By LuvMulder
Luvmulder@aol.com

Date sent:        Thu, 5 Jun 1997 20:53:56 -0400 (EDT)

Standard Disclaimer:
CC owns it all--Dana, Fox and the Gang.  I play here cuz it's the best
park in town, ever appreciative that Chris opened the gates and
encouraged us to give his toys a try.  Characters used without
permission.  No infringement intended.  Anyone you've never met
before showed up and asked to be here.  Honest.  New characters
were as much a surprise to me as they may be to you but they're still
mine!  :D

This story (MULDER CHRONICLES------>  THE BUREAU YEARS:
PART 4, RENEWAL) rolled around in the old noggin' for months and
months, like a dozen of them.  Several scenes were penned in a
tattered notebook then allowed to age.  Writing began in earnest
during April and was completed May, 1996.  All ideas were original at
conception; however, about 100 KB into the project, I began to notice
a story here and there bearing minor similarities.  As I had already
invested many hours in designing the plot, etc., I opted to leave
Renewal as it stood and cite 'great minds syndrome' in the disclaimer.
We DO write in a small, albeit richly diverse universe.

Comments should be directed to LuvMulder@aol.com.  I welcome
feedback:  if you have time, please let me know what you think!

(Oh, it seems there is an IRC LuvMulder--We have both used the
name since late ' 95.  To avoid confusion, I am NOT RPIsrael)

Reference to OKLAHOMA (a FABULOUS ride) is with permission of
Amp and Goo.  Thanks, guys!

NC17 for language.
Angst.  Lots and lots of Angst.
 

"I have known the worst the world can do to me,
and...nevertheless, I praise the world and all
living."

Thornton Wilder, 1930

********************************************************
*******************************************************
                         THE BUREAU YEARS:
                                 RENEWAL

Copyright LuvMulder 1996
******************************************************
******************************************************
FBI Headquarters
Washington, D.C.
Basement

MEMPHIS POLICE DEPARTMENT:
          SHELBY COUNTY

Case No.:  5345329-65
Chief Investigating Officer:  Steve Harrison
Narrative:  WF, JANE DOE, no identifying marks; age approx. 23-28
years

See Attachments----File No. 5345239-65a-f (originals archived at
Federal Heights)
________________________________________________________
________________________________________________________

O842 hours, Saturday, March 16th, received a report of a body laying
in Erickson Field, northwest quad, Mayfield and Kelsey.  Officer Matt
O'Grady and I responded code 2, arriving at the scene to find Park
West EMT and Station 3 fire rescue already on site.  Following
confirmation of probable wrongful death, the scene was secured per
standard protocol with...
 

Mulder yawned, flipped through the remainder of the pages, finally
tossing the attached photographs and supplemental reports into the
'maybe' pile.  Seventeenth case file consumed that day, the information
catalogued, ingrained for eternity within the sulci and fissures of his
brain.  Patterns, possibilities drifted into his thoughts.  Idly, almost
at play, he'd muse, purse his lips, pausing to follow the paths logic
dictated so clearly to his mind.  "Mulder Think" Scully called it:
alluring, complex, and utterly incomprehensible to anyone but him.
Even Scully had a hard time with his differences.  Even Scully...

"Damn!" Mulder exclaimed aloud to no one in particular.

The sound--hollow...lonely--echoed in the windowless office.  The
blue glow emanating from the Dell monitor lent the agent's features
uncharacteristic harshness.  Disgusted, he pushed away from the desk
and stood, moving slowly to massage both temples.

<You're getting too damn old for 18 hour days and nights on a couch,
Mulder.>

The silent condemnation brought a wry smile to his face.  Mulder
paused, adjusted his glasses and turned to glance at the digital clock
on Scully's desk:  2 A.M.  Hell, where had the hours gone?  No wonder
he had a headache.  Fourth one in as many days.

Thank God Scully was off doing her Spring conference circuit.  The
last thing he needed was a lecture.  Life with a health care
professional: non stop mothering and more than he'd ever hoped to
know about aches, pains, and strains.

He could see her now.  Hands on her hips, exuding that exasperated
aura she seemed to reserve just for him.  And so damned earnest it
*hurt.*    "Mulder, your life might take on a whole new dimension if
you'd try for 5 hours of rest a night.  Slept in a bed?"

"You offering?" he'd teased, wearing his best expression of innocence.

"You're impossible," she'd replied, moving to remind him, quite subtly,
the advantage an eleven inch height differential gave her.

It had been good to see her smile.  For them to joke.  Four years
before the new millennium, and their world had already been marred by
personal catastrophes worthy of a soothsayer.  So much pain, wrapped
seductively in the shroud of guilt.  Just enough to make it impossible
to let go, impossible to ignore.  Enough to mask all smiles with a
shadow of sadness.  <Scully, has the price of our work been too
high?>

The knock, tentative and soft, startled him.

"Yeah?" he responded, making an almost imperceptible shift to cradle
the Sig Sauer.  Experienced fingers positioned the weapon, deftly
mating palm to grip.  <God, Mulder, a little paranoid even for you,
eh?>

Mulder tensed, alert, as the door began to swing wide.

"Put it away, G-man.  It's only me."

"Jesus, Murph!  Someday..."

"Save it, bud.  I've cleaned this wing every other night, starting at
midnight for ten years now.  Mr. Photographic memory and  *I'm*
supposed to leave a schedule?" he replied, obviously bemused.

Mulder smiled.  Francis Ian Murphy,  Murph to those who mattered.
Second generation American, he'd been the Senior Building Engineer
long before Mulder graduated to the basement.  Father of four, sports
fanatic and one of the few people in Washington Mulder considered a
friend.

"Little Red out of town or are you living dangerously?" the Irishman
inquired as he made his rounds.

"Murph, she EVER hears you call her that and...well...you and Jeannie
won't need to take temperatures or mark calendars anymore."

It was Murphy's turn to grin.  "At ease, man.  'Sides, I have so much
dirt on you after all these years, I think my secret is safe."

Abruptly the man crinkled his nose, and began to search for the source
of a distinctly unpleasant aroma.

"Where is she this time?" Murphy inquired, as he began to poke in
office shadows even Mulder rarely acknowledged.

"Conferencing.  She's been gone a week so far.  Keynote speaker at
the one in Fresno on the 20th," he replied with obvious pride.

"You been living here again?  The place *stinks* Mulder!"
 

"All right, Murph,"  Mulder offered, eyeing the Irishman. "What's it
gonna cost me this time?"

"Really Agent Mulder, you wouldn't be trying to bribe me?"

"Why stop now, you're practically a season ticket holder for the
Redskins, Bullets *and* Capitals."

"Bingo!"  The Irishman exclaimed as he kneeled to retrieve rectangular
objects from the back of the copy machine.  Murph dumped three,
days old pizza containers into the trash, satisfied, he eased himself into
Scully's chair.  "Well, since you asked,  Mom and Dad Eddings will be
in town in a couple of weeks.  You know how Jeannie's dad loves the
Capitals.  If you do the in-laws, I can afford the rest.  Deal?"

"Just remember, Murph, if I get a lecture I'm coming after you."

Murphy shifted position, doing his best to appear genuinely pained, "I
won't tell; you have my word."  <I won't have to, friend.  The lady
*knows* you.>

Murph liked Scully.  She had been the best thing to happen in Mulder's
life for a long, long time.  Someone who knew the score and would
stand with him in this nest of vipers.  Mulder needed her, whether he
knew it or not.  "I haven't seen you here this late in a while?  Bad
one?"

"Not sure.  Could be.  Has the smell, but I haven't been able to put my
finger on anything yet.  Got any aspirin, Murph?"

"Yeah, let me finish up here and I grab a couple from my cubby.  Then
maybe you'll get the hell out of here and go home?"

"Maybe," he replied, distracted.

Murphy studied the agent, unobtrusively, as he turned to leave.
Mulder looked on edge, preoccupied, older than his years.  Something
was up; they'd known each other too long.  But Mulder held
everything in.  Late 'night,' the office ripe with the bouquet of rotting
pizza, innocent betrayal that telegraphed the truth.

It was a bad one.

***********************************
***********************************

MULDER'S OFFICE
HOURS LATER
 

"Forget where home is, Agent Mulder?"  Skinner inquired with an
authoritative air, the one intended to quake subordinate knees.  He
stared at Mulder, slumbering peacefully atop a paper mountain.  The
flip of a switch bathed the office in reality, relieving the screen
saver its illumination duties.  Skinner walked toward Mulder, each hand
wrapped around a steaming cup of coffee.

"Huh, what...?"  Mulder roused slowly.  <God, I just dropped off.
Feels like it, anyway.>  Hazel eyes looked up to meet enigmatic
browns.  Mirrors of the soul; irritated, amused, or both?  <Shit.>

"Here,"  Skinner said, extending his hand, "you look like you could use
a cup.  Black, isn't it?"

"Yes, thanks."  Mulder reached for the mug, stealing a quick look at
his wrist as he guided the contents to the desktop.  5:00 A.M. <What
the hell was Skinner doing here at this time of day?>

"Moonlighting for the cafeteria, sir?"  Mulder inquired.  Whatever it
was he was not in the mood to wait.  <Slam me now and get it over
with.>

"Got me, Mulder.  I'd never worried about being found out because
most of my underlings think sleeping in their own beds preferable to
government issue straight backs."

Mulder grinned,  "Time got away from me.  The remaining Memphis
files didn't come in until late yesterday afternoon.  I was playing catch
up."

"So what do you think?"

Mulder shook his head, carefully considering his words.  "I'd
appreciate it if  you'd look at the Victoria case first," he stated,
rising from the chair to retrieve the data.  "Shit!" he hissed as sharp,
knifelike pain, shot through his lower back, temporarily halting upward
movement.

"Mulder?"

"Ah, it's nothing.  Just surprised me.  Took a tumble at the end of
yesterday's run. Must have twisted going down," he noted, stiffly
making his way to the filing cabinet.  "There's something odd in the
supplemental:  McIlhaney's, the one dated March 30th."

Mulder handed his boss the file, watching as Skinner sifted through
inches thick paperwork until the questionable supplement was found.
The A.D., skilled from years of similar drill, scanned the documents,
assessing, mentally highlighting bits of data that might match Mulder's
red flags.

The younger agent waited patiently, sipping coffee, grateful for the
caffeine boost.  Something nagged at him.  Something about Skinner's
expression;  his very presence.  As yet, indefinable.  But there
nonetheless; he could feel it.  Frohicke would be proud,  Mulder didn't
have "S" tattooed on his chest for nothing.   Hmmmm.  Something
Skinner was avoiding?  About the case?  Another board of inquiry?
Personnel howling about insurance claims?  <Sir, I've made an effort.
Honestly, sir.>  Hell, he'd even used his own cell phone the last three
weeks.  Hmmmmm.  Oh God, Scully.  Could something have
happened to Scully?

"Sir?"  Mulder inquired before Skinner had completed page four.
"You don't usually punch in at 5AM."

"Jim Gilbert woke me up a couple of hours ago..."

"The Houston SAC?"

"You know him?" Skinner replied with surprise.

"We've met.  <The prick.> When I was profiling full time."  Mulder kept
his voice even, neutral.  No need to get into it now.  There were a lot
of small men in the Bureau.   Weasels whose power mongering would
make Machiavelli pale.

"Funny, he didn't mention knowing you."

Mulder stared hard at his boss, just for a moment, before switching
attention to the contents of his coffee mug;  concentration worthy of a
thesis defense.

Didn't take a psychic to interpret that body language.  "Not a card
carrying member of the Spooky fan club?"

Mulder sighed audibly.  "You could say that.  I presume you
mentioned him for a reason?"

"Apparently the Harris County Sheriff called Jim yesterday.
Distraught, he's up for re-election.  They've got two more bodies.
Locals from the DA on down are lobbying for the label."

Crisis averted, Scully was fine.  <Whatever it is, Skinner has a feeling
I'm gonna be pissed; he's dragging this one out.>  "And?"

"And Jim thinks it's too early."

"Uncharacteristic restraint for Agent Gilbert.  I'd have expected him to
be conducting hourly media briefings."
 

Skinner chuckled softly,  "You two *must* have a history.  You'll
have to tell me about it sometime.  I'll grant you Jim can be an
asshole, but he follows SOP.  Which," he added pointedly, "is more
than I can say for some people."

<Ouch.> "So why the wake up call?"

"The situation became political early this morning.  It appears victim
number five, what's left of her, is--was--the wife of a retired state
senator.  She'd been missing since leaving bridge club the previous
afternoon."

<Here it comes.> "I take it my name came up?"

"Loud and clear."

"Gilbert's idea?"

"Not exactly.  Senator Matheson phoned the Director after the wife
was ID'd.  Seems the victim's husband and the senator worked
together on the Hill.  They got close when Matheson was a freshman.
Your expertise was requested as a special favor to the family.  In
appreciation of years of faithful service to the country, so forth and so
on."

Skinner wouldn't be here had the powers that be not agreed to the
request.  "Consultant or assigned?"

"Consultant.  It's Gilbert's case.  I take it that may be tough but it
affords you more freedom to work in your own, uh, unique way."

<God damn mother fucking shit!>  Mulder made an effort to steady his
breathing, anger full-blown.  A pawn, a political favor.  Like some
prize pig at the fair taken home by the highest bidder.  He had work to
do.  Sixty hours invested in the Memphis case, nothing substantial, and
Mac expecting a profile in 48 hours.

Skinner watched Mulder process the news.  Beneath the neutral affect
he knew the agent was seething.  He'd have felt the same were
positions reversed.  Political agendas--pandering snake oil.  Mulder
had no one but himself to blame, if one could fault genius.  His
uniqueness made him desirable and loathed, by white and black hats
alike. Paranormal or human pathology, it never mattered.  Agent Fox
Mulder, human sponge, walked into a case, and, after experiences his
own mother would question, walked out with solutions.  Every time.
Every fucking time.  You couldn't blame Matheson for wanting the
best.

"I take it *no* is not an option?"

Skinner shifted, reaching toward his back pocket.  Seconds later he
produced an envelope bearing an all too familiar color and logo.

"The latest installment for your frequent flyer collection." he replied,
extending the envelope to Mulder's outstretched hand.  "You arrive at
Intercontinental late morning."  Skinner rose to leave.  "My hands
were tied on this one.  Satisfy the politicos and get home."

Mulder watched bitterly as Skinner exited the office.  Matheson.
There had been a time he'd have been more than inclined to do the man
a favor.  Honor bound.  But that was before Iowa, before Mulder's
calls were deferred to junior staffers who, with painful politeness,
reminded him, day after day, that the Senator was unavailable.

Mulder manipulated the gold rimmed envelope, withdrawing the
boarding pass.  Damn, he had to be at Dulles in 90 minutes.  Barely
time to shower and pack.  <Shit, Shit.> There was a way around this,
had to be.  Hmmmm.

That could work.  He'd stay at a decent hotel; one where he could
request the concierge to supply missing toiletries and have the hotel
laundry do his shirts.  Perks he rarely indulged.  That might do it.
Might just give him the minutes necessary to scan the Memphis files
onto disc.

***********************************
***********************************
 

5:00 A.M.
Federal Bureau of Investigation
Sub-basement, Level II A
Supervisor's Locker Room
 
 

Murphy stripped to his skivvies and dug through the pile, a reluctant
participant in what had become a workday ritual.  He chose the most
likely candidate, holding it eye level.

<Shit.>  Thirstiest one in the bunch and you could still read USA
TODAY through the worn fibers.  Good old Uncle Sam, six hundred
dollars for a toilet seat but procurement couldn't bid on a decent set of
towels.  Minor issue, really.  After all, this was his favorite time of
day.  A quick shower, thirty five minutes (or so) on the beltway, and he'd be
home.  Home to Jeannie's warm embrace with almost an hour to call
their own.

Jeannie knew how to make the most out of every second, too.  God,
he loved the woman.  Fifteen years together and he wanted her more
than on their wedding night.  Unlike many couples, the arrival of
children had not put a damper on their lovemaking.  The little darlings
had simply forced mom and dad to become more creative.  Jeannie had
natural talent, pure and simple.
 

Murph couldn't help but worry he'd wake up one day to find it had
been a dream;  all you had to do was turn on the news to know life as
you knew it could disappear in a heartbeat.  Forever changed.  It
happened to others...look at Mulder.
 

Fox.  He'd not seen his friend in a couple of months.  Judging by the
man's appearance the weeks had not been kind.  But you could never
tell with Mulder.  A good night's sleep, one barely adequate by most
people's standards, and he'd show up at the office, clean and pressed.
Bureau poster boy.  He would hide it all behind that boyish grin and
quiet exterior;  a fortress of isolation armies couldn't breach.
 

Mulder didn't necessarily verbalize his personal demons, but
psychologists and FBI agents hadn't  cornered the market on analytical
skills.  Murphy would note the shift to office living, to playing pickup
games with a bit too much intensity.  He saw the dark circles, the way
Mulder's clothes would begin to hang.

And the physical scars, new ones every few months; plus a guarding
and stiffness to Mulder's movements that always followed a
particularly long absence from the office. <Hospital...again.>

It didn't take a genius to peg Mulder as a modern day Job.  He lead a
life of betrayal and loss that would send most men over the edge.
Mulder had been at the precipice--teetered precariously --but he
always managed to right himself, just in time.  The man was a survivor,
with a hardiness few could match.  For everything he'd been through
Mulder *did* seem happier the last few years.

Murphy knew Dana had a lot to do with that.  Correction, make that
*everything* to do with that.  He smiled remembering how incredibly
pissed Mulder had been when Blevins assigned Little Red to his inner
sanctum.  Look at them now.  Mirror images of the other in their
dedication and loyalty to the job and the partnership.  No, it was
more than dedication, more than loyalty.  All you had to do was see
the way they looked at one another when they worked.  Even when
boiling with anger, there was an unmistakable twinkle in their eyes that
telegraphed mutual affection.
 

Jeannie and the kids hadn't seen the man in a while; it was definitely
time to get Mulder back to the house for dinner.  Murphy decided to
extend the invitation next time he cleaned the office.  The kids had
been wondering where their Uncle Fox had been lately. "He's better at
hoops than you are, Daddy!"  Besides, Murphy knew Jeannie would
be pleased; she thought it a crime so gentle a man went home to an
empty apartment.

"Murphy, you use up all the hot water and your ass is mine!"
 

The sound startled Murph back to the present.

"Promises, promises, Tom.  I'm almost finished." he responded, giving
his hair one last rinse.

Murphy emerged from the steam to face the impatient, weathered face
of Tom Littlefield, head trouble shooter in the maintenance
department.  If it was mechanical Tom spoke its language.  He could
sweet talk anything with gears; dicker a bit and the blasted thing would
cooperate, like a child wanting to please its mama.

"I brought your mail.  Wouldn't want you to waste time here when you
could be..."

"Now, now, Thomas," the Irishman replied, " jealously does not
become you."

"Smart ass.  I'll never knows what Jeannie sees in you," he replied, a
smile in his voice.

Five minutes later Murphy was dry, dressed and halfway down the
hall, doing a Carl Lewis to the elevator.  "Damn, the mail."  He
sprinted back to the locker room, palmed the stack, heading for home.

***********************************
***********************************
7th Annual Rocky Mountain Conference on Infectious Disease
Durango Room
Sonnenalp Resort
Vail, Colorado
 

"Do you think this guy will ever shut up?" she whispered, a bit too
loudly for Southern politeness.

"Rae Jean Forbes, will you behave?  He's one of the foremost
virologists in the nation!  *You* have a lecture to prepare outlining
these 'new' theories,"  Dana admonished, doing her best to sound
appropriately stern.

"So, how about we fly YOU to Chapel Hill instead?  You get another
trip and I won't have to murder the idiot."

"Disagree just a teensy weensy little bit with Dunlap,  *Doctor
Forbes*?"

"Need I remind you 'foremost' is a relative term.  The guy is full of
she...ut, *Dr. Scully.*  See you in a few, I'm heading for the comfort
station."

<Of the Southern variety? Reggie wasn't drinking again was she?>
Dana watched Rea Jean leave, all 5'2" of her.  They'd been joined at
the hip during med school; Rae playing tweedle dum to her tweedle
dee.  Dana had always envied the woman.

Reggie ('Rae Jean' in front of Mutha and Fatha, of course) had known
where she was headed before finishing prerequisites.  A whiz with a
microscope, she had research in her blood.  And she was damn good.
If Reggie thought the presenter out of his depth, she was probably
right.
 

Dana had made the mistake of dismissing her friend once, early into
their acquaintance; before she'd grown to appreciate the brilliant
mind hidden beneath the deceptively slow, drawl.  The accent that
inexplicably disappeared when fired to anger.  Second semester,
microbiology, Raynard's class.  Reggie spotted a flaw in the book, three actually, and told Dana as much.  She had ignored the advice--the
information was in a Mosby's text  for God's sake.  It was the
only quiz Dana ever failed. She never ignored Reggie again.

************************************
************************************

Bully Ranch Bar and Grill
One Hour Later
 

"You never came back," Dana said quietly, seating herself opposite
Reggie.

Reggie flashed Dana her trademark grin, the mischievous one that
charmed Scully's mouth into 'yes' when her conscience said 'no' and
had been instrumental in getting them  locked out of the dorm on more
than one occasion.

"Take a load off and order your lunch."

"Can it, Rae Jean.  Why did that presentation upset you so?  It's just a
conference..."

The server came and went, leaving Reggie to Dana's pointed inquiry.

"I think it was his damn arrogance.  Researcher versus clinician turf
wars."

"I'm listening."

"The man spoke about therapeutic protocols and generational
antibiotics like we are back in the mid 1940's when bug killers were
first discovered.  God, Dana, do you realize the tightrope we're
walking in our ability to treat critter induced diseases?"

Conversation ceased as the server brought Dana's order, giving her
time to appreciate the urgency in Reggie's tone.  "I do remember
reading something about a variety of concerns but I've been more into
forensics of late.  Bring me up to speed."
 

"Okay, let's take TB as an example.  Mycobacterium tuberculosis, bug
extraordinaire. It was probably a part of the primordial mud from
which we sprang, jumping into our food chain when primitive man
chose meat to accompany grains."

Dana nodded, urging Reggie to continue.

"Okay, when we entered the 20th century, finding a cure for this
disease was the number one medical priority for humanity.  Remember,
this bug holds the record for deaths attributable to a single agent in all
of recorded history."

Reggie took a sip of tea, searching for the right words to make her
point.  "Arrogance isn't new, Dana.  In 1948, then Secretary of State
George Marshall spoke at a conference declaring the conquest of
infectious disease to be imminent.  Poof.  Gone.  TB was reclassified
from  'extremely dangerous' to an 'easily managed minor infection.'  Do
you have any idea how many are infected with this disease as we sit
here chatting in this cozy little resort?"

"Not really.  Millions, I'd imagine."

"Try 1.7 billion human beings.  One third of our global population.
Dana, the fucker has a greater than 50 % case fatality rate if
untreated."

"But we've *got* drugs that kill TB bacilli.  We've got..."

"In many cases we still have a little lee way left.  But, Dana,
AIDS/HIV along with increasing world poverty are changing the
balance.  Reggie's eyes locked on those of her friend, pleading for
understanding.  "Think, Dana.  Bugs are smart.  They have...they have
an intelligence.  They want to live."

Comprehension dawned as the frightening implications of what had
gone unsaid emerged fully into Scully's awareness.  Dana felt herself
grow cold, her appetite disappear.

It all made sense:  Rea Jean's invitation to accompany her to the
virology conference; the friendly insistence that Dana request an extra
week of vacation so she *could* add Vail to her schedule.

Dana's eyes grew wide, "My God, Reggie, what are you
working on?"
************************************
************************************

Continued in Chapter 2
 

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

RENEWAL by LuvMulder@aol.com
Disclaimer at the beginning of CHAPTER 1
************************************
************************************

CHAPTER 2

***********************************
***********************************
Intercontinental Airport
Houston, Texas
 

Five pounds lighter than usual and the weight was *still* noticeably
uncomfortable.  Mulder switched the Lands End carry on from his
shoulder to left hand and resumed walking toward the long row of
rental counters.

He'd had every intention of working the entire flight; doggedly
determined to meet the agreed upon deadline.  Scully joked he made
gratification deferral an art form.  Maybe it was true, but he'd given
Mac his word the profile would be in the Memphis office ASAP--48
hours at the outside--and so it would, whatever the sacrifice.

Hopefully Scully would forgive his appropriating her laptop; his own
Dell Lattitude was still on backorder.  He'd been in a hurry, no time
touch base with her in Colorado.  He would leave a voicemail first
chance he got.  Besides, it was best she thought him in Washington.
Scully was a worrier.

Mulder had arranged an upgrade to first class.  "Frequent flyer
collection" indeed. Skinner's idea of a joke.  Almost 10 years had
passed since federal employees had been allowed to personally utilize
the perks taken for granted by the average American.  It had cost him
a day's pay but was worth every penny.  Plush seats, only two abreast,
were considerably more comfortable than his desk chair.  Adequate leg
room, a non-stop flight, and three extra strength Tylenol had been
sufficient to lull him into oblivion.

He hadn't been tempted to partake of the in-flight meal, visibly
disappointing a stewardess who was far more solicitous than
demanded by her job description.  He groggily muttered another
*thanks but no thanks,* returning to sleep moments later.

For some reason "The Mulder Maneuver" wasn't working.  Langly's
endearing phraseology described the technique Mulder had developed
and mastered during Oxford days.  Designed to combat chronic
insomnia, he'd learned to literally convince himself (anytime,
anywhere), that he'd just awakened from a period of restful sleep.  Five
minutes of self-talk, and the agent emerged renewed, refreshed and
able to work when others faded to black.

This time, even after four hours of genuine rest, the usual on a *good
night*, his attempt had failed.  It felt like he'd been run over by a
semi.

The long walk to pick up the car was helpful, he was definitely more
alert.  But the goddamned headache was back, only slightly less
pronounced than before and his back seemed even more tender than
earlier in the day.

<40.  You fall apart at 40, right?  Not in your mid 30s.>

"Sir?"  A young man in a dark suit, regulation haircut, was bearing
down on him from the opposite end of the concourse, clutching
something Mulder couldn't identify.

"Excuse me, Mr. Mulder?  Mr. Fox Mulder?" he inquired
enthusiastically.

"Yes, what can I do for you?"
 

Mulder paused, impatient, angling his neck to view the object in the
young man's hand. Photo. Familiar.  <What the...?>   He was
staring at an enlarged version of the mug shot affixed to the front
jacket of his Bureau personnel folder.

A final, reassuring glance at the agent's glossy likeness and the eager
beaver reached decisively for Mulder's carry-on.

"Hey, woah there, partner."

"Oh, sorry, sir,"  the man said, extending his right hand.  "My name is
John Franklin, I've been assigned to provide your transportation."

Gilbert's idea of a joke?  He was really not in the mood.  "You've got
to be kidding."

"No sir, please, I'm quite serious.  Courtesy of Senator Etherton."

<Etherton?   Senior this term, if memory served. >

"He made arrangements first thing this morning.  You have my
services as long you're in town."

An FBI agent with a chauffeur?  This was choice, Scully would love
it.  Prime grist for the Bureau rumor mill and an admirable addition to
Spooky mythology.  Mulder chuckled softly, surrendered his luggage
and motioned Franklin to lead the way.

***********************************
***********************************
FBI Field Office
2500 East TC Jester
Houston, Texas

Second Floor

The inner sanctum of the Houston field office, although boasting the
largest square footage in the state, gave visitors an instant feeling of
claustrophobia.  Plaster walls displayed that commonality of color and
decor which distinguished government offices from those in the private
sector.  Viewed from any angle, one observed desktops decorated with
PC hardware as well as block after block of metal filing cabinets.
Their sheer numbers reduced what might have otherwise been
adequate space to the close quarters you'd expect if assigned
submarine duty.  The few private offices, those reserved primarily for
the SAC and ASAC, could only be reached by winding your way
through the maze and hanging a right at the pop machine.
 

Karen Michaud was putting the finishing touches on her resume.  The
phones had been unusually quiet, probably due to the new automated
menu.  Being a receptionist was far more satisfying than most people
imagined, but she'd made up her mind yesterday, enough was enough.
There had been a time nothing pleased her more than to tell friends she
worked as support personnel for the local FBI.  There was a pride in
knowing her organizational skills keep the staff of thirty functioning
smoothly, regardless of circumstance.

That had all changed when Gilbert was assigned as SAC.  Jim Gilbert
had eighteen years in government service. He'd been with the INS
before joining the Bureau 13 years previously, having night schooled his
way to a law degree.  They'd been told he would be an asset, a fair
leader with exceptional people skills.  Karen had never been able to
figure out if people were really fooled by Gilbert's act or if they were
too worried about their own careers to call his bluff.  Whatever, she
was ready to throw six years with government benefits down the tubes
for a higher paying if less secure civilian job.

Michaud ran the resume through spell check and saved the file,
clicking once more to pull up the master schedule for the day.
Nothing major expected other than a Washington visitor, a division
honcho,  the one she was instructed to "head off at the pass."  The
SAC's  very words.  What an asshole.  The man did not know the
meaning of the word professional.

She looked up just in time to see a lean man: 30ish, dark suit,
neckwear challenged, stroll past her desk.

"Sir, excuse me?"

The fellow had a deliberate stride; the kind that said he knew exactly
where he was headed.  Karen was certain she'd never seen him before.
He was exquisite; she'd have remembered.

"Sir, may I help you?"  He paused, turning in her direction, right index
finger pointed at the visitor's badge clipped to his lapel.  Time for a
dose of Texas hospitality.  First lesson she'd learned: even in a
bureaucracy, especially in a bureaucracy, cordiality worked better than
ire.

"Hi, I'm Karen Michaud.  It's part of my job to let people know they
have visitors on the way.  Saves calls to 911, you know."  Karen was
pleased the young man returned her grin, following her back to the
desk minus protest.

"Sorry, I've been here before.  Habit."    Mulder extended his hand,
mentally noting her grip equaled his own.  "I'm Fox Mulder,
Washington Bureau.  I flew in about 20 minutes ago.  Gilbert's
expecting me."

THIS was Mulder?  The *psycho* she was supposed to deflect?
Crap like this was one of the many reasons she was leaving.  Gilbert
was kin to a jelly fish.  So little backbone she wondered how he stood
upright.  Hopefully this would be the last time she would be forced to
lie for the SOB.

"Agent Mulder, welcome to Houston.  The SAC is unavailable for the
next few days.  He did leave a case file and an HPD contact for you."
Karen handed Mulder a large manila envelope.  "In addition, I've been
instructed to ask you to work through our ASAC, Philip Maitlin,
should you have questions or concerns.  I stapled his business card on
the outside of the folder.  Also, Senator Samuelson left a message that
he'd be expecting to hear from you this afternoon.  His number is on
the back of Agent Maitlin's card."

Gilbert hadn't changed; once a prick always a prick.  So this is how
the SAC wanted to play it:  stonewall his involvement.  Fox had little
doubt Gilbert was in town.  The ass had probably taken personal days
just so he could legitimize his lack of availability.  Shit, the whole
task force was probably coordinating the investigation out of the fucker's
basement!

No problem, the work would get done, obstacles or no obstacles.
Mulder was anything but new to such tactics.  In fact, he usually
enjoyed the challenge.  Adversity kept him on his toes, taught him
strategies he could use later, on *official* perpetrators.

But today, today he was not at his best.

"Ms. Michaud, can you spare a piece of paper?"

Something about the way those hazel eyes peered into hers.  This guy
knew, he *knew.* Straight out of D.C. and he had Gilbert's number.
She watched him write, nearly filling the memo, when he paused,
ripping the effort in half. He pocketed the remains and withdrew
a business card instead.
 

"Changed my mind.  Call Jim and tell him I *got* his message.  I'm
going to check into a hotel and call the Senator.  Should Jim want to
chat about old times, the number for my cell phone is on the back.
Thank you for your help."
 

Karen fingered the card, watching Mulder retreat to the elevator.
Who was this stranger that intimidated her boss, the master gamester
himself?  She hoped Gilbert would give her a reason to call this man
who's Christian name matched his looks and charm.

***********************************
***********************************
Mulder made an appointment with the Senator on the town car phone
before setting aside twenty minutes to check into the Warwick
--Etherton's treat--and review his voicemail.  Scully's remarks played
after the 6th queue.  She sounded bubbly, relaxed, and unquestionably
happy:  "Mulder, eat your heart out.  I've got a free minibar and heated
marble floors in the bathroom!  Reggie says hi.  We bought you an
Avalanche tie.  I know you wanted the Nuggets but we were getting
threatening looks from the natives.  Hey, I haven't heard from you in a
couple of days.  Don't forget our agreement.  Keep out of trouble.
Talk to you soon."    She was leading a normal life and it agreed with
her.

Maybe working alongside him for almost three years really *was* the
reason for her moody disposition of late.

************************************
************************************

Estate of Willard P. Samuelson, III
United States Senator, Retired

Old money.  Everything about the residence from the circular drive to
the manicured grounds echoed the fact that *this* man did not worry
about the price of gasoline.  Mulder had Franklin drop him off and
ordered the boy to go play.  A polite request that met with immediate
resistance.

"Wait on me and you're fired.  When I'm ready for pick up, I'll call."
Being 'attended to' was not Mulder's style.  The very idea made him
feel extraordinarily uncomfortable.

Mulder identified himself to the butler and was led into a wood
paneled study, discretely separated from the small groups of friends
and relatives that had gathered to pay their respects.  He took the
opportunity to survey the walls of books lining the far side of the
room.  Years of experience had proven one could learn a lot about a
man from the authors on his bookshelf.  Chopra, Cayce,
Hemingway, Chaucer, Einstein, Clancy, Cornwell, Heinlein,
Cussler, eclectic to say the least.  There was even the new
W.E.B. Griffin he'd been wanting to read.

"I'm told you're the best, Agent Mulder."   Fox turned toward the
sound,  surprised to have been so deeply in thought as to miss the
older man's entrance.

"I give each case an honest effort.  Sometimes I get lucky."

"He also said you were modest."  <What else did Matheson tell you?>

"Please allow me to offer condolences regarding your loss."  The man
had the air of a distinguished academic, not the hard driving
flamboyant Texan the press had loved to jibe.

"Thank you, You have no idea. Here, please sit down.  Some
tea, perhaps?"

"None for me, thanks."  Mulder was prepared to be patient, giving the
older man time to pace the conversation, a technique born as much
from cunning as courtesy.  You learned more this way.  If a husband
was a viable suspect, he'd usually trip himself up in the first 24-48
hours.   Not that Fox expected the man to be involved, but assumptions
made for costly mistakes.

"I married late.  Lisa is everywhere I look in this house.  Every stick of
furniture, the cutting garden, the smells..."

The Senator looked to be in his early to mid seventies, aging well, as
do most who can afford to take care of their health.  He appeared
remarkably in control yet on the brink emotionally, a ragged
duality Mulder often noted in the newly bereaved.
 

As he spoke, Samuelson peered out the east window; apparently
taking comfort in the serene beauty afforded by the pond and mature
oak trees beyond.

"Our anniversary was next month-35 years.  Lisa was my life.  She
was the reason I got up in the morning."  The words were not coming
easily.  "You're so young. Can you understand?"
 

Mulder registered the question, on some level; yet, without conscious
effort, he found himself remembering another time, another place.
Northeast Georgetown Medical Center, the Intensive Care Unit,
Scully comatose, lifeless for all intents and purposes, with machines
maintaining functions her body no longer performed.  When had *loss*
become synonymous with the absence of  his partner instead of
Sam?  The pain of separation and loss of loved ones was a universal
invariant.  How could he NOT understand?
 

After moments of absolute quiet, Samuelson realized there would be
no direct answer to his question.  Few politicians survived beyond a
first term if they did not become acute observers of men.  Mulder's
silence spoke volumes.  This agent, young though he may be, was no
stranger to pain.  Yet, he chose to keep his own counsel.  Matheson
was right, this was a strong one.

"Senator, I think it is important for you to have an appreciation for my
position here.  I've been brought in as a consultant.   The FBI doesn't
actually have jurisdiction in murder cases.  You're aware the local
bureau had already been called in to assist HPD.  Although I haven't
had time to do a thorough assessment;  so far, it appears they *have*
minded their P's and Q's.  Evidence has been collected and sent to DC
for analysis.  Other than interpretation of that and what I see in the
field reports, I'm not sure how much difference *my*  being involved
can make."

Samuelson's response was automatic, as if he'd expected Mulder to
decry involvement.  "Agent Mulder, say you had a very sick child.
One who needed surgery.  And you had four surgeons, all equally
qualified specialists.  Identical records and training.   Naturally, you
want the best for your child.   How would you make such a choice?

"I'm not entirely sure, sir."

"You'd evaluate the MAN, Agent Mulder.  Looking for a special
talent, an eye for the unusual, a gift if you will.  You'd want the man
with a sixth sense that might tell him where to cut or when he had
*all* the tumor.  You, son, are as adept at comprehending the human
psyche as a skilled surgeon is at manipulating his scalpel."

"I can't promise anything."

"I know enough about your background to be comforted just knowing
you are here."

"I'll do my best, sir."

"I'd expect no less of Billy's son."

Interesting, Matheson thought, the lad had gone positively pale.

"Sir?"  Mulder felt his heart skip a beat.  <Wait a minute.> Was there
more to his being assigned to this case than he'd been lead to believe?

"You seem surprised.  I'm an old man.  In my day, government service
was more intimate, like being in a family.  I was his supervisor, briefly,
in Canada."

"Dad's first post,"  Mulder replied.  Someone who had actually known
his father as a man younger than he himself was now.  Could this elder
statesman provide new pieces to the puzzle?  "What was he like in
those days?"

"Full of piss and vinegar, skipping rungs, on his way up the ladder.  I
left a few months later to test political waters."

"That must mean you knew him, what, over 40 or more years ago?
I'm surprised you remembered him."

"It was Matheson's description of YOU that seemed familiar.  The
name helped of course.  Your father was an incredible young man."

"I'm not quite sure what you mean."  Whatever promise Billy had
shown in his work, that skill had not followed him home.  Here was an
adult son who didn't seem to know his own father.

"Billy Mulder made an impression on everyone he met.  He was one of
the most blindly idealistic and passionate men I've ever had the
pleasure to meet.  Please give him my regards."

"I'm afraid I can't do that, Senator.  He died about this time last year."

"But he would have still been a relatively young man.  Cancer?"

"Uh, no.  He was murdered."

"Lord in heaven.  I had no idea."
 

"Senator Samuelson, I don't want to take more of your time.  I'd like
to review the HPD and local FBI reports more thoroughly then visit
the scene in the morning.  I know you have personal arrangements to
make but I 'd like you to go over the last few days..."
 

"I already told them Lisa wanted to run errands and had decided to
drive herself to bridge club.  They're saying it was that lunatic, the one
the papers are calling a serial killer.  What was done to her body,"  the
old man shuddered visibly,  "my Lisa didn't deserve to die that way..."

"Sir, we have five deaths but the chain of evidence pointing to a serial
perpetrator isn't conclusive.  You're right, though, no one should ever
die that way."

If he hadn't believed that with his very being, he'd have resigned long
ago.  Mulder actually enjoyed profiling; molding unfathomable
behaviors into a recognizable villain,  one that could be apprehended
and tucked away for life.  It was a talent he'd never understand,
exacting a price he was unwilling to pay.  At least not on a daily basis.
Not anymore, not since Oklahoma.

"Senator, I'd like you to review the last few days in detail.  The last
few weeks and months would be even more helpful. Being a public
figure makes that tougher and I know you've already done this;  but it's
important.  Write everything down, doing so can help jog the memory.
Note changes in your norms, letters or phone calls out of place, visitors
to the house, new employees, anyone who might have held a grudge or
seemed a bit too solicitous. *Anything* that might help me interpret
what happened to your wife.  Let me decide if what you recall is
trivial.  Here's my card, the hotel and cell phone numbers are on the
back should you need to reach me. I'll check in with you tomorrow
after I've been out to the scene."  He hated to admit it, but character
flaws aside, Gilbert was a good agent.  If he was pussy footing around
the serial label, he had reasons.  Gilbert didn't like to be wrong,
mistakes could hamper one's ascent to the top.

Mulder shook the older gentleman's hand and saw himself to the door.
Franklin was waiting outside in the driveway.  Mulder was not
surprised, he'd sensed in the driver a fellow maverick, one who was
self assured enough to pick the orders he'd follow.

It was an unexpected relief to sink back into the passenger seat and let
someone else negotiate the Gulf Freeway.  He didn't miss fighting
about who got to drive, either.   Mulder rested his eyes, mulling over
the day.  He still had hours of work ahead.  Mac's profile alone would
consume most of the night. Not the actual writing, profiles went
together fast.  It was trademark speed and accuracy that had earned
him the Spooky moniker.  No, the hours clicked by assimilating the
data, determining the patterns, deciding what fit the puzzle and what
was prudent to dismiss.

"Satisfy the politicos and get home." Skinner's words echoed in his
head.  The game had changed.  Willard P. Samuelson, III had known
his father.  Possibilities had just expanded beyond imagining.
********************************************
********************************************
Murphy Home
Washington, DC
3:45 P.M.
 

"Tina, Carolyn!  Turn the TV down, your dad is still asleep!"  Jeannie
Murphy laughed aloud, watching the twins exaggerate each movement
as they returned to the family room.  Even though her husband slept
with a box fan on 'high,' for white noise, it was still a challenge to
keep the house quite once the school day ended.  How many men worked a
night job, by choice,  so they could spend quality time with their
families?  Her Murph was one in a million.

Jeannie had just set the oven to 350 degrees when she heard the front
door slam.

"Mom, we're home,"  came the soprano voice of their youngest son.

"The butt face was trying to bribe me to drive again, Mom,"  tattled
Jonathan, the oldest, at 17.

Jeannie shot a disapproving glance at Matthew, fifth grade stud, and
continued to prepare dinner.  "Are you planning to pay for the ticket
out of your lunch money, young man?"

"Jon has a big fat mouth."

"Shove it, fart!"  Jonathan responded, reaching to grab his brother.
The brat was no match in a tickle fight and he'd have him crying for
mercy in minutes.

Matthew dodged, yelling for reinforcements, "Tina!  Carolyn!
HELP!  Jon's after me!"

Seconds later the kitchen was in chaos, squirming arms and legs, amid
squeals of laughter.  Oh well, Murph wouldn't really mind.  The kids
were growing up so fast and it *was* almost time for him to get up.
Besides, no one was in tears.  Not yet, anyway.  Jeannie heard a thud
and turned just as Matthew slid into her small desk, the one covered
with bills and mail, sending the contents to the floor.

"Sorry, Mom," came the unison apology as six hands too many tried
and failed to return the desktop to order.

"Hey, Mom, look," Tina said, holding a single envelope apart from the
rest, "they gave Dad Uncle Fox's mail again."

"Uh oh, there must be someone new in the sorting room.  Here, let me
see, hon."

Southern postmark, business size.  How many times had this
happened?  F. Mulder, F. Murphy confusion used to be common, in
fact, it was the main reason Murph and Fox originally met.  When
Mulder was a new hire, each had received the other's mail several
times a week.  Gradually, mix-ups became less frequent.  She couldn't
even remember the last time.  Jeannie didn't give the envelope much
thought.  She tossed it onto the disorganized pile; Murph could return
it Mulder's office tonight.  Important correspondence was
messengered.  Only low priority communication and professional
publications were entrusted to the internal system.  Everyone knew
that.

************************************
************************************

Bully Ranch Bar and Grill
Vail, Colorado

"Dana, I'm sorry, I needed to see you face to face."  Reggie
seemed almost relieved, like a parishioner grateful to tell the priest
why they had sinned.

"All you had to do was call. I'd have taken time off to come down.
You didn't have to lure me to this conference."

Reggie shook her head gently. "You have no idea.  This was the
ONLY way to see you without raising suspicions.  I'm already
violating security by even hinting at my work."

Scully's confusion was clearly evident.

"Dana, you don't get it do you?   I'm ..."

"There you are!"   A male voice boomed from the restaurant's
doorway.  "We've been looking all over for you two.  Come on, the
van is about to leave!"

"Van?"

"You know, the trip into Denver to see Cherry Creek Mall and the
Tattered Cover.  We're eating dinner at Casa Bonita before we head
back."

"That's right.  We forgot!  Paul, we're both tired.  I'd like to pass.
How 'bout you, Reggie?  A soak in the hot tub sound good?"

"No way girls, this is the only free afternoon we have and we'd like a
chance to spend some time with both of you.   It's been years!  Don't
flake out on us.  Please come?"

Reggie spoke first.  "We'd *love* to go.  Come on, suga..." she
added playfully, making a show out of pulling Dana from her chair.
"Pay the bill and let's have some fun."    Rae situated the server's tip,
catching up with her friend at the cash register.

"Tonight!" she whispered, stepping outside, bound for the waiting van.

************************************
************************************
Continued in Chapter 3
 

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

RENEWAL  by LuvMulder@aol.com
Disclaimer at the beginning of CHAPTER 1
************************************
************************************

Chapter 3

************************************
************************************

Warwick Hotel
Room 523
Houston, Texas
 

It hit as soon as he got into the room, wave after wave of nausea so
severe Mulder actually felt grateful the bathroom was adjacent to the
entry door.  Teeth chattering chills had not been far behind.  <Shit.>
The headaches, the backache, the generalized fatigue, this must have
been coming on for days.   <Goddamned flu!>  Just what he fucking
needed.

Misery hadn't stopped with nausea and chills.  Ten minutes later every
OTC savior he'd popped after Franklin's stop at Lucky's was floating
lazily, coloring the toilet water--medicinal confetti.  Mulder, situated
himself prudently on the tile floor, leaning his head against the tub,
grudgingly aware that, for the moment, he was too weak to do
anything else.  God, he hadn't felt this sick in a long time.  It was a
good thing he'd left Scully a voicemail earlier in the day.  She had a
way about her; if he was ill she knew it.  Always.  He could protest,
vehemently deny he was ailing; but she'd only laugh, shake her head in
mock irritation, and plop a thermometer under his tongue.  Scully told
him it was something in his voice.  There was no way in hell he wanted
her worrying.  She was having a great time with Reggie and the flu
was as common as daffodils in Spring.

He crawled into the king size bed when his stomach had settled,
stripping to his boxers after pausing to push the thermostat to 90
degrees.  Shit, he was freezing.  A fever too.  Fucking wonderful.  He
was glad he'd thought to place his pants and shirt outside the door; he
didn't want to move.  Arrangements had been made at check-in; the
hotel laundry promised to pick up and return  his clothes daily, by 5:00
A.M.

It was relatively early, just past the dinner hour.  He'd grab some shut
eye and work on the profile and Samuelson case later.  Hell, if the cord
was long enough, he could power up the lap top and work in bed.
There was always room service if he felt like eating later.  Perfect.
Home away from home.  No, better than home.  This just cost more.

Mulder's last thought was to will his body to health.  It had worked in
the past; why not now.  He really didn't have time for this.
************************************
************************************

Murphy House
10:00 P.M.
Washington, DC

Mom time at last.  Murph was off to work and the older children,
although not asleep, had settled into their rooms until morning.
Jeannie went into the kitchen to make a cup of French vanilla
international coffee, her nightly treat as she watched the local weather
geeks debate over whose Doppler radar was the latest.  Time to write
a last letter to Mom and Dad before their trip.  She picked up the
steaming cup and headed over to her desk, still piled high from the
afternoon scuffle.  Jeannie sifted through the contents, looking for her
writing tablet.  The name Mulder caught her eye.  Damn, she'd
completely forgotten about giving Murph the envelope.  Fox's mail
could be returned tomorrow.  One more day would not make any
difference.

************************************
************************************

Sonnenalp Resort
Room 229
Vail, Colorado
8 P.M. (10PM ET)

"Reggie?"  She'd already knocked three times.  <Where the...?>

The diminutive brunette opened the door, a light green jacket in her
hand.  The one she'd purchased on clearance at Lord and Taylor's
during their field trip into Denver.

"Where are we going?"

Reggie swiftly placed a finger to her lips to indicate silence.  "We're
meeting the gang at the King's Club for drinks.  Wait until you hear
what Gene can do at the keyboard.  Come on, we'll be late."  The
scientist gave Dana a pointed look, then took her arm, heading away
from the elevators, toward a rear exit.  Moments later, they were
walking under the Colorado sky.

"What the hell was *that* all about?  This isn't funny Reggie!  I'm
starting to feel like I'm with Mulder!"

"Shhhh!  Keep your voice down and walk..."

"You'd better start talking, girl friend."

"Dana, I'm debating the wisdom of getting you involved in this."

"It's a little late for that don't you think.  You're one of my best
friends and you're in some kind of trouble.  Wild horses couldn't drag me
away.  After all the manipulating to get me here?  Spill it!"

"Do you remember who I work for?"

"Is this a test?"

Reggie didn't smile.

"Okay," Scully replied, "you're on leave from North Carolina.  Just
guest lectures two or three times a semester.  Currently employed
by the CDC.  Right?"

"Sort of.  Actually, I'm the principal investigator on several grants that
use CDC laboratories as 'in kind' donations.  I imagine most of my
colleagues think Dr. Satchen signs my paycheck just like theirs."

"So who are the funders."

"Primarily federal.  The Pentagon is a major player."

"Reggie, I still don't underst..."

"Keep your face neutral.  Try to look like you're having fun
window shopping."

Dana scanned the narrow, village street.  "You think we're being
followed?"  This whole situation was becoming absurd.  "What the hell
is going on, dammit?"

"You know I've always been fascinated by viruses.  Remember my
theory that retroviruses are intelligent life forms?"

"Yeah, so?"

"Dana, I love my work.  I believe the knowledge has value for the
future survival of mankind.  Doctors have been giving out antibiotics
like candy since the 40's and while it took em a few decades, the
buggers are fighting back.  Diseases like AIDS and ebola are among
the first manifestations of their power.  Understanding how viruses
function and learning how to kill them is mankind's only hope."

"Viruses more so than bacteria?"

"Yes, Viruses are unique; impotent on their own yet able rewrite DNA
and RNA taking over the functions of a host cell.   I know this can get
involved. Try and be patient.  I..."  Reggie grew silent, pausing to
allow a group of tourists to pass them by.
 

"Look, funding is a war zone anymore.  Baby boomers are aging and
the money is going into chronic disease.  Research in the United States
has NEVER been about cures.  It's always been about money.  About
pharmaceutical company's scrambling to make the biggest profits with
a new drug or manipulating the market to obtain a monopoly.   It's
about inventing expensive machines that net revenues capable of
paying the national debt.  Research for infectious disease hasn't been a
priority for many, many years."

Scully was finally beginning to realize what Reggie was trying to tell her.
"So you took bucks from anyone willing to fund your work."

"Yes.  I thought I could handle it."

"But your funders sound legit..."

"It's not their legitimacy I question."  Reggie grew silent, letting
Dana reach logical conclusions.

"Someone wants to use your results in a way you can't live with,
or...Jesus."   She understood at last.  "You're  afraid of what you've
found. That's it, isn't it?"

"It's both," she whispered.

"Go on, tell me."

Reggie took a long, slow breath, squeezing her eyes closed as if
somehow, when she opened them, the recent past would prove to have
been nothing but a dream.

"I did good work, Dana.  Made worthwhile discoveries that I could be
proud of.  I learned things that could make a difference in our fight
against emerging retroviruses.  But there was one virus in particular.
This one was different.  It was, it was unnatural.  Maybe manufactured.
I was never sure.  It was a different kind of predator.  I'd never
seen anything like it and they wouldn't tell me where they'd gotten their samples.  They gave me three batches, mice, level four contamination gear, and stuck me in a lab.  I did 10 generations of studies with PC-96, B."

Her words began to come in ragged bursts. "God, the agent worked
faster than our worst hemorrhagic nightmare!  Only the opposite of
what I had expected.   Most of my animals were dead in 15 minutes.
When I did the autopsies their hemoglobin..."
 

Dana never heard the shots; never had time to be afraid.  What
registered was the look of shocked surprise on her friend's face as the
initial impact spun her body into the store front, shattering glass into
microscopic shards.  Medically, it had been too late the instant that
first hollow point pierced Reggie's flesh.  The second round had been
gratuitous.  The asshole was making sure Dana knew he'd allowed her
to live.
 

Scully didn't recall pulling her automatic,  didn't remember emptying the
clip.  Aim at the muzzle flashes, take down the threat.  Defensive
protocol 101.  Local police didn't find a body.  In some ways Dana
was relieved.  What had she been thinking, firing blind.  This was a
resort.  She could have hit a civilian instead of the shooter.  Pure
reflex.  And Reggie would still be dead.  Dana had no idea why she
wasn't in a body bag as well.

This had been a hit. Clean and precise.  Not perfect, Reggie hadn't
died instantly.  Perhaps it was a mistake, perhaps they'd lost the angle,
inhaled a millisecond too soon.  Or been unprepared for Colorado at
twilight.  Whatever, Reggie breathed her last cradled in Dana's arms;
her best friend helpless to prevent the inevitable.  A doctor's worst
nightmare.

Five hours later, Vail police cleared Dana to leave the station.  The
Denver Bureau had sent two agents, both of whom escorted her to
DIA with such haste there had barely been an opportunity to arrange
for Reggie's things to be forwarded to her parents' Utah home.  The
chief of police agreed the shooter or shooters had probably left the
country before Dana had completed her initial statement. Regardless,
he wanted her out of his community.  Assassinations were bad for
business and no one could be sure she was not a target.
********
********
DENVER INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
CONCOURSE C

Dana punched her calling card number into the pay phone a second
time.    <I need you, Mulder.>  This was not one she wanted to handle
alone.  He understood the pain of unnatural loss like no one she'd ever
known.  She needed the comfort of his arms, his compassion, his
deductive brilliance.  They had work to do.  She was surprised he
wasn't at the office; she knew he lived there when she was out of
town.  Time for one last try.   <Damn.>  His answering machine had
beeped during the greeting which meant the tape was full.  Full?  Not
in D.C.?  A case?  He'd said nothing in the voicemail to indicate being
out of Washington.  The cell phone was a joke; he never turned it on
unless he was placing or expecting a call.  She'd try to reach him again
later.

Agents Williams and Kendall had been furious at first. "Get the hell
out of here and back to Washington,"  but both admitted they'd do the
same.

Dana boarded Delta flight 1452 heading West.

Destination:  Salt Lake City.
************************************
************************************
Barry's Boarding House
New York City
 

Weathered fingers adjusted the controls, placed the call, making sure
all linkages were secure.

"Was the matter attended to in the agreed upon fashion?" he inquired.

"Yes, an hour ago, per our agreement."

"And the associate?"

"Unharmed.  I still don't understand why..."

"You don't need to understand.  I don't pay you to be concerned.
What about the other matter, the one in Washington."

"Done."

"And?"

"And nothing, it wasn't there."

"A thorough check was made?"

"I told you.  It wasn't there."

He broke the connection, satisfied another crisis had been averted.
There had been far too many close calls this year.   He took a final
drag on the Morley and left the room.
************************************
************************************
Warwick Hotel
Room 523
 

Mulder awakened at 1AM, sore but seemingly none the worse for
being so incapacitated the previous night.  The room was positively
stifling.  The fever had abated along with the nausea.  <Guess I was
wrong.>  It must have been one of those hit and run things instead of the
flu.  Room service had delivered soup and crackers.  It was only after
placing a second order Mulder realized he couldn't recall the last time
he'd consumed a meal.

Mac's nemesis had been classic.  The twist had been two UNSUBS
instead of one, each working the riverfront town like a fine instrument.
The pattern had emerged, crystal-clear, once Mulder had assimilated
every file.  Roughed by 3:30 A.M. and faxed two hours later, Mac
would start his day a happy man.  Two profiles in hand instead of the
one they'd both foreseen.  Payback would be when Mac called to
confirm arrests.  That and a standing invitation to the Rendezvous for
ribs the next time Mulder was in Memphis.

His clothes had arrived before 5:00AM.  He could get used to this kind of
Life, but federal per diem would hardly cover tips must less rates at a
hotel like the Warwick.  Senator Etherton's generosity was proving to
be a godsend.

He wasn't due at the scene until nine, but hell, he was not about to
waste the hours.  Mulder arranged for a rental, requesting the
concierge to phone Franklin at 7:30 and relay the following:   "Take
the day off."
************************************
************************************
 

WILLIAM B. TRAVIS STATE PARK
35 Miles West of Houston
 

It was going to be a warm one.  The sun was not yet fully visible on
the horizon and Mulder had already maneuvered out of the sport coat
as he drove.  Gulf humidity.  Washington boasted a similar climate but
not this early in the season.  Scully would be proud, he'd stopped at a
7/11 for two quarts of Gatorade.  After last night, even though he felt
better, his tank was low.  Had to be.

Mulder checked the map, four more miles until the first barricades,
then a mile due West until he'd reach the tell tale yellow 'crime scene'
tape.  The foliage was so thick you'd be hard pressed if lost in the area.
An air search would be useless.  The report indicated the placement of
Mrs. Samuelson's remains had been so unusual the initial suspect had
been the citizen that reported finding the body.  Then media began to
link characteristics, renewing the serial killer campaign.  And HPD
wanted to jump on the bandwagon.

The officer heard engine noise long before he saw the late model sedan
pull off the dirt road and park.  <What the fuck.  A goddammed site
seer at this time of the morning.  In a suit no less.>

"Officer," he said, ID held high,  "My name's Mulder.  I'm with the
Bureau out of D.C.  I was scheduled around 9AM, but I was up early and
decided to come on out."

"Jim Patterson, Agent Mulder.  I thought you boys were done.  Hell,
they even vacuumed the dirt."

Mulder couldn't help but chuckle.  "I learn more by poking around on
my own.  It's better than just reading a report, ya know?"

"Have at it.  If I can help, holler.  We've only got security on through
today.  In fact, I don't think Sarge has anyone out past day shift."

""Will do," Mulder replied, bending under the tape.

"Say, you been out here all night?"

"Just me and the radio."

"Look, I've done my share of all nighters.  By the time day shift
finishes report and gets out here, you're on overtime.  Right?"

"Unfortunately."

"So head on back.  I'll cover the site until your replacement shows.  I
was planning to be here for hours anyway."

"Well, it sounds logical enough.  As long as someone is here it
shouldn't matter. Dan Hanson is due around 8:10, if you're sure you
don't mind."

"I'm sure.  Go on, get home."  Mulder pulled on a pair of latex gloves,
and focused on the scene before him.

He never heard Officer Patterson leave.

************************************
************************************
THE WOODS NEARBY

"Shit!  Why did I listen to you.  Now there's two!" Larry snarled.
His ass had grown numb waiting for the area to clear and now if things
hadn't just gotten more complicated than before.

"Shut up or they'll hear us," the younger voice hissed.  This whole
thing made him nervous.

"Fucking cops."

The new one had fancy clothes, a high ranker.  So simple.  The plan had
been so simple. Larry had it all figured out.  Copy the crime the papers
were going ape shit over, win his ribbons and get some respect out of
the others in their little group.  He'd show them Larry Michaels could
commit a crime and get away scot free.
 

Larry observed Henry, huddled behind an adjacent bush, his face
glistening with sweat.  Henry was a gutless wonder, but the little shit
was good  for moral support.  He made Larry feel good about himself.
The evening edition of the Chronicle had said something new last
night; Larry had come out to add that final touch to insure the police
listed the broad as another serial victim.

"What makes you so sure we need to do this?"  Henry asked.

"Mr. GQ is still poking around.  They're looking for something."

"You're crazy to come back here, man.  The press is already buying
the serial thing..."

'Listen, asshole.  The bitch was a Senator's wife.  You think they
investigate like they would if she was one of us?  It's gotta be perfect."

Larry could hardly believe their good fortune when the uniformed
officer slipped behind the wheel of his patrol car, started the engine
and headed east, leaving the tall stranger alone.

"One down but what do we do about the suit?  Doesn't look like he's
going anywhere."  Henry had no doubts left; he should never have
agreed to come along.

"Duh head, there's two of us and one of him.  Maybe I'll practice with
my new piece."

The younger man clenched his hands nervously, wondering how he
could keep things from getting worse. Claude was right.  That lady
probably hadn't been about earning respect, Larry enjoyed killing.
He'd been having nightmares since Larry diced the old broad.
Murder. You had to be dead inside to kill another human being.
Claude had tried to tell him about Larry.  He should have heeded the
advice.

******
******

Crime scenes had an aura, a discernible heaviness to the air.  If you
relaxed, you could almost hear the victim's screams.  A comprehensive
field report boasted sketches, scale diagrams and photographs; yet,
somehow it was never the same as being on the actual ground where
some portion of the crime had been enacted.  Mulder wasn't sure what
he was looking for. 'Something' that didn't match the HPD candidate,
or things that did.  He couldn't be sure, but he sensed Gilbert might be
right.

*******
*******
Henry didn't know how he overcame his fear of Larry.  Maybe he
feared God's judgment more.  He only knew he had to do something.
Without considerable forethought, he lunged toward Larry knocking
him off balance just as the gun discharged.  The suit got a frown on his
face, made a odd sound, then staggered, hitting the dirt with a thud.
 

"Kicked by a mule then burned in hellfire," that's how one Boston cop
later described the sensation of a bullet entering his body.  Abruptly,
Mulder noticed the sky, blue and cloudless, beyond the thick canopy of
trees.

Strange.

He couldn't remember laying down, but the burning. Shit,
that was all too familiar.  Trees began to blur and the world faded.
************************************
************************************

Delta Flight 1452
30,000 Feet

Dana loved Salt Lake City.  Almost a century before, Brigham Young
viewed the snow tipped Wasatch to the East and Oquirrh's to the West
declaring "This is the place" to hundreds of Mormon pioneers.  She'd
spent two weeks every summer during med school with Reggie and
her family.  The Forbes' never missed living in the South.  They'd
traded bugs for hiking trails and snow  "like no place on earth."
Reggie and Dana had come to consider Big and Little Cottonwood,
the most readily accessible canyons, as their private refuge.
Ten minutes in a car and the valley of thousands vanished,
replaced by pristine lakes, towering peaks and abundant wildlife.
They knew the trails by heart.

The plane ride would take less than an hour.  Dana would tell Reggie's
parents, personally, their only daughter was dead.  She owed them
that.

************************************
************************************
WILLIAM B. TRAVIS STATE PARK
35 miles West of Houston
 

"You son of a bitch!  Why'd you do that!"  Henry was still shaking
from the blow.  Larry smacked hard when he was pissed.

"Killing that lady was bad enough. I didn't want to be involved in
killing a pig."

"Henry, you ever do anything like that again and you're dead!
Understand!"  Larry was sorely tempted to pull the trigger a second
time.  If this little shit crossed him again, he'd off him.

Henry looked at Mulder, laying on his back, unmoving.  A rivulet of
blood was beginning to make a modest puddle in the dirt beneath his
head.  Dented but breathing, this plainclothes dickhead owed him one.
Henry had taken a huge chance screwing with Larry's aim but, one
ghost haunting his dreams was enough.  He wasn't made for killing.

Mulder groaned softly.

"Look, Larry, do what you came to do and let's get out of here.  He
never saw us."

"Shut up and let me think!"

"This is all so fucked up.  Maybe we should leave the state.  There's lot
of places we could go."

"Maybe.  How much cash you got?"

"$500 at home."

Larry squatted down, searching the prone man's pockets.  A small
brown case looked promising.  "Goddamn!"

"What's wrong now?" Henry knew the signs, Larry was getting
wound up.

"He's fucking FBI!"

"Oh shit!  Let's GO!"  He wanted as far away from here as possible.
But Larry didn't move, instead, Henry noticed a smile spread across
the weasel's face, accompanied by that wild eyed look he knew
meant trouble.  "What are you thinking?"

"Here, put his bracelets on," Larry commanded.  Henry caught the
silver cuffs midair.  "We're taking him with us.  No one ever brought
back a prize like this.  You, Mr. FBI, are my promotion!"

"You're crazy."

"Help me get him into the car."

Henry didn't budge.

"NOW!"

Maybe he could reason with the fool.  "Look Larry, they'll come after
us..."

"Henry, you are so fucking stupid.  All we need is a few hours.
They'll think he decided to go back to where ever he came from.
Maybe that he stopped for breakfast or to take a whiz.   Get a branch
and cover some of the tracks we made.   You know, like in the
movies."

"I don't know about this."

"Go on, the others will be proud of ya.  Tell you what, we can dump
him after we've shown him off.  Does that make you feel better."

'You won't kill him?"

"No, Henry, I won't.  Cross my heart."
 

Larry sat in the rental, observing through the windshield, as Henry
carefully obliterated patterns left by their Nikes.   <We aren't so
dumb.>   Mr. FBI was awake, in a glassy eyed kinda way.  Larry
wondered what the rental company would say about the blood.  Was
clean-up covered in the security deposit?

Henry would come around.  He always protested Larry's plans but
then went along in the end.  All that worrying, that was just Henry.
Show and tell for the others wouldn't take long.  Everyone would be
forced to admit they'd been wrong to think Larry Michaels unworthy
of respect.  Two in a week and this one a live trophy--a federal mother
no less.

Hopefully Claude still had those out of state plates.  They'd need the
cash, too.  But first, out to the cabin.  Killing this one would be even
more fun than doing the Senator's wife.
************************************
************************************
Continued in Chapter 4
 
 

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

RENEWAL by LuvMulder@aol.com
Disclaimer in CHAPTER 1
************************************
************************************

CHAPTER 4

************************************
************************************
Home of Mr. and Mrs. R. Forbes
6114 East 5342 South
Salt Lake City, Utah
 

Scully took her time, trying to make sense of the incomprehensible.
Reggie's parents listened attentively, doing their best to comfort one
another.  Their questions were typical: did Rea Jean suffer, was it
quick?  As a doctor in law enforcement, Dana was, on occasion, the
first to speak to a victim's family.  Experience didn't make this any
easier, not when the dead was someone you loved.

The worst part was knowing she couldn't provide the answer they
most wanted to hear--WHY?

There was something else.  It had taken her a while to realize but the
Forbes' hadn't seemed terribly surprised.  Devastated but not shocked.
There was a difference.  A sixth sense?  A special bond with their only
child?   Ridiculous notion.  Her imagination must be on overtime.

"You'll stay the night of course."

"I'd planned on a hotel.""

"We won't hear of it.  Look at all you've been through.  <Me?>  Take
the guest room.  You know the way. Rea Jean would want you
to stay.  So do we."
 

The shower felt wonderful, a safe haven enveloping her in its warm,
comforting embrace.  Dana was operating on fumes.  Beyond exhaustion.
<I'm in shock, I suppose.>  She noticed the photograph when she tossed the
towel on the bed; it still sat on the dresser after all these years.  The
one taken when she and Reggie had gone up to Jackson white water
rafting on the Snake.  Reggie, so young, so brilliant, so much to live
for.  What waste.  Scully hadn't noticed her cheeks were wet
when silent tears changed to choking sobs.

********
********
The tap at the door awakened her instantly.  It was dark, 3AM
according to the clock.

"Dana?"
 

"Mrs. Forbes?"  The older woman's face was puffy, her eyes red
rimmed, blood shot.  A cardboard box was balanced on her arms.

"I'm sorry, I should let you sleep."

"No, no please.  What do you have there?" she asked, situating herself
on the bed.

Brenda Forbes breathed deeply, fighting to maintain her composure.
"Dana, Reggie was in trouble.  We knew that.  She wouldn't give us
any details, the tone of her voice was enough for us.  We think it had
something to do with her work but we were never sure.  We'd been
trying to get her to take time off.  You know, to spend some time out
here with us.  She said she couldn't get away from the lab.  We were
so happy she decided to go to the conference.  She'd mentioned you'd
be there."

Mrs. Forbes grew silent as her fingers traced the address label.
Her Rea Jean had written those numbers and letters. Her baby...

"We knew the moment we saw you, standing there alone."  A shaky
hand brushed graying hair aside; moments passed before she
continued.  "This box arrived two months ago.  Rae Jean called and
said we were to make sure you got it.  She made us promise and said
we'd know when the time was right.  She told us to keep it in the crawl
space, the one we found by accident when we built the addition.
Whatever is in here, it must be important.  We never imagined..."  The
emotions that underscored every word finally broke to the surface as
Mrs. Forbes wept.

Dana reached out immediately, enveloped the woman with her arms, and
held her close.

"I'll find who did this to her.  My partner and I won't give..."

"I know, Dana.  I know."  Mrs. Forbes said, at last, as she dried the
tears.  "I'll let you get back to sleep."  Mrs. Forbes smiled and
gently caressed the young woman's cheek. "Rea Jean loved you."

"And I her.  Sometime I'll tell you how supportive she was when Missy
died."

Mrs. Forbes headed to the kitchen to make a pot of tea.  Dana had the
box open before the door clicked shut.  It seemed innocuous enough,
the size of a typical book carton.  Inside were 8 1/2 x 11 hardcovers,
different colors, at least a dozen by the look of it.  Embossed in gold,
at the bottom right corner were the words:  DR. REA JEAN
FORBES, Ph.D.    Unbelievable!  Personal journals, the generic
brand Deserett Books sold by the truckload.

Dana could hear Reggie now,  "That damn hard drive may go bonkers
someday and I'll lose months of work!"  She'd started keeping hand
written backups during medical school.  Dana never imagined her
friend would carry the habit into professional life.  These might
provide the key to making sense of Reggie's murder, she opened the
first volume she touched and began to read.

************************************
************************************
ABANDONED HOUSING PROJECT
HOUSTON, TEXAS

They hadn't needed to transfer Mulder out of the car.  It had been
enough to flash the Sig Sauer automatic and FBI credential case.
Claude and the others had come out for a look and gone ballistic.
Their reactions hadn't been quite what Larry expected.  "Get the fuck
out of here with that mother!"  "You stupid prick!  "We never saw
you!"  "Shit for brains!"

Claude had practically shoved money into Larry's hand, after yelling
for Leo to slap Florida plates on the car.  "I don't wanna know where
you are going or what you plan to do to the guy.  You're a liability.
Don't ever show your face here again.  Vamos asshole!"

Claude threw his hands into the air and kicked an empty can across the
asphalt, angling his way over to where Henry stood.  "Bail out now.
He'll take you down, man."

Henry knew Claude was right.  After the lady, shit, Larry was
capable of anything.  But, he'd made a decision this fed was not gonna
die if he could help it.  Not by their hands.  Hell of a time to develop
a conscience.

************************************
************************************

Home of Mr. and Mrs. R. Forbes
6114 East 5342 South
Salt Lake City, Utah
 

Scully completed the first journal, becoming familiar with Reggie's
system.  Two additional reviews confirmed the following: contents
were chronological rather than project specific and each volume
contained six to eight months of entries.  Give or take a few weeks.
Personal and clinical observations were blended.  Based on what she'd
read so far nothing was tagged.  Either Reggie had put the box
together in a hurry or felt Dana would comprehend its significance
without additional guidance.

<Terrific.>

Reggie and Dana had made an effort to stay in touch since graduation.
Reggie's decision to engineer face to face contact within the last
few weeks probably meant her situation had grown critical in the
recent past.   <Focus on notes written the last six to twelve months.>

June 15th

"Retroviruses.  What they are trying to do?  Refine the compound so
it can be controlled?  Clever.  An oncogenic virus.   It would appear so
natural."

July 5th

"Beautiful but deadly, the shape reminds me of the pentagonal
adenovirus.  Level IIB testing begins in population D tomorrow."

July 7th

"Contagion seems to pass from the host to host with remarkable
speed.  Clinical manifestations appear uniform in mature populations.
Persistent infection seen with evidence of  elevated temperatures,
hyperviscosity, skin rash, dark dermal lesions circumventing the orbits,
bilaterally.  Oximetry  results poor, <85%.  Hemoglobin/oxygen bond
compromised.   Metabolites and sub populations present in tissue
studies.  THIS IS NOT POSSIBLE.  Viruses appropriate.
Toxins. I've isolated toxins.  Impossible.  What the hell IS this stuff?"

November 28

"Had a scare today, suit tear.   Airborne in some cases, SOME, not all.
Why this variation?  Thought I'd bought it.  No back up whatsoever.
Does this mean I'm expendable?  Who are these people?  What have I
gotten myself into?  I hinted about shifting direction of my research.
Although politely stated, I think I was threatened. They've made their
power obvious.  Dana, she and handsome might know what to do."

December 12

"No doubts remain. This virus is like no other I've seen.  IT LEARNS.
Whatever adaptation made by the host, by the third replicative cycle
the virus has mutated to survive.  Are they crazy?  Do they really think
we have the tools to control this?  Interferon results were inconclusive.
Retest imperative.  All requests for pharmaceutical consultations have
been denied.  They don't want this killed."
 

February  17

"Generations J-K.  Postmortem and tissue analyses completed at
1600 hours.  I'm working double shifts, experimenting with treatments
under their noses.  I must be crazy.  Seemed as though I finally had
done it.  I thought these generations might survive.   Remission in
populations J-K was 5.2 weeks longer than that noted in population
I.  Variable periods of remission noted within 6 of the individual
hosts.   Have been attempting to achieve containment of metabolites,
prevent lysis and  RNA replication in host cells.  Heparin still effective
at decreasing hyperviscosity.  See 'treatment' protocols.

Funders came out to the lab today.  Must be careful now.  I can't stop
trying.  If all else fails I'll get these to Dana somehow.  Surveillance
has increased.  I think I was followed home last night."

March 12

"It's definite.  I'm getting out.  As soon as possible.  0230 hours they
brought a human subject into the lab:  white male, early twenties.
What is this shit doing in a human host?  These people are monsters.
I've been instructed to do the tissue studies and make comparisons
with existing results.  Test subject had been deliberately infected
approximately 12 months previously; presumably fully recovered
following blood transfusions in addition to therapy with heparin and
interleukin II.  Were they surprised the virus adapted?  Why did they
save this guy in the first place?  As a lab experiment?  Acute phase
appeared spontaneously after what is now being considered remission.
Subject initially reported flu like symptoms...headache, nausea, fever,
fatigue two days previously.   Brief duration.  Symptoms reappeared
24 hours later.  Oxygen levels decreased to 85%...progressively dark,
thickening of the dermis noted around orbits, bilaterally.   Intense pain,
convulsions.  Treatment was denied.  Shades of Tuskegee.  Life
support denied.  Subject pronounced at 2348 hours.  Compromised
hemoglobin and hyperviscosity  verified during post mortem."

The data.  She read the March entry again, slowly this time.
Everything about it was familiar.  How?  How could...?

Wait.

These symptoms.

She'd seen them before.  Many were common to
any infection, but ocular involvement, hemoglobin changes,
hyperviscosity.  She knew these well.

Hyperviscosity.  That was key.

Scully's mouth went dry as full understanding of what she had read
began to crystallize.

No!

No!  That wasn't possible.
 

ohGODohGODohGODohGOD.  An understaffed ER at the
edge of the world.  Mulder fighting for his life.  And losing.
 

Unconscious, unresponsive.

Flatlined.

Mulder.

"WHAT IS NOW BEING CONSIDERED REMISSION."

Could it be?  All this time?  All these months when he'd laughed, worked
impossible hours, made her angrier than ever before.  Was it possible
Mulder had never recovered?  Never been well?  That a biological
nemesis had been lurking, temporarily dormant, waiting for an
opportunity to strike?

The retrovirus.

Dear sweet Reggie.

You were studying that goddammed retrovirus.
************************************
************************************
BACKROADS Near HOUSTON
HARRIS COUNTY TEXAS
Rental Car
 

Mulder was freezing.

So miserably cold his teeth had started to chatter.  He couldn't lay
still, not completely.  Gentle rocking seemed to lessen the pain.  He ached.

Everywhere.

Open your eyes.  Open and focus.

Nope, too much effort.  The headache was back with a
vengeance.  Different somehow.  He reached up, hissing with pain as
fingers brushed a damp mass.  Sticky like blood.  He must have fallen.
What was happening.  His memory was fuzzy.  Think.   That was it. A
crime scene.  Houston.

Movement?  Car?  Yes, definitely a car.  He was in the backseat.
Cuffed.  Jesus!  Burning.  He remembered burning.  A sensation like
no other.  That was it.  He'd been shot.  Nothing felt numb, extremities
seemed intact.  That sore spot on my head?  Only grazed?  Then
why? <Shit!>  His gut ached worse than the other night at the hotel.
Unexpectedly, his mouth started to water with a familiarity he
recognized from every bout with stomach flu.  He was going to be
sick.
 

Henry had focused attention on Mulder's disheveled form after the first
groan.  He watched, curious, as the agent struggled to progress from
semi to full consciousness

"Shit, stop the car!  Now!  The fed is puking all over the place!"

"Goddammit, the whole car is gonna stink."

This might be the best chance he'd have.  It was worth a try.  No
matter what Henry never wanted to be a party to killing another
human being, especially not one with a badge.  Watching someone die
did things to you, things you didn't expect.  It made you sick inside.
Every minute of everyday you'd see the victim die over and over
again.  *He* did anyway, he wasn't so sure it was the same for Larry.

"Larry, why don't we dump him?  Look at the guy."  In the hours since
his abduction, Mr. GQ had lost his cover looks.  His skin was ashen.
Dark blotches circled both eyes.  Those were new.

<Did Larry smack the guy around when I got the gear?>

Odd, those didn't look like any shiners he'd ever seen.  Shit, the guy's
lips were kinda blue.

Something was very, very wrong.

************************************
************************************

Salt Lake City
Forbes' Living Room
 

"And?"   Dana demanded, her fingers tight around the portable phone.

"There were papers outside the door along with a note to contact the
post office about his mail.  He's not around Scully.  What's going on?"

"Maybe nothing Langly.  I just..."  <Be calm, Dana girl.> "I just need to
talk to him.  Thanks."

She replaced the receiver and checked her watch.  Still an hour before
Skinner was likely to be in the office.  And that would only hold true if
it was one of his early days.  Since reuniting with Sharon, the boss was
more likely to arrive later.  A new leaf.   Scully wasn't ready to call out
the troops, not when she couldn't positively identify the enemy.

Who had actually funded Reggie's research? So many questions.  She'd
trust Skinner but enlarging the circle beyond that would be risky.
What would she say to Mulder?  "Hi, old friend.  Great conference,
Reggie was murdered and, by the way, you're probably terminal."  She'd
worry about that part later.  Medical distancing would never work.
Not with Mulder as the patient.  She walked him past death's door
before.  Could she do it again or would the Reaper win?  Mulder not
in her life?

STOP IT! STOP IT!  You don't have confirmation!

Stop assuming the worst!

Phoning Pendrell in D.C. had been a stroke of genius, he'd been more
than glad to help.  Dana could almost see him blush.  The kid had been
so surprised to hear her voice, he never inquired why she was calling
before the morning sun had smiled on the Rockies.  "You, you actually
remembered I was working nights this quarter?"

'How could I forget?  Say, have you seen Mulder lately?  I haven't
been able to raise him the last couple of days."

"Rumor has it Spook is off doing his thing in Houston."  Pendrell was
the only one she knew who uttered Mulder's nickname with respect.
"A Senatorial mandate no less."  In the bureau, rumors were more
concrete than facts.

Ten minutes later her reservation to Washington had been canceled.
Sixty more and she was airborne bound for the Lone Star State.
 

************************************
************************************
FBI Field Office
2500 East TC Jester
Houston, Texas

Second Floor
Reception Desk

"What do you mean Mulder never saw the SAC?"  Scully demanded.

"Agent Gilbert took personal days.  Agent Mulder planned to contact
Senator Samuelson yesterday afternoon.  Here's the number.  Agent
Mulder's cell phone is..."

"I know the number and he's not answering.  Do you know the name
of his hotel?"

"Excuse me a moment, Agent Scully," Karen said, pausing to retrieve
a fax.

Dana tapped her foot impatiently.  Unbelievable. From the sounds of
it, Mulder had been sent in as a consultant and had been treated like a
pariah. The local bureau chief had not had to decency to personally
brief the man.  No scheduled daily check-in.  Protocol as well as
courtesy ignored.  After all these years Mulder may be used to such
treatment, but she would never be.  Why didn't he tell them where to
go.  She'd find him herself.  The receptionist's phone rang as Dana
punched the button for the down elevator.

"Oh wait, Agent Scully, it's a John Franklin for Agent Mulder.  Would
you like to take it?"

Six phone calls and two Advil later, Dana had a remarkably clear
picture of how her partner had spent the hours since landing at
Intercontinental.  He'd played it conservatively, working hard.  By the
book.  She also had a good idea of who thought he had class, who
wished he'd leave the state and who hoped to know him better.  The
bureau receptionist had been anything but subtle.  She practically
drooled.  <Bitch.>

It had taken a lot of convincing to persuade HPD patrolman Jim
Patterson's five year old that it really was important to awaken his
daddy before the usual time.  Those five minutes of conversation
proved to be more important than anyone had expected.  Snippets of
information strung together, with allowances for a faulty time frame
here and there, and one thing seemed obvious.

No one had seen or heard from Mulder since early morning.

Truth be told it was the statement from the Warwick bellboy that gave
her chills.  "Sure I remember him.  Most of our guests aren't up at two
in the morning.  We made a special point to take soup to his room
even though room service was officially closed. The dude said he'd
been sick as a dog."

************************************
************************************
SOMEWHERE SOUTHWEST OF FRIENDSWOOD
HARRIS COUNTY, TEXAS
 

Henry liked to boast knowing Harris County like the back of his hand;
yet, Larry had managed to find a spot he had never seen.  Southwest
of Friendswood, he was sure of that.  By the fifth switchback, Henry
was totally disoriented.  Trees so thick they blocked the sun didn't
make it any easier.  He doubted he could find his way back if his life
depended on it.

"I think you made a smart move leaving him back there, Larry."

"Shit, it wasn't worth the effort to stiff the fucker.  He was too out of
it to be any fun."

<You promised not to kill him.>

Henry hoped God was watching cuz he'd sure done his part to get Mr.
GQ away from Larry.  It had taken some fast talking, too.  Larry was
hard to sway once his mind was made up.  Maybe it was the group
reaction to the fed that finally made Larry realize it was time to move
on.  How should he know.  Henry was glad to get the guy out of the
car.  The puking didn't bother him as much as the moaning. Listening
made him uncomfortable.

Henry had found a smooth spot among some oak saplings and helped
the fed down to the ground.  He'd seen two bottles of orange Gatorade
on the rental's floorboards.  Neither he or Larry liked the tasteless
stuff so he'd left that, too.  Removing the cuffs had only taken second.
Someone better find the guy soon.  Maybe he could make an
anonymous call to the police if he could get to a phone without Larry
knowing.  They could send out the posse.  Yep, that would cinch it
with the Almighty for sure.  Maybe He'd forgive him for being so
spineless when Larry killed the old broad.

"So where we headed?"  Henry asked as Larry drove.

"To get us some other wheels.  How's Arizona sound?"

"You're the boss."
**********
**********
Mulder hadn't moved since Henry had eased him down.

<I'm in big trouble.>

Didn't take a Ph.D. to figure that one out.  <Ah, humor, a good
sign.>  For the moment, his stomach had settled and the world didn't
seem quite so surreal.  But he ached.  From what he could tell the head
wound was just a graze.  No big deal.  He'd had worse by far.

Yet, there were few times he could remember feeling as miserable.
Okay, so he'd been wrong.  He WAS sick.  Flu from hell.  How he'd
ended up in the middle of the woods was still fuzzy.  He had to get out
of the area.  Those assholes might decide leaving him alive was a bad
decision.  Whatever, he was breathing.  That was the important thing.

<Up and at em.>

It took longer than he expected to get to his feet.  The effort left him
in a cold sweat, sucking air, spots swimming before his eyes.  <Just
great.>  His steps were shaky but they were steps.  <I'll be fine, this is
going to work, I'll be fine.>

Mulder looked at the scene before him.  'Things' weren't right.  Colors
seemed faded.  He rubbed his eyes, shook his head.  Big mistake.  The
pain stopped him cold, his breath coming in shorter gasps than before.

Walking, when had simple walking become this arduous?

Onefootinfrontoftheother, onefootinfrontoftheother, onefootinfro...

Ten feet later, Mulder collapsed, landing hard on the Texas ground.
*****************************************
Continued in Chapter 5