanket on the couch.  She sat down
beside the pile and rubbed her lips together. Tomorrow or the day
after she'd be back in prison, her ability -- her right --  to
choose or decide anything stripped from her again. She hated to
even think about it; it was stifling.

And she longed to be free.  Free of everything that held her down,
made her afraid.
*************

Scully had been sitting on the side of the bed, but she sprang up
when he emerged bare-chested from the bathroom. The pillow and blanket
he'd carried into the couch now lay back in their rightful places on
the bed. The one candle included in her duffel bag bravely shone in the
dark room.

"Mulder, I don't mind sharing.  There's no need for you to be
uncomfortable all night."

He grimaced and tried to grab for a pillow.  "The last time
we shared you demanded more than your half of the bed."

"I want to talk about that."

Now it was Mulder's turn to look embarrassed.

"Something you said reminded me.  That night-." She had
his rapt attention.  "I thought-"

"I know what you thought."

"I don't think you do."

"If this is some kind of apology for the next morning, forget it.
You were confused, sick."  Mulder busied himself getting a pillow.

"No, ah- not an apology. More a point of clarification." Scully sat
down, picked at the patchwork pattern on the quilt
and exhaled through her mouth.  "I wasn't angry with you, Mulder.
I was angry with myself. I, ah, I thought I'd missed it."  She heard a
soft intake of breath.  "I couldn't remember anything that
happened. The way I felt-I knew--Well, I thought I'd forgotten."
Her lower lip trembled a little and she covered it with her hand,
then tried for a casual smile, "And I would want to remember
all about that."

Mulder looked undone.  His knee cracked as he sat next to her.  A
satisfied, knowing smile slid into place.  He picked up the hands
clasped in her lap.

"Mulder?" Scully tilted her head slightly, suddenly suspicious that
while this may have all been a revelation for her, it was old news to
him.  Mulder shook his head as though it didn't matter and a small
chuckle escaped her.

At the moment he seemed content to merely drink in the sight of her.
The eyes he searched allowed him full entry to see all that she had
discovered about herself.  He enclosed her hands in both of his and
carried them to his lips.  And, at last, she unlocked her fingers and
laid them against his face, caressing his cheeks.
**************

Mulder slipped his hands up her back to cup her head, draw her closer.
She was so small.  She loomed so large in his mind he often forgot the
reality.  Her hair was still damp in places; the scent of shampoo
wafted to him.  Her skin quivered and the tiny lines around her mouth
twitched when he brushed her cheek and jaw line with his lips.  He
started to put his hands over her ears, then let them slip down to her
neck.  He wanted her to have full use of every sense.

His lips barely moved against her ear, his breath scarcely touched her,
but he heard a quick intake of air.  He moved toward her mouth slowly,
giving her every opportunity to turn away, to say it was a mistake.
But she only waited.  At last she closed her eyes, tilted her head and
reached ever so slightly for him.

It was enough.  He closed the gap between them gladly.

Their lips met and he sighed with pleasure.  She deepened the kiss and
her hands slid down his chest to his waist.

"Scully.." he said when he could.  His voice had already grown thick
and hoarse.

"Mmm-mm-m?" Her mouth was on his throat.

"I want-I need my shirt back now."

They undressed each other hurriedly, but in the caring manner of old
lovers, not the reckless clawing of new ones. They were, after all,
accustomed to each other's bodies as best friends are. This eager
gentleness that heightened the excitement of new discovery -- this was
their reward for taking the trouble to become friends. Deeds and scars
they could touch, and some they could only vaguely recall, spoke of
trust and devotion already given and received.   What remained
unexplained would soon be communicated in body language.

Mulder wanted to carefully examine every inch of her as if
he had never seen her before, didn't know her moods or thoughts,
didn't know her touch, her scent, her sighs, or her looks.  He
discovered his slightest contact with her skin drove her to
gasps and moans that streaked to his core.  He was hard in an
instant.  Her feather strokes on his face, his shoulders, his
chest, his belly caused him to quiver with delight.  Every inch
of her body pressed against him became a rivulet of fire
straight into his groin.

He sought and gained entry to her mouth again and again,
mating tongues as twisted souls in that warm
place.  His hands and mouth followed her contours up and down,
traced her peaks and valleys -- her soft cries telling him each
time his explorations delighted her.

Scully sought his pleasure, as she did most things, with
a care to detail and for once he was not impatient with her
methods.  The hands that he'd seen rip
open a man's chest now tore into every part of his flesh with
amazing tenderness.  His hands, so large and clumsy next to hers,
sprayed out across her stomach and back to touch as much of her
skin as they could at once.

At first Scully's fingers traced his muscles, his bones,
and silently named each, "Mine, mine, mine.  God, mine."
She glided down his body with all her nerve endings firing.
Trailing kisses mingled with breathy gasps on his chest, his
nipples, his stomach, Scully listened with her ears, her mouth,
and her fingers to his body's responses.  Her hunger fed on his
but she had a moment, an instant really, to wonder if she'd be
too tight, if a painful entry would be her reward for denying
herself so long.

She didn't wonder long.  Mulder's hands slipped
down her body and cupped her.  His fingers began exploring her
center until she nearly begged for him.  Perhaps she did.

He pushed her, stretched her, filled her, then set a pace
that made her buck, dig her fingers into his shoulders, and call
his name.  Mulder thrust deeper and Scully parried until they
reached a rhythm that pleased them both and brought them to
screaming, simultaneous release.

They lay spent and still joined, grinning at each other.
Amazed -- they so seldom reached any conclusion at the same
time.

Lying with most of his weight on his arms and elbows,
Mulder nuzzled her, kissed her.  He couldn't get enough of her
taste, her skin under his touch.  For all she fought this, for
all her worrying and analyzing, for all her self-defense, her
surrender had been graceful, her victory complete.  He was at her
mercy -- he wondered if she had any.  He'd never seen it
demonstrated.  Scully moved with a small sound.  Thinking she must
be gasping for air, he started to withdraw from her.

"No." She entwined her fingers in his hair and dug into
his shoulder to enforce her will.  Her eyes remained glassy, her
voice husky.  "Stay." She kissed his throat, his chin, his ear.
Scully's hands caressed the familiar face over her, tracing the
lines with her fingers.  She concentrated on him: his
cheeks curving under her thumb, the length of him, the sweat on
his chest, the hair on his arms, the texture of his skin, the
throaty rattle of his love words, his eyes taking her in as
though she were a narcotic.  Scully realized she knew this look,
had seen it many times from him, but fear -- or caution --
blinded her and kept pushing him to the back of her mind.

Now it may too late for anything but this.  She could not let
herself forget this fullness, the feel of being together, the
real power of mind and body.  He kissed her again and she tasted
him.  She had to remember it all.

Most of all she had to remember how he made her feel this
night.

"Don't memorize me, Scully," he said.  "It implies a certain
lack of faith."

She closed her eyes, believing him, believing in what they
were together.

Mulder eased out of her and onto a pillow.  He leaned up
enough to pull her into his embrace before sinking with a
satisfied sigh into the mattress.  She was too thin, he thought
with a frown.  He drew the sheet over them and she snuggled
against him.  He kissed her shoulder, soft and salty with the
sweat of honest passion.

"Scully." His mantra. He breathed into her hair and watched the
dry hairs ripple.  His hand stroked her back.  She doodled idly
on his stomach with one finger.

Occasionally her lips pressed against his chest and he thought
she licked him.  He pulled her closer and let his eyes droop
shut.  "Gimme five minutes," he said.

He could feel her mouth spread into a smile against him.
"Dreamer."

"Ten -- max."

Now she snickered.

One of Mulder's eyes popped open.

She would pay for that snicker.  He began stroking her again,
lightly at first along her back and buttocks with one finger, then
two.  Her cooling skin trembled under his touch.  It was Mulder's
turn to smile.  He cupped one cheek and kissed the top of her ear.

"What are you doing?" she said.

"Passing the time," he said between nibbles.

She lifted her face up to him, eyes sparkling, and he
captured her mouth with his.  He sat up, forcing her over onto
her back to allow his hands full access.  He had her moist and
moaning, writhing in his arms, after only a few minutes of
tender ministrations with his mouth, his fingers.

He could do this to her; she allowed it, wanted it.
It was beautiful to watch her climb, resist, climax, and
try to focus on his face again.  He didn't wait until
her breathing leveled off before he smiled at her wickedly.

"Ten minutes are up," he said.

She pushed against his shoulder and looked alarmed.  "We
can't do this!"

"Sure we can."

"My lips are bruised." In truth, they were full, swollen,
and red.  Ripe.  Still, she made a weak protest --  made less
convincing by the hitch in her voice when his finger
circled her left nipple.

And then he couldn't wait.  He took her without finesse,
from hungry need, from years of loneliness.  She rose to echo
him, to meet him as she always had -- stroke for stroke, measure
for measure.  Her eyes loomed large and wide in obvious surprise
at her own nearly bottomless lust.  Mulder held out as long as he
could, until he felt her close, so close.  Their bodies, slick
with sweat, slapped together until she gasped, he cried out and
they gave themselves to each other once again.

They collapsed on the mattress and pillows, panting,
exhausted.

"Ahhh!" Scully yelped, swatting at her knee.  She fell back
onto the pillow.

"I was hoping for something a little different, but-"

Scully glanced at the peeling wallpaper and storage boxes.
"I couldn't be sure it was your hand and not a roach crawling up
my leg."

"Must be a roach.  I can't move any part of my body."

"We can't keep this up, Mulder.  We'll kill each other."

"Sleepy?" He murmured.  "Please say yes."

They slept, wrapped in a sheet and each other.  Mulder woke
first, roused by the shaft of light through the window and his
own shaft.  He moved just enough to get a clearer picture of her
in daylight.  His dreams come true: a naked Scully in his bed,
his arms.  He ran his fingertips down her bare arm.  Soft.  He
tried his lips.  Still tasted faintly of salt.

"Mulder?"

He looked over her shoulder and she turned wide-eyed into
him.  Slow smiles stole across their faces and Mulder knew they
were thinking the same thing: real.  This was real.

For no reason that he could imagine, Fox Mulder did
something that he would not have believed possible - he fell
even more deeply in love with her.

She grinned in a slow sultry way that gripped him anew.  Her eyes
already grew smoky with arousal.  Her hands dipped over her hip to his
and
began sinking lower and lower.

He leaned over to let her turn on her back, sank his lips
on hers, his hand skimming one breast.  She twisted her body with
a small cry of urgency, and curled her fingers around him,
thrilled by how quickly he responded to her.

"Tell me again why we put this off," he said,
burrowing his nose between her breasts and his clever, teasing
fingers into her center.  He suckled her, listening for an
answer.

"Can't remember," she said on a gasp.  He felt her quiver.

"Don't wait for me," he said.  "I'll catch the next one."
*********************
She must have fallen asleep again after their early morning
romp.  Scully awoke with a contented tingle flickering across her
skin.  She stretched and grinned to the ceiling.  She knew he was
gone and where he was by the noise and the smell.  Coffee.  Bacon.
Bacon?  She was suddenly very hungry.

She got up and wandered - staggered might be more accurate
-- into the kitchen.  She was sore and terribly satisfied.  Mulder
stopped frying bacon when he saw her.  "I know.  Cholesterol alone
will kill you."

She hooked a piece already drying on a paper towel by the
stove.  "Gotta die from something," she said and wrapped her lips
around the strip.  The bacon in the pan popped and sizzled.

"Who are you and where is Dana Scully?  Never mind.  I like you
better."

"Do you?" She acted hurt.

Cooking fork in hand he leaned over, paused and, when she
lifted her face, kissed her soundly.  His bright eyes reflected
what she felt.  He returned to the stove, fork tapping up and
down in his hand.  Was it so different now than it had been
yesterday? Her eyes wandered to Mulder's ass.  She drew a long
breath.  All pretenses gone.  Okay, it was different.  She took the
bacon between her teeth.  Deliciously.

"Egg?  As long as we're throwing caution to the winds," he
said.  "Scrambled in butter or fried in bacon grease?"

"Oh God. Neither," she muttered.  "Whatever possessed you to cook
like this?" She sat at the tiny kitchen table and her arm fell on the
newspaper.

"'Southern Living' magazine. In my dentist's office."

"You haven't been to the dentist in two years."

"It was a very memorable article," he said.

"You don't eat bacon?  Where did all this stuff - eggs, bacon...where
did it come from?"

"I'm carnivorous, Scully.  Last night didn't do much for me."

She laughed.

"I meant dinner. I told the people at the store on the corner I wanted
stuff for breakfast and this is what they handed me."  Mulder heard the
newspaper on the table rattle.  "I don't think it's a good likeness,
incidentally.".

"You wanted to see the paper," she said, suddenly realizing why
he really went to the corner market and why he was so distracted he
bought bacon and eggs. "What are we going to do here, Mulder?"