Chapter Ten
Smoking Gun

Till your real target
Hid behind me.  Your Daddy,
The god with the smoking gun.  For a long time
Vague as mist, I did not even know
I had been hit.
-- Ted Hughes, "The Shot"

~*~*~*~*~
Skinner's Office
February 7, 2000
9:15 AM
~*~*~*~*~

Scully suspected that Kimberly had never really liked her.  As
she stood outside Skinner's office, shifting her weight from one
foot to the other, trying to look disinterested, Kimberly watched
her openly, with a tiny smile.

"He'll call you in when he's ready, Agent Scully.  You might as
well have a seat.  I think he's in the middle of a conference
call."

Scully glared at the woman as though she had said something
offensive and remained on her feet.

"It's not easy for any of us," Kimberly said, her face and voice
unreadable.

"What do you mean?" Scully asked.

Kimberly only shrugged and went back to the piles of work heaped
on her desk.  Scully sank down into the couch and crossed her
ankles, focusing on a blank spot on the wall opposite her.

It felt like three years had passed by the time Kimberly finally
said, "The Assistant Director will see you now, Agent Scully."

Scully stood, brushed imaginary dust off her suit, and
straightened her shoulders.

"Good luck," Kimberly whispered, without looking up.

~*~*~*~*~
9:45 AM
~*~*~*~*~

Skinner watched his agent enter, shut the door quietly and turn
around to face him.  There was determination written all over her
face -- determination and something close to despair.

"Sir," she said by way of greeting.

"Agent," he replied, neither of them offering an inch.

Skinner broke first.  "Are you well, Agent Scully?"

Scully looked confused.  "As well as can be expected, sir."

She looked weak, Skinner thought.  Her suit jacket hung on her --
she looked as though she'd lost five pounds, which, on her small
frame, was considerable.  Her fingers trembled.

"Sir, there's no point in hedging here.  I need a favor.  I need
you to do something for me, no questions asked.  I suspect --
sir, I -- I need you to set up a meeting for me."

Skinner felt his heart skip a beat.  He saw Mulder standing in
front of him, begging for help, begging for Scully's life.

"There's something going down here, sir, and I'm not going to
rest until I figure out what it is.  I found papers in Mulder's
home.  At first I believed they were papers relating to the Frank
killer, but the more I puzzled over them, the more I realized
Mulder had been profiling himself.  He wrote about being a golden
boy hailed as a genius by everyone except those he wanted to
impress.  He wrote about his father, his sister.  I'm afraid,
sir, that Mulder saw himself and the killer as one entity."

"You're not--" Skinner swallowed painfully.  "You're not
suggesting that Mulder is the killer?"

"Not at all, sir.  But I think Mulder's profile was irrevocably
altered by the similarities he perceived between himself and the
killer."

"And the reason you need a meeting?  And with whom?"

Scully crossed her arms firmly over her chest and looked him
straight in the eyes.  He found her gaze unnerving and was the
first to break the stare.  "When we were led to believe that the
killer had murdered another victim in DC, I was shocked.  When I
performed the autopsy on the victim, I knew there was something
very, very wrong.  This case has been bizarre from the outset,
sir, and as much as I'd like to believe you had nothing to do
with it, your behavior in the past leads me to think otherwise.
I think this case is a set-up.  I want a meeting to prove it."

"With whom?" Skinner repeated slowly, already knowing the answer.

"Spender.  The Cigarette Smoking Man.  Whatever alias it is you
know him as."

Skinner's eyes widened.  "You don't know what you're asking,
Dana."

"I think I do, sir."

"What reason do you have to believe *he* would have anything to
do with this?"

"He has answers."

"He deals in lies!"

Scully's eyes narrowed as she looked at him.  Her posture was
still set stubbornly -- he could feel himself shrinking under the
sheer determination in her stance.  "There is no other way, sir."

Skinner shook his head.  "Your partner once asked me for a
similar favor and I will tell you what I told him: there is no
way to deal with the devil, Dana.  He'll ask for your soul --
he'll promise you everything -- and you'll give it to him.  You
and Mulder are the same that way.  I can't be a party to it."

The agent bristled with barely controlled rage.  "This is
non-negotiable! I need that meeting!"

"You're on your own, Agent."  Skinner closed his eyes, resigned.
He couldn't bear to see the desperation in Scully's eyes.  "I
can't help you."

"You can," she hissed.  "You just *won't*."

"Scully," he said softly, when he heard her heels leaving.  "You
don't understand.  Take it from someone who has faced the devil
more than once -- you don't want anything from him.  All his
fruit is poisoned, Scully.  Nothing comes without a price."

"My partner is missing!" she shouted, fury unleashed.  "He's out
there somewhere and he's completely insane!  I *need* to find
him!"

"Find another way, Agent.  Find another way."

She slammed the door shut and it squeaked on its hinges.  Skinner
put his head into his hands and closed his eyes.  "Damn it,
Scully, you don't know what you're asking."

The phone rang.

Skinner's voice was air-tight and professional when he answered,
"Skinner."

"The enigmatic Dana Scully wants a meeting does she?"

"You son of a bitch," Skinner breathed, but it was too late.  The
line was dead, and he knew Scully was lost to him.

~*~*~*~*~
Dana Scully's Apartment
5:30 PM
~*~*~*~*~

Her apartment felt empty, un-lived-in.  She watered the dry
plants mindlessly.  Small tasks kept her from going completely
mad.  Small tasks kept her from thinking of her partner or of her
fruitless meeting with Skinner.  Small tasks kept her from
remembering that her partner had been missing for almost a week.

She was surprised when the doorbell rang.  She was even more
surprised hen she saw that it wasn't Skinner on the other side of
her peephole.

She pulled her gun and stood to the side as she opened the door.

"I've got a gun trained on you.  Don't make any sudden moves or
I'll blow your head off, Krycek.  Don't try anything."

Krycek walked in slowly with his hands over his head and a wry
smile on his lips.  "Is this any way to treat someone who has
something you need, Scully?  I mean, really.  Your hospitality
needs some fine tuning."

"You're lucky I'm listening to you at all."  She pressed the
nozzle of her gun into the base of his neck.  "There is nothing
you have that I want, you son of a bitch.  What the hell are you
doing here?"

"Is that so?  I must have been mistaken then.  I was positive I
heard you say you wanted a meeting with Spender, Sr.  That's how
you know him, isn't it?  The smoking man."

She shoved the gun against him harder, but his smile only
widened.  "What do you know about that?  *How* do you know?"

"Scully," he said calmly.  "Does it really matter how I know?  I
can set up that meeting for you.  I can take you to him right
now, if you like."

"Why?  Why are you doing this?"

"There's no love lost between Mulder and I, true.  But ... this
is playing dirty, Scully.  What they're doing to him?  It's just
dirty.  Cutting open his head and pulling apart his brain?
That's all in the line of duty.  But this?"  Krycek shook his
head and Scully resisted the urge to punch the self-satisfied
look right off his face.

"I don't trust you," she hissed.

"Have I asked you to?"

"What do you want from me, Krycek?  You don't work for free."

"The satisfaction of causing no small annoyance to my
sometime-employer?" he quipped.  "Or do you want the bullshit
rigmarole of how important Fox Mulder is to the Project?  Take it
or leave it.  I don't need anything from you.  Maybe I just like
you, hmm?"

"Shut up!" Scully shouted, shaking his shoulder.  "Don't talk in
fucking circles!"

Krycek stood silent.

"I could kill you, you rat bastard!  I could pull this trigger
and I wouldn't even feel sorry about it!  I should kill you, for
God's sake!" she continued, while her prisoner watched her with
an unreadable expression in his eyes.  He inclined his head
slightly, as though she had made a valid point.

"But I *need* that meeting.  I just won't play any of your games
getting there.  And I don't want you to think I'm going to trust
you for a minute, Krycek."

"Can I put my hands down now?"

"No," Scully snapped.  "I'm taking your weapons."  She kept her
gun leveled at his groin as she frisked his legs.  She pulled a
knife out of one boot and a handgun out of the other.  The gun at
his waist and a second knife joined the pile at her feet.  "Is
that everything?"

"If you don't count my explosive cufflinks."

She glared at him coldly.

"Yes, Agent Scully.  That's everything."

"Put your hands down then.  Keep them where I can see them.
You're driving -- I'll have a gun in my jacket pointed at you the
entire time.  If I think, even for one moment--"

"You'll have no second thoughts about pulling the trigger.  And
I've seen you shoot, remember, so I have no doubt you'll hit your
target.  We're taking your car?"

She nodded sharply, pushing his weapons into the briefcase she
had discarded by the front door earlier.  "I told you I don't
trust you.  Come on."

~*~*~*~*~
The Reflecting Pool
Washington, DC
6:15 PM
~*~*~*~*~

She recognized him by the ever-present glow at his fingertips
before she was even close enough to see his face.  He stood with
his back to her, cigarette jutting from his fingers like a
scepter.  Shadows made his face appear even craggier than usual
and his dark trench was drawn tight against him to ward away the
chill.

He turned when her boots no longer crunched through the snow.
She kept herself a short distance away from him, finger firmly on
the trigger of the gun in her pocket.

"Agent Scully," he said, his voice emerging in a puff of smoke
that was only half because of the cold.  Before she had a chance
to respond he took another long drag on his cigarette, tossed the
butt to the ground, and stepped on it.  The snow hissed where the
heat had melted it.

She said nothing, eyes hard.  Krycek stood at her side,
momentarily forgotten.

Finally Spender broke the silence with a hoarse bark of laughter.
"To what do I owe the honor?"

Scully continued her silent survey.

Spender pulled out his pack of cigarettes, shrugged when she
declined his offer, and shook one into his gloved hand.  He lit
it and took a drag before continuing, "Am I mistaken in believing
you are the one responsible for this meeting, Agent Scully?"  He
took half a step toward her.  "This doesn't have anything to do
with the mysterious Frank case you've been working on, does it?
Because I can assure you I know nothing about it, except for what
I've heard on news reports."

"Where's Mulder?"  Her voice was like ice, matching the chill in
her eyes.

"I don't have any idea.  Is the boy missing?"

She blinked, lids dropping down and up slowly.  The finger on the
trigger itched.  She felt the rage beginning to boil in her
chest.

Beside her Krycek shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

"The last body in DC.  She looked like Emily.  Did you set that
up?"

Spender inclined his head slightly.  "Not entirely my idea."

"I thought you didn't know anything about the case."

His smoke-stained smile cracked the darkness.  "I lied."

Scully ground her teeth together in frustration.  "You
black-lunged son of a bitch."  She had thought the words would
come out as a shout, but instead they hung like little daggers in
the space between them.  He took another step closer and she
straightened her shoulders stubbornly.  "You knew about this
case, didn't you?  You set Mulder up, knowing that he can't turn
these cases down.  You *know* he can't stand seeing little girls
hurt!  What did you want?  To see him crack, break open, die?  It
wasn't enough to saw open his head and leave him?  Do you need to
see him completely shattered?"

"Agent Scully."  The voice was calm.  Damnably calm.  Just once
she wanted to see him completely ruffled.  "What possible reason
would I have to see Agent Mulder harmed in such a way?  I've
protected him from harm more times than I can say.  I intervene
for him.  I look out for the boy."  He stepped forward and
touched the back of her neck before she could jerk away.
Spender's touch was poisonous but she couldn't force herself away
from it.  He looked directly into her eyes as he said, "I watch
out for both of you, Dana."
 

She swallowed the desire to vomit.  Her cheeks burned with
embarrassment and hatred.  If this helped her to find Mulder ...

"More lies," she finally managed to curse.

Spender drew his hand away, trailing his fingers a moment too
long on her vulnerable skin.  "Perhaps," he soothed.  "And
perhaps not.  Do you want to take your chances?  Are you a
betting woman, Agent Scully?"

"Not when I know the cards are already stacked," she growled,
backing away from him and nearly hitting Krycek in the process.

"I'm not the one you should be looking to blame.  I consented to
this meeting because I would like you to know that I had nothing
to do with the disappearance of your partner.  I'm afraid Fox
chose to run away all on his own.  He wasn't kidnaped -- by
myself, or by any others I know of."

"So that's it?" Scully protested.  "That's all?  There's nothing
you can do?"

Spender shrugged, bringing his cigarette to his lips.  "There's
nothing to be done, my dear."

She hung her head, looking down into the sludgy brown snow at her
feet.

"Alex will show you back to your car.  I'm truly sorry there was
nothing more I could do for you.  It's not every day I have the
chance to work with Dana Scully, after all."

She looked up into his shadowed face, eyes stinging.  "I don't
believe you."

His smile was hideous in its attempt to be kind.

She turned away, Krycek at her side.  He remained silent until
they were almost back at the car.  "Scully," he whispered
hoarsely.

She tilted her head to look at him carefully.  He reached forward
with his good hand and folded a piece of paper into her numb
fingers.  "You couldn't have paid his price anyway.  When it
comes down to it, neither could've Mulder.  You can't accept
anything from that man and still maintain your integrity."

"And from you?"  She closed her fingers tightly around the paper
and looked him in the eyes.

Krycek smiled briefly.  "Atoning for past sins?  Hell, I don't
know, Scully.  Like I said before -- maybe I just like you."

Her brow furrowed but she said nothing.  He turned and began to
walk away when she opened her car door.

"Krycek," she called out.  He turned and chuckled when she dumped
his weapons into the snow.  "I will pull the trigger if you ever
show up in my apartment again."

She waited until he had disappeared before she looked at the
paper crumpled in her hand.

She recognized it immediately.

It was Marshall's home phone number.

~*~*~*~*~
Eloise Marshall's Apartment
Alexandria, Virginia
8:24 PM
~*~*~*~*~

Eloise jumped when she heard the loud pounding at the front door.
She nearly dropped the pot of spaghetti she was pouring into the
colander, splashing herself with scalding water in the process.
She hissed under her breath at the pain and dried her hands off
as she moved toward the door.

A peek through the peephole revealed an irate Dana Scully.

Eloise opened the door slowly.  "Agent Scully," she said by way
of greeting.  "What can I do for you?"

Scully shoved a crumpled slip of paper at Eloise's nose.  "Is
this your phone number?"

Eloise moved her head back until she could see the numbers
clearly.  "Of course it is."

"Mind if I come in?"

Eloise pulled back the door and waved her dishrag toward the
couch.  "Make yourself at home.  Can I ask what you're doing
here, though?  And why the phone number?"

"Is this your sister?"  Scully pointed at a picture on the end
table, completely avoiding Eloise's question.

Eloise nodded.  Scully crossed her arms over her chest, and
Eloise noticed how thin she looked; how desperate.  The shorter
woman's hair hung limp around her narrow face, and her manicure
was chipped.  The woman standing before her was nothing like the
composed, confident agent Eloise had met in the basement nearly a
month earlier.

Eloise was suddenly thankful that she had not yet been assigned a
permanent partner.

"Agent Scully?"

Scully's eyes hardened.  "I was given that phone number by an
informant.  What do you really know about the Frank case,
Marshall?  What do you know about the whereabouts of Agent
Mulder?"

"What?" Eloise protested.  "You think *I* had something to do
with all of this?  I'm as stumped as you are!  And I have no idea
where your partner might have disappeared to!  Are you implying
that *I* have attempted to compromise the case?"

"How about deliberately misleading other agents working on the
case?" Scully snapped.  "How about fabricating stories concerning
the killer?  You constantly picked fights with Mulder.  You
complained about his behavior, wouldn't let him do his job
properly, and made him doubt his own ability.  Compromise the
case?  This is all becoming clear to me, Marshall."

"You are not thinking about this clearly, Dana.  I have no reason
to lie to you--"

"None that I *know* of!"

Eloise took an involuntary step backward.  This is not the Dana
Scully I know, she thought.  Where is her rationality?  Where is
the scientist?

"I don't have proof of your loyalties yet, Marshall -- but when I
do ..." she left the sentence hanging and Eloise stared at her,
open-mouthed.

"You won't find any proof," Eloise retorted, "because I haven't
done anything to harm you or this case!"

Scully brushed past her, toward the door.  She turned at the
threshold and growled, "If you have had *anything* to do with the
disappearance of my partner, so help me God ..."

Eloise said nothing, and stared at the door for a long time after
the other woman had left.  The spaghetti no longer seemed half as
appetizing at it had fifteen minutes earlier.

~*~*~*~*~
Dana Scully's Apartment
February 8, 2000
3:01 AM
~*~*~*~*~

She was tired of crying.

Dana Scully was not a weeper.  She didn't cry over everything
that happened to make her upset or a little sad.  Dana Scully was
strong.  Dana Scully was a paragon of strength, a pillar, a
tower.

Dana Scully didn't cry.

Even so, her eyes were sore now from shedding too many tears.
Her pen and her diary were pushed to one side of the kitchen
table, forgotten.  'Where are you?' she had written.  'I want to
know where you are.'

She had eaten a pint of Ben and Jerry's when she returned from
Marshall's apartment because she had realized, all of a sudden,
that she was starving and that she hadn't eaten in nearly four
days.  Her behavior toward Marshall tormented her.  It had, in
retrospect, been atrocious, although she had thought herself
brave at the time.  The confusion in Marshall's eyes had thrown
her.

She realized she was on the brink of insanity, and for some
reason the thought didn't disturb her as much as it ought to
have.

She couldn't believe she'd actually spoken with Spender.  The
memory of it made her skin crawl, and she wanted to take another
shower.  Her hair still smelled like cigarette smoke, although
she'd scrubbed her scalp for twenty minutes before she ate the
Ben and Jerry's.  She felt somehow tainted.

Dana Scully does not cry, she thought, even as traitor tears
dripped from her chin.

She rose from the table slowly and moved to the sink.  The sound
of scalding water filling the stainless-steel basin kept her from
noticing the sound of a key in her front door.

~*~*~*~*~
 

Chapter Eleven
The Things We Do

This is a dark house, very big.
I made it myself,
Cell by call from a quiet corner,
Chewing at the gray paper,
Oozing the glue drops,
Whistling, wiggling my ears,
Thinking of something else.
-- Sylvia Plath, "Poem for a Birthday"

~*~*~*~*~
Dana Scully's Apartment
February 8, 2000
3:17 AM
~*~*~*~*~

He waited outside, ear pressed to the door, until he heard the
sound of the dishwater running and he knew it was a safe as ever.
He eased the oiled key into the lock and slid the bolt back as
slowly and quietly as he could.  Pushing the door open a
fraction, he squeezed his body inside the darkened room.  The
only light was in the kitchen.

He thought he heard Scully crying.  He glanced quickly toward the
kitchen and saw her standing at the sink, surrounded in billows
of steam, eyes closed, shoulders shaking.  She didn't even appear
to be washing any dishes.

Rather than causing any regret to surface, the sight only made
him more confident.  He slipped into the shadows of the living
room and waited.

Her home smelled like flowers.  It was something he noticed every
time he was over.  He wondered if it was one of those Glade
Plug-In things -- he'd thought briefly about getting one of those
himself, once.  He had sniffed all the packages in the store but
hadn't found any that smelled like Scully's place.  He knew hers
couldn't be the smell of real flowers, though.  She wasn't home
enough to enjoy real flowers.

He'd always liked Scully's place.  His own place was so dingy,
dark -- he remembered being embarrassed the first time he'd let
Scully in.  It was a bachelor's apartment where hers was ... hers
was a home.  A little happy home for one, complete with a
fireplace, a claw-footed bath tub and the eternal smell of
flowers.  He did regret everything he had ever done that had
pulled her away from her home and kept her from the security she
deserved.

The sound of running water stopped.

Her face was beautiful when she turned -- sad, but beautiful.
There was such pain in her eyes, such loneliness.  Her pajamas
hung loose from her shoulders; the shimmering of the silk was the
only life she seemed to possess.  She stopped at the table and
picked up the book he assumed was her diary.

Things will be so much better soon, he thought.

~*~*~*~*~
3:25 AM
~*~*~*~*~

She turned the water off and stood above the sink, hands stinging
from the hot water.  Her fingers were wrinkled like prunes;
sensitive.  Her eyes burned where tears had fallen.

Something was not right.

She turned her head, searching the shadows behind her and finding
nothing.  Something felt unnatural.  Her chest tightened
imperceptibly and she saw her gun in her mind's eye, sitting on
her dresser beside her favorite brush and her new perfume.  She
took a few cautious steps forward and picked up her diary.  She
used the moment to take a more careful look at the room around
her.  Nothing seemed amiss.  Everything was in its proper place.
There was no brooding man standing at her window, hair ruffled
and eyes haunted, raving about the end of the world.  The
curtains hung perfectly, moved only by the slight breath of air
given off by the heater.

Still, something was not right.

It was almost too late when she noticed: the lock on the door had
been turned.  The door was unlocked.  She whirled suddenly,
dropping into a defensive stance.

"Mulder?" she called, willing her voice to be strong.  She had
been too weak last time -- she would not let him catch her
unawares once again.

There was no answer.

"Mulder?  I know you're in here!  You left the fucking door
open!"

Nothing.

Her eyes scanned the darkness, compulsively searching for any
shift of movement, any anomaly.  The room was full of shadows.
She could feel the adrenaline kicking in and her heart began to
pound.  Why didn't I leave a light on, for God's sake?  What the
hell was I thinking?

She couldn't risk taking a step forward.  The table was at her
back now; she was pretty sure the kitchen with its single
comforting light was still safe ground.  She wished she didn't
have so much furniture in her living room.  She knew he could be
hiding behind the chair or the sofa; she knew he might even be
waiting in her room, or in the bathroom.  She squeezed her eyes
shut for the half-second it took to regain her composure.

Now is not the time to panic, Dana, she thought firmly.  "Mulder!
What the hell is going on here?  I'll listen if you try and
explain it.  I'll give you the benefit of the doubt.  Come on,
Mulder.  This is insane!"

Nothing.

She wanted to scream.  She could feel the tickle of sound itching
at the back of her throat, begging to be freed.  She remembered
standing in her mother's house, accusing Mulder, shaking, her gun
poised, her finger on the trigger, and she suddenly realized how
her partner must have felt at that instant.  It was difficult to
remain calm and collected in the face of utter irrationality.

"Mulder," she whispered, more for herself than for him, "why are
you doing this to me?"

She definitely wished she had her gun.  She wanted the cool,
heavy, secure weight of it in her hands.  She knew she was
capable -- more than that.  Scully knew she could hold her own in
a fight, but she also knew that Mulder was bigger than she was,
and that he would be armed.  She took a deep breath.  He could
have his gun ready now, waiting for her first move.  Her fingers
twitched, frustrated.

Scully inched away from the table, pausing when she had moved
about a foot, listening for any tell-tale sound: breathing, the
click of a trigger, the shuffling of a foot.  Swallowing past the
knot in her throat she surveyed her apartment and tried to figure
out the safest route from Point A -- kitchen table -- to Point
B -- gun.

She just hoped he wasn't standing at Point B waiting for her,
both guns in hand.

With one last frantic gaze around her, Scully released all the
coiled energy in her body and pushed herself toward her bedroom.

~*~*~*~*~

He saw the muscles tense a moment before she flew into action.
He couldn't understand why she was so terrified.  He'd frightened
her before, he knew that.  He'd still been trying to figure
everything out when he had been here last.  He'd been trying to
make her understand something he didn't fully understand himself.
Things were different now.  Why couldn't she see that things were
different?

He knew she was running for her gun.

He rose from his crouch behind the sofa and ran to position
himself in front of her.

"Mulder."  He could tell she was panicked.  Her voice had the
tight edge of tamped fear.

"Scully," he replied softly.  "You don't have to be afraid."

"Why didn't you answer me before?"

"I thought you might overreact."

"Why didn't you bother knocking on the door, if you didn't want
me to overreact?  Why bother hiding?"  She shifted her weight
from one foot to the other, her eyes looking past him toward the
hallway he blocked.

"Scully," he moved forward, extending his hands as though to
place them on her shoulders.

She pulled herself away from his hands and ran toward the door.
It took Mulder a half-second to realize what she had done.  He
followed her quickly.  She threw open the door and he slammed her
into the doorframe, arms snaking securely around her waist.  She
twisted herself fiercely in his grip, simultaneously lashing out
with her feet and attempting to grip the doorframe with her
hands.  Her feet tangled in his and they both sprawled backward
on the floor, dangerously close to the coffee table.

She took advantage of his loosened grip by digging an elbow
painfully into his gut.  His grip loosened, but he didn't
completely release her.  She stretched her hand above her head,
searching for something, anything.  Her fingers closed around the
crystal candy dish her mother had given her for Christmas.  Red
and green M&Ms scattered everywhere as she brought the dish to
the closest approximation of where she thought Mulder's head must
be.  He grunted at the contact but maintained and tightened his
hold.

"Let me go!" she screamed, still attempting to twist away from
him.

He squeezed her sharply and she gasped.  She kicked out again,
but he was prepared for it.  He pushed her face first to the
ground and flipped her, pinning her body with his and her arms
above her head with his hands.

Her eyes were large and terrified.  When he opened his mouth to
speak, she screamed again.

"Don't make me hurt you," he said.

She tried to spit at him, failing miserably.  Her chest heaved.
Mulder smiled at her.  He was dimly aware of the blood matting
his hair, dripping lazily from the gash on his head.  He could
feel the warmth of it on his cheeks like tears.

"See what you did?  God, Scully.  I'm not trying to hurt you.
I'm trying to save you."

"From what?" she shouted, shifting her hips and her legs in a
futile attempt to regain some mobility.

"From everything," he replied.  "Preparations have to be made,
Scully.  There are things that must be done.  I love you, Scully.
You can rest soon."

"Stop saying that," she hissed.  "If you loved me you wouldn't
hurt me.  You wouldn't be doing any of this."

He leaned down and looked into her eyes.  "I know you don't
understand any of this now, but that's okay.  You'll understand
soon enough.  Everything'll be okay, Scully.  I love you.  I'll
always take care of you."

"I don't want you to take care of me," she growled.  "I want to
take care of myself.  We're partners, Mulder."

He shook his head.  Blood dripped.  "You of all people, Scully.
After everything they've done to you ... after everything that's
happened ... you deserve peace.  You deserve rest.  You deserve
so much more than this."

"What are you talking about?  What are you saying?  Mulder?"

He bent at the waist, bringing his face close to hers.  She could
smell his blood; he could smell her fear.  "You don't have to be
afraid, Scully."

"I *am* afraid, Mulder."  She gazed up at him earnestly searching
his face.

"Don't be," he mouthed, bringing his lips to hers.

She whimpered under the pressure of his mouth, and as much as he
tried to deceive himself he could hear no pleasure in the sound.
His grip on her hands loosened the fraction she required to
wrench her arms down between them, jabbing her elbows up and into
his chest.  She drove the air out of his lungs and he pulled back
slightly, gasping for elusive breath.  He was still seated firmly
on her legs, but she took the moment of increased freedom to try
and free his gun from the holster.

He latched back onto her wrists, still trying unsuccessfully to
take a full breath, and pulled the hand holding the gun away.
His cheeks were flushed and his eyes narrowed.  He pounded her
fist against the floor until she dropped the weapon from numb
fingers.

"That was the fucking wrong thing to do, Scully," he finally
wheezed.  He brought his head down toward hers again and then
brought it down sharply, head-butting her.  Her eyes widened,
surprised, before her body went limp.  He could tell she wasn't
completely out cold, so he dropped her wrists and cradled her
head between his hands.  He brought the back of her head to the
floor with a sickening thud.  Her face was smeared with his
blood; she looked too pale.  Her head dropped to the side when he
let go of it and her eyes closed weakly.  He brushed a
blood-matted lock of hair back from her forehead tenderly.

He flipped her over again, disturbed by the wobbly movement of
her neck and the smear of blood snaking through her hair.  He
hoped he hadn't broken her neck.  He tied her hands and feet
firmly, and gagged her in case she woke screaming.

"If only you had just come peacefully, Scully," he whispered,
leaving her on the floor so he could shut the front door.  He
peeked into the hall to see if anyone had noticed, but the floor
remained silent.  All the doors were closed -- locked -- safe.
Then hers shut, too, and the world went on sleeping.

~*~*~*~*~
 

Chapter Twelve
The Heart of This Flower

or if your wish be to close me,i and
my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
-- e.e. cummings, "somewhere i have never travelled"

~*~*~*~*~
J. Edgar Hoover Building
Washington, DC
February 9, 2000
8:24 AM
~*~*~*~*~

Eloise paced back and forth in front of her desk, debating with
herself.  On one hand she felt guilty -- she didn't want to run
to the Assistant Director with every qualm or misgiving she felt.
On the other, there was a serious problem with two FBI Agents --
Mulder and Scully or not -- disappearing without a trace.

When she finally straightened her shoulders and moved to walk
toward the Assistant Director's office, she was surprised to see
him at the door, and was annoyed with herself for not noticing
his arrival.

"I wasn't expecting you, sir."

He wasted no time getting to the point.  "Have you seen or been
contacted by Agents Mulder or Scully in the last forty-eight
hours?"

Eloise paused before confessing, "Agent Scully visited my home
Monday night, sir, but I haven't spoken with her since then."

His face remained stern and unyielding, but she could see
something like hope dying behind his eyes.  "What time was that,
Agent Marshall?"

She didn't like the tone of his question.  "I believe around
8:30, sir."

"And you spent the rest of the evening there?  With your sister?
Alone?"

She crossed her arms and replied, "I was there for the rest of
the evening, but I was alone.  My sister was working late.  Is
there a problem, Assistant Director Skinner?  Something you think
I should know?"

"Agent Scully is missing.  She is answering neither her home
phone nor her cell.  She failed to arrive at a mandatory meeting
this morning.  Agent Scully does not skip meetings if she can
help it."

"And you think I have something to do with this?"  She was not
able to keep all of the acid out of her voice, and Skinner fixed
her with a gaze that said he didn't approve.

"You are the last person to have any account of her, Agent."

"I was on my way to your office to tell you much the same thing,
sir.  Agent Scully's behavior was uncharacteristic the evening
she visited me.  She mentioned some kind of informant.  I don't
suppose you have any idea what she might have been talking about,
sir?"

"Uncharacteristic?"

"She accused me of compromising the case.  She had no proof
except that some mysterious informant had given her my phone
number.  She wanted to know if I had anything to do with the
disappearance of Agent Mulder."  When Skinner looked unconvinced
she continued sharply, "Which, incidentally, I do *not*."

"Of course not, Agent."

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, waiting for
anything further.  When it appeared the Assistant Director had
nothing more to say, she continued, "Has anyone been to Agent
Scully's home, sir?  Is her car there?  Is it possible she was in
an accident between my home and hers?"

"I would have been informed if she'd been hurt," Skinner snapped,
too quickly.  Eloise took a step back, pressing the back of her
thighs into the front of her desk.  "I have not yet looked at her
apartment.  I was planning on sending a couple of agents over
there shortly.  I'd like the apartment combed over for any trace
evidence."

"May I volunteer, sir?"

Eloise watched as doubt and fear played behind his eyes.  When he
looked at her squarely there was no trace of either emotion.
"You'll take Agent Currie with you."

She shook her head.  "Sir, no disrespect intended, but I think I
can handle this on my own.  This ought to be kept under wraps, if
there's to be any hope of salvaging either Agent Mulder or Agent
Scully's reputation.  Agent Currie can't keep his mouth shut, and
he has no background with the current case."

"You think this is somehow related to the Frank case?"

Eloise stopped, peered at the Assistant Director and continued in
a quieter voice, "At this point I have no other explanation, sir.
Agent Mulder's reputation precedes him, but this?  Let me get a
look at Scully's house -- maybe she left some clue, some hint of
where she's gone.  If I can't find anything, you can bring other
agents in at your discretion."

Skinner's fingers clenched at his sides, but he gave no other
outward sign of being upset or frustrated.  "I'll trust you on
this, Marshall.  See that you don't disappear, too."  He turned
away from her, but paused in the doorway.  "Marshall?  Did Scully
mention any details about the informant she met?"

She didn't know whether to be surprised or not that Skinner was
giving credence to the informant story.  "No, sir.  Just waved
around a little slip of paper with my phone number written on
it."

Skinner nodded and let himself out, saying nothing further.
Eloise wished she had some frame of reference she could use to
decipher the look of suffering on the Assistant Director's face.

~*~*~*~*~
Dana Scully's Apartment
9:45 AM
~*~*~*~*~

Eloise stood on the threshold of Dana Scully's apartment, afraid
to open the door.  She had knocked three times and called
Scully's name, to no avail.  Although Eloise would have been the
first in line to discount any theories of supernatural
involvement or alien abduction, there was something unfamiliar
and menacing about her current surroundings.

Reaching for the doorknob, she stopped herself at the last
moment.  The door didn't seem to have been broken or altered in
any way, and if this was the point of entry, there was the
possibility of lifting prints.  Snapping a latex glove onto her
hand, she slipped her standard issue lockpick into the keyhole
and opened the door, making as little contact with the doorknob's
surface as possible.

The unpleasant odor of stale blood assailed her nostrils as she
let herself into the apartment.  Eloise fought down the familiar
urge to vomit that accompanied every new crime scene.  She closed
her eyes for the fraction of a second it took for her to remember
that this was just her job; she was trained to handle situations
like these.  She worked with Violent Crimes and was used to this.

She never got used to this.

She breathed a sigh of relief when no body greeted her opened
eyes.  She quickly determined the source of the blood smell,
however, when she saw the rusty stain on the floor, dark and
definitely more than twenty-four hours old.

She drew her gun, just to be on the safe side.

She noticed at once the discarded crystal candy dish, smeared
with blood, and the M&Ms littering the room.  There were signs of
a scuffle -- the throw rug was crumpled and the coffee table was
awry.  The sofa had been pushed back -- she could see scrape
marks on the smooth finish of the floor.

Gun held out in front of her like a talisman, Eloise turned
toward the kitchen.  There were still dishes in the sink and a
notebook lay discarded on the floor face down, pages bent.  Half
a pot of tea stood on the counter, nearly black from having
steeped so long.

This was not the same home Eloise had visited just a week and a
half earlier.  Even the air of the place felt ... violated.
Unsafe.

With some trepidation, Eloise made her way down the hall toward
the bedroom.  The bedroom door was closed; she knocked without
expecting or receiving any reply.  Again, she opened the door as
gently as she could, hoping that she wasn't destroying
fingerprint evidence as she did so.

The hand holding the gun began to shake as she peered into the
darkness of Scully's bedroom.  She reached up to hit the light
switch with her left hand without taking her eyes off the bed.
When the light flicked on she fought simultaneous urges to scream
and cry.  This is my job, she told herself.  Walk away.  Call
back-up.  Call the Assistant Director.  Don't cry, don't scream,
don't pull back the covers.  For God's sake, Eloise, don't pull
back the covers.

Her peripheral vision noted the requisite elements to the scene:
the glass of water on the bedside table, complete with twist of
lemon.  Three daisies in a blown-glass vase, nodding sleepily.
The bed was draped with white blankets.  A light had been left on
in the bathroom, and the door left open a crack.

She knew what she would find under the blankets, and still she
was drawn to them.  She was surprised to see her hand shaking
uncontrollably as she reached down.  Her face felt damp, but she
couldn't feel the tears.

She jerked the blanket back in one swift motion, stifling a gasp.

Pillows molded into the vague shape of a human being greeted her
confused and terrified gaze.  A note lay prominently on one of
the pillows and she picked it up hesitantly.  In Fox Mulder's
handwriting was scribbled: "or if your wish be to close me,i
and/my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,/as when the
heart of this flower imagines/the snow carefully everywhere
descending -- don't follow us, Marshall, for God's sake.  I know
you'll want to follow us, but this doesn't concern you.  Let us
be."

She stared at the note for a long time before sinking to the
ground beside the bed and covering her face with her hands.
Tears leaked out between her fingers and she shook, trying to
remember how she'd gotten here in the first place.

The shaking lasted only a few minutes before she pulled the
pieces of herself together and took a deep breath.  "There's a
lot of work to be done," she whispered aloud, staring at the gun
in her lap.  There were clues to be collected and evidence to be
put together.  Depending on where Mulder was planning on taking
his partner, there was only a finite amount of time to find them
both.

The bloodstain on the floor in the living room flashed behind her
eyes like a neon reminder of what she'd find if she was too late.

~*~*~*~*~
1:17 PM
~*~*~*~*~

Eloise flipped open her cell and answered "Marshall" without
taking her eyes or her concentration off the pieces of paper
spread out on Dana Scully's kitchen table.

"Lise?"

Eloise shook her head.  "Yeah?  Yes, sorry ... Jackie?"

"Where are you?  I thought we were going to meet for lunch half
an hour ago."

Eloise ignored the annoyance evident in her sister's voice.  "I
got held up, Jackie.  Sorry.  I probably won't be home for
dinner, either."

"I tried your office phone first -- where are you?"

"On a case.  I'm not at liberty to talk about it right now, sis."

There was a moment of dead silence before Jacqueline said cooly,
"You always tell me at least the general gist of what's going on,
Lise.  Does this have anything to do with the murders you've been
working on?"

"No," Eloise lied.

"What then?  I thought agents pretty much stuck to one case at a
time."

Eloise sighed.  "Look, Jackie, no one else knows about any of
this right now, and I can't talk about it.  Not even to you.  Not
over the phone like this.  This has to stay top secret."

"I can keep a secret, Eloise!  I work at the Pentagon."
Jacqueline's voice was light, joking.

"I know.  I know.  I'll talk to you about it later.  I've got to
run now, okay, Jackie?  Sorry about lunch.  Bye."  Eloise clicked
the END button even as her sister protested.

She half expected the phone to ring again, but it didn't.

The sheets spread out in front of her were covered in script.
Most of it was Mulder's, as far as she could tell, but Scully had
made additional notes in neat shorthand, deciphering her
partner's chicken scratches.  Eloise was glad of it -- some of
the earliest pages were completely unreadable without Scully's
notes.

Eloise had realized fairly quickly that the loss of Mulder's
sanity had been recorded in his own handwriting.  What had
started out as a simple profile had metastasized into full-blown
paranoia and self-hatred.  The similarities between the killer
and Mulder himself were evident even to Eloise, whose knowledge
of Fox Mulder consisted solely of what she'd heard through the
Bureau grapevine, and what she'd been able to read in his
personnel file.

From his notes, Mulder had thought there was some connection to a
woman in V. Frank's family -- mother or sister, perhaps wife.
Some critical event had changed Frank's way of thinking --
shattered his world view -- so drastically that he had snapped.

And so had Fox Mulder.

Working through the notes was like piecing together a jigsaw
puzzle -- one of the ones Eloise remembered her grandmother
doing. Pictures of cloudless skies or deep woods, where every
piece seemed exactly identical to the next one.

What touched Eloise however, was the way Scully had written to
her partner in the margins.  'Oh, Mulder,' one said, 'don't you
know you're stronger than all this?  He isn't you, Mulder, you
aren't him.'

Scully's diary lay open as well.  Eloise still felt a twinge of
guilt when she looked over at it.  She had reached in and opened
up the woman's secrets, but ... she had to know.  She had to
understand the strange relationship between the FBI's strangest
and yet most successful, most reliable duo.

In her diary, Dana Scully was asking the questions Eloise
Marshall wanted the answers to *now*.  'That was nearly a week
ago, Mulder.  No word, no sign, nothing.  Your late-night wake-up
call was nearly a week ago, and I want to know where you are.
Where are you?'

Eloise shook her head in an effort not to crack.  The case
depended on her now.  Mulder and Scully depended on her now.  She
squinted at the pages smeared with writing and tried to make
sense of it all.

Where did V. Frank end and Fox Mulder begin?

~*~*~*~*~
5:15 PM
~*~*~*~*~

Her cell phone rang again and she answered it automatically,
forgetting her earlier vow not to distract herself.

"Marshall."

"Agent Marshall?  Assistant Director Skinner.  Where are you,
Agent?"

"I'm still at Agent Scully's apartment, sir."

"What did you find?"

She cleared her throat before continuing, "Signs of a struggle --
some evidence that Agent Scully was taken forcibly from her home.
Her car is still parked outside and no one from the building saw
her leave."

"No one saw the intruder enter?"  His voice was low.  She might
have said sad, if it had been anyone else.  She chalked it up to
cell phone interference.

"No, sir.  One neighbor thought he heard something around three
in the morning, but he said he ignored it.  He said there have
been strange happenings in the apartment before.  Everyone here
knows she's an FBI agent and they leave it at that.  None of
their business to get involved with the goings on of the feds."

"Do you need backup?"

"No, sir," she replied firmly.  "At this point everything is very
... convoluted.  There is definitely a tie to the V. Frank case."

Skinner was silent.  She could hear him breathing deeply.
Finally he said, "Do you ... is it your opinion that the same
killer is behind the disappearances of my agents?"

Eloise shook her head, even though she knew he couldn't see her.
"No, sir.  In fact, I'm working through Agent Mulder's profile of
the killer now, and I think some very significant mistakes were
made--"

Skinner interrupted her, "By Mulder?"

"No, sir.  Not by Agent Mulder.  It has become fairly evident
that the last murder in DC was a ploy to get us away from the
Pacific Northwest -- or, I should say, to get Agent Scully away
from there, and away from her partner.  I can see now why Agent
Scully was so defensive, sir.  I certainly don't know everything
about them, or about their work, but this case seems ... well, to
be completely honest, sir, it seems as though it was tailor-made
to drive them insane."

"That's ridiculous, Marshall!" Skinner snapped, but his voice
held a timbre of fear.  She wondered if he thought she was
questioning his loyalty.  "They have dealt with murdered children
before without these kinds of consequences..."

"Perhaps, sir.  How often, though, is Agent Mulder required to
profile a man whose background resembles his so closely?  How
often is Agent Scully required to autopsy children who look like
her dead daughter?"

Skinner's voice lost the fear, taking on anger and muffled
confusion instead.  "What the hell are you talking about?  Dead
daughters?  Mulder has the same background as a killer?  What the
hell is going on here, Marshall?"

She took a deep breath before explaining, "Agent Mulder's
original notes are here and Agent Scully has added to them.  I
also have her diary ... where she spoke of the similarities
between the last murder victim and her daughter, Emily."  Eloise
had also been ... disturbed to read some of Agent Scully's
misgivings and doubts about her.  When the line remained silent
she prodded, "Sir?"

"I was not aware of these developments, Agent.  If I had known--"

"But you didn't know, sir.  I once told my sister that Agents
Mulder and Scully have a little secret club where no one else is
allowed to play.  You ... we can't feel left out, really.  We
were never invited in."

Rather than softening as she half-expected it to, his voice took
on a military edge and he ordered, "Twenty-four hours, Marshall.
If you're drawing blanks I'll pull out all the stops.
Twenty-four hours.  I trust Mulder and Scully, but I can't
protect them indefinitely.  Especially if they're in -- or
causing -- serious trouble."

"Yes, sir," she breathed.  The phone line went dead and she sat
still for several moments, listening to empty air.  For Skinner
to put his weight behind the search would certainly be the end of
Mulder's career -- and perhaps Scully's as well.  Eloise only
knew pieces, but what she knew terrified her.

Outside the snow was carefully everywhere descending, and time
was running out.

~*~*~*~*~
 

Chapter Thirteen
Moved By Fancies

I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.
--TS Eliot, Preludes

~*~*~*~*~
Unknown Place
Unknown Time
~*~*~*~*~

She woke to complete darkness.  After blinking several times, her
eyes grew accustomed to the dim light.  Her head throbbed and
felt like it was filled with cotton.  She winced as her neck was
jostled by movement.

Movement.

She blinked again, straining her eyes in the shadows.  Her head
was so sore.  She tried to swallow and found her mouth gagged.
She made a noise deep in her throat, a sound of struggle and
confusion.  Finally, her eyes focused on the lights on the
dashboard.  The little green numbers of the clock were
unreadable.  Her vision swam, and she fought to keep herself from
passing out again.

It took her a few minutes to remember how she had come to be
here -- wherever *here* was.  She remembered fighting; the man
who was and was not Mulder hovering above her, kissing her,
crushing her head into the floorboards with the sheer power of
his hands.  It was difficult to separate one pain from another.
The dull ache snaked out from the back of her head and made it
impossible for thoughts to form completely.

A voice she recognized asked gently, "How're you doing, Scully?"

Mulder's voice.  Rather than fear, a deep resignation suffused
her.  She made a small noise and he reached over and loosened the
gag, left hand firmly on the steering wheel.

"I've felt better," she croaked.

He nodded, eyes fixed on the road ahead of him.  "I'll get you
some water at the next stop."

She looked around her, but the road was barren, and her
grogginess would have blurred any signs she might have seen.  She
tried again, but couldn't make out the digits on the clock.
"Where are we?"

"You've been asleep for a long time."

His voice was soft in the dark, almost apologetic.  Only the
muffled memory of what he had done to her kept her from
completely trusting him.  That and the fact that she had a
blanket tucked tightly around her, her hands and feet were
fastened behind her and her fingers felt numb.

A strangled scream.  M&Ms.  The sickening crunch of head meeting
floor.

She took a deep breath, feeling claustrophobic in her bound
state.  "How long have we been driving?"

"A long time.  Almost a whole day."

She tried to do the calculations, but she didn't know what
direction they were headed and signs and landmarks were still
hazy.  "Are you tired?"

"No!" he snapped, suddenly angry.  He calmed himself, then
explained, "I had a nap earlier.  I don't need much sleep."

"We're not going to arrive wherever it is that you're driving if
you fall asleep at the wheel and get us both killed."

"Shut up, Scully.  Don't think I won't put the gag back. What do
you think I'm going to do?  Get out and let you drive?  I'm sure
as hell not that tired."

She closed her eyes and pressed her forehead against the cool
glass of the window.  The thrum of the engine was strangely
soothing, even though her head was throbbing more painfully
now -- and, she realized, her head was the least of her problems.
"I have to go to the bathroom, Mulder."

"That's too bad.  You'll have to wait."

"For how long?  Where are we going?"

He looked over and smiled -- and for a moment she didn't even
recognize the man sitting next to her.  His teeth looked too
sharp and white behind his lips.  "I can't very well tell you
that, can I?"

She opened her mouth slightly, feeling the air cool against her
lips.  The feel of her own breath reminded her that she was still
alive.  Her mind raced, thinking of alternatives, plans of
escape, ways she might trick her partner.  The breath went in and
out.  "Who are you?" she finally asked, unable to keep the
incredulity out of her voice.  "What the hell have you done with
Mulder?"

He shook his head.  "I just had some time to think, Scully.  I
know what I've got to do, now."

"Is that what you were doing when you disappeared?  Thinking?  Is
that what you were doing in Berkeley?"

"I went to Berkeley to find out about the student who was killed
by V. Frank.  His name's not really V. Frank, you know, Scully.
It's Patrick.  Patrick Ainsley."

"How do you know that?"

"I met him.  I talked to him.  He's a smart man, Scully.  He's a
good man."

"A smart, good murderer, Mulder!  Why did he kill the student at
Berkeley?  What did she ever do to him?  What's the connection?"

He affected a hard-come-by patience and explained to her as
though she were a child.  "He didn't want to hurt her, Scully.
He wanted to save her from pain.  She was ... she was so much
like his own little sister.  He just wanted to save her.  And he
did."

"What happened to Patrick Ainsley's sister?  Mulder?  What
happened to his sister?"

"She was murdered."

"By whom?"  Her fingers felt completely dead, now.  She tried to
wiggle them and couldn't.  She wondered just how long she'd been
sitting in the same position, and whether or not she'd ever be
able to move her hands again.  The thought was strangely
terrifying, all things considered.  She could sit in a car and
carry on a conversation with her apparently insane partner, but
she was most afraid of never being able to use her fingers again.
She almost laughed at the absurdity of it all, but she knew that
if she laughed she would only start to cry, and that Mulder would
win.

"Their father.  Their father, the sick fuck."  He looked at her
and she could see the madness in his eyes, blurry vision or not.

"Mulder," she said softly.  "Mulder ... just because there are
... Mulder he's not..." At a loss for words, she squeezed her
eyes shut and breathed -- in, out, in, out.

Mulder continued talking, either deaf to her entreaty, or
ignoring it.  "I got to thinking ... what makes a man kill a
woman?  Really.  Jealousy?  These didn't look like crimes of
jealousy, or even of hate.  There wasn't a lot of hate.  I asked
him -- I asked him -- I..."  His voice dropped and when he
continued she could hear tears in his words.  "I asked him about
the little girl from Chilliwack.  Suzanne Caulfield.  He said she
was so lonely, so sad.  He said--" He ducked his head as though
protecting himself from an unseen blow, and he let out a painful,
constricted sob.  The car swerved a little before he could regain
control.  "She's better off now, Scully.  They all are.  They
were hurt and sad and they had been betrayed by the men that
should have protected them, kept them safe."

"Mulder," she breathed.  They sat in silence as he maneuvered the
car down the road.  After several minutes she asked, "Is that
where we're going?  To see him?"

Mulder stared at the road in front of him.  If he'd heard her
question he made no sign of it.  He fished a sunflower seed out
of his pocket and brought it up to his mouth.

That was when it hit her, in all its terrible finality.  This was
not some Eddie van Blundht.  The man driving the car was no
strange shape-shifting creature pretending to be Fox Mulder.
This was the real thing.  *He* was the real thing.

Mulder cracked the sunflower seed between his teeth after sucking
the salt off the shell.  She watched with a sort of morbid
fascination, saying nothing.

"I didn't mean to scare you, Scully," Mulder finally said.

"You did," she replied.

"I know."

She stared ahead, squirmed in her seat, and then sat still,
trying to relieve the pressure in her bladder.  "Mulder, I really
do have to go to the bathroom."

He nodded.  "I know.  I don't know what to do about it, though,
Scully."

She paused.  "What if ... what if I promise to go peacefully?
I'll do whatever you want.  What am I going to do, Mulder?  We
both know who won the last time it came down to a test of
strength.  I ... I trust you, Mulder."

He looked over at her again and his eyes were wild, like those of
a cornered animal.  "Scully, I can't be held responsible for what
might happen if you try to run away.  I--"

"I won't run away," she said calmly, trying to wiggle her fingers
again.  Nothing.  "And if you want to keep me tied up, could you
cuff my hands in the front?  I can't feel my fingers, Mulder.
It's dangerous to keep a body in an immovable position for this
many hours.  I couldn't run away even if I wanted to."

"You could scream."

"I won't," she vowed.  "Mulder, please."

"You're a federal agent, Scully.  Of course you're thinking of
ways to escape.  It's your job.  You just can't see that what I'm
doing is for the best."

"And what is it that you're doing, Mulder?  Other than kidnapping
a federal agent?  I told you!  I can't even move, let alone run
away.  I won't scream.  You're armed and I'm not.  You're the one
with the power, Mulder.  I know what it's like to be a hostage.
I won't misbehave."

Her partner sighed deeply.  "If you try anything I won't stop
again, Scully, and we're only halfway there."

"I understand," she said softly.

"There's a rest stop about ten miles ahead."

She nodded and said nothing, listening to herself breathe in the
dark.

~*~*~*~*~
Rest Stop on Interstate 90, South Dakota
February 9, 2000
5:04 AM
~*~*~*~*~

He untied her arms first, because she asked him to.  Her
shoulders protested the movement she demanded of them, sending a
pain screaming through her nerves.  She bit her lip in an effort
not to cry out.  He apologized softly, fingers trembling as they
held the newly undone handcuffs.  He looked as though he didn't
know what to do with himself.  He looked trapped between two
worlds.  She focused all her attention on her watch.  5:04 a.m.,
she read  through the swimming blur of her impaired vision.
Eastern Time.

She squeezed her eyes shut in agony as blood rushed back into her
abused arms.  Her fingers throbbed and pins and needles assaulted
her.  A whimper escaped her clenched jaw and she tossed her head,
ignoring it.  She fought the urge to pass out again.  Fainting
was the worst possible thing now, she knew.  That she had a
concussion was fairly evident -- but the persistent blurriness of
her vision, her nausea and disorientation were signs that it was
probably worse than even she was allowing for.

She lowered her head as much as she could.  Mulder bent down and
uncuffed her ankles, pausing to rub the chafed skin there.  He
hovered, distracted and unsure on the edges of her peripheral
vision.

"Is the back of my head bleeding?"

He made a strange noise in the back of his throat and then said,
"Yes.  Is that ... is it bad?"

She glanced up at him, keeping her head low.  "Blood is never a
good thing, Mulder.  I'm in a lot of trouble if I'm bleeding
internally.  How long has it been?"

Mulder looked down at his watch.  "About twenty-five hours since
we left DC."

"Well, I'm not dead yet.  That's a good sign.  Mulder, I have to
get to a doctor.  Head injuries are especially dangerous."

He nodded sharply, obviously remembering the time he spent
recovering from his own head injury.  "Not until we get there."

"There?"

Mulder chuckled wryly.  "The great white north, Scully.  Where
else?"

Scully raised her head a little too sharply.  Pain shot through
her skull and she gasped.  She paused, breathing heavily, until
the pain passed.  "We're going to Canada?  What the hell for?"

Mulder shrugged.  "Do you have to go to the bathroom or what?"

She rose unsteadily to her feet and put a hand out to brace
herself on the car.  "I need your help," she said.  She wished it
didn't sound so much like begging.  Her joints were centers of
agony.  She moved her left foot toward Mulder, trying to maintain
her balance.  He grabbed her arm as she tottered and began to
fall.

"C'mon, Scully," he breathed, hooking his arm under her
shoulders, supporting her.  They hobbled toward the bathrooms,
and Scully tried to rally her thoughts into some plan resembling
escape.

The bathroom was typical rest stop fare: cloudy mirrors, the
scent of urine, creative tags sprayed across the walls in black.
Scully let go of Mulder's arm and pushed herself into the nearest
stall, willing herself not to vomit or faint.  She stared blindly
at the cool grey paint, seeing the shadows in Mulder's eyes like
an instant replay.

He was waiting for her when she tried to make it to the sinks.
He turned the cold water on, and they both watched, frozen in
place, as the last traces of blood on her hands washed down the
sink.  She touched the back of her head.  More blood.  That was
washed down the drain, too.

Mulder said nothing, looking at her sideways as though she was
some strange supernatural phenomena he couldn't quite explain.

She wished she could float away, like a ghost.

~*~*~*~*~
5:24 AM
~*~*~*~*~

He helped her back to the car, cuffed her ankles and hands in
front, and gave her a chocolate bar that was warm and a bit
melted from living in his coat pocket too long.

"I'll be back in a minute," he said, locking the doors.

She nodded.  When he turned his back, she scanned the car for
anything that might be of use.  Nothing.

His cell phone was sitting in the armrest compartment, little
green light blinking like a beacon.

She looked up, just in time to see Mulder disappear into the
men's bathroom.  Suppressing the urge to laugh or burst into
tears hysterically, she picked up the phone.  She knew Mulder
would be back any minute, so she trusted her gut and pressed the
speed dial.

The phone on the other end rang.

"This is Dana Scully.  I'm not home right now, please leave a
message after the tone..."

"To anyone who gets this message," she said breathlessly, "This
is Special Agent Dana Scully.  It's 5:30 a.m. EST and we're at a
rest stop on ... I-90, South Dakota, I think."  The men's room
door opened.  "Killer, Patrick Ainsley," she whispered.
"Canada."  She clicked the phone shut, tossed it back to its
resting place and was innocently eating the chocolate bar by the
time Mulder opened the car door.

"Wunderbar," she said quietly.  "Good choice."  The peanut butter
and chocolate tasted like sawdust in her mouth.  Her stomach
tried to rebel, but she pushed the nausea away.

He nodded, turning the key in the ignition.

"Mulder," she warned, "wake me if I fall asleep.  I don't know
how serious my condition is, but if I fall asleep I might not
wake up again."

"I will," he replied softly, and she wondered again who this
strange, reasonable facsimile of Mulder was.  The real thing, a
little voice murmured in the back of her skull.  The real,
over-the-edge, fucked up thing.  And you're on the receiving end,
Dana.

Mulder, she pleaded silently, end this insanity.

He pulled out of the parking lot and they drove.

~*~*~*~*~
 

Chapter Fourteen
Ice-Crawl

I listened, as I sealed it up from myself
(The twelve-hour ice-crawl ahead).
I peered awhile, as through the keyhole,
Into my darkened, hushed, safe casket
From which (I did not know)
I had already lost the treasure.
-- Ted Hughes, "Robbing Myself"

~*~*~*~*~
Dana Scully's Apartment
February 9, 2000
10:11 PM
~*~*~*~*~

Eloise had nineteen hours left.  She was trying desperately not
to start counting minutes.  Not yet, anyway.  When she hit ten
hours she could start counting minutes, too.

She blinked back her fatigue and attempted to focus on the notes
again.  Something was wrong with the profile ...  she just
couldn't place it.

But she knew there was something missing.

She pushed the chair back and stood, limbs heavy with the desire
to sleep.  She moved to the kitchen and stared at the cabinets,
wondering which one would contain tea, finally giving up and
rooting through them, though it made her feel like a graverobber.
Finally she found some and brewed a pot.

The phone rang.  Eloise nearly dropped the hot pot, but managed
to stop herself at the last minute.  It was Scully's phone, so
she let it ring.  After four rings the answering machine clicked
on and the tinny recorded voice of Dana Scully informed the
caller that she wasn't home.

"Dana, it's Mom.  I just wanted to check in, sweetheart, see how
you're holding up.  Give me a call when you get in."

Eloise stared at the phone, aghast.  Women who had been kidnapped
should not get perfectly normal answering machine messages from
their perfectly normal mothers.

The light on the answering machine blinked twice.

Funny, she hadn't noticed the first light before.  She tried to
remember if the phone had rung earlier, but came up with nothing.
She had similar difficulty attempting to recall whether or not
she had even glanced at the machine before this point.

Eloise set the teapot carefully on the table and pressed the
button.

She knew there was something wrong even before the voice began
its breathless message.  The room seemed suddenly darker, and
Eloise felt her heart begin to beat faster.

"To anyone who gets this message."  Even though the recording was
bad and the speaker sounded like she wasn't close to the
receiver, Eloise recognized Scully's voice.  She sounded
terrified.  She sounded sick.  "This is Special Agent Dana
Scully.  It's 5:30 a.m. EST and we're at a rest stop on ... I-90,
South Dakota, I think."  The next words sounded even more
panicked, as though Scully had seen something she was afraid of.
"Killer, Patrick Ainsley.  Canada."

5:30 a.m.

Seventeen hours ago.

South Dakota.

"Fuck," Eloise said aloud, as Scully's mom began her perfectly
normal message once again.

She picked up the phone and dialed.  "Danny, hi," she said, when
the person on the other end picked up.  "This is Special Agent
Eloise Marshall.  I need favors.  I need information.  I need it
as fast as you can get it.  I've got a name, Patrick Ainsley, and
I need to know everything about him.  He's about thirty-five to
forty-five, and I'm pretty sure he was born here in DC.  Yeah.
I'm leaving now and I'll be down there as soon as possible."

She set the phone down, gathered Mulder's notes and Scully's
diary, and dialed Skinner's office number as she shut and locked
the apartment door behind her.

Eighteen hours, thirty-eight minutes.  And counting.

~*~*~*~*~
Skinner's Office
11:28 PM
~*~*~*~*~

When she entered, he was sitting behind his desk, implacable,
unruffled.  It might have been 11:30 in the morning, if the sky
behind his head hadn't been so obviously dark.

The look in his eyes was unreadable behind the lenses of his
glasses.  "You have news, Agent?"

She licked her lips, suddenly nervous.  "I think I know where
he's taking her."

"Where Agent Mulder is taking Scully you mean?"  The slip in
dropping the 'Agent' before 'Scully' was not lost on her.

"Yes," she said calmly.  "I've just received information that has
been extremely helpful.  Scully had ... left a message on her own
answering machine very early this morning.  They were in South
Dakota."

"You didn't notice the answering machine earlier?"  She knew he
hadn't meant for it to come out as an accusation, but the effect
was the same.  The uncomfortable feeling of having made an error
sat on her heavily.

"No, sir.  I did not."

"South Dakota, agent?"

"Agent Scully also related the name of the killer: Patrick
Ainsley.  She said the word 'Canada'.  I've had the boys in
information looking it up for me, and they discovered some very
interesting facts.  Patrick Ainsley was born here in DC on
October 13, 1960."

"Mulder's birthday," Skinner interrupted.

Eloise nodded.  "One of many interesting parallels, sir, let me
assure you.  His father, Stanley, worked in the lower levels of
federal government.  Patrick's sister, Rebecca, was born in 1964.
Two years later, the mother was killed in a car accident.
Stanley resigned and moved the children cross country -- to
Olympia, Washington.  He continued working with the government,
which is why he was easy enough to trace.  He's on file.  The
family moved around in Washington state: Lakewood, Seattle,
Tacoma, Bellingham.  Familiar places, don't you think?  Patrick
Ainsley as V. Frank was retracing the steps his family took."

"That doesn't tell me where my agents, are, Marshall."

"No, sir, it doesn't.  Let me continue.  When the family settled
in Tacoma, Ainsley went away to school.  Three guesses."

"Oxford."

Eloise nodded again.  "The ironic thing is that they probably
took some of the same classes, sir.  They probably knew each
other -- went out for a beer at the pub, two Americans in a
foreign land.  Ainsley graduated top of his class in English,
moved back to the States, and disappeared.  Honestly.  Right off
the map."

Skinner looked at her without saying anything.  All his questions
were in his eyes.

"This said, there appears to be an answer in Agent Mulder's
profile.  Very early on he made the connection that V. Frank was
moving north.  I never disagreed with that.  Agent Scully said
the word 'Canada'.  North of Sumas is Vancouver, sir.  When V.
Frank was identified by the woman from Los Angeles, she said he
was wearing a ski jacket with a tag from the Whistler ski resort.
I think Vancouver is where Patrick Ainsley is, and I think that's
where Agent Mulder is headed."

Skinner leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk and his
chin on his hands, watching her calmly.  "Vancouver."

"Yes, sir.  Agent Mulder will be driving.  Agent Scully didn't
leave her home peacefully; there's no way he could have forced
her to board a plane."

The Assistant Director nodded.  "You've done well, Agent
Marshall."

She didn't like the tone of his voice.  "Sir?"

"Go home, Eloise.  Get some rest.  I'll take care of it from
here."

She didn't bother attempting to hide the incredulity she felt.
"I'm sorry, sir?  Are you taking me off the case now?  After
everything?"

Skinner's eyes hardened.  He leaned back in his chair and fixed
her with an impenetrable gaze.  "Please leave the notes and
anything else you might have found.  I will place a commendation
in your file, Agent Marshall.  Your work on this case has been
above and beyond the call of duty."

"You gave me twenty-four hours, sir!"

"There is nothing more for you to do, Agent!"  He rose and she
followed his example.  "You cannot simply hop on a flight and
flash your badge and your gun in Vancouver.  This is
international now.  I will contact the consulate in Ottawa and
the Canadian authorities myself.  I'll put an end to this, Agent.
There is no more reason for you to be involved."

She clenched her hands into fists and straightened her shoulders,
stubbornly looking her superior in the eye.

"Don't ruin your career over this, Marshall," he warned.  "Or
your life."  She felt her eyes sting as he gestured toward the
door.

She'd turned to go when he prompted, "The papers, Agent?"

She reached into her briefcase and pulled out the pieces of paper
covered in Mulder's script.  Scully's diary she left where it
was.  She said nothing, dropping the papers into Skinner's
outstretched hand.  When the door had shut firmly behind her, she
leaned back against it, weary.  Defeated.

She glanced at her watch.  There was still time.  She'd be damned
if she let the bureaucrats win this one -- or cover it up.

~*~*~*~*~
Eloise Marshall's Apartment
Alexandria, Virginia
February 10, 2000
12:12 AM
~*~*~*~*~

Eloise tugged the door open, cursing under her breath.

Jacqueline looked up from the sofa in the living room and smiled.
"Something wrong, Lise?"

"Yes," Eloise stated, marching toward her bedroom.  Jacqueline
followed closely and continued to smile as her sister began to
throw clothing and toiletries into an overnight bag.  "I know
where the killer is.  I know what happened, and Skinner took me
off the case.  Something is going on here, and I need answers.  I
need a favor, Jackie."

"From me?  What could I possibly do to help?"

"The man you work for at the Pentagon ... do you think he has a
private airplane?"

Jacqueline's laughter was incredulous.  "You're kidding me.  You
think I can get you an airplane on a whim?  Eloise Marshall,
you've lost your mind.  What exactly am I supposed to tell him
it's for?  My big sister needs to catch a killer and the
Assistant Director won't let her do it?"

"Sounds fine to me."  Eloise looked up at her sister, eyes
pleading.  "This is very important, Jackie."

"It sounds like the Assistant Director has it all under control."

"No," Eloise shook her head.  "No, not at all.  He's covering
something up.  He's ... you don't understand!  He's got agents
out there.  He's been sitting on his ass the whole time.  He's
fucking in on it, Jackie.  Whatever's going on -- he knows about
it."

All trace of a smile disappeared from her sister's face.
Jackie's voice was low and serious when she said, "To think we
were joking about Fox Mulder's paranoia just a month ago.  You're
scaring me, Eloise."

Eloise squeezed her eyes shut and counted backward from five to
calm herself.  "Jacqueline, if there is anything you can do to
help, please do it.  I'm begging you.  I need to get to Vancouver
before they do."

"Vancouver?  Canada?  They?"

Eloise shook her head again and didn't look her sister in the
eyes.

Jacqueline smiled again and shut the door behind her.

~*~*~*~*~
12:25 AM
~*~*~*~*~

Jacqueline listened to her sister bustle around and curse for
several minutes before picking up the phone and dialing the
familiar number.  A man's voice answered after three rings.

"Who is this?"

"Jacqueline Marshall."

"How is everything?"

"She knows.  She knows where they are."

The man's voice sounded pleased.  "Well, then.  Where are they?"

"Of all places -- Vancouver.  She didn't tell me anything more
than that.  She wants me to ask you to borrow a plane."

She cringed as the man laughed.  Even after two years of working
as an aide, she still hated the sound of his laughter.  There was
no joy in it.  "Does she?  By all means, then.  If she wants an
airplane, she shall have it.  I imagine she wants to leave right
away?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'll have everything ready for her.  Tell me, Jacqueline, what
does she think she can do?"

"I don't know."

"You know what this means, don't you?"

Jacqueline's voice dropped, "Of course ... of course I do, sir."

"Chin up, my dear.  You knew it might come down to this."  He
hung up the phone and she was left listening to dead air.  She
didn't want to hang up.  She knew that the moment she clicked the
phone down all the locks would click shut and everything would
begin.

She was still holding the receiver in her hand when her sister
walked into the living room.

Jacqueline set the receiver down gently, as though it might
break.  She gave her sister an encouraging nod and a smile.

Somewhere, in the dark, a plane engine roared.

~*~*~*~*~
Unmarked Airfield
1:05 AM
~*~*~*~*~

Eloise didn't like him.  She didn't like either of them,
actually, although it was the older man who really terrified her.
He lit a cigarette as she approached, took a drag, and smiled at
her through the smoke.

"Eloise Marshall, I presume," he drawled.

"Yes, sir," she said calmly, reminding herself that she needed
this flight.

"Your sister informs me you have need of a plane."

"There aren't a lot of American Airlines flights departing at one
o'clock in the morning.  Sir."

He took another drag on his cigarette.  His smile was caustic and
left her feeling violated.  "I'm quite fond of Canada myself.
What takes you there?"

Eloise looked over at her sister, but Jacqueline was staring at
the ground, scuffing her toe in the dirt.  The second, younger
man met her eyes and smiled coldly.  "Jackie didn't tell you?"

"Not a word."

"I have to catch a killer."

The man nodded, flicking his cigarette.  Ashes fluttered to the
ground.  "The RCMP can't take care of it?"

Eloise closed her eyes and shook her head.  "It's important that
I be there."

"Obviously.  Well then.  Who am I to stand in the way of an agent
with a mission?  My pilot will take you where you need to go.
Come back safe and sound."

Eloise felt her jaw drop a little.  Things weren't this easy.
Mysterious smoking men in mysterious airfields didn't simply
offer the use of their planes.  "Uh ... thank you.  I'm not sure
how I can repay you--"

"Don't think about it.  Catch the killer.  Isn't public safety
payment enough?"

She ducked her head a little and hoisted her overnight bag.

As she moved to board the plane, he took another long drag on his
cigarette, and breathed out a cloud of smoke.  "Give my regards
to Fox Mulder, Agent Marshall."

Eloise turned her head sharply.  "What--?"

The man and her sister were already walking away, however, and
neither answered.  With a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach,
Eloise and the second man boarded the plane.  They were airborne
in a matter of minutes and, looking down through the darkness,
she was absolutely certain there was no going back ... to any of
this.

The second man, sitting in the plush seat opposite her, smiled
and said, "Name's Alex.  You have the feeling you're being led
around by the nose, Eloise Marshall?"

She pulled her attention away from the window and looked at him
for the first time.  His eyes were piercing.  She felt as though
he was peeling her skin away with a glance.  "I'm starting to
feel that way, yes."

"I don't know who you are, really, or how the hell you got
involved with all of this, but you're in dangerous waters.  For
example, I'm here to kill you.  As soon as we land in Vancouver."

Her eyes widened but she said nothing.  He said it as though he
was discussing what type of tea they would drink with breakfast.

"I'm not *going* to kill you, but I'm supposed to.  If I don't do
it, someone else will.  That's the way this game works."  He
shrugged and wrestled open a package of honey-roasted peanuts.
One arm, she noticed, was a very believable prosthetic.

"What happened to your arm?"

Alex laughed.  "Nosy, aren't you?  It was cut off.  In Russia.
Long story."

She nodded, resisting the urge to look out the window once again.

"It's a long flight," he said.  "You should get some sleep."

"I don't want to sleep," she replied.

He nodded as though he understood her reasoning.  "Peanuts?"

She nodded and he tossed her another bag.  It was going to be a
long flight, indeed.

~*~*~*~*~
 

Chapter Fifteen
Orphans

As my body sank into the folk-tale
Where the wolves are singing in the forest
For two babes, who have turned, in their sleep,
Into orphans
Beside the corpse of their mother.
-- Ted Hughes, "Life After Death"

~*~*~*~*~
Vancouver International Airport
Richmond, British Columbia
February 10, 2000
6:35 AM
~*~*~*~*~

Eloise woke with a startled intake of air as Alex reached over
and buckled her seatbelt.  She didn't remember falling asleep.
She hardly remembered anything at all.  In the instant after she
woke her memories came flooding back, and she found herself
looking down into her lap to keep herself from standing and
screaming, or otherwise behaving in some ridiculous manner.

"Didn't want you to hurt yourself during the landing," Alex
quipped, looking past her out the window.  The lights on the
airstrip marked a glowing path below them.  It was still dark,
but the sky had the odd quality of near-sunrise: deep and blue
and cloudless.

"Why are you really here, Alex?" Eloise asked softly without
raising her eyes from her lap.  She didn't particularly want to
see his face when he answered.  "It's not to kill me.  If you
were ordered to kill me, I think you'd do it."

"Not to kill you, Eloise Marshall.  This is sightseeing for me,
really."

The plane began a gentle descent.

"How are you planning on finding them?"

"Them?" Eloise asked with feigned innocence, raising her eyes
from her hands so she could smile at the man sitting across from
her.

"I think you and I both know that this killer is secondary.
Although, how you plan to find *him* might be just as valid a
question.  You know, there's a pretty damned good chance that if
Scully couldn't find Mulder, you won't be able to find either of
them.  Or the killer."

"How do you know about that?"  She fought to keep the surprise
and indignation from her voice, but they both knew she failed
miserably.

Alex gave her a half-smile, almost like an apology.  "It's my job
to know.  Especially about them."  His eyes narrowed.  "You do
not have any idea what you're dealing with, Eloise Marshall.  You
do your job -- you save those agents and catch the killer, but do
not try to understand this.  The second you think you understand
what's going on, I really will have to kill you.  That's my job,
too."

She nodded.  "I believe you."

He laughed suddenly and shook his head.  "Good for you."

"Are ... are you here to kill them?"

The laughter died down into a chuckle and his eyes sparkled
green.  "Not quite."

The wheels of the plane hit the runway and the plane bounced a
little.

"Do you know where they are?"

He shrugged.  "Not a clue.  Good luck, though.  It's been a
pleasure."  He undid his seatbelt and stretched languidly as the
plane slowed to a stop.  "And don't forget what I said."

She nodded again and rose.  She pulled her overnight bag down
from the overhead compartment, and by the time she turned around
again, Alex had disappeared.

~*~*~*~*~
Border Crossing
Sumas, Washington
February 10, 2000
7:56 AM
~*~*~*~*~

I could scream, she thought.  I could scream and end this whole
charade now, one way or the other.  That's what border crossings
are for -- to stop illegal activities.

She closed her eyes and pretended to sleep.  Her head hurt.  She
wanted to go to a doctor.  The Tylenol Mulder had purchased at
the last gas station sat leaden in her stomach, providing no
relief.  Her mouth felt like it was full of cotton.  She
swallowed, but her throat remained painfully dry.

"Where are you coming from, sir?"

Scully could practically feel Mulder's smile radiating at the
customs officer.  "We're from DC, believe it or not.
Cross-country drive.  We're going to a conference in Vancouver."

"Really?"  The woman said with some interest.

"It's an international relations conference.  My sleepy partner
and I are representatives from the Federal Bureau of
Investigation."

Scully tried not to cringe, tucked inside her blankets.  Scream,
she told herself.  But her mouth remained firmly shut.  Cotton.
Dry.  Why won't you scream?

"And how long are you staying in the country?"

"A week," Mulder replied confidently.

"Are you bringing firearms?"

"No, ma'am.  We're not here as law enforcement officers."

She waved them through.

Scully opened her eyes a moment later.  "I could have screamed
back there, you know."

"I'm glad you didn't, Scully.  I thought you trusted me."  Mulder
sighed and turned onto the Trans-Canada highway toward Vancouver.
"Two-lane highways, Scully."

"I can see that," she snapped.  The countryside was still blurry,
and the sunlight hurt her eyes.  She found it difficult to
concentrate on anything for longer than a few moments.  "Aren't
you tired?  You haven't slept in more than twenty-four hours,
Mulder."

"Neither have you."

"It's entirely possible," she said, not bothering to keep the
acid from her tone, "that if I sleep, I'll slip into a coma and
die.  Is that really what you want, Mulder?"

He shook his head.

"I *need* to get to a doctor, Mulder."

"I know, Scully," he said sadly.  "Just lie back and rest now.
It'll all be okay soon."

She clenched her teeth, looked out the window, and thought about
how strange it was that it was February and there was no snow in
Canada.

~*~*~*~*~
Vancouver, British Columbia
8:30 AM
~*~*~*~*~

Her cell phone rang three times but she forced herself to ignore
it.  Chances were that it was Skinner calling her to find out
where she was and what she was doing.  She wondered if he would
put everything together.

"Of course he will," she said aloud, trying to find a radio
station to drown out the sound of her phone.  She was tempted to
just turn the phone off, but she knew that the moment she did so
Skinner would add her description to the APB sent to the Canadian
authorities.  If he hadn't already.  He had to have been pretty
sure that she wouldn't just lie back and let everything happen
all around her.

She finally settled on a station playing top 40 pop hits.  The
phone stopped ringing.

She didn't know where to go.  She had managed to pick up a map
from the car rental agency, but even having a map was rather
pointless when there was no street to look up or name to hunt
down.  She had studied the general layout of the city, but
nothing had jumped out and said "Look for me here."

"Where would he take her?" Eloise asked the radio announcer, who
was busy telling her there were traffic backups on the Port Mann
bridge, that there had been an accident at Twelfth and Broadway,
and to watch for photo radar on Highway 1 eastbound.  She
wondered if Mulder and Scully were even in the city yet.

She wondered if she was even in the right city.

Eloise slammed the brakes at yet *another* red light and swore at
the car in front of her.  She needed to take some time out.  She
glanced down at her map again and decided to find herself a hotel
room downtown.  Central location -- and hopefully she'd be able
to re-evaluate the situation.

When the light turned green she bullied herself into the left
lane and pressed the gas.  A teenager in a little red sportscar
laid on his horn and flipped her the finger, but she ignored him
and sped away.

~*~*~*~*~
Hotel Vancouver
10:18 PM
~*~*~*~*~

She woke with a start, biting back a scream.  She looked around
and didn't know where she was.  Finally, Eloise remembered that
she had checked herself into the hotel, ordered room service, and
sat down to write out as much of Mulder's profile as she could
recall.  She had throughly kicked herself mentally for not making
copies before Skinner had taken the notes.  Tired and hungry, and
no closer to discovering the whereabouts of either the missing
agents or the killer, she had taken a long hot shower.

Her hair was still damp, sticking up from being slept on.  She
rubbed her eyes and swore when she looked over at the clock.
10:21.  Shit.  How could I have fallen asleep?  She looked over
at the remains of her room service meal and shook her head.  No
one could have been watching her *that* closely.

Could they?

Eloise gathered up her papers and perched on the edge of her bed.
On an impulse, she spread her map of Vancouver on the floor and
looked at it carefully.  Two major universities.

She remembered quite clearly a section of Mulder's notes that
read: "This man no longer works with other academics -- he is not
a professor or a teacher -- he sees himself in a world apart from
others."  The idea had always seemed wrong to her.  Yes, the man
was intellectual, and yes he was an academic, but he latched onto
things.  He felt things deeply.  If he was an academic, he was an
academic to the core.

"He didn't want to be noticed," she breathed, tracing her fingers
from one university to the other.  "Yes, he sees himself in a
world apart from others.  He does work with other academics,
though.  He fled the life he might have had in the United States,
teaching at Harvard or Stanford or ... he didn't want to be the
golden boy anymore.  He didn't want to be brilliant.  He didn't
want to be Ivy League.  He wanted to hide.  Where better to hide
than here?  Good schools ... good schools.  Not American
schools."  She tapped her fingertip on the outline of the
peninsula that housed the University Endowment Lands of the
University of British Columbia.  "He's here.  And Mulder will be
following him."

She clapped her hands and grinned.

There was a knock at the door.

Eloise stood and smoothed back her hair, taking the time to tuck
her gun into the back waistband of her jeans.  She peered through
the peephole and pulled back, startled, when she saw the face on
the other side.

"Lise?  Are you in there?"

Eloise opened the door slowly, but her sister pushed her way in,
shaking.  Jacqueline gazed up at her sister with haunted eyes.
"You have to help me, Lise," she breathed.  "They're looking for
me.  They're going to kill me."

"Who is?  What are you talking about?  Why are you here, Jackie?
Did you follow me?"

"I--" she looked over her shoulder and shut the open door
quickly.  "I took a later flight.  I had to.  Spe--my boss.  My
boss thinks I betrayed him."

Eloise took a step backward, remembering her phone number written
on the paper Scully had been given.  The phone number she shared
with her little sister.  "Why would he think that?"

"He thinks you're going to find these agents.  He doesn't want
them found.  He doesn't want any of this discovered.  I was ... I
was supposed to keep everything from being discovered.  Don't you
see, Lise?  Don't you see anything at all?  We're both pawns!
We're both pawns to my employer.  He's controlling everything."

"One man can't control everything," Eloise stated firmly, willing
her hands not to shake.

"This man can.  God, Eloise!  You don't know anything!  We're in
serious trouble.  He sent Krycek with you.  Alex Krycek!"

Eloise couldn't keep the shock out of her voice.  "Alex *Krycek*?
You have to be mistaken.  Alex Krycek is a former FBI agent,
Jackie.  He -- Oh.  Oh my God."

"He used to be partnered with Fox Mulder," Jackie supplied.

Eloise nodded.  "He's ... considered armed and extremely
dangerous.  Every rookie has heard at least some of the story."

"Krycek is an assassin, Lise.  Plain and simple.  And we're his
targets.  The Marshall sisters."  Jacqueline pinched the bridge
of her nose and took a deep breath.  "We have to get the hell out
of here.  They've probably got someone tracking me.  Hell,
they've probably got someone tracking you, too."

"Where are we going to go?  Who's to say there isn't a sniper
waiting outside the hotel, Jackie?  How can I even trust you?"
Eloise clenched her hands into fists and took another step away
from her sister.  "You knew about this.  You knew about
everything.  You lied to me!  You pretended!  You betrayed your
own *sister!."

Jacqueline shook her head, tears in her eyes.  Closing the space
between them, she grabbed Eloise's arms and peered earnestly into
her face.  "I thought I was protecting you, Lise.  I ... I staged
that car accident so you would get pulled off the case.  I knew
you'd come home to take care of me.  I ... I thought if there was
a fake murder in DC you'd be thrown so far off track that you'd
be safe.  I did everything I could to keep you safe, Lise!  I
never wanted you to be a part of this ... never!  You're my
sister ... you're my best friend.  You're the most important
person in the world to me--"

"Shut up!" Eloise snapped.  "Shut the hell up, Jacqueline!  What
the hell is going on?  What the fucking hell is going on?"  She
wrenched her arms out of her sister's grip and pulled her gun.
"Are you lying to me?  Are you playing fucking games with me?"

"No!" Jacqueline wailed.  Tears streamed down her face and she
held her hands wide, in a gesture of supplication.

"Shut up!"  Eloise shouted, training her gun on her sister more
securely.  "What does he want with them?  Your boss?  Your
employer?  Whoever the hell he is!  What does he want with them?"

Jacqueline sank to her knees.  "I don't know, Lise.  He never
told me that.  He organized it all.  He did it all.  Paid me
well.  I don't know why.  I don't!  They--they--they have
weaknesses.  He wanted them to know that they were not outside
the law."

"The law?" Eloise shouted.  "What does this have to do with any
law?  This is insanity!  This is goddamned *murder*, Jackie!"

"Who is murdering whom?  Who is doing the murdering?  Eloise,
can't you see how clever this is?  He never has to take the blame
for any of it.  If everything goes according to plan, Fox Mulder
will do the murdering.  He'll get life -- he'll get worse.  He'll
do my employer's dirty work for him, and he'll destroy himself in
the process.  It's a perfect plan."  She shook her head and
hunched over, wrapping her arms around herself tightly.
"Everything has gone wrong, Eloise.  You got too close.  You
learned too much.  Everything is ruined, now.  He's won.  My own
sister has a gun pointed in my face."

"I can't trust you, Jackie."

"I know," Jacqueline whispered.  "Please, Lise.  Please put the
gun down.  I'm scared.  This is what they want.  They want you to
doubt me.  They've already won.  Pack a bag and let's get out of
here.  Let's go."

"Where?"

"Somewhere?  Anywhere?  Away from here!"

Eloise hesitated, but the anguish in her sister's body was
persuasive.  Finally, she set the gun down on the bed and said,
"The gun is right here.  I can grab it in a heartbeat.  Don't try
anything."

Jacqueline nodded.

Eloise grabbed her overnight bag from the floor and tossed her
dirty clothes into it.

"I'm really sorry, Lise."

"I ... I understand, Jackie.  I know you are."

"No.  No, I'm really sorry."

Eloise heard the shot, muffled by a silencer, a moment before the
pain of it lanced through her gut.  She put her hands up to her
abdomen and watched in stupid silence as red liquid spurted
between her fingers.  Jacqueline darted toward the bed and
grabbed the other gun before Eloise even realized what was going
on.

"That was stupid of me," Eloise murmured, without raising her
eyes from the redness covering her sleep-wrinkled white blouse.
"That was stupid of me, wasn't it?"

"It couldn't happen any other way, Lise.  I -- you're not beyond
the law, either."

Eloise shuddered, falling against the bed.  She slid to the
ground and closed her eyes.  Her sister stepped up to her and hit
her over the head with the butt of her pistol.  Eloise fought the
blackness, pretending to be unconscious, knowing that her life
depended on it.

Distantly, as though through water, she heard the door shut.
When it felt like a million years had passed, Eloise opened her
eyes.  Her hands were covered in blood, and a pool of red was
starting to surround her.

"Damn it," she hissed under her failing breath.  She pulled
herself up inch by inch, fighting the looming darkness as she
used the bed for leverage.  Nestled amongst her pillows was her
abandoned cell phone.  She dialed Skinner's number with shaking,
bloody fingers and listened to the ring.  She vaguely heard a
voice answer, and she said, "UBC."

"Marshall?  Is that you?  Where the hell are you?  Marshall?"

"UBC," she said.  She coughed once, tasting blood, and hung up.

She fainted as she dialed the number nine for 911.

~*~*~*~*~
 

Chapter Sixteen
Kiss of a Sunrise

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
-- TS Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

~*~*~*~*~
Washington, DC
February 11, 2000
1:50 AM, EST
~*~*~*~*~

Skinner jerked awake at the first ring of his phone.  Marshall,
he thought immediately.  He picked up the receiver and grumbled
his name, trying to keep the sleep out of his voice.

"UBC," a weak voice on the other end of the line said.

"Marshall?  Is that you?  Where the hell are you?  Marshall?"

"UBC," she whispered, and the line went dead.

Skinner stared at the phone in his hand and shook his head.  He
was pretty sure it had been Marshall's voice, but something had
definitely been wrong with her.  He had a pretty good feeling
that she had gone to Vancouver against his express orders -- he
hadn't really expected anything different from her, really.

UBC.

He shook his head, got out of bed and booted up his computer.
When he had access to the Internet he looked up the letters
"UBC."

The University of British Columbia.  In Vancouver.

Skinner bowed his head over the desk and breathed deeply.  "Go to
hell, Krycek," he whispered.  "I won't keep silent about this any
longer."

He dressed quickly and put in a few calls to the right people.
Ss he was leaving the house, he tried Marshall's cell again.  No
answer.  "Just as well."

The RCMP were on their way to UBC, and Skinner had a plane to
catch.

~*~*~*~*~
Nitobe Memorial Gardens, UBC
Vancouver, British Columbia
February 10, 2000
10:15 PM, PST
~*~*~*~*~

He had pulled over and retied the gag sometime earlier.  Scully
had found herself dozing off and catching herself before sleep
could catch up to her.  Mulder appeared unfazed by his own lack
of sleep.

Even adrenaline had deserted her.  She watched her partner
through heavy-lidded eyes.  It took moments longer to register
thoughts and events in any meaningful way.  Her head hurt, her
body hurt, she wanted to sleep, she wanted everything to be over.

Whatever that meant.

She wanted to wake up and find it was all a dream.  She
remembered hating those kinds of stories when she was younger --
just as the little kid hero or heroine was getting to the good
part, they woke up.  Even as a child, she had suspected some
failure on the writer's part.

She wanted one of those failures now.

Instead, she watched as Mulder pulled the car into a darkened
street end and jumped out of the car.  He seemed to have too much
energy.  She wanted to borrow some of it, just long enough to
protest or scream or make some kind of escape.  Thoughts of
escape were coming fewer and farther apart, now.  A part of her
had resigned itself to this strange capture, whatever the
outcome.

She wondered if anyone had even heard her phone message.  She
wondered, as she had many times in retrospect, why she hadn't
called Skinner or Marshall, or even 911.  She wondered what the
hell Mulder was doing.  She could only see the blurry outline of
his back, hunched over something.

It wasn't until he came back to the car and hauled her outside,
lifting her carefully in his arms and carrying her, that she
realized he'd been opening a door.  A big wooden door.  A gate.

She made a series of sounds that could be reasonably translated
as "Where are we?"

"It's a garden," he said softly.  It was dark inside.  He placed
her on a little bench before heading back and closing the gates
tightly.  The light from beyond the high wall was lost, and she
found herself blinking in the sudden darkness.  There was nearly
half a moon in the clear night sky, and as her eyes grew
accustomed to the dim light it provided, she was able to make out
some of the shapes around her.

She heard the sound of tiny ripples in water, just as she made
out the vague shape of a pool in the dark.  The moon reflected on
it, ghostly and pale.  The world was full of bluish shadows and
bare tree branches reaching for the sky.  The ground under her
feet was mossy and surprisingly verdant.

When Mulder returned to her side, he continued, "It's a Japanese
garden, Scully.  The Japanese are famous for the calming effects
of their gardens.  They're able to manipulate space in such a way
that everything looks different, yet equally beautiful and
thought-provoking, from every direction.  It's amazing.  You
should see this place in the daytime.  I can only imagine how
beautiful it must be when the cherry blossoms are out."

She looked up at him, but his eyes were focused outward, away
from her.  She followed his gaze to the pool.  "I was here
during -- during the week I was away.  The second time.  I was
here during lunch time, and there was this young couple sitting
on the far knoll over there, eating lunch.  They were smiling at
each other, sitting very close but not touching.  It was
unseasonably warm, actually.  They were sitting on his jacket.
They were laughing, Scully, and so at peace with everything
around them.  They fit here.  I thought about you.  I thought
about how you might fit here.  I thought about how little you
laugh now."

He looked down at her abruptly and there was such tenderness in
his eyes that she found the back of her own eyes stinging.  "I
thought about those first cases, where you flirted with me and I
flirted with you and we laughed together ... you laughed then,
Scully.  You don't laugh anymore."

Scully heard the words but couldn't make sense of them.  She
wanted to tell her partner to shut up, or at least to start
making some kind of rational sense.  She moved her jaw around the
gag and made a noise of dismay deep in her throat.

He picked her up again and carried her to the mossy knoll he had
been speaking of earlier.  They sat side by side on the damp
grass.  Gently, he reached behind her head and untied the gag.
"I am so sorry for hurting you, Scully.  Not just this--" his
hand fluttered weakly behind her head, without touching the
blood-matted hair.  "It had to have been me.  You were happy
before me.  Weren't you?"

"Mulder," she said softly, trying to buy herself time to figure
out where the hell he was coming from, "this is ridiculous.  How
many times do I have to tell you that I stay with you because I
want to?  I could have asked for a transfer at any time.  Hell, I
could have quit the FBI and gone back into medicine, if that was
what I'd wanted."

Mulder shook his head and looked down at his hands.  "You're
wrong, Scully.  I would have followed you.  I would have dragged
you back to me.  I couldn't live without you.  It was fortunate
for both of us that you stayed, but if you had left I would have
followed."

Scully said nothing, looking at the reflection of the moon in the
pool.

Mulder jumped to his feet, pacing back and forth in front of her.
She had to crane her neck painfully in order to see his face as
he explained, "It was my quest that put you in the line of fire.
It was my quest that made you a visible target.  Do you honestly
think things wouldn't be different if you had never met me?  Your
sister would be alive.  You wouldn't have been abducted, given
cancer, injected with an alien virus, taken to the Antarctic.
You'd still have your ova, Scully.  Maybe even have a life and a
husband and kids, if you wanted them."

"Those things aren't your fault, Mulder--"

"What have I lost?  A sister twenty-five years ago?  My father,
who by most accounts was corrupt and probably even deserved it?
I have stood by and let the bad guys take you again and again,
Scully.  I'm a fucked-up waste of a protector, let me tell you."
He stopped pacing abruptly and looked her in the eyes, as though
daring her to challenge him.

"You are not my goddamned protector!"

It was obviously not the answer he wanted to hear.  He began
pacing again, hands clasped behind his back.  "Maybe not in any
official capacity ... but we're partners, Scully.  We're supposed
to watch each other.  And you have done that job admirably.  You
have pulled my ass out of the fire over and over.  You've covered
for me, saved me, even shot me when I might have made a huge
mistake.  You've saved my career more times than I can count.
How do I repay that?  I take your life away.  I try and
assimilate you into Mulder's world.  I give you succinct titles:
Friend, Partner, Agent, Doctor.  You are allowed to exist only in
those capacities.  Anything else is shut out.

"I'm a jealous man, Scully.  Ever since the moment you shook my
hand and said you were looking forward to working with me, I've
wanted you all for myself.  I have resented everyone in your life
who had something of you I did not.  Even your family.  Even men
like Jack Willis and Ed Jerse."

He stopped in front of her.  "I wanted to possess you utterly."

Scully looked up at her partner and was surprised to see tears
rolling down his face.  "And now?"

He sank to his knees beside her and gripped her hands in his.
"Now I just want you to be at peace.  I don't want you to hurt
anymore.  I don't want you to worry about me.  I just want to say
I -- I'm sorry."

"There's nothing to be sorry for, Mulder.  Why don't you unlock
these cuffs, and then we can get out of here.  There should be a
campus hospital with an emergency room.  Let's go."  She wiggled
around until she was facing him.

Mulder didn't look at her.  He closed his eyes slowly and let out
a hitched sigh.  "No, Scully," he whispered.  "You've got it all
wrong."  His hand was shaking as he reached over and gently
touched the side of her face.  Tears still fell silently from his
eyes.  "You're hurting, Scully."

"I need to go to a hospital," she repeated.  Her skin burned
where his fingers touched her.

"Do you remember when you kissed my forehead in the hallway
outside my apartment after ... the brain surgery?" he asked.
When she nodded he continued, "That felt too right.  That felt
like a promise.  Scully -- if I tell you something in all
seriousness, will you promise not to say anything about it?"

She nodded again, eyes wide.

"I never wanted you to love me.  Loving me is a death sentence.
I wanted you to trust me, to care about me even, but I never
wanted you to love me.  When you kissed my forehead that day, I
knew something irreversible had begun.  When I--" He shook his
head, squeezing his eyes shut.  When he spoke again, the
self-hatred in his voice was smothering.

"When I kissed you on New Year's Eve, that was my promise to you.
As soon as I made that promise, I knew, I knew ... I knew it was
only a matter of time until they found you and they killed you --
to hurt me.  To shatter me into pieces that could never be fit
together again.  I thought, at first, I could defy them.  I was
selfish.  I was risking your life, Scully."

She parted her lips and took a deep breath.  "Mulder," she said,
echoing words that had been spoken long ago, "not everything is
about you."

He nodded, a half-smile on his lips.  "I know.  But this is."

She bowed her head.  "Why are we here, Mulder?"

He dropped her hands abruptly, clamping one hand over her mouth
and the other around her upper body, jerking her to her feet.
Her startled cry was muffled, and she breathed in through her
nose as the fingers beneath her nose pressed harder.

"We're here so you can finally be at peace."

Frantic thoughts ran through her head.  She fought to move her
arms, but he held her too tightly.  Her legs were bound and
useless.  Terrified tears sprang to her eyes.  He half-dragged,
half-carried her to the water's edge.  He paused at the shore
before wading in up to his thighs, pulling her along with him.

"What are you *doing*?" she shouted the moment he uncovered her
mouth.  He shook his head and circled her upper arms with his
grip.  She tried to struggle, but the cuffs were tight and her
body sore.  She could feel unconsciousness and pain building in
the back of her skull.

She screamed and he pushed her head under the water.  He brought
her up a moment later, sputtering.

"I know you love water, Scully.  Just -- just let it carry you.
It's better this way.  You'll never have to be in pain again.
You'll never have to struggle or fight or cry.  You'll be at
peace."  His voice was flat, emotionless.  She took a gasping
breath and screamed.

"No!"  She twisted her head violently as he pushed her under the
water once again.  Scully held her breath, trying to rip herself
away.  She could see the outline of Mulder's head, black against
the lighter sky.

She gulped in huge breaths of air when he pulled her out of the
water once again.  "This is not you, Mulder.  Think about this!
Think about what you're doing!  You're going to kill me!"

"It's better that I do it now.  Do you really want to end up on
the other side of Krycek's gun?  Do you want to live in fear,
wondering when they might come for you?  I'm doing this for you,
Scully."

"You're a fucking liar, Mulder!  You're doing this for yourself!"
She shuddered in the cold night air -- had it really seemed warm
a few minutes ago?

He dragged her in deeper, until the water was up to his chest.
She had to fight to stay afloat, even with his arms holding her
up.  "Are you going to leave me out here to drown, Mulder?  Is
that your plan?  You're a fucking coward, Fox Mulder."

He nodded, and a sob was torn from his throat.

"This isn't you," she repeated.  "You are trapped inside the head
of that stupid fucker who killed his own sister!  You're not him!
You didn't kill your sister, Mulder, and you're not going to make
things better by killing me.  You're not saving me.  You're
killing me!"

"No!"  He twisted his head away as though attempting to avoid her
words.  "Shut up.  Shut up, shut up!  Shut up, Rebecca!"

"I'm not Rebecca!  I'm Scully!  I'm Dana Scully, Mulder!"  Scully
backtracked rapidly, trying to put pieces together.  "Is Rebecca
Patrick's sister?  Mulder?  Mulder!"

He plunged her under the water again, but she held her breath.
Just as she was starting to see black starbursts against her
eyelids, Mulder pulled her up again.  "Shut the fuck up," he
hissed.

"This isn't what I want," she whispered.  "This isn't going to
help save me.  Fight it, Mulder.  His darkness is not yours."

"No, Scully," Mulder said in an equally quiet voice.  "You're
wrong.  It is."

He dropped her.

She sank immediately, even as she tried to move her bound arms
and legs, trying desperately to break the surface of the water.
She squeezed her eyes shut as the cold water assaulted her.  She
couldn't remember which way was up.  Everything was dark.

She remembered hearing that it was natural for one's life to
flash before one's eyes right before death, but all her mind
played for her was one memory.

It was last summer.  Mulder had dragged her on a
Sasquatch-hunting vacation, out in the middle of nowhere.  The
only lodging had been little cabins on the lake.  She remembered
waking very early the second morning they were there, leaving her
bedroom, and walking outside.  She had walked down to the lake,
to watch the sun rise.  Mulder was already there.

He was lying on the dock in only his pajama bottoms, staring at
the sky with a silly grin on his face.  The grin had widened when
he saw her there.  She remembered thinking how beautiful he
looked in the new sunshine -- so alive, so at rest and happy.
She remembered the gentleness in his smile.  There had been no
tension between them, nothing except a calm joy.

They sat very close to each other -- close but not touching.
Touching would have been too much.  She remembered looking over
as he gazed upward -- she had counted his eyelashes and loved
every one of them.

They had been content.

As the memory faded, the darkness closed in on her, but she
hardly noticed it.  Instead, she felt the kiss of a sunrise on
her face, promising to make all her worries fade, and she
surrendered.

~*~*~*~*~
 

Chapter Seventeen
Euphemism

I wasn't ready.  The white clouds rearing
Aside were dragging me in four directions.
I wasn't ready.
I had no reverence.
I thought I could deny the consequence--
But it was too late for that.
-- Sylvia Plath, "Three Women"

~*~*~*~*~
Nitobe Memorial Gardens, UBC
Vancouver, British Columbia
February 10, 2000
10:57 PM
~*~*~*~*~

Mulder waded back out of the pool, tripping on the stony bottom
and sobbing.  He looked behind him once, saw bubbles and
movement, and covered his face with his hands.

He crawled onto the grassy hill and turned himself so that he was
facing the pool again, laying on his stomach.  The bubbles were
less visible, less frequent.  She was dying under there.  She was
dying under there, and he had left her to it.  He had --

He shook his head, ridding himself of the doubts.  It was better
this way.  It was safer.  No one would hurt her anymore.  No one
could ever hurt her again.  He'd seen to that.

There were no more bubbles.

The realization of it hit him full force, like a punch in the
gut.  His partner, his friend -- his Scully -- was dead under
there.  Her body would float up, bluish and pale.  He wondered if
the big fat goldfish who lived in the pool would find her before
someone else did.  No -- no -- he chased the thought away.  The
groundskeeper would find her in the morning.  She would be
bloated then already, he thought, hardly his Scully at all.  Her
cells would all be crowded with water, saturated.  They would
pull her out of the water and it would barely seem real at all.

He would go back to work, no Scully there to keep him whole.
'You can't do it without her,' his mind told him.  'Go get her
back.'

'It's selfish to want her back,' the little voice in the back of
his head nagged.  'Just let her go, Fox.  Let her rest.'

'But she's cold under there, he retorted.'  She's so cold.  'She
can't breathe.'

'She's already dead.  Let her go.  Get in the car and drive
away.'

'I want to go with her.'

'Don't I?'

His eyes snapped open and he stared stupidly at the pond's
surface. "What the hell am I doing?  What -- Oh God, Scully.
What have I done?"  He rose, ignoring the insidious voice in the
back of his skull.  He hurled himself back into the water and
half-waded, half-swam to the spot where he last remembered seeing
the bubbles.  It wasn't too late -- it couldn't be too late.
People could survive being in water for a long time.  Half an
hour, in some cases..  Certainly longer than a couple of minutes.
The water was cold.  It was cold.

He peered into the water but saw only darkness.  Tears ran down
his face, burning.  'What have I done?' became a mantra chanted
over and over in his head.  He reached out blindly, stretching in
all directions, feeling with his hands.  Finally, he ducked under
himself, peering through the cold water, seeing only the
murkiness his passage had wrought.  He reached out -- reached
out -- and touched something soft.  Hair.  He grabbed a hold of
it and pulled gently.  There was little resistance as he pulled
Scully into his arms and out of the water.

He dragged her back to the shore, her body heavy and lifeless.
He laid her on the grass and looked into her face.  Nothing.  Her
lips were blue, parted slightly.  Her skin was cold, but she
didn't shiver.

"Scully," he whispered.  "Scully ... Scully."

He ran back to the car to get his cell phone.  He dialed 911 and
waited impatiently for the operator.

"This is Special Agent Fox Mulder, with the Federal Bureau of
Investigation.  My partner -- I need an ambulance.  Send an
ambulance to the Japanese gardens at UBC."

"The ambulance is on its way, Mr. Mulder.  Could you please stay
on the line--"

"I have to go.  She's not breathing."

He clicked the phone shut and ran back to his partner.  Her hair
was stringy and her face even bluer than it had seemed before.
He struggled to unlock the cuffs binding her hands and her feet,
trying to rub life back into her limbs.  Finally, he began
frantic CPR, his sobs making it hard to breathe.  'You have to
stay calm for her,' he told himself.  'You're not doing her any
good.  You're doing everything wrong.  You should have started
breathing for her the moment you pulled her head out of the
water.'

He continued the CPR, but Scully remained unresponsive.

He heard the wail of sirens in the distance.

'You sorry son of a bitch,' the voice sneered.  'Now look what
you've done.'

~*~*~*~*~
11:09 PM
~*~*~*~*~

Time slowed to a crawl.  Red and blue shadows spun through the
air.  When the paramedics pulled Mulder away from his partner, he
lashed out, screaming without words.  One of the men patted him
on that back, told him everything was going to be okay.

Mulder heard the words as though they were filtered through
water.  He didn't understand what the man was trying to say.
Couldn't they see that Scully was dying, was dead?

Someone draped a warm blanket over his shoulders.  He'd forgotten
he was wet.  He shivered, suddenly cold.