Hello creative group!!!  I'm having the *best* time -- you are all so
terrific with your feedback... *please please please* keep sending mail!
It makes writing even more fun...  Here's my latest offering -- hope you
enjoy it!  :-)  In case I don't post again until the New Year, HAPPY HAPPY
HOLIDAYS TO YOU ALL!

Author's note:  This is a dark story that I love.  It was wild -- the idea
literally leaped into my mind this morning and plagued me all day.  It was
all I could do to get home and write it down.  Thanks and some
acknowledgement go to Amy Schatz, whose great story "Run Away" put the
scenario into my mind, and to the woman who served me breakfast this
morning and served as the inspiration for Raeanne.  I'm not sure if this
is just a short story or the beginnings of a longer one... let me know if
you like it and maybe we'll keep going.   I would love to hear what you
think of this crazy scenario... comments, criticism and compliments can be
addressed to nvrgrim@aol.com.
 

Disclaimer:  As usual, I owe the deepest gratitude to the incredible Chris
Carter and the generous Fox network for allowing me to go wild with the
wonderful characters they have created and own -- I'm only borrowing here,
same as everyone else.  And special thanks go to Chris Isaak for the title
and to Pete Droge for the music that helped me write this...
 
 

GOIN' NOWHERE
by Nicole Perry
nvrgrim@aol.com
 

Raeanne sighed and twisted her long blonde hair back up into a bun atop
her head.  She gazed at the cracked formica of the countertop and gave it
a casual swipe with the rag that she held in one hand, then moved over to
the coffee machine to start up a fresh pot.  As she poured the remainder
of the previous brew down the sink, she casually eyed the few patrons who
occupied tables in the small diner.  Jim McAllister sat alone in a booth
near the back, as was his usual;  reading the paper and eating a danish
before heading out to another day keeping the peace in this small town.
Other than McAllister, most of the customers were strangers to Raeanne --
nothing unusual about that.  Jake's Diner was the only real restaurant in
this remote part of Nebraska, and most people who stopped were only
passing through.

 Not for the first time, Raeanne wished she was one of those people.

 It wasn't as though her life was bad, exactly;  just routine, boring,
ordinary.  Her boyfriend, Luke, was in the army, finishing off the last
year of his four-year stint.  On the days when the tedium seemed too much,
Raeanne clung to the promise he had made her, of moving on and settling
somewhere else, somewhere new and different, somewhere where she hadn't
spent the whole of her nineteen years.

 A rattle came from the back area of the kitchen and Raeanne smiled to
herself, knowing that Lizzie was at it again.  "Pans mixed up again?" she
called, the barest chuckle escaping before she could stop herself.

 "Dammit, Rae," Lizzie answered, frustration evident in her voice.  "He
can't put a dish back properly to save his life."

 The he in question came in through the back door of the diner, the he who
was Lizzie's husband, the he who was the owner of the diner and the source
of its name.  "Lizzie, gimme a break," said Jake, moving towards the sink
to wash his hands.  "They're just dishes, is all."

 "Just dishes to *you*," Lizzie called.  "You're not the one doing the
cookin'."

 Raeanne's smile became a full-fledged grin.  Another morning, same as all
the rest.

 "Mornin', Jake," said Raeanne, swiftly dumping more coffee into the
filter and then replacing it before switching the machine back on.

 "Mornin' to you, Rae," Jake returned her smile with one of his own.  Jake
was the closest thing Raeanne had to a father, even though he was old
enough to be her granddad.  "Doin' well?"

 Always the same question, always the same answer.  "Well as can be
expected."

 Jake nodded.  "Think I'm goin' down to the grocery, get us some more
milk."

 Raeanne knew that the last thing they needed was more milk -- Jake
started every morning with a trip down to the grocery, just to see if
there was any new gossip that he'd missed the night before.  "Sounds
good," she replied.  "Think Lizzie and I can run things while you're
gone."

 Jake nodded again, drying his hands on his faded jeans and heading for
the door.  "See you in a while," he said as he left.

 A customer waved to Raeanne and she crossed to his table to refill his
coffee and hand him his check, then moved to the other tables, taking
orders, pouring coffee.  Same old thing.

 The bell above the door tinkled then, and Raeanne turned to catch sight
of the newcomers.

 A man was holding the door open.  He was tall, and lanky, dressed in
jeans and a long-sleeved shirt.  His hair was slightly rumpled, and above
his beard she could see his tired eyes.  With his other arm, he guided a
woman up the two small steps and into the diner.  She was small, nearly a
foot shorter than he was, wearing jeans and a faded cardigan over a white
tee-shirt.  Her hair was dark, and looked almost black against her pale
skin.  Her eyes were wide and blue, but somewhat unfocused, and when she
stumbled through the doorframe Raeanne realized with a start that she was
blind.

  The man gracefully steered the woman over to a nearby table, eyeing the
patrons of the restaurant cautiously as he did so.  Raeanne thought she
detected a certain air of nervousness about him, but when none of the
other customers paid him much attention, he seemed to relax.  Once the
woman was seated, he pulled out a chair for himself, then reached across
the table to take her hands in his.

 Raeanne approached, full of curiosity she didn't know she had.  There was
something about this couple, something different,  something strange.  It
caught her attention and held it, though she didn't know why.

 "Mornin'," she said, pulling out her order pad.  "What can I get for
you?"

 The man looked at the woman, who said nothing, her eyes fixed on some
point in the middle distance.  "Coffee -- decaf," said the man.  "Some
eggs -- scrambled... and some toast."  The woman remained silent.  "Lisa?"
 he asked her.  "What do you want to eat?"

 Raeanne was just wondering if the woman was able to speak, when she
answered in a low voice.  "Same for me," she said.  "And some orange
juice, please."

 Raeanne nodded and tucked her pen behind her ear.  "Coming right up."
She turned towards the kitchen when she felt a gentle hand on her arm.

 "Could you --"  the woman's words were calm, measured, as though the
question was difficult for her.  "Could you show me the way to the
bathroom, please."

 "Sure."  Raeanne watched as the woman carefully stood up from the chair,
her hand still resting on Raeanne's arm.  Raeanne glanced at the man, who
nodded his assent, and then began leading the woman towards the door at
the far end of the diner.  The woman seemed tiny even next to Raeanne, who
had never before considered herself particularly tall.  Her touch was
light but steady, and Raeanne did her best to maneuver her between the
tables.  She looked down at the woman and noticed that she appeared to be
counting her steps, her forehead creased slightly in concentration.

 They reached the bathroom door and Raeanne pushed it open, then guided
the woman towards the nearest stall.  She hesitated a moment.  "Do you --
do you need me to wait?" she asked.

 "No," answered the woman.  "I'll be fine from here."

 Raeanne went back out into the restaurant and gave the order to Lizzie.
She then busied herself with several of the other tables, noticing as she
did so that the man's gaze never wavered from the bathroom door.  Time
passed, and Lizzie signaled to her that the order was ready, but still the
door didn't open.

 Carrying the plates like an expert, Raeanne brought the man his
breakfast.  She watched as he arranged his companion's meal, twisting the
plate in a certain direction, placing the coffee cup on one side and the
juice glass on the other.  At that moment, the door opened, and the woman
emerged.  Raeanne noticed how the man's entire body became tense, watching
as she slowly made her way across the diner, her lips moving slightly as
she counted her steps.  It was obvious that the man was coiled to spring
should she falter or lose her way, yet he didn't move, only watched.

 "Right here, Lisa," he said in a soft voice as she approached.  She found
the chair with her hands and sank down into it, with an audible sigh of
relief.

 Raeanne stood back, trying to appear busy, but fascinated by them, unable
to look away.

 "Eggs at nine o'clock," he instructed, "and toast at three.  Coffee to
the left, and juice to the right."  The woman nodded, and reached for her
silverware.  She took a small stab at her eggs with the fork, and warily
moved the utensil towards her mouth.  Succeeding at the small attempt, she
smiled.

 "Good," was all she said, but Raeanne could see the man relax at the
simple word.

 The diner was beginning to fill up, it now being nearly nine, and Raeanne
found herself caught up in the morning rush.  From time to time, she
glanced at their table.  The couple spoke very little, and it was obvious
that they were both very tired.

 "Better stop that," Lizzie scolded at one point, tucking a strand of
white hair back into her thick ponytail.

 "Stop what?"

 "Ogling that couple like that.  It ain't polite."  Lizzie frowned, but
Raeanne ignored her. There was something about them that captivated her.
Maybe it was the way the man watched the woman.  His expression was a
mixture of anxiety, and guilt, and frustration... but beneath those
emotions lurked a tenderness that made Raeanne's heart skip a beat.

 They had nearly finished their breakfast when it happened.

 Raeanne was in the kitchen when she heard the crash of fallen glass and
the woman's sharp cry.  She raced back out into the dining area to see a
puddle of orange juice on the floor and the look on the woman's face.

 It was a look filled with embarrassment, and anger, and something else
that Raeanne decided must be disgust.  The woman's eyes were wet, and for
a moment Raeanne feared that she was about to cry.   But the man's hands
closed quickly over hers and his words were strong, soothing.

 "Don't worry, Lisa, it's okay, it's okay.   It's not a big deal, just a
little juice."

 The woman calmed a little at his touch, and after a minute, she
responded.  "I -- I know.  I'm sorry...it's just..."

 "I know," he answered, then hailed Raeanne with his eyes, never taking
his hands from the woman's.  "Can we have the check, please?"  he asked.

 Raeanne moved quickly to their table and handed him the ticket, taking
the rag from her waist and wiping up the juice without a word.  She went
to the back to get the broom and dustpan to clean up the glass, and when
she returned, the man had his wallet out and was slowly rifling through
it.    Raeanne saw him glance at the check and then finger the few bills
inside, and she spoke without thinking.

 "Don't worry about it," she said.  "It's on the house."

 The man looked up at her, surprised and wary.  "I have the money."

 "Oh, I'm sure," Raeanne fumbled.  "But really, it's my pleasure.  You...
you seem like you've been on the road awhile.  It's the least I could do."
 

 He didn't say anything for a moment, obviously reluctant to receive her
charity.  "At least let me pay for the glass."

 "No... I insist.  Really -- I run the place."  Raeanne caught Lizzie
looking at her and felt guilty for the white lie, but Lizzie allowed it to
stand.

 "Well, thanks," said the man.  "That's very kind of you."

 The woman sat where she was, her eyes still dangerously liquid.

 "Question for you," the man said to Raeanne.  "Anyplace we could stay
around here?  Catch a little sleep?"

 Raeanne nodded. "There's a bed and breakfast just up a ways... it's the
only real place in town, but it's clean, and nice."  She quickly wrote the
name of the boarding house on the back of a receipt and handed it to him.
"Tell 'em Raeanne sent you -- they'll give you a good room."

 "Thanks again, Raeanne," and she felt a little shiver at the sound of his
deep voice running over her name.

 "Anytime, " she answered, and watched as the man helped the woman up from
the table and escorted her out of the restaurant.
 

The boarding house was as the waitress had promised:  clean, neat, and
quiet.  Mulder signed them in, using the alias he had only recently become
accustomed to.  Rick and Lisa Wilder.  He had chosen the names, the last
name being that of one of his favorite film directors.  The first names he
had selected in an attempt to pay homage to one of his favorite movies,
but Scully had scoffed at the idea of being called "Ilsa", telling him
that was no kind of name to use as a disguise, so they had settled on Lisa
instead.  Thinking about this, Mulder's lips curved up in a brief
half-smile that felt strange on his face after so long.

 Of course both Mulder and Scully had other identities, complete with
licenses, credit cards, and passports, kept in a safe place for
emergencies.  It was a requirement of the Federal Bureau of Investigation
that their agents keep a secondary identity ready at all times, in case a
situation should merit slipping under deep cover, or in dire need, for
them to begin a new life.  But those identities were of course logged and
monitored by the F.B.I. itself, and were no good in a crisis such as this.

 When it was the government itself from whom one was trying to hide.

 Mulder banished this thought from his mind as he opened the door to their
room and helped Scully inside.  He felt the weight of her hand on his arm
as she followed him, listening to his description and explanation of the
layout and the arrangement of the furniture.  The room was small, and it
didn't take long.  He guided her to the bed where she sat with her back
against the headboard, staring at a point somewhere below his shoulder.

 "How much, Mulder?" she asked, using his name only in the privacy of
their room.

 "How much what?" he answered, feeling more tired than he could ever
remember being. He collapsed in a chair across from the bed and ran his
hand through his hair.

 "Money," she said.  "How much is left?"

 He pulled the wallet from the pocket of his jeans and quickly counted the
bills and change.  "One-eleven and fifty-three cents," he responded, the
reality of their situation crashing down on him.

 It apparently had registered with her, as well;  Mulder's heart sank as
he noticed her shoulders slump in resignation.  The dark hair that framed
her face made her appear even smaller and more vulnerable;  Mulder
desperately missed the fiery red locks he had come to associate with her
power and strength.  "This has to stop, Mulder," she told him.  "We can't
keep this up much longer."

 Not for the first time, Mulder wished he'd had the opportunity to take
advantage of the plans he had made for a situation just such as this.  He
knew that both he and Scully had put money aside, had packed suitcases, in
case something like this should occur.  What they hadn't ever planned on
was the fact that they would be so immediately trapped, denied of all
access, forced to flee without ever looking back.

 Mulder cursed the bank regulations that prohibited more than $300 from
being taken from a bank machine at one time.  They had taken $300 from his
account, and $300 from hers, and $300 from a credit card he'd had in his
pocket by chance.  Nine hundred dollars seems like a lot of money, until
it is all that you have, he mused.

 "A few more days, Scully," he tried to infuse his voice with hope.
"They're bound to stop the surveillance sooner or later, and then we'll be
out of here.  Out of this country, away from this life."

 "Mulder."  Her voice was cold, dark, flat.  "We are almost out of money,
and we are out of time.  You have to go on, while you still can."

 Go on?  a voice in his mind asked.  And leave you?  Never... he vowed.

 "What are you talking about?"  he asked, thankful for the relatively
normal tone of his voice.  "We're in this together."

 "Mulder..." now she sounded tired, resigned.  "You can't devote the rest
of your life to taking care of me. It only makes it easier for them to
catch both of us."

 "Scully --"  he crossed the room and sat next to her, putting an arm
around her, trying to draw her close to him.  "This is only temporary --
the explosion --"

 She pulled away from him, leaving him with a cold ache at his side and in
his soul.  "It's been three weeks," she whispered.  "This isn't...
temporary.  This is reality.  And you have to accept it.  I -- I have,"
she finished, her voice weak.

 Accept it?  Accept the fact that Dana Scully, his quick-witted,
strong-willed, independent partner was now blind as a result of something
*they* had done?  Accept the fact that she wanted him to leave her, to
face this alone?   *Never*... his mind repeated.

 "Stop it ---" he was surprised at how harsh he sounded.  "Stop talking
like that.  We're in this together."  He attempted a calmer tone as he
took her face and cradled it between his palms.  "Listen to me, Scully.
We've made it through worse than this... and we can do it again.
*Together*."

 He stared at her, willing her eyes to meet his.  But they remained
distant and unfocused, their usual clear blue muddied by whatever veil had
passed over them and plunged her into this darkness.

 Mulder barely remembered what had happened after the explosion had rocked
the building.  There had been fire everywhere, and sirens, and the
crashing sound of footsteps around him.  Somehow, amidst the smoke and
panic, he had found her unconscious form and carried her out of the
building, running in a desperate attempt to elude unforseen enemies.   He
had managed to wire a car and had taken off without a second thought,
stopping only to hit a bank machine and drain it of all the cash he could,
knowing as he drove out of D.C. that he couldn't risk it again.

 Couldn't risk being tracked.

 Couldn't risk them finding her.

 "Now you listen to me," he ordered, his tone stern but loving.  "I want
you to lay down... get a little rest.  I'm going to find a phone, and then
catch some z's myself.  And then we'll figure this out.   Okay?"

 She nodded, and he was acutely aware of how frail she felt in his grasp.
He helped her pull back the covers, then tucked her in, stroking her hair
as she settled her head into the pillow.   "Okay?" he asked.

 "For now..." she answered, already slipping towards sleep.  "Don't be
long."

 "I won't."  He paused at the door before heading out into the morning
light in search of a pay phone, looking at her small form beneath the
bedclothes.  He felt emotions course through him -- pain, rage, anger --
how could this have happened?  he wondered with no small horror.  How
could everything they had, everything they had worked for, come down to
this?  He pushed the desire for vengeance from him, for the moment.  For
now, he had other responsibilities.  The rest could come later.
 

Scully heard him leave and felt the fear welling up inside her.  She tried
to fight the panic, clutching the pillow for reassurance.  God, it was
hard... she was afraid, deeply afraid, of this new dark world in which she
now lived.  The dark was deep and cold and frightening.  She had never
imagined how it could be, unable to see what lay before her, unable to
discern direction or location.  She had never imagined the horrible
helplessness, the feelings of inadequacy, of dependence.  She had never
imagined she could ever feel such terrifying loneliness.

 She couldn't even remember what had happened.  She had been close, so
close... she had thought that she was going to finally discover the truth,
that she had finally found the men who had ordered that the computer chip
be placed in the back of her neck, the men who had orchestrated the
kidnapping that had destroyed her life as she once knew it.  And then
everything had gone wrong... but then Mulder had appeared.  And she had
thought, for one dangerous moment, that everything would be okay, that
they would finally be in possession of the one thing they sought... the
truth.  But then the explosion had ripped through the air.  She remembered
a bright, blinding flash of light, and then nothing.  Nothing since then
but the darkness that plagued her, that threatened to overwhelm her... and
Mulder.

 He had been there, when she had regained consciousness.   He had been
driving an unfamiliar car with an urgency that she immediately sensed, and
then she knew that her deepest fear had at last come true.

 They were alone, on the run. With no one to turn to.  No one who could
help them.  No one but each other.

 Scully had long expected that it would come to this, but some part of her
had always believed that it would happen because of Mulder, because of the
intensity of his search, the desperation of his quest, his ceaseless
investigation to uncover the truth.

 She had never thought that they would be forced to flee because of
something she had done. And yet, they had.

 Part of her was deeply thankful that Mulder was with her.  Without him,
she knew she would have given up, paralyzed with terror.  With him by her
side, occasionally she still thought that they might make it, might escape
the clutches of those who sought to bring them down.

 But in her darker moments she cursed the fact that she had drawn him into
her web, forced him into such a horrible predicament.   Everything would
be different for them now, perhaps forever, and it was her fault that
Mulder had been forced to give up his own life in order to protect hers.

 She thought about that first night, when he had left her at a motel to go
in search of some clothes for them, spending too much of their precious
cash in order to provide them with the basic necessities.  He had brought
back a box of hair dye and at first she had resisted, before she realized
that he was right -- that they had to take whatever steps they could to
cover their tracks.  A brief smile crossed her face as she imagined what
they must look like now.  She couldn't even recognize Mulder anymore by
touch, his bearded face so strange beneath her fingertips.  And yet it
wasn't enough -- not enough to get them to where they needed to go.
 

 The influence of the Shadow People stretched farther than she could have
ever imagined, trapping them on an endless cycle of driving by night and
sleeping by day, hiding like fugitives.

 With a deep sigh of exhaustion and resignation, Scully reached out for
the blessed balm of sleep.
 

 Mulder found a pay phone at the end of the street.  Picking up the
receiver, he quickly dialed a number.  Three rings and then the line was
answered.  He spoke quickly, knowing the ability of the government to
track the call in mere seconds.  "Three-oh-eight, five-five-five,
four-eight-three-two," he said, and then slammed the receiver back into
its cradle.  Five long minutes passed, five long minutes in which he was
acutely aware of the few people that passed by the booth in which he
stood.  Then the phone rang.

 "Yes?" he picked it up before it could ring a second time.

 "Hello."  Mulder relaxed, briefly, at the sound of Byers' voice emanating
from the line. "You okay?"

 "For now," Mulder answered.  "How much time do we have?"

 "Five minutes," answered Byers.  "For now, they're not sure if I'm on the
line to a military base in Antarctica or a bar in downtown Chile."

 Mulder allowed himself a small smile.  "What's the word?"

 He heard Langley's voice chime in.  "Not good.  The dragnet's still out.
Your new id's are uncompromised, but we can't get you passports.  Besides,
the word is on the street.  They've compiled every possible physical
description of the two of you.  No disguise is going to get you on any
plane out of the states at this point."

 Mulder felt his heart sink at the words, but knowing the Lone Gunmen, he
was aware that their statements carried the ring of absolute truth.

 "You have to hang tough," said Byers.

 "Will do," Mulder replied, trying to keep his voice steady.

 "She okay?"  That was Frohike, worried as always, about Scully.

 "Yeah..." Mulder sighed. "She's okay."

 There was silence on the line for a moment, then Byers spoke up again.
"We're trying to find a way to get you some cash.  Check in with us
tomorrow?"

 "You bet," Mulder answered, hanging up the phone.  He felt the anger and
frustration coursing through his veins again.  The powerlessness.    He
had always promised to protect her, and yet he had failed again.  He grit
his teeth and clenched his fists and tried to channel the vehemence he
felt into something positive, something that would allow him to continue.
After a moment, he left the booth and headed back to the boarding house.
 

It was late, now.  Day had given way to night and yet Scully couldn't tell
the difference. She struggled to put her hair up in a ponytail, knowing
that it was bound to be crooked and yet not really caring.  Mulder had
gone out to the car, loading it with their few belongings before heading
to the grocery to pick up some food for their on-the-road dinner.  Scully
knew she was coming dangerously close to the breaking point, and knew that
if she was almost there Mulder had certainly crossed the line.

 The knock on the door startled her, and she grabbed absently for the gun
Mulder had left primed on the nightstand.  Deep inside, Scully knew that
her chances of hitting any target were slim to none, but holding the
weapon in her hand helped calm the pounding of her heart.

 "Hello?"  she asked, her voice a harsh whisper in the silence of the
room. "Who's there?"

 "It's Raeanne," came the answer. "The waitress?  From the diner, this
morning?"

 Scully hesitated, but her newly acute hearing told her that it was indeed
the voice of the girl who had poured her coffee.  Putting the gun to one
side, she opened the door cautiously.
 

"Hello," said Raeanne, noticing how tense the woman appeared.  "I -- I
didn't mean to startle you," she said.  "I-- I just brought you...some
clothes.  I thought... maybe... you might need them."

 Raeanne held out the small bundle for the woman's examination.  She
reached out both hands and ran her fingers over the small pile of fabric.
It wasn't much -- a couple of Raeanne's old shirts, a pair of pants, and
some items that she had culled from the back of her older brother Tommy's
closet.  For a moment, Raeanne felt incredibly awkward, as though she had
made a horrible mistake.  Then the woman's delicate face had creased in a
small smile.

 "Thank you... " she said in a tiny voice.  "Thank you very much."

 "No problem," said Raeanne, relieved.  "If there's anything else... "

 "No," replied the woman, firmly.  "You've already done more than enough."

 "Okay..." Raeanne answered, awed by the strength she felt emanating from
this woman.  She was the kind of woman that Raeanne sometimes dreamed she
was -- self-assured, unafraid.  Part of her reached out to this woman,
ached for her, but she fought away the impulse and turned to leave.  As
she moved away, she thought of something else, and the words poured out of
her in a rush.

 "Be careful," she said.  "Stay safe."

 The woman nodded again, and began to shut the door.  "Thanks again."  The
tone in her voice was one of finality.

 Raeanne watched as the door shut in her face, then made her way back to
her car, thinking of Luke, wondering that if circumstances such as these
crossed her life would Luke stand beside her as the man did beside this
woman?  A nagging voice inside her told her no, that there were probably
few men who would.
 

Scully had packed the small pile of clothes in a paper bag she found
beneath the bed, and was sitting waiting for Mulder when he returned.
"All set?" he asked.

 "Yes," she answered simply.  "A guardian angel -- the waitress from this
morning -- brought us a little present."

 She heard Mulder open the bag and rifle through it before offering a
small sigh of acceptance.  She suddenly felt a rush of affection for him,
knowing how it must be for him, loving him for the fact that he was by her
side.

 "Can't argue with that," he said, taking her gently by the arm.  "Let's
hit the road."

 She heard him grab the bag with his other hand and allowed him to steer
her out of the room and towards the car.  Once inside, she reached for the
seatbelt, buckling it securely across her waist as she listened to him
start the engine.

 "Where to now?" she asked.

 "Oh... we're goin' nowhere," he answered.  "For now."

 As the car moved off down the road, Scully leaned back in her seat,
feeling reassured by the gentle hand Mulder kept on her arm.  For now...
she thought.  At least they were okay for now.  After that, she couldn't
even venture a guess.  But for now...

 The car picked up speed as it headed towards the highway, hurtling
towards a destination unknown.
 

  "...you think you've got the devil on retreat
  but he's back up on his feet
  and he's looking for you..."

   - pete droge
 

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

From: nvrgrim@aol.com (NVRGRIM)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW:  GOIN' NOWHERE - EPILOGUE by Nicole Perry
Date: 17 Dec 1995 16:23:25 -0500
 

Oh my God!  :-)  All I have to say is *thank you* to everyone who wrote
with such an enthusiastic response to my little posting!  I'm actually
glad that so many people want to see more b/c this is a really fun one for
me...  The funny thing is I just posted this on Friday and then the idea
for this little epilogue showed up in my head and I had to write it down.
(Good thing people like Raeanne...)  Came into the office to send it off
and lo and behold, great mail was waiting in my in box!  :-) So I guess
there will be more to come....

Author's Note:  This is an epilogue to the story I posted the other day --
you probably should read that one first...let me know -- nvrgrim@aol.com
-- if for some reason you can't find it!   :-)

Disclaimer:  Same old story -- thanks to Chris Carter, 1013 and Fox Inc.
for creating this wonderful world and allowing me to play in it...
 

GOIN' NOWHERE - EPILOGUE
by Nicole Perry
nvrgrim@aol.com
 

'...it's just not the same when I can't wake up and see you there beside
me.  The whole day starts off different, and sometimes it feels like this
isn't ever going to end.  But you should know that I think about you, all
the time, and I know we'll always be together --'

 "Raeanne!"  Lizzie's sharp voice startled her out of her reverie, and she
guiltily folded the letter back into a tiny square and shoved it into her
pocket.  It wasn't as though she still needed to read the creased piece of
paper -- by this point, she could hear the words clearly in her head --
but it made her feel closer to him, somehow, to hold it in her hands.
Luke's letters were rare enough, anyway -- she figured she probably wrote
ten for each one she received, but she knew that she had a lot more time
on her hands.

 "I need you to get the biscuits out of the oven before they burn," Lizzie
continued, and Raeanne moved quickly to respond to the request.

 "Sorry Lizzie," she said as she turned off the gas and donned cloth mitts
before pulling out the tray of sweet-smelling bread.

 "Letter still good?"  Lizzie smiled as she bustled around the kitchen.

 "Good as gold," Raeanne answered, feeling a warm rush of contentment as
she thought about Luke.  Only seven more months... she figured she could
hang out that long.  And besides, he'd be back just in time for her
birthday.  A great time for him to give her that ring she'd been dreaming
about.

 Raeanne moved through the diner, refilling coffee and collecting her
tips.  The bell above the door tinkled and a man entered.

 He was tall, and gaunt.  His hair was a greying-brown and his face was
creased with sharp lines.  He was dressed in an official-looking suit
beneath a light trench coat.  Not entirely unusual -- after all, business
travelers did pass through the diner from time to time -- but Raeanne
unconsciously sucked in a breath at the sight of his eyes.

 They were dark eyes, with a malevolent gleam.  They were eyes that had
seen things that Raeanne never wanted to see.  They were eyes that
contained knowledge she had no desire to know.

 Raeanne scooted behind the counter, seeking to put a physical barrier
between herself and the stranger.  But he sought her out, moving with an
intensity of purpose.  "I'm looking for the Sheriff... Jim McAllister.
They told me down at the station I could find him here."

 Suddenly unable to speak, Raeanne only nodded, and pointed at McAllister,
who was ensconced in his usual corner booth.

 The man turned and walked over to the Sheriff, who put down his paper and
his coffee, offering the opposite chair to the man.  The man sat down,
pulling his i.d. from inside his coat as he did so. A short conversation
ensued, but Raeanne was too far away to hear the words.   From behind the
safety of the counter, she watched as the man took an envelope from his
coat and gave it to the Sheriff.  McAllister examined the contents of the
envelope carefully, and then shook his head.  The man stood, retrieved the
envelope, then shook the Sheriff's hand.

 The relief that shot through Raeanne as she realized the man was about to
leave vanished suddenly as McAllister motioned towards her.

 "Hey, Raeanne -- c'mere a minute, would you?"

 Raeanne hesitated, her feet suddenly unwilling to move.

 "Rae?"  The Sheriff was insistent and she knew she couldn't ignore his
beckoning arm.  Slowly she moved towards the table, completely aware of
the stranger's eyes upon her.

 "You need something, Sheriff?" she asked quietly.

 "Yeah..."  McAllister's voice was relaxed, easy.  "This here fellow is
with the government.  On the lookout for two fugitives who might've passed
this way.   I don't remember seein' 'em, but I know you're in here all
day. 'Preciate it if you'd take a look at these photos."

 Raeanne nodded at McAllister as the man handed her the envelope.  A
queasy feeling came over her as she took it, something inside her willing
her not to open it.

 "What're they wanted for?" she asked, stalling.  "What'd they do?"

 The man answered her question, his voice like steel.  "Theft of
government property," he said.  "The murder of several federal agents."

 McAllister chimed in.  "They're armed and dangerous."   He shook his
head, repeating the words the man had just told him for Raeanne's benefit.
 "Orders are, shoot to kill if they're spotted."

 "Oh," said Raeanne, "I'm sure I can't help you.  No one like that's been
in here."

 "How do you know?" asked the man.  "Take a look."

 Unable to refuse his request, Raeanne opened the envelope and pulled out
two photographs.  One was of a young man in a dark suit and a rather loud
patterned tie.  He was clean-shaven and unsmiling, but his hazel eyes
radiated an intensity and intelligence that seemed to transcend the
photograph.   The other was of a young woman with ivory skin and rich
auburn hair.  She was smiling, and the grin reached her blue eyes.  It
looked as though she had a delicious secret buried within them that she
was trying to conceal from the photographer.

 "Hard to believe, huh?" McAllister commented.  "They don't look the type
to me."

 "Trust me," said the man.  "Things change."

 Raeanne knew that statement to be true, judging from the photos she held
in her hand.  Of course, it was nearly two weeks ago that they had been in
the diner, but she still couldn't get them out of her mind.  The way the
man had been so tender and supportive with the woman.  The way the woman
had seemed so strong and brave.  The way they had moved in unison, bound
by an unspoken, wordless connection that was deep and powerful enough for
Raeanne herself to sense.

 It was hard to reconcile the vibrant people in the photographs with the
drawn, tired couple she had waited on.  The man was right -- something had
changed for these two people, changed in a strange and awful way.  Maybe
they were armed, but Raeanne knew with a quiet certainty that they weren't
dangerous.

 Knew, instinctively, that it was they who were in danger.

 Taking a resolute breath, Raeanne put the photos back into the envelope.
"Haven't seen anyone like that 'round here."  She didn't look up at the
man, just handed him the envelope and kept her eyes on McAllister.

 The man didn't answer her.  He tucked the envelope back into his coat and
pulled out a pack of cigarettes.  They were a strange brand that Raeanne
didn't recognize.  The man lit a match and inhaled, igniting the
cigarette.  Then he took his other hand and put it swiftly under Raeanne's
chin, raising her eyes to his.

 "You're sure?"  his voice was so low as to be almost a hiss.  "Absolutely
sure?"

 Raeanne looked at him, caught in his piercing gaze like a deer in the
headlights of a car.   A cloud of smoke curled past his head, and in that
moment Raeanne was deeply, truly afraid.  Not for herself, but for the
unnamed couple that for some reason she could not forget.  Ignoring the
frantic beat of her heart, she forced herself to shake her head
emphatically and pulled away from the man's grasp.

 "I'm sure."

 The man stared at her a second longer, then took another drag from his
cigarette.

 "Sir?"  Raeanne turned to see Lizzie leaning over the counter.  Her face
was stern but her eyes were anxious.  "This is a non-smoking
establishment."

 The man glanced at the white-haired woman, but did not answer her.
"Thank you," he said to McAllister and Raeanne, as he turned to leave.
As he passed through the doorway, he took another hit of the cancer stick
and then dropped it, just inside the diner.  With a strange look at
Raeanne, he extinguished the cigarette under the heel of his shoe.  Then
he stepped outside and allowed the door to slam behind him.

 It took a moment before Raeanne could move, still shaken by his presence.
 She went to the door and picked up the offending butt with a paper towel
and tossed it in the trash, a little silent prayer running through her
head.

 Please, God... keep them safe.

 At that moment, a family of four walked through the door, and suddenly
Raeanne was a whirl of motion, handing out menus and pouring coffee.  But
it wasn't until much later that afternoon that she was able to forget that
sinister man and the malevolent look he had given her as he departed.

          '... pleased to meet you, won't you guess my name?
          What's puzzling you is the nature of my game...'

                                     - Rolling Stones
 

That's it -- the end -- whew!  Had to get that out of my system... as
always, thanks for reading!  :-)

__
From: nvrgrim@aol.com (NVRGRIM)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW *SEQUEL* by Nicole Perry - PASSING THROUGH 1/3
Date: 6 Jan 1996 15:30:12 -0500
 

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!  :-)

Author's Note:  The following is a sequel to my story GOIN' NOWHERE and
its epilogue, both of which have been gathered into one tidy bundle on
Vincent's archive at Ohio State.  Reading this one without reading that
first is like having dessert before dinner -- still good, but somehow not
quite as satisfying.   ;-)   Heaps of thanks and appreciation should be
showered on all of you who took the time to write -- really, there's
absolutely *nothing* better than finding mail in my in-box about one of my
stories!  I'll be especially curious to know if this piece is a worthy
successor to the first...correspondence designed to placate or enrage the
anxious writer (me) can be addressed to nvrgrim@aol.com.  Stop me -- I'm
babbling...

Spoiler Warning:  This story has taken on a life of its own;  in a
roundabout way it deals with the mystery of
what-the-hell-happened-to-Scully-when-she-was-missing-for-three-months.
To do that, I'm riffing off of information provided in the Duane Barry
trilogy, "Anasazi", and the four related mythic episodes we've been
privileged to view so far this season.  Just a general warning to any
overseas readers... :-)

Disclaimer:  As always, my thanks and deepest appreciation to Chris
Carter, 1013 and Fox Inc. for allowing me to play in the wonderful world
they've created.  Special thanks should also go to David and Gillian
(Golden Globe nominees both, congrats!) for the depth, pathos and
emotional range they bring to Mulder and Scully week after week -- one
can't help but be creatively inspired by their performances.  Enough
said...
 
 

PASSING THROUGH (1/3)
by Nicole Perry
nvrgrim@aol.com
 

The man flipped open his cellular phone and dialed a number, checking his
watch as he waited for the line to connect.  He leaned against the rental
car, listening as the call was picked up on the third ring.

 "Yes?"  The voice was clear, despite the distance.

 "Nebraska," said the man.  "Confirmed."

 A pause, then the voice responded.  "Begin appropriate measures?"

 "Immediately," the man ordered.  "And I want a constant report."

 The man hit the "end" button on the cellular and lowered the antenna,
placing the device in an inner pocket of his trench coat.  He took a final
drag from his ever-present cigarette and tossed it aside, moving away from
the car.  He headed across the field to where the helicopter stood, its
rotors already turning.

 It had been obvious, he thought as he walked, that the waitress knew more
than she was telling.  It was the man's job to discern unspoken truths,
and when necessary, to conceal them from further discovery.  It was the
man's job to contain situations that had gone awry, regardless of the
consequences.  It was the man's job to kill, if and when it was deemed
necessary.

 He was a man who was very good at his job.
 
 

He's going through the door hurry hurry if you really run you'll catch him
dammit it's locked how did he do that?  Down the hall then there must be
another entrance after all this is the center there's got to be another
way in and what is that noise feet pounding behind someone shouting at me
--

 < Scullystopdon'tfollowhimit'satrap > --

 He's grabbing me pulling on my arm  --

 < Letgoletgoletgohe'sgettingaway >

 < LethimgoScullywehavetogetout > --

 Push him shove him get him off me --

 < GetoffmeMulder > --

 Push him hard and now he's tripping falling how did I do that never mind
keep running you can't let the man get away there's another door and it's
open get inside and slam it shut quick what is this place? a lab? is this
the lab where they discovered it? but where did he go where is the doctor?
pounding on the door behind me --

 < Scullyopenthisdoordammit > --

 Just ignore it --

 < Youcan'tstopmeMuldernotnownotnow > --

 Check the walls there must be a hidden exit somewhere I know he's here
where could he have gone what is that sound --

  < Ohmygodohmygod > --

 So bright so bright so bright --

 < ithurtsithurtsithurts >

 Screaming deep in her throat Scully fought her way from sleep into
wakefulness, frantically tearing at the bedclothes.  Her subconscious mind
still whirling, trying to make sense of her surroundings, seeking order in
her disorientation.

 < WhereamIthisisn'tmybedwhyisitsodark >

 She was unaware that she had spoken aloud, her voice a low keening wail.
She was aware only of the oppressive blackness and her rapidly rising
panic.  She was falling, falling...Then she felt arms around her, strong
and powerful.  Encircling her, pulling her close.  Pushing away the
darkness.   She felt breath, warm against her cheek.  She became conscious
of his voice, solid and soothing, ceaseless whispers in her ear.

 "Shh, Scully, it's okay... I'm here... you're okay...everything's gonna
be fine..."

 After a few long moments, she was able to catch her breath.  Slowly, she
relaxed against his chest, allowing her head to fall on his shoulder,
feeling his fingers as they stroked her hair.

 There was silence then, a deep stillness that filled the room.

 When she felt she was able to trust her voice, Scully sat up and pulled
away from him, seeking the abandoned covers with her hands.  "Thanks," she
said quietly.

 "No problem," he answered.  A beat, then, "Sure you're okay?"

 "Yeah."  Scully slid back down under the covers, allowing Mulder to pull
the comforter up to her shoulders.  She listened to the rustling of the
sheets as he repositioned himself on his side of the bed, one hand resting
on her arm, a gentle reminder of his presence.

 Scully felt the wetness in her eyes and the ache in the back of her
throat.  When, she wondered, was she going to be able to sleep for more
than a couple hours at a stretch?  The nightmares hadn't stopped, as
Mulder had promised.  In fact, they almost seemed to be getting worse.
But it wasn't the dreams themselves that really terrified her.  It was the
waking up.

 Because in her nightmares, she could still see.
 
 

Mulder lay quietly, listening as sleep overtook her and smoothed her
ragged breaths.  Though his body began to relax, his mind remained acutely
aware, listening for any further signs of trouble.

 This was worse than ever, he thought, the words running numbly across his
brain.

 The nightmares had been a constant part of their journey and by now
Mulder was used to hearing her sobs jolt him into consciousness.   The
first time it had happened, he had been unable to coax her back to sleep
and instead had sat with her, holding her hand until her body overrode her
mind's command and allowed her to rest.  After that, he had taken to
sleeping beside her in each new, unfamiliar bed, taking small comfort in
the fact that his nearness seemed to calm her enough to provide a brief

respite from the terror.

 He felt a sudden rush of protectiveness towards the woman next to him,
followed by an equally intense feeling of inadequacy.  He didn't know what
else he could do for her, how he could better help her through this.
Mulder didn't need his psychology degree to understand what was happening.
 Scully's fierce reluctance to talk about what had occurred, her
unwillingness to share her pain, her determination to keep the emotions
bottled up inside her -- he knew the formidable control she held over her
conscious mind.  And knew that it was only while sleeping that her firm
grasp weakened.

 Mulder had to admit that it was really her strength, not his, that had
gotten them at least this far.  That first, horrible night when she had
awakened in the stolen car and found herself suddenly sightless she had
emitted a terrified shriek and clutched his arm so violently that he had
nearly driven the car off the road.  They had both been frightened, then.
It had taken all of Mulder's self-control to keep from turning around and
heading back to the city, to a hospital.  But he had known even through
his panic that this was it -- the only chance they would have to get away.
 He had told her the plan, what there was of one anyway, as he held her
and waited for her sobs to subside.

 Then he had asked her what she wanted, in a firm, steady tone.  If she
had wanted to return, for any reason, he would have taken her back in a
heartbeat.

 But she, like him, had opted to roll the dice and take their chance,
betting that the dangers ahead could be no worse than the demons they were
leaving behind.

 And from that point onward, Scully hadn't cried, not once.  At least, not
in front of him. She had been strong, like a rock.  Solid as stone.  While
he had been fumbling and awkward, she had been precise and direct,
explaining to him just what she needed.  As though her blindness was just
another scientific problem to be solved and that by applying enough of the
laws of math and physics she could handle the equation.

 So far, Mulder thought with a twinge of anguish, she'd done a damn good
job.
 
 

 The next time he awoke, she was no longer in the bed beside him.  His
heart began to race before he noticed the sound of running water coming
from the bathroom.   Relieved, he sank back into the pillows to wait.

 Time passed, and she emerged, dressed in the jeans and black turtleneck
he had laid out for her before they slept.  She carried a brush in one
hand and held the other before her as she made her way slowly across the
room to the lone chair by the worn table.   Mulder said nothing, just
watched her steady progress, wondering how such grace could still be
evident in her steps.

 Scully sank into the chair and began to brush her damp hair.  The first
strokes were awkward and then she found the rhythm.  Turning her body so
she somewhat faced the bed she said, "Morning, Mulder."

 "Evening, actually," he answered automatically, checking his watch as he
did so.  "It's almost seven-thirty." A pause, then the question, "How did
you know I was awake?"

 "You breathe differently when you're sleeping," she replied.

 He watched her brush her hair a little more and then climbed out of the
bed.   As he passed her on his way to the bathroom he realized that it
wasn't just the light playing tricks on him;  the roots of her hair were
starting to show, shining a beautiful reddish-gold.   "Think that time's
come again -- gotta wash that red right out of your hair," he teased, but
his voice was soft.

 She frowned, putting down the brush and feeling for the part on her scalp
with both hands.  "Is it really that bad?  So soon?"

 "It's not that soon," he replied.  "It's been five weeks."  Mulder moved
closer, smoothing down the strands where she had mussed them.  "Next time
we stop."

 She gave a reluctant nod, picking up the brush again.  "If you say so.
But a different brand next time.  That last stuff smelled awful."
Scully's fingers danced across the surface of the table, searching for the
barrette she used to pull her hair back.  He could see it, just to the
left, and was tempted as always to pick it up and hand it to her.  But he
waited, and she managed to find it.

 "Get in the shower, Mulder," she said.  "I'm starving."

 Feeling guilty for watching her so closely, he ducked into the bathroom
and shut the door.
 
 

Scully held Mulder's arm tightly as they made their way down the street.
She could hear the sounds of other passersby and figured that the streets
were fairly crowded.  The ground was uneven beneath her feet;  there were
many cracks in the weathered pavement and she was cautious with her steps.
 She tried to emulate Mulder's measured pace, listening closely to the
directions he gave her from time to time.  The night was cool, and she
felt the breeze on her skin.  She was glad she had listened to him and put
on her jacket.

 "Rick," she asked, using his alias to be safe, "where are we again?"

 "Just outside of Cordell, Oklahoma," came his answer.

 "And?" she continued, "How is it?"

 She heard him chuckle.  "The same as all the rest."  She listened as he
described the town to her:  the ramshackle buildings with their aged
signs, mixed in with a few modern conveniences like the video store they
were passing.  "We're on one of the main streets right now," he said, "and
there's a grocery store coming up on the left, just across from a bar
called the Smokehouse."

 Scully nodded, picturing the town in her mind as his words portrayed it.
She felt him come to a stop and then heard the sound of a door being
pushed open.  "In here," he said, and she clutched his arm and followed
him inside.

 The grocery had the dusty smell of a corner store as opposed to the more
antiseptic smell of a  real supermarket, she thought, following Mulder
down the aisles.  He was very cautious with her, guiding her carefully
around the displays that spilled into the rows.  She still resisted the
idea of using a cane;  there was something about actually holding one in
her hand that made her condition seem all the worse.  And as she
continually reminded him, she wasn't going anywhere without him, at least
for now.

  She followed Mulder as he filled a small basket with the few items that
they needed, offering her opinions when he asked.  She deeply appreciated
the way he tried to include her in every decision he made, from the
highways that they traveled to the food that they ate.  He tried, in every
way he knew how, to make her feel as though she was still his equal, still
his partner.

 She silently blessed him for that.

 They rounded another corner, and she felt Mulder stop short, knowing
instinctively that he must be scanning the shelves.  A moment passed, and
then another, before she asked, "Rick?  What's wrong?"

 His voice sounded lost, confused.  "Well, I... you said different,
but..."

 "What?"

 "There are so many choices," he confessed.  "This hair dye thing -- last
time I just grabbed the first box I saw... but..."

 "What?" she repeated, curious.
 

 "Well..." he hesitated, then, "do you want ebony or ash brown?  Garnet or
oak?  That's not even counting the whole 'food' family -- there's cocoa,
espresso, nutmeg, rhubarb, hazelnut..." his voice trailed off and suddenly
she couldn't stand it anymore.

 She began to laugh.  It started as a deep, low chuckle that quickly
became a full-fledged giggle.

 "Lisa?" he asked, "What is it?"

 She couldn't answer, couldn't stop laughing.

 The concern in his voice turned into something warmer.  "What... what's
so funny?"

 "It's just... the idea... that I'm trusting you --" she broke off and
fought for a bit of control before she continued.  "A man who can't even
pick out a proper *tie*, to choose the color of my *hair*..."

 She heard his answering laugh and felt his arms encircle her, drawing her
close in a hug.  She knew she was being silly, they both were, and that
was a luxury they couldn't afford.  But she didn't care.  It felt good to
laugh, if only for a moment.

 They managed to settle on a shade and then went up to the cashier, where
Mulder counted out the money for their purchases.  Scully sent another
silent thank you to the Lone Gunmen who had managed, with much
manipulation of complicated systems she had no desire to understand, to
wire a thousand dollars via Western Union to Mr. Rick Wilder with no
strings attached.

 Scully followed Mulder's lead out of the store, more anxious than ever to
grab some dinner.  It seemed as though delicious aromas were wafting out
of every shop they passed.  Halfway down the second block he paused and
she felt tension spring into his arm.  "Damn!" he exclaimed.  "I left the
other bag on the counter..."

 "Go get it," she said.  "I'll be fine."

 She could sense his hesitation, although he didn't voice his thoughts.
"Okay..." he answered finally, guiding her over to the wall of the nearest
building. "Stay right here.  I'll be back in two seconds."

 "I'll be fine... Rick," she said, pressing her back against the wall,
listening to his footsteps recede.

 The minute he was gone she felt the panic surge through her again, and
tried to calm the rising tide.  She felt as though everyone was looking at
her, watching her.  She felt naked and vulnerable, unsafe.   Are you not
capable, she asked herself, of waiting here alone for half a minute?  Not
really wanting to answer the question, she kept her unseeing eyes fixed on
the ground, unwilling to attract any undue attention.

 It felt as though a minute passed, and then two, and still Mulder had not
returned.  Then Scully heard voices approaching.  Two young men, she
guessed from the sound.  Much to her dismay, the voices drew nearer, and
then she heard a comment directed at her.

 "Hey, little lady,"  said the voice, "you lost?"

 She forced herself to speak. "I'm fine, thanks.  Really."
 

 The footsteps came closer and she tried to fold herself into the wall.

 "Don't look so fine," came a second voice. "Looks like you could use a
little company."

 Scully tried to disappear inside the building, shrinking as far away from
the strangers as she was able, hating the fact that she was suddenly so
afraid.  She could smell cigarettes and the sour odor of beer, and she
felt her hands clench into fists at her side.

 "Not tonight," she said, willing her voice to be strong.  "Just waiting
for a friend."

 "We're your friends," the first voice drawled.

 "Yeah.... it's a very friendly town," echoed the second.

 Scully felt the two bodies closing in on her and was about to strike out
in a panic when she heard Mulder's voice, dark and quiet.

 "The lady's with me," he said, and she felt the tension in the air.

 Then Mulder took her by the arm and walked her past the two men, past
their grumbles and lewd comments.

 "You okay?"  he asked, worry and fear now evident in his tone.  "I'm
sorry... I didn't think..."

 "Yeah..." she answered, trying to reassure him despite the fact that her
heart was still pounding. "I'm okay."

 She felt his arm close protectively across her shoulders as he guided her
down the street.
 
 

"Four-oh-five, five-five-five, eight-three-six-oh."  Mulder replaced the
receiver and turned to look at Scully.  She was leaning against the
plastic frame of the booth, one hand on the silver tray beneath the phone.
  The trembling in her fingers belied her apparent calm.

 Stupid, stupid, stupid, Mulder berated himself silently.

 Out loud, he said, "Sure you're alright?"

 "I'm fine," she repeated, and the slight irritation in her voice made him
regret asking the question.

 The silence between them was broken by the ringing of the phone.  Mulder
snatched it up.  "Hey."

 "We've only got three minutes this time."  Langley ignored the
pleasantries. "Is she with you?"

 "Yes."

 "Put her on."

 Mulder handed Scully the phone and she brought it to her ear.  "Hi," was
all she said.

 Mulder watched as she listened, a look of concern crossing her face.
"Yes, I'm sure."  A pause, then, "No.  I only saw them for a moment.  But
they were all labeled the same way."  She listened again, for longer this
time, then repeated her earlier assertion.  "I'm sure of it.  You have to
check again."

 Scully passed the receiver back to Mulder and moved away from him,
running a hand through her dark locks in a familiar gesture of
frustration.  Turning his mind back to the conversation, he asked, "What's
the status?"

 "Not good."  Byers this time.  His voice was tight, grim.  "They've
tracked you as far as Nebraska."

 "What?"  The shock in Mulder's voice caused Scully to reach out for him
and he grabbed the offered hand.  "How?"

 "Not sure," answered Frohike. "But it's definite.  They're circling the
wagons."

 Mulder sank back against the plastic frame.  He had thought they had been
so careful.... "Any ideas?"

 "Change of strategy," said Byers.  "Time to hide in plain sight."

 "Meaning...?"

 "Get out of the small towns.  Someplace crowded, lots of people," said
Langley.  "And lay low for a bit."

 Mulder nodded, agreeing with their logic.  "I'm taking any and all
suggestions."

 A moment, then Byers answered.  "I'd say, one over, one down."

 Mulder's eidetic memory easily called up a map of the states in his head
and made the appropriate calculations.  "Got it.  I'll check in again
soon."

 "Money okay?"  questioned Frohike.

 "We'll need more when we get there."

 "Count on it."

 Mulder hung up, disconnecting the line just as the minute hand on his
watch finished its third rotation.  "C'mon, Lisa," he said, taking her by
the arm.  "We're outta here."

 "Rick?" she asked, "What's happened?"

 He sighed, unwilling to burden her yet unable to lie.  "They're onto us.
Nebraska," he said.  "We'll have to lay low for awhile."  She said
nothing, but he felt her grip tighten.

 She walked silently beside him down the street towards the cafe at the
end of the block.  When she finally spoke, her voice was so low he had to
bend over to catch the words.  "They haven't found anything," she said.
"It's as though it never existed."

 He spoke slowly, unsure how to answer.  "But it did -- you saw it
yourself."

 Mulder saw the doubt in her face.  "I know... but it was only for a
moment.  What if I *did* misread the labels..." the words trailed off.

 What if... he echoed silently, not liking the answer his mind provided.

 They reached the cafe, then, and Mulder focused his energies on guiding
her inside.
 
 

Here endeth part 1... parts 2 and 3 posted simultaneously.  Let me know if
there's a problem -- nvrgrim@aol.com.  Thanks for reading!
 

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

From: nvrgrim@aol.com (NVRGRIM)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW *SEQUEL* by Nicole Perry - PASSING THROUGH 2/3
Date: 6 Jan 1996 15:30:12 -0500
 

This is part two of a three-part post;  a sequel to my story GOIN'
NOWHERE.  Author's Note, Spoiler Warning, and Disclaimer can be found at
the beginning of part 1.   If there are problems with the posting (or
comments on the story!) I'm at nvrgrim@aol.com.
 
 

PASSING THROUGH (2/3)
by Nicole Perry
nvrgrim@aol.com
 
 

Tyler fingered the little gold star absently as he finished his breakfast.
 It felt good beneath his fingertips, made him feel daring and proud.
Even though he wouldn't actually begin working until the following week,
he already felt like he was a part of something great.  He spent all his
time lately at the station, just soaking up the atmosphere.  After all, he
didn't want to seem like a greenhorn his first day on the job.

 "Tyler?" his mother's voice called to him from the next room.  "You goin'
into town?"

 "If need be," he answered, feeling a rush of anticipation.  A trip into
town would give him another excuse to stop by.

 "We could use a little more detergent 'round here," came the response.

 "No problem, Ma," he said, picking up his bowl and carrying it to the
sink where he abandoned it on the sideboard.  He grabbed the keys to the
truck from the post by the door, pausing for a moment to pull a baseball
cap over his dark hair, and headed outside.

 His sister Emily was jumping rope in the driveway, her face flushed and
sweaty with the effort.  Only nine, she was fifteen years his junior, and
he often found it hard to believe that he'd ever been that young himself.
 "Whatcha doin', Em?" he asked as he threw open the door to the pickup.

 "Practicin'," she replied, her ponytail swaying in counterbalance to the
twirling rope.

 "I see," said Tyler, giving her effort the serious consideration it
deserved.  "Looks good."

 "Thanks," she wheezed as he put the truck into gear and backed down the
drive.
 
 

Scully shifted restlessly in her seat and felt for the crank in the side
of the door that operated the window.  Finding it, she rolled it down a
few more inches, enjoying the rush of air on her face.

 "Too windy for you?" she asked.

 "Not at all," he replied, and she could hear the fatigue in his voice.

 They had been on the road for hours, leaving immediately after a quick
bite at the cafe.  Scully had dozed off several times over the course of
the night, but Mulder had driven straight through.  They had stopped for
coffee and donuts at dawn, then continued their relentless pace.  Straight
through Oklahoma, a bit of Arkansas, down into Louisiana.   Miles of
highway that passed for Scully as nothing more than wind and the sound of
tires on asphalt, punctuated by an occasional car horn.  She was nervous,
and tired, and bored.  And worried about Mulder.

 "Mulder..." she paused, then, "shouldn't we stop for awhile?"

 "No," was his only answer.

 Scully said nothing further, not wanting to press the issue, but wishing
for the thousandth time that she could offer to take the wheel.

 He seemed to regret his quick response and elaborated in a reassuring
tone.  "I just want to get there before sundown.  Give us time to find a
place to stay."

 "How much further?" she wondered.  "It seems as though we should be there
by now."

 "We would be, if we could afford to take the interstate."

 Scully nodded, hoping he was looking.  Leaning forward, she found the
radio dial and switched it on.  She twirled the knob, searching for
something more interesting than talk shows and country music, but the '74
Plymouth Valiant was only equipped with an am receiver and the choices
were limited.  "Next time we buy a car," she sighed, "let's get something
with a CD player."

 "Deal," he said softly, and she thought she could hear a faint smile in
his voice.
 
 

"Monday mornin', first thing," Tyler proudly announced.  He leaned against
the back of the pickup, displaying his gold badge.

 "Amazin'."  Louis stared at the shiny piece of metal.  "Can't b'lieve you
actually did it.  Can't  b'lieve they let you in."

 "Hey," Tyler protested, though he knew his friend was teasing.  "I
*earned* this.  Ain't no one tellin' you to spend all your damn time
workin' on ole rusty car engines."

 "My friend," said Louis, "you have no idea what you're missin'."  That
said, Louis picked up a pair of pliers and resumed his cautious inspection
of the car he was repairing.

 Tyler glanced around the service station.  It was fairly small, just two
pumps, a mini-mart, and the garage in which he now stood.  It made no
sense to Tyler why his best friend from birth would consign himself to
this kind of job, when there were so many better, more noble things he
could pursue.

 Then again, if Louis was happy, who was he to argue.  "Hey," he said,
"how 'bout a brew?"

 "Now?" asked Louis, intent on his work.  "What time's it?"

 "Just past noon," Tyler replied.  "C'mon.  Celebrate my last days of
freedom with me."

 "Well...okay.  Just lemme finish this, here."

 Tyler grinned at the response.  It never took much with Louis.  "Back in
a flash."  He headed for the market, already anticipating the drink.

 Inside, he made his way to the cooler at the back, reviewing the
available selection.  Figuring since the beers would be on the house he
might as well splurge, he grabbed two bottles of the fancy imported stuff
and walked back towards the counter.

 A man stood there, waiting.  He turned as Tyler approached and asked,
"You work here?"

 "Nah,"  Tyler replied.  "But whatcha need?"

 "Trying to fill up the tank," he answered.

 "No problem," Tyler said, moving behind the counter to flip the switch
that activated the pump.  "Pay when you're done."

 The man nodded.  "Thanks," he said, and walked back out to his car.

 Tyler brought the two beers into the garage and popped the tops with his
Swiss army knife, placing one on the ground near Louis.  He took a long
drink of the other, savoring the taste.

 "Thanks, bro," said Louis, but Tyler didn't answer.  He moved to the edge
of the garage to get a better look at the man pumping the gas.

 There was something familiar about the man, something that Tyler couldn't
quite put his finger on.  He didn't look like anyone special, just another
road-weary traveler with red-rimmed eyes.  Maybe a bit on the skinny side,
but that wasn't what bothered Tyler.
 

 Then he saw her, and it all became crystal clear.

 There was a woman in the car, a little thing with dark hair pulled back
in a ponytail.  She leaned her head out the window to say something to the
man, then disappeared back inside.  But it was enough for Tyler to put two
and two together, to remember the pictures that had been passed around at
the station and the accompanying artists' renderings of potential
disguises.

 Tyler recovered just in time to avoid dropping his beer.  "Louis!"  he
hissed, causing his friend to jerk upwards and hit his head on the car
hood.

 "Damn, Tyler.... what?"

 "Get inside," Tyler ordered, in a newly authoritative tone.  "When that
guy comes in to pay, stall him.  *Don't* let him leave."

 "Why not?"  Louis sounded confused and Tyler realized then why his friend
would never have a career in law enforcement.

 "Because they're *fugitives*, is why."  Tyler felt a rush of smug
satisfaction.  To hell with the other deputies that thought he was too
young, too inexperienced.  He was going to bring down two federal
fugitives before he even served a day on the force.   "Now get in there,
and *do* it, you hear me?"

 Looking a bit stunned, but captivated by his friend's enthusiasm, Louis
put down his tools and headed towards the mini-mart.

 Tyler watched him go, satisfied, then sauntered casually across the
station to the pay phone at the far end, one hand wrapped tightly around
the badge in his pocket.
 
 

Mulder ran his fingers through his hair, feeling a twinge of impatience.
How long, he wondered, does it take to get change?  The kid in mechanics
overalls had disappeared into the back office of the mini-mart with his
$50 and still hadn't returned.

 Mulder took another glance out the window.  He could just see Scully,
sitting in the passenger seat, her head resting against the window frame.
He frowned when he noticed that the young man on the pay phone was still
staring at her.  Mulder hated it when people stared at her, as though she
was a curiosity or a carnival oddity.  Even though he knew she couldn't
see them, it made him furious.  This guy was worse than most -- in fact,
he seemed downright fascinated...

 The mechanic's return drew his attention back to the counter.  "Sorry
about that, mister," he drawled, fingers picking at the patch on his
overalls that identified him as 'Louis'.  "So -- we got two sodas, bag of
pretzels, and a fill-up -- say, how much was the fill?  Dial back here's
broken."

 "Fourteen even," answered Mulder, eyeing him carefully.  Louis really was
just a kid -- Mulder estimated he was perhaps five years past his teens.
His round face was slightly flushed, and as Mulder watched, a bead of
sweat escaped his hairline and made its way down his neck.

 "Right, right," said Louis.  "Lemme just add it all up and I'll give you
change."

 Mulder barely heard him, his mind suddenly kicking into overdrive.
Something didn't feel right.  He took another glance outside.  The guy was
still on the phone, still staring at Scully.  He had something in his
hand, something shiny that reflected the sunlight and obscured its
outline.  Then the guy moved his hand and the object was revealed and
Mulder was seized by a rush of panic-induced adrenalin.

 "Keep the change," he shouted, ignoring the items on the counter.  He
threw open the door and was across the station and back at the car in five
quick steps.

 "Rick??"  Mulder heard the fear in Scully's voice as he turned on the
ignition and slammed the car into gear.  "What's happening?"

 "Local law," he answered, peeling away from the pumps and out of the
station.  He noted with a grim satisfaction that the guy on the phone, the
kid with the deputy's star, was incensed by their sudden departure,
screaming into the receiver and gesticulating wildly.

 His satisfaction was short-lived, however.  As he swung the car back out
onto the highway, Mulder could just make out two police vehicles on fast
approach.  He took a quick look at Scully, checking to make sure her seat
belt was fastened.  She was breathing rapidly, and her hand was clenching
the armrest.  "Hang on," he said, and pressed the accelerator all the way
to the floor.
 
 

The temporary operations room was a bustling center of activity, yet the
man heard the ring of the phone and knew instantly that the call was for
him.  He stood where he was, surveying the map over the shoulders of the
investigative team.  They were good agents, staunch supporters of the
government they had pledged their lives to serve.  A case like this, he
knew, was hard for them -- they hated to think that there were those who
would break rank and succumb to the forces of evil they had sworn to
fight.  They hated to be asked to bring fellow agents down.

 It was good, the man thought as he lit another cigarette, that these
agents, smart as they were, didn't look beyond the simple explanation but
instead merely accepted what they were told at face value.  Foot soldiers
in a war that they weren't even aware was being fought.  Their allegiance
manipulated not by the government they recognized, but by a larger, global
force, ruled by its own interests...

 As he had expected, the man was approached by one of the younger field
agents.  "Sir," the young man said, "we have a confirmed sighting."

 "How far?"  The man exhaled, a cloud of smoke rising around him.

 "Twenty minutes by air," the agent reported.  "The chopper is being
prepped as we speak."

 "Good," the man replied, savoring the simple word.  Perhaps now it would
finally be finished, this ridiculous chase.  He had never expected it to
go on this long.

 He stubbed the butt of his smoke in a nearby ashtray and exited the
building, squinting his eyes at the bright midday sun.
 
 

Tyler sat in the backseat of the patrol car, his face pressed against the
metal grating that separated the front of the car from the back.  Ellis
was driving and he was glad about that;  Ellis had enough respect for him
to pick him up and bring him along, which was only fair.  After all, he
was the one that made the i.d.  He was the one who had spotted the
fugitives who had eluded capture for nearly six weeks.

 Tyler felt another flush of pride cross his cheeks and tried to get
Ellis' attention over the bark of the police radio.  "Where you think
they're headed?"

 It was Ellis' partner Deverell who answered, his voice heavy with
sarcasm.  "Well, Tyler, seein' as how they're tryin' to outrun the law,
figure they probably don't care just where they're headed."  Deverell was
nearly twice Tyler's age, with a gut that spoke of more than twenty years
of donut patrol.

 Tyler didn't dignify the comment with a response, focusing instead on the
car in the distance.  For an old Plymouth, it was doing pretty well.
Tyler figured the man must be pushing the car to the limit; after all, the
needle on their own speedometer was well over eighty and the patrol
vehicle was in fairly good shape.

 Never taking his dark eyes from the road ahead, Ellis offered his theory.
 "Iffen I was him, I'd get off the main drag quick as I could.  Best shot
he's got is to head into the Kisatchie."

 Tyler nodded, a silent acknowledgement of Ellis' wisdom.  The Kisatchie
National Forest stretched from as far north as Saline and as far south as
Glenmora, a considerable distance full of many unmarked roads.  It was an
easy spin from where they were now, just outside of Cloutierville, into
the heart of the forest itself.  "Well then," Tyler replied, "guess we'd
better head 'em off before they get there."

 Ellis said nothing, but he gave Tyler a smile in the rearview mirror.
There was something glistening in his eyes that Tyler couldn't quite
place, something that made him feel vaguely uneasy.  He'd known Ellis for
years -- even played football with him now and then -- but he'd never seen
this kind of intensity in him before.  As though it was the hunt that
inspired him, the thrill of the chase.

 Fighting a sudden queasiness, Tyler locked eyes with Ellis in the mirror
and smiled back.
 
 

Mulder struggled to keep the car on the road as it shot around another
curve.  The road was becoming increasingly steep and he knew he was
pushing the traction of the tires to the limit.   The patrol cars behind
him were slowly gaining, the noise of their sirens louder in his ears with
each passing second.

 He chanced another look at Scully. She was scrunched down in the seat,
her teeth clenched around her bottom lip.  "You okay?" he asked, turning
his eyes back to the road.

 "Yes."  The word came out as a short gasp.  "They're gaining on us,
aren't they?"

 He nodded before he realized what he was doing, then searched for some
words. "Yes... but it's not over yet."

 Just then, a third car joined the race, and the sight of this car struck
fear into Mulder's heart.  Unlike the patrol cars, this one was completely
nondescript.  Black, with slightly tinted windows.  As he watched, one of
the windows came down and he shouted at Scully.

 "Get down!" he yelled just as a spray of bullets hit the car, shattering
the back windshield in a shower of glass.  She screamed, and scooted down
even further in the seat, her head now level with the dashboard.

 A quick glance to make sure she wasn't hurt, and then Mulder twisted the
wheel, taking the car off the asphalt and onto an older side road.  It
wasn't wide enough for heavy traffic, some kind of tourist trail, he
supposed, but it would have to do.

 Without looking back, he knew the three cars had followed his dangerous
maneuver.  He could hear the screech of their wheels as they made the
tight turn, and he said a silent prayer as he sped up the steep incline
ahead.
 
 

"Where the hell's he goin'?"  Deverell's voice was equal parts anger and
confusion.

 "Like I said," Ellis drawled, "he's hopin' to use the forest."

 Tyler felt his heart pound faster as the patrol car followed the Valiant
up the incline.  He knew where they were, knew these roads.  Every local
kid did -- there were some great moonlight makeout spots around here.  But
he had never on his wildest, most drunken nights taken these roads at
these speeds.  No one in his right mind would try.

 Their car was the lead car of the three pursuit vehicles;  even the black
sedan trailed them now, which was a relief to Tyler.  When the sedan's
passenger had opened fire on the Plymouth, blood had rushed to his face.
For some reason Tyler hadn't expected that there would be shooting, at
least not like this.

 The Valiant reached the top of the incline and began its descent down the
other side of the hill, where gravity began working in favor of the
pursuing vehicles.  They were gaining on the old car thanks to better
engines and power steering;  they were so close now that Tyler could
actually see the two people inside.  The man was crouched over the
steering wheel, as though by sheer force of will he could make the car go
faster.  The woman was low in her seat, so that all Tyler was able to see
was the top of her head.

 They flew around another curve, Ellis twisting the wheel violently to
keep the car on the road.  And then it happened.

 Tyler watched, his eyes growing wide with horror, as the old Plymouth
went into a skid, a sharp one, tires squealing against the surface of the
road.  Around in a jagged whip-smart semicircle to crash through the
rusted metal barrier beyond.

 Some distant part of Tyler's brain heard the screech of their own tires
as Ellis brought the car to a sudden stop. The rest of him was entirely
focused on watching the lead car with its two passengers as it shot off
the road and over the cliff into the forest below.  Seconds later, the
crushing sound of rock against metal vibrated through his ears and he felt
the bile rush to his throat.

 Suddenly, Tyler wasn't so certain he wanted to be a deputy anymore.
 
 

Here endeth part 2... Don't worry, I'm not *that* mean -- part 3 posted
simultaneously.   Let me know if there's a problem -- nvrgrim@aol.com.
Thanks for reading!
 

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

From: nvrgrim@aol.com (NVRGRIM)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: NEW * SEQUEL* by Nicole Perry - PASSING THROUGH  3/3
Date: 6 Jan 1996 15:30:12 -0500
 

This is part three of a three-part post;  a sequel to my story GOIN'
NOWHERE.  Author's Note, Spoiler Warning, and Disclaimer can be found at
the beginning of part 1.   If there are problems with the posting (or
comments on the story!) I'm at nvrgrim@aol.com.
 
 

PASSING THROUGH (3/3)
by Nicole Perry
nvrgrim@aol.com
 
 

The stillness was deafening.

 Scully ran her tongue over her dry lips and tried to sit up.  Everything
hurt; she felt as though she'd been pummeled by a starting linebacker, but
at least all the parts seemed to work.  She fought for clarity against the
pounding in her head, and after a moment, it all came back to her.

 The chase.

 The crash.

 Mulder...

 A sudden rush of awareness shot through her and she struggled to form
words.  "Rick?" Her voice sounded small, weak.  "Rick?... Mulder?"

 The lack of response frightened her and she fumbled for her seatbelt.
Releasing the clasp, she scooted across the seat of the car, the slight
motion causing the vehicle to rock alarmingly.  Stretching out her hands,
she reached out until she found him, feeling his flannel shirt beneath her
fingers.  She shook him gently, calling his name.  "Mulder... Mulder..."

 Her fingers traced their way up his body to his face.  His mouth was
slightly open, and she was briefly reassured by the feel of his breath on
her palms.  His eyes were closed, his lashes feathery wisps beneath her
fingers.  She tensed when she felt the warm wetness across his forehead.
Bringing her hand to her mouth, she tasted the bitter tang of his blood.

 "Oh no....no no no no..." Her words trailed off into a panicked chant.
"Mulder... please... wake up...wake up..."

 There was no response, and she felt the fear sweeping over her,
threatening to consume her.  It was the smell that arrested the panic --
the smell of gasoline, and the sound of it, loud drips falling somewhere
beneath the car.

 Scully didn't know a tremendous amount about cars, but she knew a great
deal about spontaneous combustion and the conditions under which that kind
of explosion could occur.  Judging by the smell of the gas and the sound
that it was making, they had anywhere from minutes to seconds until the
car went up in flames.  She had to get Mulder out.  Now.

 The thought galvanized her into action and she scrambled back to her side
of the car.  The car tilted again at her motion, and she tried to gauge
the situation.  They were definitely tilted at an angle, with Mulder's
side near the bottom.  But were they on solid ground?  Scully had no way
of knowing.

 She found the door latch with her fingers and pushed it open, throwing
her weight against the metal to fight gravity and keep it open.  She
turned herself on her stomach and edged her way towards the doorframe feet
first.  Holding onto the seat with both hands, she sought ground beneath
her, but found nothing.  What, she thought for one frightened second, do I
do if there *isn't* anything beneath me but air?  Unwilling to answer the
question, she screwed up her courage and let herself fall.

 Scully hit the ground relieved to find it there, careful not to roll too
far away from the car.  She stood up awkwardly, her muscles unbelievably
stiff.  Placing both hands on the cool metal frame, she slowly edged her
way around the car, feeling her way past the taillights and the trunk to
the doors on the other side.

 Reaching the driver's door at last, she tried to pull it open, but it
wouldn't budge. *Locked*, she thought, exasperated.  For a brief moment
she thought about going back around to her side to unlock it but the smell
of gasoline was growing stronger and she knew there was little time.

 Pulling the sleeve of her turtleneck down around her fist she punched
through the window, hoping as she did so that Mulder would not be cut by
any stray pieces of glass.  Reaching in, she fumbled to unlock the door,
then found the handle again and threw it open.

 Without the door to support him, Mulder's body lolled halfway through the
frame, held in only by his seatbelt.  She found the catch and released it,
and he tumbled to the ground, landing near her feet.  Hoping that the fall
might have revived him, she crouched down over him, finding his face with
her hands.  She listened, but his breathing remained steady, the same
measured unconscious rate she associated with his sleeping.  She placed
two fingers on his neck, feeling for his pulse.  It was rapid but
constant, and she thanked God for that.

 Unbidden tears began to roll down her cheeks and Scully swiped them away
with the back of her hand, struggling to formulate some kind of plan.  Get
away from the car, get away, get away, her mind screamed.  Stepping around
Mulder, she positioned herself so that she could grab him, threading her
arms under his shoulders.  She struggled to a standing position, his body
trailing behind her, the weight heavy though she had yet to take a single
step.

 She was about to start when a thought struck her.  Without any way to
tell where she was going, she ran the horrible risk of making a circle,
bringing them right back to where they had begun.  Scully searched her
brain through the fear for an answer.  It was the sunshine itself that
gave her the idea.  She could feel the sun on her face, most intensely
warm on her right cheek.  Given that it was midafternoon, that meant she
was facing vaguely south.  As long as she could feel the sun in the same
place on her face, she would be headed in somewhat of a straight line.

 Imbued by the confidence of this discovery, Scully started out, pulling
Mulder behind her.  Her progress was agonizingly slow.  She felt the
ground before her with a cautious foot each time before actually taking a
step, always conscious of the position of the sun on her skin.  She had
barely gone ten steps before Mulder's weight threatened to bring her down,
but she clenched her jaw and continued forward.

 She had no idea how far she had come when the explosion tore through the
air, a riot of heat and sound.

 Scully fell to the ground, unable to hear herself scream, waiting for it
to end.

 After a few long moments, relative silence returned, but she could still
hear the crackling flames and smell the acrid smoke.  She stood up,
adjusted her hold on Mulder, and continued.  More often than not, she
stumbled, but found her footing somehow and kept moving.

 Just when she felt she could go no further, the sun went out.

 That was her initial reaction, but as she felt around her with tentative
hands outstretched, she realized it was just that the trees were thicker
here, blocking out the sun.  Exhausted, her only source of direction
extinguished, Scully decided to stop.

 She collapsed in a heap, finding the nearest tree and resting her back
against it.  She found Mulder with her hands and pulled his head into her
lap, running her fingers through his hair, careful to avoid the area of
his scalp that was damp with his blood.  Saying a silent prayer to anyone
who would listen, she began to croon his name, hoping he would wake up,
afraid of what would happen if he did not.
 
 

Tyler stood with the other deputies at the edge of the cliff, along with
the two men from the unmarked vehicle.  No one said much of anything, just
watched the smoke and fire rising from the valley below.  Nearby trees had
already begun to burn, threatening to develop into a full-scale blaze.
The car itself was barely visible, having crashed beyond a group of rocks
that obscured it from this angle.

 In all his years, Tyler had never seen anything quite so horrifying.  His
voice sounded strange to his own ears as he asked, "Think there's any way
they survived?"

 Ellis, his hero and mentor, turned to him, his expression grave. "Ain't
no way," was all he said. "Ain't no way."

 At that moment, another car came screeching up and Tyler turned his head
to look.  Four men emerged from the vehicle, but there was only one who
caught Tyler's attention.  He was tall, imposing in a dark and frightening
way.  Apparently unconcerned about the spreading fire, the man carried a
cigarette between his fingers, puffing deliberately as he approached.

 The man marched straight up to Ellis, intensity in his step.  "What
happened?" was all that he said.

 Ellis paused a moment before answering and Tyler could see his upper lip
trembling beneath his moustache. "Chased 'em up here and the car went off
the road.  Guy musta been crazy, thinkin' he could negotiate these curves
in an old car like that.  No way they could've survived that fall."

 Perhaps because Tyler himself was so sure that Ellis spoke the truth, the
strange man's words came as a complete surprise.  "I want a full search
team down there immediately.  Your orders are to shoot to kill if they are
spotted."

 "But sir..." Ellis' words mirrored Tyler's own confusion.  "Ain't no way
there's anyone down there alive."

 "Full search." The man's words were as cold as ice.  "Now."

 Ellis nodded and motioned to his men to begin executing the request.
 
 

Mulder shifted restlessly.  His whole body ached and his head was a
throbbing, painful mass.  He longed for the comfort of sleep, but there
was something nagging him, something insistent --

 <MulderMulderMulderplease>

 -- something that he knew he should be doing.  He shifted again, trying
to bring consciousness more quickly to his tired mind and body, trying to
focus on that urgent cry --

 <pleasepleasewakeupIneedyou>

 -- one more shift and a shake of his head and his eyes opened.  Above him
he saw nothing but green trees.  Below him, he felt the painful solidity
of dirt, with a few pebbles and twigs mixed in for good measure.  Then he
heard the words, really heard them this time.

 "Mulder... Mulder... please wake up...."

 "Scully?"  His voice sounded rusty to his ears.

 "Mulder -- Mulder??"  Her words were quick, panicked, matching the
flutter of her hands across his face, his chest.

 He struggled to sit up, grabbing at her hands to avoid being hit in the
face.  "Shhh.. Scully... I'm here," he said.

 "Oh -- Mulder!" was all she said, but the fierce grip of her arms around
his neck spoke volumes.

 He allowed the embrace to continue, feeling the warm flush of her face
against his, though his head was pounding and his mind was whirling with a
thousand questions.  When he felt the tremors in her body begin to
subside, he pulled away and tilted her chin with one hand so that she
faced him.

 "Scully?" He voiced a soft question.  "What happened?"

 He could feel the shudder pass through her and waited as she regained
some of her composure, her breath coming in short, labored gasps.  Slowly
she began to tell him what had happened, what she remembered, what she had
done.

 As she spoke, he watched her.  Her vacant eyes were reddened and watery.
Her face was dirty, streaked with sweat and tears, and a nasty gash ran
down one cheek from her ear nearly to her chin.  Her hair was a tangled
mess, the barrette she had worn having come loose from its moorings and
hanging by a few remaining strands.  He plucked the offending piece of
tortoiseshell plastic from her hair with his fingers and clenched it in
his palm as he listened.

 When she had finished, he looked around him, overwhelmed.  He could smell
the acrid smoke from the explosion, yet it was far enough away that he
didn't feel immediate danger from the fire.

 He gazed back at her, unable to form words to express the emotions he
felt coursing through him at that moment. "Scully, you --" he began,
trying to find a way to say what he meant.

 "Mulder --" she cut him off, her tone serious and intense. "Don't even
say it. I could *never* have left you."

 A strange uncomfortable lump was collecting at the back of his throat as
he gathered her into his arms again, feeling her body sag against his,
seeking reassurance from his presence.  They sat that way for a long
moment and he offered silent thanks to whatever good fortune had kept them
safe.

 Then, in the far distance, he heard the sound of approaching footsteps.
She heard them too -- he could tell by the look that crossed her face.

 Taking her hand, he rose to a standing position on unsteady legs.  His
head sang with pain and a wave of dizziness almost knocked him down but he
grimly fought it off.  "C'mon Scully," he said, pulling her up to join
him.  "Let's go."

 She nodded, and the determination in her face warmed him, made him feel
stronger somehow.

 With her hand in his, he began leading the way through the trees.
 
 

The man stood, and smoked, watching as the search team tore through the
woods below.  Thus far they had come up empty handed, and a small part of
the man wanted to believe that the couple he sought had indeed died in the
fiery crash.

 But he knew these two people, knew them better in some ways than he knew
himself.  He had studied them, knew at least a little about what drove
them.  He had to admit that he admired them for their perseverance, if
nothing more.  It was his awareness of that perseverance that caused him
to continue the search.

 The man noticed the kid standing by the edge of the cliff, his eyes also
locked on the drama below.  He knew this was the boy who had summoned the
authorities to begin with, and he was curious at this juncture to see if
there was anything else to be gleaned.

 He waved to the young man, idly noticing the look of anxiety that passed
across his face at the summons.  The kid walked over to him, his hands
clenching a small gold star. "Sir?  Can I help you?"

 "I need to know," the man whispered, "if there's anything else you can
tell me.  Anything else you might have seen."

 "Well..." the young man's voice was hesitant; his eyes, shadowed.  "I'm
not positive, but..."

 "What?"  A command, not a request.

 "The woman, sir.  I was watching her, at the gas station."  The young man
shifted nervously before continuing. "I think -- I think she might be
blind."

 "Thank you."  The man dismissed the boy without a further glance.  This
was very interesting information.... and tied in nicely with some of the
other reports he had been able to piece together.

 Dana Scully... blind.  The man smiled inwardly, his outer facade giving
no indication of the pleasure he felt at the news.  He could not have
asked for more favorable cards to have been placed in his deck.

 Lighting another cigarette, he moved away from the cliff, allowing the
search to continue in his absence.
 
 

And that's all she wrote...   ;-)   Thanks a lot for sticking with me -- I
would love to know what you thought -- comments, criticism and compliments
are all happily accepted at nvrgrim@aol.com.  Thanks for reading!

__
From: nvrgrim@aol.com (NVRGRIM)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: *NEW* - AT THE BLUE HOTEL (1/12) - Nicole Perry
Date: 14 Mar 1996 17:14:25 -0500
 

Author's Note:  Gather round the campfire, another chapter in the
on-the-road saga is about to begin!   This installment follows GOIN'
NOWHERE and PASSING THROUGH, both of which can be found on Vincent's
archive at Ohio State -- you might want to read those first.  Bear with me
a moment before we start...heaps of love to the amazing Kat for her
tireless, beyond-the-call-of-duty editing services and her endless
patience with my constant questions "What if..." and "Do you think..."   A
debt of gratitude also goes to my fellow Sensei Survivor (what did you say
I could earn, 475 against 1.2?) for her encouragement and advice, and to
my midwest pen pal who planted the seed that took root and finally
flowered in this installment.  I honored both of you this time around in a
special way -- the only way I know how.... ;-)  And, as always, *many
many* thanks to all of you who took the time to write -- it's absolutely
=incredible= to get feedback!   Correspondence designed to placate or
enrage the anxious writer (me) can be addressed to nvrgrim@aol.com.
Enough already...

Spoiler Warning:  This story has taken on a life of its own;  in a
roundabout way it deals with the mystery of
what-the-hell-happened-to-Scully-when-she-was-missing-for-three-months.
To do that, I'm riffing off of information provided in the Duane Barry
trilogy, "Anasazi", and the six related mythic episodes we've been
privileged to view so far this season.  Just a general warning to any
overseas readers. <g>

Additional Note:  While I don't actually think that this story needs a
rating, I feel that I should say that it is dark in tone and that it
includes some violent scenes.  But really nothing more than you find at
your local cineplex... put it this way -- if this were a movie, and you
were born after Jimmy Carter left office, they wouldn't let you in without
a parent or guardian!  ;-)  So bear that in mind...

Disclaimer:  Thanks as always to Chris Carter, 1013 and Fox for providing
me with a launching pad and allowing my creativity to take flight.  I
think everybody knows the folks from Mr. Carter's Neighborhood by now --
all the other characters are mine.  Special thanks to David and Gillian
for their continually inspired performances.  And, once again kudos to
Chris Isaak (amongst others) for the writing mood-music and especially for
the help with the title...
 
 

AT THE BLUE HOTEL (1/12)
by Nicole Perry
nvrgrim@aol.com
 
 

Scully sat on the couch, fingering the worn fabric and trying to remember
what color it was.  She could hear Mulder, banging around in the kitchen.
The spicy aroma coming from the stove was full of garlic and she guessed
he was making some kind of pasta dish.  Mulder had put the television on
to keep her company while he cooked, but she had turned the volume down
low, preferring to listen to the noises he made instead of inane sitcom
babble.

 "Is it time yet, Mulder?" she called to him.  Her scalp was starting to
itch and she couldn't shake the irrational fear that the dye was seeping
into her brain.

 "Another couple minutes," he answered. "Just be patient."

 "Easy for you to say," she muttered, but she actually didn't mind.  The
couch, while old, was comfortable, and this room with its small fireplace
was a lot warmer than the kitchen.

 This was their third night in the tiny furnished apartment in the French
Quarter of New Orleans.  Scully knew Mulder was nervous about the fact
that they had been in one place for so long, but she herself was actually
a little relieved.  Though she would never admit it to him, the constant
traveling was tremendously exhausting for her.  It was so difficult to get
acclimated to each new location -- just figuring out how to get from the
bed to the bathroom each day was a major challenge.

 At least this place, small as it was, had begun to feel familiar to her.
There were only four rooms:  bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, and the main room
where she now sat.  The apartment was sparsely furnished, and smelled a
bit musty, but thanks to Mulder's efforts was now quite clean.

 "Time's up." Mulder's voice interrupted her reverie and she stood up from
the couch, pausing for a moment to orient herself before moving slowly in
the direction of the kitchen.

 He met her halfway and she allowed him to guide her towards the sink.
"Smells good, Mulder," she said. "I didn't realize you were such the
chef."

 "That's me," he chuckled. "Always something new up my sleeve."

 Scully leaned over the sink, pressing her hands against the tile counter
for balance, Mulder coming to stand directly behind her.  She heard him
turn on the water, and a few drops hit her face as he stuck his hand under
the spray to test it.  Seemingly satisfied, he gently moved her head
underneath the faucet.

 "Ow!" Scully cried out as wet heat hit her scalp.  She felt his hands
quickly pulling her back.

 "Too hot?" She heard concern in his voice.

 "A little," she admitted, and heard the squeak of the lever as he
adjusted the temperature.

 They tried again, and this time Scully was relieved to find the rush of
water over her head was pleasantly warm. "Better?" he asked, and she
nodded slightly in response.

 "Mmmm... much better."  His hands moved through her hair, lifting and
separating the strands to allow the water to wash away all of the dye.
His motions were smooth and efficient, firm and yet surprisingly tender.
Rivulets of water ran down her cheeks and she shut her eyes to keep the
dye from irritating them any further.

 Scully heard Mulder pick something up from the counter.  He squeezed it
and she caught a rush of air just before something cold fell on her head.
"Conditioner," he said, in response to her involuntary shiver.  He leaned
in closer, his fingers working the liquid into a bubbly lather.  The
circular strokes were incredibly soothing and Scully felt herself relaxing
under his touch.

 Before, Scully had never considered herself a particularly physical
person;  unlike her sister Melissa, she had always been very protective of
her personal space, never one for casual hugs or embraces, even with
members of her own family.  Now, like so much else, this had changed.  The
darkness was so overwhelming, so isolating that physical contact had
become a need for her, an imperative.  She realized how much she had come
to value Mulder's touch, the clasp of his hands on hers the anchor that
kept her moored to the fragile edge of sanity.

 She heard him humming softly as he worked and smiled. "I think you're
enjoying this too much," she chided him.  "Explain to me again why *I'm*
the one who has to go through this and not you?"

 "Because *I* was born with nondescript brown hair and not fiery red,"
came the response.

 "Clown hair." The phrase sprang to her lips, unbidden, a hurtful reminder
of playground teasing.

 "*Beautiful* hair," Mulder contradicted in a voice so like her father's
that the shock almost cost her his next soft words.  "I miss it."

 "You do?" she twisted in his grasp as though if she were quick enough she
would be able to see his face.

 "Yes," he admitted, "I do.  Now -- hold still," he ordered, and she felt
the water again as he angled her head back under the faucet and began to
rinse the conditioner from her hair. "We're almost through."

 They were both quiet as Mulder finished, wringing the last of the water
from her hair before handing her a towel.  Scully rubbed it over her head
awkwardly as he shut off the water.  He moved to help her but she waved
him away. "Got it," she said.  "But will you bring me my brush?  And maybe
a sweater?"

 "Sure," he answered, and she heard his steps head towards the bedroom.
Although she knew he was coming right back, she felt a sudden, surprising
ache at his absence.  Silly girl, she thought, shaking off the anxiety.
Carrying the towel, she began the cautious trek out of the kitchen and
back into the main room.
 
 

Mulder found the brush on the nightstand by the bed.  He crossed over to
the dresser and opened the middle drawer where he had dumped the few
things she could now call hers.  He'd made a quick trip to a thrift store
after they found this place, and had tried to replace what had been lost
in the crash.  Finding the two sweaters in the pile, he called out, "Do
you want the gray or the green?"

 The second the words were out of his mouth he winced, cursing himself for
his callous mistake.  Before he could rectify his error, she answered him.
"The pullover," she called, without a trace of rancor in her voice.  "Not
the one with the buttons."

 Blessing her again for her tireless patience, Mulder tossed the gray
cardigan back in the drawer and slammed it shut, carrying the green V-neck
and the brush in one clenched fist.  He made a quick stop in the kitchen
before returning to her, checking the activity on the stove.  The sauce
was almost done so he turned the heat down to low, stirring it once or
twice before putting the spoon aside.  In the other pot the water had
finally come to a boil, so he threw in three-quarters of the box of pasta
and left it to cook.

 Scully was sitting cross-legged in front of the fire, too close for his
liking.  The towel lay abandoned in her lap and her hair was a dark
tangled mess on her head.  It was a bit longer than he was used to seeing
it, falling easily to her shoulders.

 "Here," he said, handing her the sweater.

 "Thanks," she replied, favoring the empty air above his left shoulder
with a warm smile.  Mulder watched as she pulled the sweater over her tee
shirt.  It was too big for her, but it was well-worn and comfortable and
he could understand why she liked it.

 "Well, don't keep me in suspense."  Her smile was more on target this
time and he noticed the gash across her cheek was finally beginning to
heal.  "How does it look?"

 He reached out and grabbed her hand gently, glad for the excuse to move
her away from the fireplace.  "Good, I think -- let me see."   He took a
seat on the couch and she scooted over to sit near him, her back resting
against the couch, his long legs on either side of her body.  Mulder took
the brush and began to pull it through her hair, careful to ease it past
the tangles without tearing the delicate strands.  She sat up straighter
at his touch, resting an elbow on each of his knees, her head swaying
slightly at each stroke.

 "Yeah -- I think we got it all," he said.  "No more red."  Having made
that discovery, Mulder knew he could stop what he was doing, but something
kept his hand moving the brush through her hair.
 
 She gave a little sigh that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. "I don't
know, Mulder -- I think we may have found a new career for you as a
hairdresser, if all else fails."

 He laughed a little in response and kept brushing, grateful for her mood.
 She seemed more relaxed than he could remember seeing her since they had
left D.C., and he made a silent vow to do whatever he could to keep her
this calm, make her feel this safe.

 Mulder himself was very uneasy about the fact that they were stuck in
Louisiana, even for a little while.  While New Orleans had seemed like the
perfect place to hide when the Lone Gunmen had suggested it, their
near-fatal crash the other day had convinced him otherwise.  But it was
precisely that crash that now made it all the more essential to lay low --
to see if by some slim chance the Shadow People might believe they died in
that car.

 Emerging from the forest near a curve in the road, they had been lucky
enough to find a family of tourists returning from a sightseeing jaunt
willing to stop and pick them up.  Mulder had helped Scully into the back
of the Jeep Cherokee and fabricated a story reasonable enough to explain
their disheveled presence.  A brief smile crossed his face at the memory
of the wife fussing over them with her first aid kit.  It had been a risk
that had paid off, bringing them safely into the nearest town, where he
bought two bus tickets to New Orleans, fairly satisfied that they hadn't
been followed.

  Darkness had fallen by the time they arrived, and they had both been
exhausted.  They had taken a cab into the French Quarter and, without the
time or energy to launch a thorough search, Mulder had selected one of the
first places he saw.  The faded script on the sign out front read "L'Hotel
Azur, Pensionne de Famille", and he had been pleased to note that the card
beneath announced there was a room available.  It was a small, rundown
guest house, consisting of four apartments, two above and two beneath.
The landlord had given Mulder the key to the vacant unit in exchange for a
week's rent paid in cash, no questions asked.  It was the upper apartment
in the back, and although it was rather dingy, it was secluded and
relatively private, for which Mulder was thankful.

 "Mulder..." Scully's voice interrupted his thoughts.  She sounded serious
now, and he stopped brushing to listen.

 "Yes?"

 "I was just thinking... about my mom."  She paused a moment, and shifted
her arms so that her palms were now flat on his denim-clad knees.  "Do you
think -- do you think she's okay?"

 "Of course," he quickly responded.  "I mean, I'm sure she's worried about
you, but..."

 "No, that's not what I mean."  Her words came out in a rush.  "Do you
think they're bothering her?  Harassing her, trying to use her to track us
down?"

 Mulder hesitated, not sure what to say.  He slid down off the couch to
sit directly behind her, enveloping her in the cocoon of his arms and
legs. "Scully," he answered slowly, "I don't know for sure.  But your mom
-- she's a very strong woman.  She can handle herself -- you know that.
And we're helping her do that... if only by staying away from her, not
giving her anything that they could use against her."

 She nodded, and he felt her relax even further into his embrace. "I
know..." She sounded sad now, and he realized that somehow he'd already
broken his recent vow. "I know you're right.  It's hard though... isn't
it."

 Her statement didn't seem to require confirmation so he said nothing,
just continued to hold her, until he heard the sound of the pasta boiling
over and he had to get up and fix their dinner.
 
 

Walter Skinner closed his eyes and placed his fingers on the bridge of his
nose, massaging the perch owned by his wire frame glasses.  He was an
Assistant Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation not by choice so
much as consequence.  He had risen through the ranks at the Bureau thanks
to his keen intellect and mastery of internal politics, and had been
rewarded for his years of tireless service with this often thankless
position.  There were times that he knew he was doing the work he had been
born to do;  there were others when he cursed his fate and wished that he
had chosen another path.

 He opened his eyes and fixed them again on the page in front of him.  The
meticulously typed report informed him that there was a thirty percent
chance that Agents Fox Mulder and Dana Scully had perished in the
Louisiana automobile crash.  Of course, Skinner realized that particular
statistic could change at any moment;  investigative work was still being
done.  However, the explosion and resulting fire had done a substantial
job of obliterating the evidence, greatly hampering further analysis.

 Thirty percent.  Skinner tried to keep his mind focused on the other
seventy.

 The whistling sound of a match being struck drew Skinner's attention back
to the man standing before him.  Skinner glanced pointedly at the "No
Smoking" sign on his desk, but the man ignored the silent request.  With a
barely audible sigh, Skinner carefully phrased his next words.  "It seems
premature to scale back on the search based on this report."

 The man inhaled before giving his reply.  "I should think, " he said,
"that you would be relieved to have some of your manpower returned to
their normal investigative duties."

 Skinner met the man's eyes, but said nothing.

 "The search for Mulder and Scully will continue," the man finished,
"under different auspices."

 "On whose authority?"

 It was the man's turn to be silent, and Skinner felt his jaw tighten with
frustration.  He was tired of the games, of the half-truths.  Tired of
being a paper tiger with a title and an office.   And, he admitted to
himself, tired of the guilt.

 On some level Skinner blamed himself for Mulder and Scully's predicament.
 He had long been aware of their unauthorized investigations and had
allowed them to continue despite his own better judgement.  When
circumstances had dictated that he do so, he had called them on the carpet
for policy violations, berating them for their failure to adhere to Bureau
protocol.  He had, on numerous occasions, warned them against prying
further into areas that were none of their concern.  He had advised them
to call off their search, to stop looking for the truths they sought.
Skinner had built a career on knowing when to turn a blind eye, well aware
that there were some answers he was better off not having.

 But Skinner had never had a sister vanish before his eyes, never to
return.  He had never had three months of his life stolen from him,
without explanation.  For these reasons, he gave them as much support as
he was able, protecting them as best he could.

 This time, however, he had failed.  Failed to give credence to the
evidence they had brought him, to the accusations that they made.   A
pained expression crossed his face as he remembered the last time that
Scully was in his office, asking for his assistance with an urgency that
made her request almost a plea.  A plea that he had denied.

 Realizing that his question was not going to be answered, Skinner tried
another approach.  "I still expect to be kept informed as to the status of
the search."

 "But of course," the man replied, ashing the cigarette on the carpet
below.  "I wouldn't have it any other way."

 With that, the man turned and left, and Skinner couldn't help but feel a
twinge of relief at his exit.  The man made him uneasy, and it was caused
by more than the mere fact that Skinner had no real idea whose interests
the man represented.  There was something about him that laced his every
word, his every action, with evil intent.

 Skinner closed the report, wondering as he did so what would happen if
Mulder and Scully were still alive, what would happen to them if they were
found.  The thought crossed his mind that with such damning evidence
against them, perhaps it might be easier for them to have died in that
crash.  With a shake of his head, he banished the thought and returned to
his work.
 

X-1            X-1
 

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

From: nvrgrim@aol.com (NVRGRIM)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: *NEW* - AT THE BLUE HOTEL (2/12) - Nicole Perry
Date: 14 Mar 1996 17:14:35 -0500
 

This is part two of a twelve-part post.  Author's Note, Spoiler Warning,
and Disclaimer can be found at the beginning of part 1.  If there are
problems with the posting (or comments on the story!) I'm at
nvrgrim@aol.com.
 
 

AT THE BLUE HOTEL (2/12)
by Nicole Perry
nvrgrim@aol.com
 
 

Charlie looked at his watch as he pulled his bike from the rack.  It
always took him an extra minute or two to decipher the position of the
hands on the face;  for some reason, the numbers, large as they were,
confused him.  After a moment of contemplation, he figured out that he had
at least an hour, maybe more, before his father came home.  That would be
plenty of time to see if the angel was there.

 Charlie checked his backpack once again, just to be sure that his
notebook was tucked safely away amongst his schoolbooks.  It was there,
tattered and worn, containing all of his notes and lists.  Relieved, he
began to pedal his way through the crowded streets towards home.

 He had always had the habit of writing things down, things that he knew
he needed to remember.  His grandmother had taught him when he was little
the importance of keeping a record, and that lesson had been one he had
learned well.  Lists of his favorite streets in New Orleans.  Notes about
the times the stores he liked opened and closed.  Recollections of events
he considered significant, like the first time he had caught a fish all by
himself.  Sightings of angels.  That, he reflected as he rode, was a very
short list.  His grandmother used to tell him bedtime stories about angels
who walked the earth, disguised in human form, watching over people and
doing good works that were rarely observed.  God's little miracles, she
had called them, and in her memory Charlie had dedicated his life to
finding them and recording their presence.

 He rounded the corner, careful as always to check for oncoming traffic
before he did so.  He pedaled faster, anxious to get home, thinking about
the fact that he had at last succeeded in his goal.

 Charlie had known that she was an angel the first time that he saw her.
He kept a close eye on all the things that happened on his block, and had
known before anyone else that the vacant apartment in the guest house next
door had finally been rented.  It had been available for almost a month,
and that fact alone had indicated to Charlie that something important was
happening when tenants had finally arrived.  It was apartment number 3,
which made it special.  Three was Charlie's lucky number -- he did
everything in series of threes.  Brushed his teeth three times a day.
Drank his milk at dinner in three big gulps.  Turned down the covers on
his bed three times, folding the sheets back with a silent prayer to keep
monsters from coming out of the closet when the lights went out.

 He should have realized tha