I did not write this.  Please send feedback to bonetree@aol.com

Disclaimer in chapter 0.  This is chapter 22a.
 

*********

J&J WAREHOUSE
THE BANKS OF THE JAMES RIVER
11:33 a.m.

Owen Curran sat perfectly still on a crate outside the warehouse.
Even the ash of his cigarette had grown long with his stillness, a
thin trail of smoke coming up and drifting in front of his face. His
eyes were on the road along the river.

Every now and again he blinked. Otherwise, he was stone.

His emotions had shifted in the past half hour from mild anger and
annoyance to anxiety and something with the metal taste of rage. John
should have been here an hour ago. Forty-five minutes at the outside.
He knew they were on a tight time schedule, and knew better than to
keep Owen waiting this long.

Something had happened to him, Owen decided, the ash of his
cigarette finally falling as he glanced down at his watch without
moving anything but his eyes. Katherine -- the FBI agent, whoever she
was -- must have found a way to get away from him, disable him,
something. Perhaps she'd known they were on to her and she'd had
backup, agents with her in the apartment and John had been arrested.

He doubted that. The death of Flaherty would clue the Feds into the
fact that he knew something, but he didn't think they could get to
Katherine before Fagan had.

There were footsteps behind him on the rocky ground, coming closer.
He leaned up on the crate, took a drag on the waning cigarette, did
not turn.

"Owen?" the man -- Peter -- said softly. "Begging your pardon, but I
don't think we can wait any longer for John. We're cutting it with
only an hour to spare as it is now, and if there's any traffic..."

Owen flicked the cigarette down on the ground, rubbed his hands on
his thighs to warm them up, then stood, facing Peter and the other
three men who were milling around the truck restlessly.

"Aye," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. He held it in like a
kettle. He nodded toward the truck. "You and Conail go on and get in
the truck, check that you've got everything you need and that it's
ready. Send Timmy to the car. I'm going to make a quick call and then
we'll be on our way."

"All right, Owen," Peter said, and walked away. Owen dug in his coat
pocket, pulled out the cell phone he rarely used but that John had
insisted he have so the two of them could be in contact. He punched
the talk button awkwardly, held it up to his ear to hear the tone for
a second. Then he began to slowly dial John's cell phone number. He'd
been reluctant to call him before now, afraid of interrupting what he
was he doing. But that time had passed.

After 10 rings a voicemail picked up: "The customer you are trying
to reach is unavailable..."

He hung up quickly, his anxiety rising another notch. He dialed
again. His own number at the apartment.

He'd get to Mae, put her on the trail of what had happened to John.

It rang. He waited. Nobody there.

His face reddened slightly as he hung up the phone again. He dialed
a little more quickly this time, his hand shaking slightly as emotion
welled in him. Mae's number this time.

Behind him, the truck rumbled to life. Just behind that, his own car
started up.

Ignoring them for the moment, the sense of urgency that the sounds
fostered in him, he let the phone ring again.

Five, then ten times. Fifteen.

His jaw was a block of iron, his teeth clenched as he hung up the
phone and stuffed it into his pocket roughly.

His breath blew a quick warm cloud into the frigid air as he
exhaled, frustrated and -- almost -- afraid. He looked out over the
river, seeking solace, the rapids blown back over the rocks like soft
white hair.

He didn't know what it all meant. But he knew something was terribly
wrong.

Turning back toward the truck and car, he looked at the men there,
waiting for him, watching him. They were good men, he decided. They
were up to the job, and they were all that he needed. He would have
to believe that.

He looked up at the sky, tension overtaking him. They were out of
time.

He turned and walked quickly towards the car, got in and they pulled
away, the car leading the truck up the narrow road, through the city,
and onto the interstate, blending in seamlessly with the traffic
heading north.
 

**********

THE EMBASSY OF IRELAND
2234 MASSACHUSETTS AVENUE,
NW WASHINGTON D.C.
2:20 p.m.
 

Walter Skinner leaned forward anxiously in the front seat of his car
as he heard the rhythmic coughing of a helicopter going overhead. He
searched for the source of the sound, saw the bright white and orange
of a private helicopter streak by, and scowled. It wasn't the chopper
he was expecting -- a FBI chopper he'd ordered out of Quantico to
survey the area around Embassy Row.

He checked his watch, cursed under his breath in frustration.

He needed that helicopter here *now*.

This thing was so thrown together, he thought bitterly, shaking his
head. It was a miracle he'd even managed to get the resources he had
on such short notice.

And he wouldn't have had to even do that if Padden wasn't such an
intractable bastard.

Granger had called him that morning after a conversation with Mulder
in his motel. Briefly, and breathlessly, Granger had told Skinner
about Mulder's theory. Skinner had agreed to tell Padden, despite the
fact that he himself had doubts about the leap that Mulder was making
with all this.

He still found it hard to believe that Curran, a man who'd spent his
entire life fighting for the Irish Cause, would turn on his own
people. He hadn't spoken of those doubts to Padden, however. Still,
Padden had immediately dismissed the theory, calling it "unfounded."

That had pissed Skinner off.

Over the years, despite their differences, Skinner had grown to
trust most of Mulder's instincts (at least when the case didn't
involve a ghost crawling up someone's ass, or aliens landing in Times
Square, crap like that). Mulder had been right too many times for
Skinner not to trust them. So to see those instincts dismissed so out
of hand made Skinner strangely protective of his agent.

And he knew 90% of the reason Padden was sloughing it all off so
easily was *because* it had come from Mulder.

"What is he still doing working on this case?" Padden had demanded.
"I wanted him out of here."

"He's taking some personal time," Skinner had replied softly. "He's
not acting in any official capacity on this case anymore."

"^^Official capacity' is a loose term when applied to Agent Mulder,
Mr. Skinner," Padden had replied gruffly, staring at him over the
rims of his reading glasses.

You've got me there, Skinner had thought wryly, but didn't say it
aloud. He'd merely reiterated Mulder's reasons for this theory about
the bombing, calmly, seriously.

After some more argument, which Padden had only half-heartedly
participated in, he had agreed to send part of the task force of
agents, including a CIA Bomb Squad, to the *British* Embassy, in case
the bombing was indeed today. But he refused to believe the Irish
Embassy would be the target, calling the theory that Curran would
attack the Irish "rubbish."

Not even Flaherty's death would convince him that it might be true,
though Skinner had tried that angle as well. Padden brushed that off
with a few words about Flaherty's dealing with other splinter groups,
and left it at that.

Skinner had walked out of the hotel suite with three feelings. The
first was the beginnings of a killer headache, which wasn't uncommon
when he dealt with Mulder. The second was irritation and anger at
Padden for being so clearly biased against anything Mulder would say.
And the third was an itch to get on the horn with Quantico and *act.*

Just in case Mulder was right.

Mulder had still seemed sure of himself when Skinner had talked to
him earlier in the day, while Skinner and Granger were driving to
D.C. Mulder had called, told him about Scully not showing for the
plane, about what he'd found at the apartment.

"Goddamnit, Mulder, you went to the apartment?" Skinner spat, and
Granger had tried to look innocent beside him. Skinner glared at him.

"Mae's got her, I'm sure of it," Mulder had replied, ignoring the
question. "And since she hasn't called me yet, I'm going to assume
that Mae's *keeping* her from calling."

"Yeah, that would follow," Skinner said after a beat, regret in his
voice. "What are you doing now?"

"Looking around the city for her. Driving around. I've gone to the
Grey Mouse, asked about Mae. Not surprisingly, nobody answered me."

Skinner considered for a few seconds. But only a few. He knew what
he had to do. He took in a deep breath, resigning himself to it.

"I'm going to pull all the FBI I can off the task force, have them
start looking for Mae and Scully. I agree with you that Fagan's body
and the blood on the robe is enough to indicate she's in trouble.
I'll have them put the known Path members under active surveillance,
see if Mae turns up at any of their apartments."

Beside him, Granger looked over, surprised, then out the window. He
was shaking his head slightly. Skinner sympathized. He was seeing his
*own* career heading for the drain, too.

"So you're not going to tell Padden at all," Mulder said.

"No," Skinner replied. "I'm going to act on my own on this. I don't
think Padden will risk blowing the entire operation for her safety."
He hated the words, but they were the truth and he knew it.

Mulder had grown angry with that, but Skinner had then told him to
try and stay calm, to continue looking as best he could. He knew
Mulder had to feel like he was doing *something* toward finding her.

As soon as they hung up, Skinner had immediately called down to
Richmond and put the search for his missing agent on.

Now, here in the car outside the embassy, he sighed, frustrated and
worried about Scully, about the risk he was taking with his career
with all this. And he was tense about the stakeout.

For now, he had to forget about Scully and concentrate on what he
was doing in the here and now. If anyone could find her it was
Mulder, and Skinner knew he had to leave him to that task.

Another rumbling in the sky, this one deeper, more resonant, and
Skinner leaned forward again, saw the familiar shape of a white FBI
surveillance helicopter chug by overhead. His walkie-talkie burst
into static for an instant, then:

"This is Chopper zero-one-niner calling AD Skinner," a voice called
from the small speaker. Skinner picked up the radio and depressed the
"talk" bar.

"This is Skinner, go ahead."

"Sorry we're late, sir," came the reply. "The President's helicopter
was up and about and the air had to be cleared. We're starting our
surveillance of the area now. What are we looking for?"

Just then, Granger jogged up to the car, climbed into the passenger
seat, closed the door behind him. He nodded to Skinner.

"The building's cleared," he said, out of breath. "We did it as
quietly as possible."

Skinner nodded his approval, depressed the "talk" bar again. "The
suspected target is the Embassy of Ireland, the brown and white
building just beneath you," he called into the speaker, eyeing the
copter, which was hovering just overhead. Skinner's car was across
the wide street, parked on the corner. "The building's been
evacuated, so we're looking for any sign of activity, front or back.
Also, be on the lookout for any sort of truck coming towards the
building."

"Affirmative. We'll circle and try not to look conspicuous. We'll
report back if we see anything."

"Skinner out," he replied, and dropped the radio on the seat between
them. The chopper overhead veered to the left and disappeared from
Skinner's sight beyond the tops of the buildings. Now he turned his
attention to Granger.

"All locked up?" he asked, and Granger nodded, looking across the
street at the entrance to the embassy. The large iron gates were
closed, barring access to the circular drive in front of the
structure. The guards who were usually there at the front of the
building were gone.

"Everyone's at a safe distance," Granger replied. "We evacuated the
buildings on either side, as well, just in case."

Skinner studied the tactical layout in a few glances. He could see
the bomb squad truck -- camouflaged as a plain white delivery truck --
waiting on the far corner. A unmarked dark van filled with FBI
Counterterrorism was also parked beside the embassy, just beside one
of the high gates. Peppered around the street in front (and all
around the back, too, he knew) were dark sedans filled with agents,
all FBI. Granger was the only non-FBI personnel on the stakeout. The
rest of Padden's interagency task force, or at least a part of it,
was 10 blocks up Massachusetts Avenue, covering the British's ass.

He checked the street for anything unusual. Just a few pedestrians,
mostly men and woman in suits, the occasional touristy looking
family. On the next block was a park that took up the entire block --
large trees, people on benches, others milling about.

Everything looked fine. Normal.

He checked his watch again. 2:35. If Curran was going to show at
three as Mulder had predicted, he would be doing it soon.

Christ, you'd better be right about this, Mulder, Skinner thought,
grimacing a bit. The embarrassment he would feel at having scrambled
so much manpower for this, should nothing happen, was already
beginning to rise in him. Not to mention his anticipation of the
chewing out he would get from his superiors...

He sighed, pushed the thought away. He'd committed himself now and
there was nothing to be done about it.

With that thought in mind, he reached into the backseat of the car,
pulled out two kevlar vests, an FBI jacket. He handed the jacket and
one of the vests to Granger, began unzipping his own jacket so that
he could put the bulky vest on himself.

"Here," he grunted as Granger took the vest. "Put those on."

Skinner watched the young man fumble with the vest awkwardly. The
gravity of the situation was just seeming to dawn on him. Skinner
understood why -- for Granger, this had been just one big puzzle to
solve, something to be done behind a desk, a computer screen. Now it
was something different. It was real.

He hoped Granger could take the pressure, should things really get
out of hand. He didn't need to be worrying about Granger and dealing
with Curran and his cohorts at the same time.

Granger seemed to get ahold of himself suddenly, began undressing
quickly, pulling the vest on over his workshirt. Then he slipped into
the blue jacket, "FBI" emblazoned in yellow letters across the back.

"Looks like I joined the wrong agency," Granger said, laughing
nervously.

"I could have told you that already," Skinner quipped back, trying
to lighten the mood.

A burst of static and a voice filled the car's cabin again: "Chopper
zero-one-niner to AD Skinner."

Skinner snatched up the radio. "Skinner here," he said tightly.

"We've got a rental truck with a dark sedan leading it that we've
been watching coming your way for a few blocks. The sedan just pulled
off and is circling the block, going around your back. The truck is
heading right for you, four blocks north, driving pretty fast. It's a
U-Haul."

Skinner saw Granger tense up beside him.

"Agents Nelson, Maloy, do you see it?" Skinner called. All of the
agents had radios like this one, all on the same frequency.

"Not yet," came the reply after a puff of static. "We don't
see...wait, here it comes. Yes, big U-Haul. I'd say a 26 footer. Two
passengers, both male. The truck's got Virginia plates, though that
could mean nothing, of course. It is in a bit of a hurry."

"Fall in behind it as inconspicuously as you can," Skinner said
tersely. "Agents Parkins, Fawkes, let me know when it passes you.
Markum and Dooley, see if you can find that sedan. Chopper, what
street is it on? Can you still see it?"

"Still parallelling on Connecticut...slowing now...it's turning on
the cross street on the other side of the embassy, slowing
again...it's parked now, the right side of the street, within view of
the building."

"Parkins here...the truck just passed us."

Skinner felt his heart rate beginning to pick up. Beside him,
Granger looked down the street, his hands in fists on his legs. His
foot was tapping absently.

"Fall in behind it, as well, Parkins," Skinner said.
"Counterterrorism Unit One, get ready. We'll let the truck get to the
gate, if that's even where it's going, then I want you all out of the
van."

"We're ready, Mr. Skinner," came the reply of another, deeper voice.

They waited now, both he and Granger staring down the street.
Skinner turned and looked ahead of them, aware of the car on the next
cross street up. He wondered if Curran was in the car, just in sight
of the building so that his men could make it to him and they could
all get away before the bomb went off.

"There it is," Granger said, sitting up straighter.

Skinner turned, saw the nose of the U-Haul appear at the very
visible edge of the street, coming closer. Behind it by several dozen
feet each, he saw the two cars following. In a few seconds he could
hear the huge diesel engine groaning its way toward him. He held his
breath as it drew closer, waiting to see if it would begin to slow.

It did. Moved over to the right hand lane, approaching the gate and
the van of agents just beside it. The two FBI cars passed it as it
stopped in front of the gate so as not to arouse the driver's
suspicions.

The van stopped at the gate.

"They're home," Skinner said softly into the radio. "Everyone out on
three. One..."

Granger reached beneath his jacket to his shoulder holster, pulled
out his gun, holding it below the window. Skinner did the same as he
spoke.

"Two..."

He reached for the door handle. Granger did as well.

"Three."

The back of the van opened, agents in black riot gear spilling from
the back, assault rifles drawn. Granger and Skinner hit the ground
running, racing from the car, dodging a car whose horn screamed as he
and Granger tore across the street.

"FBI! OUT OF THE TRUCK!" the lead CT man was screaming, his weapon
raised towards the driver's window of the truck. The driver and
passenger dropped in their seats, disappearing from view.

"Get your asses back up here!" the same man shouted. "OUT! OUT!" The
ten men behind him froze, their weapons all trained on the cab as
Granger and Skinner approached, their guns also drawn.

What happened next happened so quickly no one had time to move.

The driver's door swung open and the air was filled with the sounds
of incredibly rapid gun fire, blasting from the barrel of an assault
rifle in a star-shaped strobe of fire. The passenger had also stood
and began spraying the assembled men with gunfire, as well,
shattering the windshield in the interest of getting a clear shot.

Everyone who didn't fall right away from being hit dropped and
rolled, or retreated back to the van, firing back. Bullets ricocheted
off the door and hood. The two gunmen ducked down again, avoiding the
shots, then rose to fire again, sending the agents scrambling away.

Granger and Skinner had hit the ground at the first sound of
gunfire. Raising his head to look at the four or five men dropped in
front of the truck, Skinner looked for Granger, who was lying on his
stomach, his gun in his hand beside his face, his other arm over his
head. Skinner couldn't tell if he was hit or not.

Steeling himself, he scrambled to his feet, went to Granger, hauled
him up by the back of the vest and pulled him back toward the car.
The gunmen must have caught sight of their movement because the
ground around Skinner was suddenly popping with bullets. He ran
serpentine, pushing Granger in front of him, reached the car.
Throwing Granger over the hood unceremoniously, he leapt after him,
bullets tearing into the side of the car as both men landed in a heap
on the other side of the hood.

"What kind of fucking gun is that?!" Granger shrieked above the
noise, leaning against the tire. The agents at the van and the men in
the truck were still exchanging gunfire. There was the sound of
screaming, cars squealing to a halt. Someone bolted past both of them
on the sidewalk, covering his head.

"H & Ks!" Skinner shouted back. "G36 assault rifles!" He chanced a
look over the hood, looking at the exchange. "And just what we need
is a firefight when there's probably enough explosives in that truck
to blow a hole to fucking China!"

The bomb squad was coming out of the back of their truck now as
reinforcement -- they weren't supposed to come out until they were
needed to diffuse the bomb, but someone had clearly decided they were
needed now. They began winding a path across the street at a fast
run, getting in behind the truck.

Skinner got off a few of shots towards the cab in a vain attempt to
cover them, and had to duck down as the car was once again riddled
with bullets in answer. The car's windows shattered, raining bits of
glass down on him like sequins.

"Shit!" he swore, coming back up. Granger came up with him this
time, his gun out in front of him.

The CT team members were firing again, the bullets hitting the
inside of the cab now as the two gunmen ducked down, protected by the
front of the truck and its huge engine.

Then, from the left, he heard the sound of tires squealing and
jerked his head in that direction. A black car was coming fast down
the street. Seeing it, the men in the truck leapt from the cab, one
firing one way, one firing the other to keep the teams pinned down.

Skinner and Granger ducked down to stay out of sight for a moment,
expecting the car to stop to pick the men up. They glanced at each
other, nodded, understanding the plan of action. They would fire when
the car stopped.

But Skinner didn't hear the sounds of tires squealing, braking,
nothing. Only one of the men screaming at the passing car as it
whizzed by. Skinner stood quickly, saw one man in the car, got a good
look at him.

It was Curran, his eyes forward. He didn't even glance at the men
who'd left their cover for rescue.

Then, someone got a clear shot -- a burst of gunfire from behind the
truck and one of the gunmen fell, his rifle clattering on the
pavement. The other man was desperately running after the car, looked
back at his companion, who lay unmoving on the street, his eyes wide
and afraid.

Skinner stood, taking advantage of this distraction, and dropped him
with a shot to the chest. The man tumbled in a heap on his back in
the middle of the street.

"GO! GO!" someone was yelling, and Skinner recognized it immediately
as the Bomb Squad leader, his team flying towards the back of the
truck, a huge pipe cutter in the first man's hands. He immediately
began working on the lock.

"Come on," Skinner said to Granger, and they ran around the car,
across the street to the two gunmen, kicking the weapons away from
them. Skinner knelt next to one of them, Granger the other. Skinner
put a hand on the man's throat, checking for a pulse. Nothing. He
turned to Granger, who looked up at him and shook his head, as well.

They both holstered their weapons and ran for the truck just as the
lock gave beneath the cutters. Skinner didn't need the door to come
up to know what was inside the truck -- he could smell the fertilizer
and fuel from where he was standing.

As the door rolled halfway up, two of the squad members, both
encased in kevlar and padding, their faces covered with thick plastic
shields, leapt up onto the back of the truck, seeing the detonator
set into the side of the truck immediately.

Skinner could see the display from where he was standing.

00:04:29...

00:04:28...

Shit....

"It's no good!" One of the two men in the truck shouted. "Clear the
area! On the double!"

There wasn't enough time to attempt to diffuse it. The best they
could do was get out of the blast radius.

He looked at Granger. The man was standing there, breathing hard,
looking around the street, at the buildings, the street, the people
huddled on the sidewalk nearby.

"Come on!" Skinner called to him as the squad and the CT team
scattered back toward their vehicles. He started running back towards
his own car, praying that the vehicle would still be in running
order.

He expected Granger to be following him.

He was wrong.

Reaching the car, he turned and caught sight of Granger climbing
into the cab of the truck. He gaped for a second in disbelief.

"GRANGER!" he shouted finally. "What the HELL are you doing?"

The other man didn't answer. He got behind the steering wheel and
Skinner heard the engine trying to start. It coughed, cut out.
Coughed again. Then it rumbled to life.

"Get out of there, Granger!" Skinner screamed. Granger had turned
the heavy steering wheel, gunned the engine a bit, the nose pointing
now away from the gate now. Slowly the truck began to move, heading
down the street. The engine groaned in protest from the damage done
to it by the gunfire.

"Goddammit!" Skinner hissed, ran for the car. The bomb squad and the
CT team were in their trucks now, pulling away. He climbed in, tried
to start the engine. Like the truck, it wouldn't turn over right
away.

"Come on! Come ON!" Skinner shouted. He watched the truck lumbering
down the street.

Where the hell was he going? Skinner thought, panting. Then it came
to him.

The park. He's headed for the park, he realized. A huge clearing.
Deserted now since the gunfire had started. Away from any buildings.

Granger reached the open area, aimed the truck at the sidewalk and
bumped up onto it. Then he was plowing through the hedges, around a
low, heavy looking stone wall that marked the perimeter of the park.
Then he was heading off into the clearing.

Skinner turned the key one more time, and this time the car
reluctantly started. He threw it into gear, did a fast u-turn,
heading after the truck.

Granger had gotten about 50 feet into the park when the truck
suddenly stopped. The driver's door flew open and Granger scrambled
down, running for the street. Skinner could see him from where he
was, a half a block away. His arms pumping wildly, his legs a blur.

He wasn't going to make it to him in time, Skinner thought bitterly.

***********

End of chapter 22a.  Continued in 22b.

**********
 

"Get down! Get down!" he wished, his teeth clenched. He kept driving
towards the park, though he knew he was endangering himself, as well.

He stared at the truck, the driver's door swinging.

Time seemed to float for a moment.

Then a flash so bright Skinner felt as if he'd been thrown into a
fire. His eyes seared with it. An amazing sound, so loud it made his
ears scream with pain. It felt for an instant like the air was being
pulled out of the car, out of his lungs.

His windshield dissolved into bright shards in front of him. He
covered his face with his arms, glass ripping through his jacket as
his feet crushed the brake pedal down, the car skidding to a halt.

Around him, the sound of glass shattering from hundreds of windows
around the street from buildings, cars. Fire rained down on him, the
axle of the truck slamming down in front of the car, bouncing once
with the sound of twisting metal. He had just enough sense to throw
himself onto the front seat as it careened over the top of the car,
smashing down on the trunk with a crash.

Then, just as suddenly as the blast had come, suddenly, things were
still around him. Just the sounds of things burning now, sirens. He
lifted his head and peered through the gap that had been the front
window, trying to shake himself back into full awareness. He felt
dazed.

Granger...

The thought was enough to pull him back to the present. He climbed
out of the car, stiff, pained from being jolted around so badly.
There were pieces of burning debris all over the street, several cars
on fire and jostled around by the curb closest to the park. He looked
into the park itself, saw a crater where the truck had been, trees
down. The side of the building closest to the park was black, but was
still standing.

Lumbering painfully towards the sidewalk, he scanned the ground
around him.

"Granger!" he called. Only the sounds of flames and sirens replied.

Someone was running up behind him. Agent Mosely, who'd been watching
the back of the building.

"AD Skinner!" he called, putting a hand on Skinner's arm. "Are you
okay?"

Skinner looked down at his arms, saw blood dripping from slashes in
the arms of his jacket. He had a gash in his head, too, which he was
just now noticing. He pressed his hand against it and looked at the
blood uselessly.

"Yeah, I'm all right," he said breathlessly. "Help me...help me look
for Granger. He was in the park when the truck went up."

"All right," Mosely said, and ran ahead, swerving around mounds of
debris. Skinner trotted up the sidewalk toward the park. He looked
around, heaving in deep breaths. He felt sick.

"Sir!" Mosely called from just off to his left. "He's over here!"

Skinner turned and went towards Mosely, who was kneeling on the
ground behind the dividing wall. About ten feet in front of it was
what was left of a small tree. The trunk was snapped off about 10
feet up as though a giant hand had reached down and plucked the top
of the tree right off.

As he neared, he saw the unmoving form behind the wall. He quickened
his pace.

Kneeling down across from Mosely, he looked down at Granger.

He lay on his side, his arms and legs askew. His face was bloodied
and cut, and there was blood dripping from one of his ears. His
jacket was torn up, charred. His glasses lay in a twisted, cracked
pile in front of his face.

"He's alive," Mosely said quickly. "Barely."

Skinner breathed out, his hand on the side of Granger's head in
relief. His own head was reeling.

"He must have gotten behind this wall just in time," Mosely
continued, looking up at it. A few stones were missing from the top
of it, but it was otherwise intact. Skinner looked up at it, nodded.

About 30 police cars were careening down the street, ambulances
following them, no doubt alerted by the firefight before the
explosion.

"Get a paramedic over here right away," Skinner said softly, and sat
heavily against the wall. He was suddenly very cold.

"I will, sir," Mosely said, steadying Skinner with a hand on his arm
again. "Just relax. I'll be right back with someone."

Skinner nodded, moving his hand from Granger's head to his shoulder
protectively.

The man had just done one of the stupidest and bravest things he'd
ever seen.

"Too much time with Mulder," Skinner said to Granger's still form.
Then, despite Granger's dire condition and his own, he began to
chuckle softly, punchy and overstressed and going into shock.

He covered his mouth to stifle the sound, sitting there amidst the
chaos of people running, blackened buildings, and piles of flame.

**********

PETRO TRAVEL PLAZA
LEBANON, TENNESSEE
10:34 p.m.
 

Mae Curran held Sean's hand as they made their way across the
parking lot, which was well-lit and drenched with rain. They stopped
for a huge tractor trailer to rumble by, on its way to the crowded
diesel pumps on the other side of the huge truck stop.

In her other hand, a small cup filled with thin cream of chicken
soup, the lid keeping it from spilling as she walked along in the
cold rain, leading the sleepy boy beside her. She had taken him in to
eat something, had her fifth cup of coffee for the day.

They'd been on the road for over eleven hours and it was showing on
both of them.

"When are we going to stop?" Sean asked from beside her for the
umpteenth time. His voice was low and tired.

"In a few more hours we'll stop, Sean. Just a few more."

She didn't mind answering that question. It was the one about when
they were going to see Owen that she found too difficult to answer.

They reached the truck, parked beneath a light in the parking lot so
that the interior of the truckbed would be slightly lit for her.
She'd looked in on Scully through the side window of the cap when
they stopped, saw her curled on her side, lying still, her eyes
closed. She hoped she'd been asleep, though she hadn't been all day
as Mae had stopped periodically for gas and bathroom breaks for them
all.

She hadn't wanted to disturb her if she was sleeping at last.

She placed the soup on the roof of the truck, fumbled with her keys,
unlocked the passenger door and helped Sean crawl into the seat. On
one of their earlier stops, she'd pulled out a blanket from the back
that Scully wasn't using and put it in the front seat for Sean. She
pulled it over him as he slumped over onto his side, already half
asleep.

"I'm going to check on Dr. Black again, Sean," she said softly,
rubbing his leg gently. "I'll be right back and we'll get on our
way."

He didn't respond, and she quietly shut the door.

Going around to the back of the truck with the soup, she unlocked
the cap's window, pulled it up, then pushed the tailgate down. Moving
carefully, she climbed up into the truck, edging closer to where
Scully lay beneath the covers. Scully hadn't moved since Mae had gone
into the restaurant with Sean.

"Dana?" she said softly, reaching out to touch her shoulder. As she
did so, she realized that Scully was breathing heavily, her chest
rising and falling visibly, quickly, beneath the covers.

Scully's eyes opened immediately, though they rolled back a bit as
she looked up at Mae. She hadn't been asleep after all, Mae realized
with a grimace. The drug must have been keeping her from sleeping
still, despite her injuries, her fatigue.

She was lying on the side of her face that wasn't hurt, and the side
facing Mae was darkly bruised and extremely swollen. Her left eye
barely opened at all. Both of her eyes were going black, the left
slightly darker than the right.

"Mae?" she breathed.

"Yes, it's Mae. I've got soup here for you. I want you to try to eat
some of it."

She pushed Scully's mussed hair behind her ear gently. She noted
that though her friend's face was deathly pale, her cheeks were
flushed bright red and her brow was shining with sweat, despite the
cold in the truckbed.

Scully shook her head slightly. "Sick...head hurts."

"You haven't eaten all day. You need to eat something." Mae's voice
was firm, but tender. "Come on...help me now."

She took the lid off the soup, then leaned down, pushed Scully onto
her back slowly. Scully moaned softly in pain at the movement. Mae
got an arm under her, tilted her head up slightly, carefully put the
cup to her lips.

Scully swallowed a little bit of the lukewarm, pale liquid. A bit
more. Then she turned her face away.

"No," she whispered, her hand coming up from beneath the covers to
push the cup away. Her movements were weak. Sluggish. Mae pursed her
lips in frustration, let her head back down on the pillow and set the
cup down, replacing the lid.

Beside her, Scully said something under her breath, her brows
furrowed in pain, her hand on the side of her head.

"What's that now?" Mae asked, leaning over her again. It had sounded
like "mulder," though she couldn't make sense of the word. She fussed
with the covers, noticing that Scully was trembling all over, as
though she were freezing.

Scully didn't answer her, closed her eyes, turned her face away,
mumbling something that again Mae couldn't make out. It was as though
she were speaking to someone just beside her.

"What did you say to me just then?" Mae asked again softly. She put
a hand on Scully's hot cheek, turned her face toward her. Scully's
eyes opened, lolled a bit. Once she'd focussed on Mae's face, she
seemed more lucid, though her breathing was still fast, shallow.

"I want you to call Mulder," she said weakly, but at least she had
regained her voice for the moment.

"Who's Mulder?" Mae shook her head in confusion.

"He's my...partner," Scully replied, and her brows squinted down
harder. Speaking seemed to make the pain she was feeling worse, but
she pressed on, her voice quiet but urgent.

"He'll be looking for me. And I need...I need him here..."

Her voice trailed off to a whisper with the last of it, and Mae saw
the tears she'd been expecting for some time, since she'd found
Scully on the floor in her apartment, shine in her friend's eyes.
They did not fall, however.

Though Scully's words tugged at her, Mae shook her head reluctantly.

"Dana, I can't have anyone knowing where we are. Owen--"

"Mulder won't...he won't tell anyone," Scully interrupted, her hand
going from her head to rest heavily on Mae's forearm. "He'll come by
himself. I promise. Tell him where I am. Please."

Mae considered for a moment as Scully closed her eyes again, her
head turning slowly on the pillow again, as though she could shake
the pain away. Rain tapped lightly on the roof of the cap.

Mae's first instinct was to ignore Scully's request, keep driving,
keep putting distance between them and Owen. But then she thought of
her friend, how alone she must feel. How much she was suffering, how
much she had suffered already.

It seemed like getting her someone she knew to tend to her was the
least she could do for her. Seeing as how she couldn't take her to a
hospital, have her properly cared for.

Plus, they were going to have to separate at some point -- both of
them together made for too conspicuous a target. And Scully was in no
condition to take care of herself, nor was she likely to be for some
time.

Calling someone made the most sense, she decided. As long as that
someone could be trusted not to bring the Feds or Owen down on them.

The fact that it was Scully's FBI partner she was asking for didn't
exactly fill her with confidence that that wouldn't happen...

"Wouldn't you rather have someone else?" Mae tried. "Someone who's
family?"

Scully didn't open her eyes as she spoke, though a small smile
touched her through the pain she was in.

"He is..." she whispered, trailing off as she grew still except for
her breathing, exhausted but, Mae knew, not asleep.

She sighed, grasped Scully's hand and tucked her limp arm back under
the covers. She could see her breath in the small space they occupied
and shivered.

They were going to have to stop soon anyway, she realized. Scully
was getting worse, not better, as time wore on. She didn't know if it
was her injuries or the drug, or both.

For starters, the least she do was get Scully out of this cold.

"All right then," she said at last.
 

*********

POE'S TAVERN
RICHMOND, VIRGINIA
11:02 p.m.
 

Mulder stood at the corner of the bar among a knot of other patrons,
all of them staring up at the television behind the bar. They were
all silent, listening to the news report.

"...for more on this, we go to James Castle, who is in Washington at
the site of today's terrorist bombing."

The picture shifted to another reporter, this one standing outside a
line of police tape, firetrucks' red sirens strobing through the
darkness around him.

"Thank you, Gene," the reporter said, pressing the pickup into his
ear a bit more against the noise at the site. "The FBI is not
releasing much information about this attack at this point, but we
have managed to find out a few details for you."

Mulder listened to the report about the intended target of the
bombing, the Irish Embassy, which he could see just behind the man on
the screen. The reporter recapped the events as he knew them at this
point -- a truck bomb that was parked in front of the closed gate,
the FBI agents who were waiting there already, tipped to the attack.
The massive shootout that ensued between the passengers of the truck
and the agents.

Mulder took no pleasure in being right about what Curran had been up
to. He could see the battered forms of cars in the background,
charred black. The curtains in the windows of all the buildings in
sight were flapping out the windows in the night breeze, the panes
shattered from the force of the explosion.

"Jesus Christ," someone said from the group Mulder stood within.
"Can you believe this?"

"No shit," someone agreed.

Someone shushed them and Mulder returned his attention to the
television.

The reporter looked down at his pad again. "The other news I can
report to you at this hour is the number of casualties. There are 12
confirmed dead: three civilians, six federal agents and three others,
two of whom are the gunmen who drove the truck carrying the bomb. A
third body was found shot on a cross street, an apparent execution.
There are no details on the two assailants, and no arrests have been
made. The names of the dead have yet to be released, pending
notification of the victims' families."

He got away, Mulder thought bitterly, his jaw tightening. Curran got
away. There was no way he would have carried out the bombing himself,
so he wouldn't be one of the gunmen. And that third body...probably
one of Curran's companions, as well. Someone else who got in Curran's
way.

Dammit....

"There are also 27 injured, 9 of them critically. Several people
from nearby buildings were caught by breaking glass when the bomb
went off. Also among the injured is the as-yet-unidentified federal
agent who drove the truck into a nearby park, moving it away from any
buildings before it exploded and thus averting further destruction
and loss of life. As it stands, only three buildings sustained major
damage, but none were destroyed by the blast, a fact that law
enforcement officials here at the scene find miraculous, given the
size of the bomb."

Mulder had already tried both Granger and Skinner's cell phones
after he heard about the attack on the radio while he was driving
around the city. There was no answer on either one of them. And now
to find out there were six agents down...

He ran a hand through his hair in frustration, an all-consuming
feeling of worry biting at him as he looked down at the floor, his
eyes clenching closed with it.

It was official. Everyone he knew that had to do with this case was
missing now.

Part of him wanted to go to D.C., see what happened to Granger and
Skinner himself. But this is where Scully had last been. This was the
place to begin looking for her.

And as concerned as he was for Granger and Skinner, Scully had to
come first.

"Hey buddy?" the bartender called to him. "Order's up."

Mulder pulled himself out of his frustration and came forward,
taking the bag of food he had ordered. That was why he was in the
tavern in the first place. He'd yet to eat all day.

"$6.75," the bartender said, and Mulder dug for his wallet, paid the
man quickly. With one final look toward television screen, he turned
and headed for the door.

He'd try the Grey Mouse again. Maybe Mae would be there.

Yeah, right...

Just as he was pushing that cynical thought aside, his cell phone
chirped in his pocket. His heart skipped a beat and he bolted for the
door and the quiet of the night outside.

Once he was standing a few feet from the door, he jammed the talk
button.

"Mulder," he bit out, holding still.

There were a few seconds of silence, as though the person on the
other end were not certain what to say.

"Mr. Mulder?" came a female voice. Heavily accented.

His hands went to fists, squeezing the bag he held tightly.

"Where is she?" he asked quickly, angrily.

"I guess you know who this is then," Mae replied. She sounded a
little put out, probably by his curtness, his tone. He turned toward
the parking lot, calming himself. He had to treat this like a hostage
negotiation. He had to keep his cool.

"I know you have her, Mae," he said more evenly now.

"Aye, that I do," she replied. Her tone was unreadable. She didn't
sound like she was going to make any threats, he thought, but he
couldn't be sure.

"Let me talk to her," he said quietly.

There was another beat of silence. "You can't talk to her," she
said, and now she did sound apologetic. He couldn't tell if it was
sincere or not. "She can't come to the phone. She's hurt."

Mulder's stomach filled with bricks and plummeted. "How bad?"

"I don't have time to go into all this with you now. I want to tell
you where we'll be, so you can come. And I need you to come alone. I
need your word on that. She said you'd do that."

Mulder pulled in a calming breath, though his eyes closed. "All
right," he said. "You have my word. Tell me."

He could hear a rustling of paper -- a map, no doubt. "I'm heading
for Memphis, to a place outside the city called Millington. There's a
state park there -- Shelby Forest. When we get there and I find a
place for us to stay, I'll call you again to let you know where we
are."

Tennessee? he thought, stricken. That was hours away. He started for
the car.

"All right. I'm on my way. When do you think you'll be calling me?"
He climbed in, slammed the door, tossing the bag of food on the
passenger seat.

"We should be there in four or five hours, I think. Give me another
hour to find a place to settle."

"All right," Mulder replied quietly, starting the engine.

He hesitated, forced himself to continue.

"Mae, can you give me your word that you won't hurt her?" He had to
ask.

There was another pause. "I'm not going to hurt her, Mr. Mulder,"
she said almost sadly. "I've paid a lot for her life as it is. Now
come and get her."

The line clicked, went dead.

Mulder hung up, set the phone carefully beside him on the seat.

He'd begun to sweat, fighting down his emotions -- anger at his
current state of helplessness, and how far away he was from her, how
much of a head start Mae had on him.

He would have to trust her, though it went against everything in him
to do so.

Throwing the car into reverse, he backed out of the parking space,
jammed the car into drive and headed out of the parking lot down Main
towards the interstate. The radio was playing softly in the
background, and he found the input to be too much.

He reached over, flicked it off, made his way into the long and
starless night.
 

***********

END OF CHAPTER 22. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 23.

***********

GEORGETOWN UNIVERSITY MEDICAL CENTER
WASHINGTON D.C.
JANUARY 16
10:03 a.m.
 

Paul Granger awoke to the sound of the telephone ringing by his
bedside, opened his eyes onto the sparse furnishings of his hospital
room, the outlines of everything washed in his myopia.

He licked his dry lips, turned his eyes slowly toward the phone as
it continued its shrill ringing.  He couldn't turn his head in that
direction -- the heavy plastic neckbrace precluded any movement of
his head.  His arm, casted from the shoulder down and held curved out
like a white wing, pointed uselessly toward it, his fingers poking
from the end of the cast.  He flexed his fingers as he looked at
them, groaned as he came fully conscious and his body began to throb
like one huge connected bruise.

The phone, persistent, continued to ring.

Reaching out with his uncasted arm, he fumbled for the call button.
When the nurse answered, he asked her to come in and get him the
phone. She said she'd be right there.

He waited, wiggled his toes slightly outside the cast on his lower
right leg, held up above the mattress in a traction sling.

It was like taking inventory, making sure everything was still
connected and still moved.  When he'd thrown himself over the wall
the afternoon before, the sound of the explosion roaring behind him,
he'd wondered if he would fly apart before he landed.

He moved his toes and fingers again slowly, revelling in the simple
pleasure of it.

Now if he could just get someone to bring his spare glasses, he'd be
as content as he could be given his circumstances.

The nurse entered, reached for the ringing phone and brought it over
to the rolling table perched over his chest.  On it sat a cup of room
temperature water capped with a bent straw.  She set the phone down,
looked at him sympathetically.

"People should know to let you rest," she said fussily.  "You should
tell whoever that is that you need to be left alone for a little
while."

He looked up at her, swallowed painfully.  "I will," he croaked,
cleared his throat.  She checked the drip on his IV and wandered back
out of the room as he reached for the receiver.

He wondered who it could be.  His mother was already in D.C.,
staying at a nearby hotel to avoid the long commute from Baltimore to
see him.

Lifting the receiver, he put the phone to his undamaged ear slowly.

"Granger."  He cleared his throat again.

"Good morning," came the reply.  "It's about time you got the
phone."

Granger found himself smiling through the dull pain he was in.  "I
should have guessed..." he said, his voice hoarse.

"Who else would be a big enough asshole to let the phone ring 40
times in a hospital room?"  Mulder replied.  He was chewing on
something.  Probably those damn seeds he ate all the time in the car.
Mulder's voice was low, soft.  Very tired.  "How you feeling?"

"I'm all right," Granger lied, though it was sound hard to sound
casual around a neckbrace.

"Bullshit," Mulder replied.  "Skinner already told me you look like
plaster convention.  I hear you did a pretty crazy thing."

Granger closed his eyes, swallowed.  "Yeah, I don't know what I was
thinking," he whispered.

"You weren't thinking," Mulder retorted.  "But that's not
necessarily a bad thing.  What you did saved a lot of people's lives.
It was the right thing to do.  I'm just sorry you're paying for it
now."

"Skinner was pissed," Granger said hoarsely.  "Came in last night in
a hospital gown and a pair of slippers and bitched me out.  Gave me a
lecture about acting on my own, taking unnecessary risks..."

"Yeah, I know that one really well.  I could dance to it."  There
was a pause.  "Don't worry.  You'll get used to it."

Granger could hear a smile in Mulder's voice.  He realized that in a
strange way, he'd just been paid a compliment.  It pleased him in a
way he couldn't name.

"Where are you?"  he whispered, letting the moment pass.  "Where's
Scully?"

"I'm in Southwest Succotash, Tennessee," came the reply.  "On 40,
somewhere west of Nashville.  On my way to a little town called
Millington.  Mae Curran has Scully and that's where she's stopped
with her."  A pause.  "But you aren't supposed to know any of that.
Neither you or Skinner."

Granger groaned, feigning dismay.  "You just *had* to tell me then,
didn't you?"  he asked, regaining his voice for a moment.

"Rule number two, Granger," Mulder replied after a beat.  "Never lie
to your partner, if you can at all help it."

Granger felt that same pleased feeling come over him.  He smiled.

"All right, fair enough," he said.  "I don't know a thing.  Is
Scully all right?"

There was a pause, only the cell phone hiss answering for a moment.

"I don't know."  Mulder^^s voice was softer now.  Granger could hear
the worry.  "I don't think Mae is going to hurt her, though she's
hurt already, apparently."

Granger reached for the cup of water, aimed the straw roughly at his
mouth, took a swallow to ease his throat.

"I'm sorry to hear that about Scully," he said softly.  "How has Mae
seemed?"   He had to admit that the profiler in him was curious about
Curran's sister.  They knew so little about her, and what they did
know wasn't particularly good.

"She's hard to get a read on," Mulder said.  "I've talked to her
twice now -- once last night, and once about 5:30 this morning when
she called to tell me where they are.  She's been very matter-of-fact
with me, not giving anything away.  She won't discuss Scully's
condition with me over the phone at all.  She's cut me off when I've
tried to ask."

Granger winced.  "I'm sorry.  I know that's got to be driving you
nuts."

"Well, I'll know soon enough, I guess," Mulder replied, brushing
Granger's concern off.  Granger knew it was something Mulder had a
hard time accepting from anyone.

"She'll be all right," he said, though he had no facts to found the
statement on. "She's one of the toughest people I've ever met.
She'll be okay."

Again, the static answered.  "Yeah," Mulder said finally.  He didn't
sound convinced.  Granger knew he wouldn't be until he saw Scully for
himself.

They sat in a companionable silence for a moment.  Granger coughed,
his throat irritated from the talking.

"You're going to be all right though?"  Mulder asked finally.

"Yeah.  A couple of months out probably.  But I'll be okay."  His
lips curled with a small smile again.  "Come visit me in rehab when
you two get back to D.C. or something, all right?"

"We will," Mulder replied.  "I want to hear this whole story--"

There was a commotion in the hallway and AD Skinner came quickly
into the room and stood beside the bed.  He was dressed now, a suit,
trench, looking very official except for the huge bandage on his
forehead.

His arm came up as he saw what Granger was doing.  He pointed to the
phone with a bandaged hand.  "Hang up," he said tensely but quietly.
"Hang up right now."

Granger looked at him, the command not registering for a second.

"Hang up, Granger, " Mulder said immediately, forcefully.  "I'll
find you.  Or you find me.  Take care."   The line went dead.

Granger replaced the receiver, looked at Skinner questioningly.
Skinner was a bit out of breath, glancing around as though he were
looking for anything out of place.

"What--?"  Granger began, but Skinner shook his head sharply,
cutting him off.

Padden and Duncan Hall came into the room, Padden looking at Skinner
as he did so.  His eyes were flinty as he turned them on Granger.

"Where is Agent Mulder?"  he asked without prelude.

Granger looked up at him, blinked, surprised at the anger in the
question.

Then his gaze hardened.  His face grew expressionless.  There was no
hesitation when he spoke.

"I have no idea."

Padden's lips thinned in anger as he looked back and forth from
Granger to Skinner.

"I'm warning both of you.  You're standing in the way of this
investigation by keeping your knowledge of Agent Mulder's whereabouts
from me.  And I'll have your hide for it."

Granger ignored the threat as his brows squinted down at the rest of
what Padden had said.  "You make it sound like Mulder is the one
you're investigating," he said softly.

"He is," Padden spat back.  "John Fagan's body was found in Mae
Curran's apartment yesterday afternoon.  Shot through the head with a
caliber matching Mulder's service weapon.  And his fingerprints were
found on both the front door and in the room with the body."

"What?"  Granger asked, aghast, wishing like hell he could sit up.
"You're accusing Mulder of murdering Fagan?  He couldn't have."

He saw Skinner giving him a look.  Keep quiet, the look said.
Granger heeded it.  There was so much that Padden didn't know about
Mulder's activities.  They were all unauthorized and would only serve
to dig the hole that Mulder was in deeper.  He'd let Skinner do the
talking, let him reveal what he thought was right to reveal.

Padden nearly smirked.  "AD Skinner has told me about him waiting
for Agent Scully at the airport yesterday, which he also wasn't
supposed to do, might I add.  But that doesn't put it out of the
realm of the possibility that he could have killed Fagan.  The ME
puts the time of death at somewhere between 11 a.m. and noon
yesterday.  Mulder had plenty of time to get to the apartment to kill
him."

"That's crazy.  Why would Mulder do that?"  Granger's voice was
cracking again as he spoke.

Padden glared at him again.  "We know about Mulder looking for Agent
Scully yesterday, about AD Skinner's unauthorized use of task force
manpower to search for her.  My theory is that Mulder went to the
apartment looking for Agent Scully when she didn't appear for her
flight and confronted Fagan there."

"And what if he did?"  Skinner replied angrily.  "Like I told you
earlier this morning -- Mulder had a right to defend himself if that
was the case.  Which it is NOT."

"Then how do you explain those fingerprints?  The bullet match?  And
the fact that Mulder didn't report having found a body to the
police?"  It was Duncan Hall who spoke, his accent thicker with his
anger.

Skinner looked at him, sighed.  Granger saw the position he was in.
He was going to have to give something away here.

"Mulder went to Mae Curran's apartment looking for Scully.  I know
he did that, yes.  But Fagan was already dead when he got there.  I
can promise you that."

"Killed by who?"  Padden asked.  "Agent Scully?  She didn't have her
weapon with her, or at least she wasn't SUPPOSED to have it with her.
Knowing that she works with Mulder, there's no telling what kind of
orders she might have broken in this mess..."

"No, Mae Curran killed him," Skinner replied, his ire rising at the
insinuations about Scully now.  Granger could see it on his face.

"You keep saying that, Mr. Skinner," Hall replied quickly.  "And I'm
bloody well telling you that is not possible.  I *know* these people
a hell of a lot better than you do and Mae Curran would not take an
action like that."

"You're wrong," Skinner said softly, angrily.  "You didn't believe
that Curran would bomb the Irish Embassy either and look what
happened yesterday afternoon."

Padden stared a hole into Skinner and Granger's lip curled up with
satisfaction.  Padden looked like an ass for not listening to Mulder,
and Padden knew it.

"Let me tell you what I see," Padden said quietly, not responding to
Skinner's comment.  There was something dangerous in his voice.  "I
see two agents.  One of them having abandoned an undercover operation
without proper clearance and disappeared into thin air, despite her
continued tactical importance for the case..."

"^^Tactical importance'?"  Skinner asked.  "You mean like chum has
^^tactical importance' when you're shark fishing?"

Padden stopped him with a raised hand, continued softly.

"And I have another agent who has made questionable and meddling
decisions throughout the course of his work with this investigative
team to the point that he was thrown OFF the case.  Who then
continued to make questionable decisions, participating in the case
with both of your assistance and on his own.  Who then offers
information, *unlikely* information, about a bombing, which, it could
be argued, shows evidence of some knowledge of the operation.   And
who is now placed, through fingerprints and ballistic evidence, at
the scene of the murder of one of the major conspirators of the
case."

He looked at Skinner and Granger.  "Now don't you find any of that a
bit strange, gentlemen?"

Granger and Skinner looked at him.  Granger closed his eyes, anger
overwhelming him.

"You're trying to frame him for YOUR fuck-up," Skinner said sharply.
"You're trying to frame Mulder and get Scully back to use her to try
and catch Curran--"

"That's enough, Skinner!"  Padden shouted.

"--who probably *wouldn't* have gotten away had we had the proper
resources available to us, instead of you having them sitting 10
blocks up the street with their thumbs up their asses."

"Enough!"  Padden said again.  He pointed in both of their general
direction.  "Where are Agents Mulder and Scully?  And I'm warning you
this time:  I want an answer."

Granger looked at him evenly, his face expressionless again.
Skinner did the same thing.

"I have no knowledge of either agents' whereabouts."  Skinner said
softly.

Granger looked at him.  "Nor do I," he whispered, his voice gone.

Padden's jaw tightened.  He looked from one to the other for a tense
few seconds.

Focussing on Skinner he said:  "You, I don't believe for a second,
and the minute I can prove it I'm going to have your job."

Skinner looked unimpressed, his chin coming up.

Then Padden turned to Granger on the bed.  "*You* on the other hand
might just be naive enough that Mulder wouldn't tell you where he was
going.  You might be telling the truth.  And since you have inside
information about Agent Mulder, having spent so much time with him in
the past few weeks, as soon as you're able, you will begin profiling
him in order to give us insight into his behavior surrounding this
incident."

Granger swallowed, sinking.

Shit...

"I know he and Scully are together," Padden continued.  "They always
are.  And you, Agent Granger, are going to be in charge of finding
them."

With that, Padden turned and left the room.  Hall looked at both of
them for a few seconds, then followed Padden down the hall.

Skinner exhaled a breath, his hand going to the bandage on his
forehead.  Granger sympathized.  His own head was pounding, too.  If
not from the injuries, then from what had just transpired.

Skinner turned to him.  "Don't get your phone," he said.  "I'll make
sure it doesn't ring as soon as I can."

Granger tried to nod, failed.  "Thank you, sir," he whispered.

"And try to get some rest," Skinner said, carefully slipping his
injured hands into his pockets.  "You're apparently going to need
it."

Granger looked at him sadly.  "Goodbye, sir."

"Take care of yourself, Granger," Skinner replied, matching his
tone.  And then Skinner was gone.

Granger lay there staring at the ceiling for a long time, thinking
of Mulder, somewhere on the road on his way to Scully.

Find her quick, Mulder, he thought, his eyes closing.

Find her and then run.
 

***********

End of chapter 23a.  Continued in 23b.

**********

SHELBY FOREST STATE PARK
MILLINGTON, TENNESSEE
2:18 p.m.
 

Mulder followed the narrow service road that ran along the bank of
Poplar Tree Lake, winding his way through the hilly area stitched
with the trees that gave the lake its name.  The rain was falling
heavily, a cold rain that sent the flat expanse of the water into a
million tiny ripples.  He scanned the road ahead, his eyes dry and
tired from 15 straight hours of driving, trying to see the cabins up
on the hillsides that the rangers had promised would be there if he
pressed further into the park.

Cabins 6 and 7, to be exact.  The only two occupied in this bleak
time of year.

Finally, through the streams of water running down the passenger
window, he saw the first of the row of cabins come into view on the
slight rise, a small, rustic structure with a stone chimney, natural
wood siding and dark green trim around the curtained windows.  There
was nobody home at this one, the small gravel drive in front of it
empty.

He moved on, rubbing his eyes and the stubble on his cheeks to push
himself more alert.  He couldn't shake the feelings of anticipation
and dread that had overcome him since he'd pulled into the park.  It
pushed him to gun the engine a bit more as he passed the cabin, then
another.  His heart was thumping against his chest, his fingers tight
on the steering wheel as he maneuvered along the roughly paved road.

His mind was filled with images of Scully, hurt, frightened at how
bad it could be.  He pictured Mae, wondered what he would find there,
as well.

Both were like cards, face down, about to be turned over.

He passed through another arch of bare branches, moved off into a
clearing.  Two more of the small structures, then one more.  Then he
could see it off in the distance  - a pickup parked in the driveway
of one of two cabins, which were set only a few dozen feet apart.
Lights burned dimly in both cabins' windows, though the curtains were
all pulled closed.  Smoke rose from one of the chimneys in a lazy,
scattered trail, mingling with the rain and the dark branches curved
over the house like arms.

His expression grim, he aimed the car up the driveway, flicking off
the lights as he edged in next to the pickup.  He could see a figure
peer from behind the curtains of the front window, a woman's face --
Mae's face -- visible in the space between the curtains.  He met her
gaze for a few seconds until she disappeared, and he climbed from the
car, his body weary and stiff but his mind racing.

Rain pattered on his leather jacket softly as he made his way up the
three steps to the door.  There was no need to knock.  The door
opened as he reached it, but only enough to make room for Mae's body
in the gap.  Not enough so that he could enter.

"Mr. Mulder?"  she asked softly, and Mulder nodded.  She was
standing there, huddled in a thick green sweater, jeans, her arms
across her chest.

"Yes."

His voice did not give away the tumult of feelings rising in him,
his hands balled to fists.  He wanted to push the door open, push his
way into the cabin, but he held back.  Things had the air of too much
unpredictability.  He remained cautious as they stared at each
other.

Mae seemed uncertain as she looked at him, glancing at him and then
down the road.

"I came alone," he reassured.  "Now please.  Let me see her."

Mae looked at him for a few more seconds, then seemed to relax a
little, her shoulders slumping.  She nodded and turned away from the
door, leaving it open for him.

He entered the cabin, into a large dim room, rustically, simply
furnished.  A fire was burning in the fireplace on his left, the
flames low and untended.  The room was cold, the cabin clearly not
insulated properly for occupancy this time of year.  There was a
television on in the far corner, though the sound was down low, just
a faint mumbling, the reception fuzzy.

Mulder looked from there to the right, to the corner of the room
where a bed jutted out from the far wall.  There was a lamp on the
night stand.  It threw a pale light on the still form on the bed.

He crossed the room quickly to the bedside.

Scully lay on her back, her face turned away from him.  She was
covered up to her shoulders and looked very small beneath the
blankets.  Her chest rose and fell unevenly, the sound of her shallow
breathing filling the space between them.  Her eyes were closed, but
her brows were squinted down in obvious pain.

He reached out to her as he sat on the edge of the bed, curving a
hand around the side of her neck gently, his own brows knitting.
Her skin was warm -- too warm -- to the touch, the hair that outlined
her face wet, her forehead shining with sweat.

"Scully?"  he murmured into the quiet, rubbing his thumb softly
across her cheek.  He encountered wetness there, slowly turned her
toward him and the light to get a better look at her face.

He bit his lip as he looked at her, a small sound coming
unintentionally from his throat.  He took in the dark smudges beneath
both her eyes, the left eye nothing more than a slit, the swelling
and bruising on her cheek and temple.  The wetness he'd encountered
was blood, a thin line of it going down the side of her face from her
nose.

"My God," he breathed, alarmed, tears stinging his eyes.

He was vaguely aware of Mae coming up behind him.

Reaching up, he touched the knot on Scully's temple gently, his
fingers shaking as he smoothed them over her hair.

"Fagan," he said flatly, not taking his eyes off her.

"Yes," Mae replied, her voice showing a little surprise that he knew
the name.

He nodded, rage swelling in him with the grief.  He'd never been so
glad someone was dead in his life.

He ran a hand over her forehead now, cupping it in his large palm,
smoothing back her damp hair.  His other hand came out to her throat,
pressing softly into the bruised skin there.  He winced as he did so.

"Her pulse is racing,"  he said after a few seconds.  "And she's
burning up."

He scooted closer to her, pulling the covers down a little to try
and get some air on her.  The cross she wore there was tangled in its
chain against her flushed skin, the light catching it.  He began
undoing the top button of her sweat-dampened top, exposing a bit more
of her chest.

"Don't," Mae said from behind him, taking a step toward him.  "She's
been shivering, and besides -- that fever needs to break."

"I don't need you telling me how to take care of her," he spat,
instantly angry, and continued to push the vee of Scully's top open.

Mae made an indignant sound behind him.  "What the hell do you think
I've been doing for the past day but take care of her?"  she said
sharply.  "I think I know a bit more about how she is than you do,
Mr. Mulder."

"Why didn't you take her to a hospital?"  he demanded.  When he'd
gotten enough air on Scully to satisfy himself, he returned his hand
to her forehead.

"She wouldn't let me," Mae replied, her voice edgy at his tone.

"Her nose is bleeding," Mulder shot back.  Now he did turn to look
at her, his eyes dark and hard.  "She could have brain damage.  You
should have taken her to a doctor, for Christ's sake."

Mae looked at him, the fight coming out of her expression.  Then her
eyes turned downward, as though she were ashamed of something.
"That's not why her nose is bleeding," she said softly.

"What are you talking about?"  Mulder said, and turned to look at
Scully again.

"She's been exposed to Owen's drug," Mae said quickly, as though
saying it fast would spare him.

His world slid to a halt.  He stopped breathing for a second, leaned
back, held still.  Then he looked at Mae in disbelief.  She nodded
simply, her eyes filling with tears.

His teeth grit down.  "That can't be."

"It's true.  I'm sorry."

He rose from the bed quickly, cursing under his breath.  He brushed
by Mae, going to the fireplace, his hands jammed in the pockets of
his jeans as he stared at the orange embers for a few seconds,
reeling.

"Fuck," he said again, his eyes closing.  His entire body was tensed
and he drew in a deep shaky breath, fighting for the panic down, for
control.

He wanted to get her to a hospital right away.  But he knew that
would be pointless, since there was no treatment for the drug anyway.
And he knew that taking her out would be risking exposing her to
Curran, who would no doubt be looking for her and Mae.

His drifted, too, back to the strange phone call with Granger,
Skinner's urgent voice on the other end of the line.  Something was
gnawing at him about that, too, bringing up his guard...

He turned now and faced Mae, his face carved with worry.  Mae looked
away, wiping her face.

Scully shifted slowly on the bed, moaned.  Mulder returned to the
bed quickly, sitting on the edge of the bed again.  He leaned in
close as her right eye opened.

"Scully?"  he murmured, moving his face into her line of vision.
His palm moved over her forehead again, stroking her hair back.

He could see her struggling to focus as she blinked, her breath
puffing out.  Then she looked away from him, toward the ceiling.

"Hey," he said, trying to get her attention.  He desperately wanted
her to look at him.   He leaned down, put his face against hers
gently, whispered into her ear.

"Scully, I'm here."

He pressed a kiss to her damp forehead.

When he pulled his face back, she was looking at him, and he could
see a flash of recognition.

"Mulder..." she breathed, barely audible.

"Yes," he whispered back, a bittersweet smile curving his mouth,
though his eyes shone.

She swallowed, tried to speak.  It was no more than a whisper of air.

His tears fell now.  He was helpless against them.

"You're going to be all right, Scully," he said, though his voice
broke.  "We're going to get through this."

She blinked, said nothing.

He leaned down again, brushed her lips with his, not caring if Mae
was there or not.  He moved to Scully's brow, her forehead, tracing
them with his lips.

Mae withdrew, went out the front door, closing it quietly behind
her.

Mulder pulled back to meet her gaze again.  Her breathing had
slowed, but was still shallow.

"Scully," he said firmly as her eye turned toward the ceiling again.
He wiped at the blood on her cheek with his thumb.

Her eye lolled.  He could see her struggling against it.  Then her
eyelid flickered for a few seconds, finally closed...
 

**

...The wind was a long low note, like the sound coming from a wide
wooden flute somewhere in the distance.  It blew across the short
expanse of the islands, across the white sand of its narrow beach,
scattering downed leaves into small spirals as it went.

Scully stood in the center of the small body of land, a few feet
from where the clear water of the lake that surrounded it lapped the
sand into ripples.  Her bare feet made indentations in the ground,
the hem of her dress -- a forest green -- drawing a small design
across the grains as the wind moved it gently against her legs.

Her eyes rose from her feet to take in the rest of the dress -- long-
sleeved, tight at her wrists, the front curved down at the neck, the
front stitched with intricate embroidery.  She had never seen it
before, and puzzled over it for a moment, her hands running over the
stitchery like braille.

Then she lifted her head to take in her surroundings.  The sky was
gun-metal grey, the color of smoke.  Hills rose off in the distance
all around the lake, guarded by thick woods that gave way to reeds at
the banks.

The wind continued its mournful note as she stared around, confused
but somehow comforted by what she saw.  She was safe here on this
pale island, guarded by the deep, clear lake.

She breathed deeply, calmly.  She felt strong, whole.  There was
only a distant feeling of discomfort now.  Like she was somehow
connected to someone who was in pain, a gossamer, invisible thread
pulling them together.  The phantom pains shared by twins.

She had the sudden feeling of being watched and turned.  Behind her,
a bare tree, bleached white with exposure and age, wearing a necklace
of crows.  The black birds stared at her with their oily, bead-like
eyes.  A few stretched their wide wings, took nervous steps across
the pale branches before settling down again to watch her again.

Their looks, their silence, unnerved her.  It gave her a feeling of
something impending, something unwelcome.   As though the birds were
biding their time.  Waiting for her.

The wind shifted, a sudden gust.  And there was a smell now.  The
acrid smell of things burning.  She turned again, her nerves stoked,
looking for the source of the odor.

She pulled in a breath in surprise.  Along the hillsides surrounding
the lake, a fire burning down toward the banks, the hiss and crackle
of wood, the tops of the bare trees blossoming with fire like
torches.  The air filled with hazy smoke, the color of the sky.  It
was as though the sky itself had drifted down around her.  She
squinted against it, her hand going to cover her mouth, nose.  She
coughed as the smoke stung her throat and lungs, searing heat riding
the wind around her.

A burst of pain, her head pounding.  Then an image pushed into her
mind -- herself on a bed, her face badly beaten, her head moving from
side to side, her hands weakly pushing down at the blankets across
her waist.  Someone -- a man in a black shirt, jeans -- was moving at
the side of the bed hurriedly, spreading a damp towel across her
chest, up to her bruised throat.  She could not see his face, only
the top of his dark head, his back as he leaned over her.

A woman appeared, as well, from the other side of the bed.  She
pulled the blankets off her waist, folding them down, exposing her
legs, clad in grey sweatpants, to the air.

She was relieved as she watched herself.  Around her, the heat was
unbearable.

The man disappeared from the view for a moment, returned, placing a
wet cloth across her forehead.  He had a cup of water, as well, and
he lifted her head, tilting it, trying to get her to drink.  She
turned her face away.

He spoke, and she could hear the sound, but could not make out the
words.

Mulder?

Had he been there before?  She had a vague recollection of him
sitting beside her, his face etched with worry.

The skirt of her dress whipped out behind her, flowing in the hot
wind.  The fire roared down toward the lake.

Then, a commotion at the bank.  She followed the sound to its
source, a rustling in the high grasses, coming towards a small
clearing at the edge of the water.  Then she saw it appear from the
wall of wheat and green.

A doe.  Huge dark eyes, black velvet nose, creamy tan sides.  Her
tail flicked in alarm.

Scully ached for her, watching the fire coming closer.  She took a
step closer toward the edge of the water, stopped as she realized her
own helplessness.

The doe would have to fend for herself.

The grass began to catch, hissing.  The doe darted back and forth
along the bank as Scully watched, taking another step forward.
Finally, as the flame trapped her, the doe leapt into the water,
instantly up to her neck so that only the top of her head, her nose,
a strip of her back, was visible.  She swam in an uncertain circle as
the flame reached the bank.

Scully blew out a breath, relieved, her hand on her stomach to quell
the lurch of fear that had lodged there as she'd watched the animal's
desperate attempt at escape.

Then she held the breath again, straightening, her eyes opening wide
in horror.

The water had begun to burn, catching as though it were covered with
a thin sheen of gas or oil.  She spun, looked around the lake.  The
fire was approaching from all sides now, a tall wall of flame
advancing on the island.

Behind her, the murder of crows was suddenly calling wildly, the air
around her filled with the uneasy fluttering of their blue-black
wings.  She looked back at them, at their open mouths, the shrill
alarm calls sounding to her like mad laughter.

She was breathing hard now, the heat making it hard to draw air into
her lungs.  She looked around frantically for the doe in the water,
saw her nose in the air, pointed toward the island now, swimming
desperately, the flame just behind...

Then the wall of flame overtook her, the huge frightened eyes
disappearing in the fire.

"No..."  Scully whispered.  She covered her mouth again against a
sudden gust of smoke, her eyes burning.

Around her, the flames continued their advance, moving in on her.
She backed up against the tree...

**

4:54 p.m.

Mulder finished unbuttoning Scully's top, slid it gently down her
shoulders, her forehead leaning against his shoulder.  She seemed to
turn her face instinctively towards his throat, her lips and fast
warm breath a comfort against his skin.  He could feel the blood from
her nose warm on his neck, but ignored it.

He scanned the flushed skin of her back, saw the welling of bruises
there low near her hip, higher around the curve of her ribcage. He
took in her arms, saw the bruised rings around her wrists where she's
struggled against a pair of handcuffs.

Reluctantly, he stood back, put his arms around the back of her neck
and around her shoulders and gently lowered her onto the bed, began
working on sliding her sweatpants and underwear down her legs.

More bruising greeted him.  The bumps of a couple of falls, her
kneecaps empurpled, no doubt from hitting the floor on her knees.  He
was relieved to see nothing more serious than that.

Behind him, he could hear the sound of water running in the bathroom
cease suddenly, and tossed the clothes haphazardly on the floor
beside the soaked shirt he'd just dropped there.  Then he reached
down and got his arms underneath her, lifted her up, one arm around
her shoulders and back and one beneath her knees.  She was limp as a
ragdoll,  her head falling back over his arm, her damp hair trailing
down.  She trembled, but he couldn't tell if that was from the sudden
chill of the cabin air on her damp skin or the drug or both.

She was like holding a furnace, the heat coming off her.  The fever
was well out of control now, and getting higher.

Mae stood in the doorway to the bathroom, looking at him
expectantly, her face creased with worry, her eyes ushering him
forward.  He complied silently, carrying Scully across the room to
the bathroom as Mae backed up to allow him entrance.

Bending low at the waist, he slid Scully into the cold water that
filled the tub, soaking his shirt nearly to the shoulders in an
attempt to jostle her as little as possible. Mae knelt at the head of
the tub and settled Scully's head onto a folded towel there, Scully's
chin falling against her shoulder, a fresh trickle of blood coming
from her nose with the movement.

Mae reached for a wash cloth on the pile on top of the toilet,
dipped the cloth in the water and began to dab at her face.  For his
part, Mulder unbent her knees, slid her down further into the water
in an attempt to get as much of her beneath the cool surface as he
could.

"I wish we had some ice," he fretted softly.  "Her fever's got to be
over 104."

"This will work just fine," Mae reassured.  "I've done it for Sean
before and it should get it back under control."

Mulder nodded, unconvinced.  He watched Scully's face for any sign
of reaction.  She gave none.  Only a small sound in her throat, her
brow furrowed, giving her that same  pained look he'd grown so
accustomed to since his arrival at the cabin.

He reached in, trickled water down the front of her chest that was
not beneath the water.  Once.  Twice.

He had to fight the urge to smooth his hand over the flushed skin.
He wanted so much to touch her, as though he meant to take away her
pain, her fever, with his hands.

"How long can we expect this fever to continue?" he asked.  It was
one of the first questions he'd asked since Mae returned to the
cabin.  The two of them had kept their speaking to a minimum, an
uneasy truce between them as they concentrated on managing Scully's
symptoms as best they could.

"I don't know," Mae replied quietly, rinsing the rag in the water
and then returning it to Scully's nose.  "When she told me what
symptoms to expect last night, this wasn't one of the ones she
mentioned."

"Well, she probably didn't know," Mulder replied, continuing to
trickle water down her body where it was not submerged in the water,
smoothing his wet hand across her forehead.  "Danny Conner only made
it about 15 hours before Scully had to give him another dose to keep
him from dying.  It's been more than 24 hours since her last dose.
We're in unmapped territory here."

"That could be a good sign, though," Mae offered hopefully.  "That
she hasn't died and it's been that long."

Mulder shook his head.  "I don't know," he murmured.  "This could
just be the stage that she never reached with Conner.  There's no way
to tell."

Mae blew out a tired breath, nodded.  Mulder looked at her, realized
how much they were both running on fumes at this point.

Though he didn't trust her, he did appreciate, for the moment, the
care she took over Scully, and that someone else was here.

He let his eyes slip closed for a few seconds, letting the fatigue
take him for a moment.

Then there was a rustling sound behind him, the sound of footsteps.

He didn't think.  His hand flew from the water to the holster at his
hip, his gun immediately in his wet hand.  He spun in one smooth
movement on one knee, his gun aimed at the doorway.

And found himself confronted by a small boy, his small eyes wide
with terror, the gun pointed at the center of his forehead.

"Mr. Mulder!"  Mae called, stricken, her hand clamping down on
Mulder's shoulder like a vice.  "Don't!"

Sean and Mulder looked at each other for a few tense seconds, both
of them panting softly.  Then Mulder lowered the gun, the tip of it
shaking as he laid it on the tiled floor of the bathroom, his fingers
still white around the grip.  His other hand went to his mouth,
covering it.

In his current strung-out shape, he'd been awfully close to pulling
the trigger first and asking questions later.

Mae stood and went to Sean, standing behind him and putting her arms
around his chest.  She leaned down so she could speak softly into his
ear.

"I told you not to come in here, Sean," she said firmly, but kissed
his temple, as well, to offset her tone.  Mulder could see the boy
was trembling.  His eyes were on Mulder, then they went to Scully in
the bathtub.

"What's happened to Dr. Black?" he asked, and tears were starting in
his eyes.

"Shh, shhh," Mae said, turning him away from the bathroom.  Mulder
could hear her talking as she led him away, back into the room and
toward the door.  "She's been in an accident and is very sick right
now.  Mr. Mulder and I are trying to take care of her. You just
startled him, that's all.  Now let's go back to our cabin so you can
watch some television, all right?"

The door to the cabin opened and closed and then they were gone.

Scully's head rolled slowly to the side.  She moaned something
softly.  It sounded like she said "fire," but he couldn't be certain.
He leaned over her, reholstered his gun, his mind racing.

Mae had taken Sean away from his father.

He closed his eyes.

"God*dammit*...." he whispered.

He shook his head, watching Scully now as she shifted her body, her
legs making the water lap softly against the sides of the tub, her
head tossing fitfully, weakly, on the towel behind it.

He steadied her with a hand, thinking.  Curran would be coming after
them with everything he could muster to get Sean back.  He was all
that Curran had left of Elisa.  And though taking the boy was the
right thing to do, Mae had sealed her fate with her brother by doing
so.

He heard the door open and close again, and Mae returned to the
bathroom, knelt down next to the head of the tub again.  She picked
up her wash cloth, folding it primly as though trying to compose
herself.  Then she dipped it in the water, lay it on Scully's
forehead gently, held it there, stilling Scully's movements.

Mulder was looking at Mae now, who was having a hard time returning
his gaze.

"I know what you're thinking," Mae said finally, and now she did
look at Mulder.  "I know he's going to try and kill me for the things
that I've done."

"Yes, he is," Mulder replied simply.  "And I'm sorry for that.
Because what you've done -- in this instance at least -- has been the
right thing to do."

"^^In this instance'?" she repeated sharply.  "I've always done what
I believed in, Mr. Mulder.  If you're going to judge this situation
with an understanding of that fact, you should think about doing the
same for the rest of what you know about me."

Mulder said nothing to that, returned his attention to Scully.

They sat silent in their vigil as darkness began to fall.

*******

End of chapter 23b.  Continued in 23c.

********

The flames had reached the edge of the island, a perfect circular
wall of fire that clawed its way up the slight rise of the beach.
Scully watched it from the base of the tree, her hands pressed
against the trunk, her nails scraping the white surface of the wood
as fear gripped her.  The heat was nearly unbearable, the flicker of
the flame playing across her face.  She lifted a hand up to block the
searing light.

Above her, the crows began to take off, flapping down around her in
their panic to escape.  She covered her head with her arms, fending
off the blows of the stiff wings, the brushes of the sharp beaks
against her face.  She could still hear them calling to one another
far above her as she focused again on the flames, closer now, her
hand still up to shield most of her face.

The crows circled, alighted on the moving edges of the tops of the
flames, perched there, riding the wall forward towards her, their
eyes still on her.

She looked from them into the fire.  There were things moving within
the flames.  Figures moving in out, all on fire.  Faces pushing out
of the wall, bright oranges and yellow, mouths open, speaking to her.
The air was filled with the sound of things burning, the voices of
people familiar to her.  Her mother.  Curran.  Mae.  Sean's greeting
every night when she'd come in the door from the clinic, his voice
light as a bell chiming over the roar of the flame.

Then, as the fire neared, she could see Fagan standing there, made
of flame.  His eyes glowed as he stared at  her.  She froze under the
weight of his gaze.  Then he appeared to swirl for an instant,
rejoining the wall as the fire came closer, only a few feet from her
legs, the hem of her dress.

She turned, breathing hard, and reached up to the lowest branches of
the tree, clawing with her hands at the slick bark, trying to get a
foothold with her bare feet.  She scrambled a foot or two up, but
there was no place to go -- the branches were too high for her to
pull herself up and away.  As she slid down to the ground again, the
fire touched the silken hem of her dress, caught instantly, the flame
pulling itself up her skirt until it was on fire to her knees.

"No!" she screamed, slapping at the fabric with her hands, which
only served to scorch her palms.  The flames were too fast.  She
could feel the skin on her legs beginning to blister, then burn.

She threw back her head and began to scream.

**

5:46 p.m.

Mulder was standing by the fireplace, putting another thin log on
the dying fire when  he heard Scully begin to moan on the bed, the
sound louder than she'd made since he'd arrived at the cabin.

Tossing the log in haphazardly, he closed the screen and went to
her, sitting on the edge of the bed carefully.  She was on her side
facing him, clean and dressed in rumpled white pajamas he'd fished
out of her suitcase from the back of the truck.

He put a hand on her forehead, found the fever higher than when
she'd first gotten out of the tub, but not as high as it had been
earlier in the evening.  With the touch, she moaned again, turned her
head towards the ceiling.  She was panting, her face red.  He could
see the veins in her neck, along her temple, were distended, and he
realized with dismay that her blood pressure must be soaring.

"Scully," he said softly, stroking back her hair.  She seemed to
grow more agitated.  "Scully, it's all right."

Instead of being soothed by his words, she jerked sharply, her hands
squeezing to fists, trembling as they went to her face, her forehead,
tightly.  He winced, fear gripping him.

The pain in her skull must have grown, suddenly, unbearable.  He lay
his shaking hand flat on the side of her head and held it there.

"Fire..." she said quite clearly this time, and he was surprised to
hear she'd regained her voice.  "The fire..."

Behind him, the door to the cabin opened and Mae entered, carrying
bags of food from the diner just outside the park's entrance.  She
kicked the door closed, her hands full, went to the small coffee
table in the corner of the room near the television where she set the
bags down.

"Mulder..."  Scully called, her voice terrified, growing louder.

"I'm right here, Scully.  What is it?  What do you see?"

"I'm...I'm on fire!"  It came out shrill, suddenly very loud,
causing both he and Mae to jump.  The room had been quiet for so many
hours.

Mae came forward, went to the other side of the bed as Mulder leaned
over Scully, stricken, put an arm behind her knees, the other around
her shoulders, pulling her against him firmly until her face rested
against his shoulder and throat.

"All right," he soothed.  "Scully, it's all right."

Mae sat down on the other side, her hand on Scully's back.  "It's
the drug working its way out of her system.  She told me she would
hallucinate as that happened.  It's good because it means it's
leaving her."

"It could still kill her," Mulder bit out and Scully cried out
against his throat.  He put his hand on the back of her head, holding
her against him, steadying her.

Mae looked down.  "I know....she told me what could happen."

Mulder ignored her as he pulled Scully closer.

"Hang on," he said into her ear, his voice breaking. "Try to hang
on...it'll pass, I promise."   He hoped like hell he was telling the
truth.

Then she turned her face into his shoulder and began to scream.
 

***********

The flame was sliding across her belly now, up her chest.  She
leaned against the tree, fumbling at the back of her dress, hoping to
find a zipper there so she could peel out of it, hopefully leave the
flame on the ground with it.  But the dress had no opening in the
back, no opening anywhere.  It was as though it were part of her
skin, permanently affixed to her.  There would be no escaping it that
way.

Desperate, she pushed at the fire with her arms.  Immediately, her
hands caught, blistering then growing black as the flames climbed
further up -- her breasts now, her shoulders.  Finally, she felt it
on her face, the advancing wall all around her now.  She could smell
her hair burning.

She screamed, thrashing as the wall overtook her, began licking up
the tree behind her.

Die...why don't I die...I want to die...

The faces in the flame continued to taunt her as the fire consumed
her dress, sealing the fabric to her skin first, then burning both,
blackening her.  Fagan hovered over her as she fell in a heap on her
side, her flesh boiling away.  Her legs pulled up against her chest,
her arms going in as the tendons crackled, her body taking on that
perfect fetal position that all burned bodies assume.  She could feel
her face stretching into a howl, her hair gone, her body beyond the
pain now as she somehow remained alive.

Her eyes were open, unblinking, the fire bright as the sun as it
pulsed around her.  The air was filled with the sounds of roaring,
howling, screaming.

Then, a shadow in the distance, somewhere within the fire.  A
figure, but not made of flame as the others around her were.  She
watched it approach, her body burned beyond even her own recognition.
She looked down and saw the blackness of the long bone of her femur,
all the flesh gone now.

The figure drew nearer in the fire, walking steadily up the bank
from the lake.  She could hear the crows taking off, calling out in
alarm, circling the tree above her in wide dark circles.

Then she could see him:  it was Mulder -- grey t-shirt, jeans, his
feet bare.  He walked through the fire as though it weren't even
there, the flames not touching his tanned skin.  It burned around him
like a corona.  Around him the ghost-like figures in the fire
retreated, clearing the path between them.

She could not move.  She was beyond that now.

He knelt in front of her, his face tender as he looked at her.  He
reached for her and she closed her eyes, made a noise.  She felt his
hands close around the charred bones of her upper arms, pull her into
a sitting position, leaning her against the tree.  Then he pulled the
burnt shell of her body up, holding her before him.

His hands were cool to the touch.  She felt herself relaxing as he
held her, staring into her eyes.

"It's leaving you," he murmured over the sound of the fire.  "Let it
leave you."

As he spoke, her legs began to unbend, growing softer, straightening
slowly to the ground until her feet rested just in front of his.  Her
arms uncurled, as well.  She felt suddenly cold, looked down at
herself.  Her bones whitened, flesh appearing around them, growing,
stretching.  Her belly rounded from the burnt-out hollow it had
become, her breasts reappearing, the nipples formed and pink.

He released her arms and she found she could stand on her own,
though she swayed slightly.  He reached out and touched the side of
her head, and his hand was suddenly smoothing through a lock of her
hair, her head now covered with it again, the red locks regrown.  He
cupped her face in his hands and the flesh appeared around her eyes,
her lips parting to allow an even breath to escape her.

The flames were gathered around her feet, lower, receding.  The wall
was behind him now, pulling back, the figures darting in and out of
the flame.  She watched it recede towards the water as she felt the
last of the burning leave her.

She stood before him, naked and whole and very much alive.  He
rested his hands on her shoulders, his eyes warm, but his expression
growing concerned.

Then she could feel it.  Swelling around her temple, her head
throbbing on that side from the blow.  Her left eye began to puff up,
closing.  She hunched over slightly as a dull throbbing began in her
hip and back.  Red circles appeared around each of her wrists,
bruises rising.

Behind him the fire reached the lake.  There was a loud hissing and
the fire fell, steaming, slowly went out.

She breathed in and out evenly, calmly, taking in her surroundings.

All around her the forest was green, the trees gathered on the
hillsides in majestic stands.  A faint mist hung like wool in the
tops of the pines, birds calling back in forth in rhyme.

On the bank across from her, the doe stood carefully at the water's
edge, her nose against the glassy surface, taking in long draughts of
water.  She looked up at Scully, her large soft ears pricked forward,
her eyes wide.  With a leap she was back up the bank and in the
grasses and was gone.

Scully swallowed painfully -- her throat had been squeezed hard and
was swollen. Exhaustion was overcoming her.

She looked into Mulder's eyes as he stood silently before her, his
hand on the side of her face.

"Mulder?" she said softly.  "I think it's gone..."

**

6:35 p.m.

She opened her eyes as best she could, her face pressed into
Mulder's shoulder.  She could feel him shaking, crying softly, his
hand tightly cupped around the back of her head.

"Mu..." she managed to breathe, and he loosened his grip, leaning
her face away from his shoulder so he could look into her one open
eye.

"Scully?" he whispered, brushing at her face with his fingertips.
"How do you feel?"

She turned her head slightly, saw Mae sitting on the other side of
the bed, her hand on her back.  Like Mulder, she looked very afraid.

She turned back to him.  "I'm..."  she swallowed, tried again.  "I'm
tired, Mulder."

"I know you are, Scully," he replied softly, stroking back her hair.
Her forehead was damp, her clothes sticking to her.  She realized
she'd had a high fever and it had finally broken.  Her head throbbed
softly, but it was no more than a bad headache.

She licked her dry lips, met his gaze wearily.  "I think...I think
I'll sleep now...for a little while..."

"Thank God," she heard Mae whisper from behind her.

"Okay, Scully," Mulder replied, and lay her head back down on the
pillow.  She felt as if she'd never lift her head again -- the
exhaustion was that complete.

"You sleep," he said gently, though his voice shook.  "I'll be here
when you wake up, all right?"

She nodded slightly, burrowing her cheek into the pillow.

And, for the first time in days, she felt herself relax, her limbs
heavy, her mind quiet.  Her eye closed and she fell in.

**********

END OF CHAPTER 23.  CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 24.
 

**********

7:06 p.m.
 

Mulder lay spooned up against Scully's body, his left arm curled
over her so that he could lightly grasp her upturned hand.  His face
was buried in her hair, and he took in deep breaths of her, moving
his face back and forth across the damp strands, letting them caress
his lips and the rough stubble on his face.

Scully's breathing was so slow that he found himself listening in
between the breaths anxiously, waiting for the next deep intake of
air.  She was perfectly still.  Even his slight movements as he ran
his hand over hers, across her arm, as he shifted against her, did
nothing to disturb her.

He knew she would be like this for a long time, the drug finally
having loosened its grip on her, releasing her into sleep like a
small paper boat onto the mirror surface of a lake.

The television murmured softly from the corner on one side of the
fireplace.  A paper container of soup that Mae had brought for Scully
was still sitting on the coffee table, filling the room with a heavy
salty smell.  Beside it, the remnants of the hurried, awkward meal he
and Mae had shared after Scully had fallen asleep.  The foil wrapper
of a hamburger that he'd consumed almost without chewing,  the small
basket of fries Mae had picked at, sitting across from him in a
wooden rocker, her eyes on her food.

"So how long have the two of you been together?"  Mae had asked,
trying to sound casual, though her voice was taut from the strain of
the past hour.

Mulder took another bite of his hamburger, spoke around it.  "As
partners, you mean?"  he replied cautiously.  Mae wasn't one he
wanted to make casual conversation with, and plus, he was not
accustomed to talking about he and Scully's relationship with anyone,
really.  The question caught him slightly off guard.

"No," she said softly.  "I mean *together*."

He swallowed, considered how to answer.  Finally he said:  "I don't
know."

He wasn't being evasive on purpose exactly -- he really didn't know
when they'd crossed the emotional line between being partners and
being lovers.  The start of their lovemaking seemed a crude marker
when reduced to that.

Not privy to his thoughts, Mae had simply nodded, and he could tell
she felt rebuffed.  Her jaw set a little harder as she chewed.  "I
see," she said, reaching for another fry.

Mulder looked at her, at a loss.  He really didn't know what to make
of Mae -- part of him kept replaying her file, dwelling on the things
she'd been involved in throughout her life.  He was frightened by
what she seemed capable of.

But another part him wanted to trust her.  Everything she'd done for
Scully, the fact that she'd taken Sean from his father, risking what
she had...it all seemed to point toward her being trustworthy.

But something was getting in the way of those feelings.  As he
looked at her, he realized that he was intensely angry at her,
associating her with her brother and the terrible things that Scully
had been through.

And he was angry that she had been the one to save Scully from Fagan
while he himself had been standing at the airport like an idiot.  His
anger at himself had sloshed over onto her, and he was having a hard
time letting it go.

"Where will you go to get away from Owen?"  he asked, his voice
tired, strained.  It was the closest he could come to finding a topic
for conversation.

She shook her head.  "I don't know," she replied.  "Owen's got very
long arms.  He's extremely well connected, and not just to groups
back in Ireland.  Some here, as well.  The best thing for me to do is
to get out of the States."

Mulder nodded absently.  It made sense.

Then he realized Mae was looking at him with a grim expression on
her face.  He met her gaze questioningly.

"You best do the same thing," she said quietly.  "He'll be coming
after Dana, as well.  He won't let her get away."

Mulder nodded, his expression matching hers.  This wasn't a surprise
to him.  "Yes," he said.  "His bombing of the embassy in retaliation
for Elisa's death shows that he'll do anything to satisify his need
for revenge.  And he's going to blame Scully for everything he's
planned failing.  And for your betrayal of him."

Mae nodded, clearly surprised.  "How is it you know all that?  You
sound as if you know him."

"I'm a profiler," Mulder said softly.  "That's one of the things I
do.  And I've been profiling your brother for almost a month now."
He did not say it proudly.  His tone was more weary than anything
else.

"So you stopped the bombing?"  Mae asked, relief in her voice.

"Yes," Mulder replied, polishing off the last of his burger.  "Some
people I know got hurt pretty bad in the process, but the embassy is
safe."

She looked down again, that same shy demeanor coming over her.
"Thank you," she murmured, almost too softly for him to hear.

He looked at her downturned face for a beat.  He appreciated her
thanks on some level, but on another it piqued his anger.  He didn't
want thanks for what he had done.  He wanted for none of it to have
had to happen in the first place.

He'd stood then, the suddenness of his movement surprising her.

"Yeah, well, I think I"m going to get some sleep, or try to."  He
dug around for his wallet.  "What do I owe you for dinner?"

"Nothing," Mae said, standing as well.  "You don't owe me a thing,
Mr. Mulder."

He nodded, awkwardness falling between them.  Mae reached for her
coat on the arm of the chair and slipped into it.  "I'll leave you to
her then.  If you need anything, I'll be next door, getting some rest
myself.  Don't be afraid to wake me."

He nodded, but somehow could still not bring himself to thank her.
She didn't seem to notice.

Instead she shook her head, pulling her ponytail out of the back of
her coat.  "Sean's been asleep for awhile now.  You've got to love
children.  They can sleep through the Armageddon."

Mulder gave her a strained smile at her attempt at levity, which she
returned.

"Sleep well," she said softly.

"You too, Mae."

Then she was gone.

Thinking back on the conversation, Mulder's arm tightened a little
around Scully, pressing her more closely against him.  He leaned up
and rubbed his lips lightly over the whorl of her ear, kissing the
lobe gently as he considered what Mae had said.

He would get to Skinner, he thought.  Get Scully into some kind of
protection program where she could be cared for medically while the
FBI concentrated on tracking Curran. With that thought in mind, he
rose reluctantly, went to his jacket that was slumped over the back
of the couch.  He dug around in his pocket for his cell phone, tapped
the talk button.

Hang up...Skinner had said.  Hang up right now...

The words echoed in his mind and his finger did just that.

Something was wrong there, he thought again, his attention coming
back to that phone call with Granger for the first time in hours.

He still needed to talk to Skinner, find out what had happened.

The ranger's station.  There were payphones at the ranger's station.
He would go there and call Skinner's cell phone.  Not his house or
the office, both of which might not be secure.

That decided, he shouldered into his jacket, checked the screen on
the fireplace, and gave Scully a worried, aching look as he stood by
the door.

Steeling himself, he went for the doorknob.  He would not be gone
long.
 

********
 

He stood in the relative shelter of the small half-booth, a handful
of quarters he'd gotten at the diner in a pile beside the phone.  The
cold rain fell steadily in the dark around him, catching in the light
beside the small ranger's station so that it looked like snow.  He
pulled up his collar against it, shivering, looking at the lone light
on in the station.  He could see the ranger moving inside the room
now and again.

He dialed the number, deposited the necessary coinage for the first
five minutes of the call, then waited as the phone rang, looking
absently at the battered phone.  Skinner picked it up on the third
ring.

"Skinner."

"Sir, it's Agent Mulder," he replied.

"Whatever you do," Skinner said instantly, "Don't tell me where
you're calling from.  This line may not be secure."

Mulder shifted his weight quickly, leaning into the phone.  "Why?"
Mulder replied, tensing instantly.  "What the hell is going on?"

Briefly, Skinner recounted what had happened that morning in
Granger's hospital room.

"Basically, Padden's trying to frame you for the bombing, for
killing Fagan, for all of it," Skinner replied.  "If he could find a
way to pin global warming on you, he'd do that, too."

"Oh, for Christ's sake,"  Mulder said angrily.

"Yeah, it's bad," Skinner continued.  "He's considering you and
Scully both fugitives at this point, and has set up a new task force
to find you, with Granger in charge of profiling you when he's able,
the poor son-of-a-bitch.  In the meantime, Padden's locking up a
conspiracy case against you and hoping to use Scully to lure Curran
in, hoping at least his arrest will cover his own pink ass for
fucking up the bombing."

Mulder's hand went to his forehead.  The automated voice told him to
deposit more money, and he fumbled with the pile, knocking several
coins onto the ground at his feet.  They shone silver and bright as
eyes.

"Dammit,"  he said, pushing another three dollar's worth into the
slot.

"Things are a real mess," Skinner said.  "The Path members have
started turning themselves in and are dropping like flies.  There
have been nine deaths so far, with 13 others in custody at area
hospitals.  The doctors from Bethesda on the task force are trying
their best to do something for them, but there's just not enough
time.  I think we're going to lose all of them."

"Yeah," Mulder said softly.  "I've just seen a little taste of what
they go through, and it's horrible."

"What do you mean?"

Mulder heaved out a breath, told Skinner about what he'd been
through with Scully for the past few hours.  He spared him the more
personal details in the interest of Scully's privacy, but he got the
point across about how bad it had been.

"We got damn lucky, basically," he finished.

"Is she all right now?"  Skinner's voice had risen in speed and
volume with his concern.

"She's alive," Mulder said flatly, pushing down his emotions as he
bit out the two words.

"That bad."  Skinner said it as a statement, not a question.

"Yes," Mulder replied.  "And on top of that, Mae's confirmed what I
already assumed -- that Curran will be coming after her."

"I figured that."  He heard Skinner exhale, and watched the ranger
drift into another room, the light going on.

"I'm sorry she's hurt," Skinner continued.  "Please give her my
best, will you?"

"I will."  Mulder shifted a bit more beneath the glass canopy of the
payphone, hiding from the rain, which had shifted direction with the
wind.  He glanced around nervously, expecting a car to appear at any
moment, filled with someone Curran sent or agents or God only knew
what.  He glanced at his car tensely.

There was a beat of silence.

"What the hell am I going to do about all this..."  Mulder murmured,
mostly to himself.

"I'll tell you what you're going to do," Skinner said immediately.
"You're going to disappear until I can get this sorted out somehow."

"I'm not afraid of Padden's charges," Mulder said firmly.  "And if
it means keeping Scully from getting the medical attention she needs--
"

"I'M afraid of Padden's charges then," Skinner replied.  "And as far
as Scully goes, she's safer with you on the run than she would be
here under Padden's supposed protection.  He doesn't care about her
life.  She's just a pawn to him.  That's all she's been all along."

Mulder leaned against the phone, needing to move.  "But--"

"I'll make it an order if I have to, Mulder.  I want you out of
sight.  Out of touch.  I don't want you to contact me for a few weeks
at least.  Give me time to figure out how to get around Padden on all
this.  Granger will stall him as much as he can, I know that, but we
need to buy some time here.  And then this stuff with Curran,
too...you need to get lost real quickly."

Mulder made a fist, tapped against the glass canopy in frustration.
He didn't like the idea of running from anything.  But Skinner knew
better than he did how bad this was, and he would have to take his
word for it.

"All right,"  Mulder said finally.  "You have to contact Scully's
mother.  Tell her she's all right.  Tell her what's happened as much
as you can.  And my mother, too, though that's not as pressing."

"I will.  Both of their lines are being tapped, I'm sure, so I'll go
see them in person as soon as I can manage it.  Speaking of which, I
don't want you using your cell phone anymore.  Or Scully's.  They've
probably got a GPS tracker on your phone.  For all we know, they know
where you are -- generally -- from your conversation with Granger
this morning.  You'll need to get moving as fast as you can just in
case."

Mulder grit his teeth, closed his eyes, cursing softly to himself.
"All right," he said again.  "I'll move Scully as soon as I think she
can handle it."

The phone beeped again for more change, saying the call would end in
15 seconds.

"Take care of yourself, Mulder,"  Skinner said, and there was
something kind in his voice. "And take good care of Scully, if she'll
let you."

Mulder smiled mildy at that, despite the turmoil his emotions were
in.  "I will, sir.  You too."

Skinner hung up before the line went dead.
 

***********

JANUARY 17
7:32 a.m.
 

Mulder awoke, lifting his head off the pillow, at the sound of a car
starting up.  He listened closely to it, recognized the hum and cough
of Mae's beatup pickup, and felt himself relax some.

He checked his watch -- she was probably going for food again, he
thought.

He leaned up a little to look at Scully, lying beside him, still on
her side, her arms and legs curled in tight against her chest and
belly.  He could see her eyes darting beneath her closed lids as she
lay there, drifting in the midst of a dream.  Her face was calm, her
breathing even.  It made him relax even more to watch her.  The worst
of things seemed to be over.

He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss against her forehead, near
her hairline, rubbed his cheek softly against her hair.  Unlike the
previous night, she stirred slightly with the touch, made a small
sound in her throat.

He was so tired, the past few days still clinging to him.  He lay
his head back down on the pillow, deciding to try and doze a bit
until Mae returned.  Seeking warmth and comfort, he pushed his arm
beneath Scully's gently, curled it around her middle between her
knees and her chest, pulling her against him. She stirred again, this
time sharply, as though she were being jerked toward consciousness.
The suddenness of it suprised him.

"No..." she said softly, and he could see her face twisting to
tears.  Her arms began pushing at his, her hands gripping his wrist
and pulling it away from her body.

"Scully, it's all right," he murmured into her ear.  Her reaction
bothered him on some visceral level he couldn't quite name.

"No, don't..."  she whispered, something desperate in her voice as
she pushed at his arm again.  "Don't..."

The words sent a chill through him, and he sat up on one elbow,
removed his arm from her immediately, dread overcoming him.

He waited, barely breathing,  while she calmed again, her face
relaxing, her breath catching, then releasing as she drifted back
into her deep sleep.

She's just been through the ringer, he thought, though he did not
touch her again.  She was bound to be a little off kilter, her
emotions not what they usually were.  And she was trying to get some
sleep for the first time in several days.  Her reaction was perfectly
natural, he decided, nodding to himself and pushing the feeling of
dread away.

With those thoughts, he chastised himself for being selfish and
disturbing her, and rolled away, slipping from beneath the covers and
standing on the cold floor.

A televangelist was on the screen, a phone number at the bottom,
asking for donations.  "Your prayers answered," it said beneath it.
Mulder made a face and went to the old set, flicked it off.  The
silence that was sent through the room with the action was heavy, not
a sound outside or in, save Scully's deep breathing from the bed.

He went to the fireplace, saw that the fire had died down to faint,
glowing embers, the wood holder next to the hearth empty.  He vaguely
remembered a woodpile next to the cabin from when he'd come in the
afternoon before, and went to the couch, pulling on his boots and
jacket.  He headed out the door quietly.

He stood on the small landing outside the door for a moment, his
breath puffing out in front of him.  The morning sky was white-grey,
a few clouds high up, stretched out in a blanket of nimbus.  He could
see the clouds reflected on the surface of the lake, the water still.
Down at the end of the driveway, across the narrow road, there was a
small pier pointing out into the lake, T-shaped, studded with a round
supports, like truncated telephone poles.

On the edge of the pier, a small figure sat, tiny from this
distance.  Sean.

Mulder didn't know much about children, that much was certain.  But
he did know that Mae was gone, and that kids shouldn't play around
the edge of water.

With that thought in mind, he blew out a breath and went down the
steps, making his way down the gravel drive, across the road, and
onto the pier.

Sean didn't turn as Mulder came toward him, though Mulder knew the
boy could hear his hollow footsteps on the worn wood.  Standing just
behind Sean, Mulder looked at him.  The boy's eyes were down on the
lake, a long stick in his hand.  He was patting at his reflection
with the end of it, sending the dark outline of his body into
distorted ripples.  His other hand was in the pocket of his small
coat, his legs dangling over the edge.

Besides the tapping of the stick, Sean was still.

"Sean?"  Mulder called softly.  "What are you doing down here all by
yourself?"  He said it gently, no tone of reprimand.  He didn't feel
like he had much of right to discipline the boy, for one.  For
another, he was truly curious.

"Just sitting,"  Sean replied.  Mulder was struck by the boy's
thoughtful, heavily accented voice.  "Thinking a bit."

He continued tapping at his reflection, making a soft splash sound.
A hawk called somewhere in the distance, the sound getting caught in
the hilly terrain and echoing for a few seconds.

Mulder took the few more steps beside him, sat down a few feet from
him and dangled his legs over the edge of the pier as well.  He had
to sit back some to keep his feet from getting wet.

"I wanted to say I'm sorry for aiming my gun at you last night,"
Mulder said softly, looking at him.  "You scared me.  I thought you
might be someone else."

Sean looked up, met Mulder's eyes for a few seconds, then looked
back down.

"You thought I was my daddy," he said softly, and Mulder didn't know
what to say to that.  His mouth opened and closed like a fish as he
struggled to come up with the right thing.

Fortunately, Sean spared him.  "Aunt Mae says you're some kind of
policeman," he said.

Mulder nodded.  "Yes, a kind of policeman, that's right."

Sean looked at him.  "She says that Dr. Black is some kind of
policeman, too, and that her name isn't really Dr. Black."

"Yes, that's right, too," Mulder agreed, still feeling a bit at sea.
His exposure to children was limited, but he didn't think any amount
of time spent with them would prepare him for THIS conversation.

Behind him, he heard a car approaching, turned sharply to look down
the road.  Mae's pickup appeared from the top of the rise, coming
slowly toward the cabins.  He could see her looking at them both as
she made the turn into the driveway, going up the hill.

Sean had likewise turned to watch Mae's approach, but now he
returned his eyes to the water.  His stick was still as he appeared
to be considering something, his small brow furrowed.  Mulder let the
silence stretch between them, looking out over the water.  The hawk
was circling now over the water, riding updrafts in graceful circles.
He watched it for a long moment.

"I'm not going to see my daddy for a long time, she says," Sean said
finally.  The boy's voice was flat, his emotions tight as a drum.

Mulder swallowed, aching.   "Yes, that's probably so," he said
quietly, looking at Sean's profile again.

Sean gave his reflection another tap, sending out a widening circle
of ripples.

Mulder heard footsteps coming down the gravel drive toward them now,
and welcomed them.

Sean was nodding now.  Mulder kept waiting for tears from him, but
Sean remained quiet, his eyes boring into the water.

Mae came down the pier, stood behind them.  Mulder glanced back at
her, and she crooked an eyebrow at him, questioning.  Mulder looked
back at Sean, his expression sad, then back at Mae.  Mae nodded, bit
her bottom lip.

"I think..."  Sean began, hesitated.

"You think what, Sean?"  Mae asked him gently after a moment.

Sean looked up over the lake again, and Mulder saw a grim set in his
face that didn't fit on the face of a seven year old boy at all.

"I think my daddy must not be a very good man."   It came out just
above a whisper.

Mulder looked down, again at a loss as to what to say.

Mae squatted down behind Sean, put her arms around his chest and
pulled him back against her.  She kissed his temple, pressed her face
against the side of his face.

"Your father loves you very much, Sean," she said.  "That's all you
need to know when you think about him, all right?"

Sean nodded, and now Mulder did see the tears start in the boy's
eyes, though his face was still set, his eyes still on the lake.

"It's all right," Mae said, kissed him again.  "Everything's going
to be all right."

She turned after a beat and looked at Mulder.  "I checked on Dana
when I came in," she said quietly.  "She's awake.  You might want to
go to h