Title - Theory and PracticeTitle - Theory and Practice
Author - Nascent
E-Mail address - nascent70@flashmail.com
Category - XA
Spoilers - Demons
Summary - Scully and Mulder investigate mysterious deaths at a biotechnology 
company and quickly find themselves at odds over a working hypothesis. Oh yeah, 
and Scully has cancer. 
Please do not archive.

Timeline - set between Demons and Gethsemane
---------------------------------------------------
"Theory and Practice" 
by Nascent 
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: 
They started as beta readers, but they quickly became editors. This story would 
not be what you're reading if it were not for the wonderful, herculean (xenan? 
<g>) efforts of Flywoman, Dahlak, and Maya, whose comments, criticism and 
encouragement made this piece possible. If you like something, thank them for 
encouraging the shaping of it. If you don't like something, it's probably my 
fault for not listening to one of them on some count. But mostly, I listened. 
Flywoman was one of my earliest friends in this cyber-community, and we found 
each other through our common interests in biology and Scully. Since both play a 
big role in this piece, her help was invaluable. She was not afraid to tell me 
where I'm going wrong, and let me know what worked as well. She has a great 
instinct for this stuff--I highly recommend checking out her fiction, 
particularly "Cold Comfort" and "A Murder of One" at Gossamer. She also writes 
beautiful poetry, and although the word "poetry" in fanfic really makes me 
nervous, this is EXCELLENT stuff that I wish I could write, but will never be 
able to. Check out "Tumour" and "Mything" at the Gossamer specialty archive 
(http://www.busprod.com/aclaybor/gossamer/poems.htm).
Dahlak was one of the very few people who actually sent me significant critical 
feedback on my earlier stories, and from the start I loved her for it. Everyone 
(myself included) is always afraid to say bad things, but not so Dahlak, and she 
does it in a way that neither coddles nor offends. We corresponded quite a bit 
about those earlier works, about our views on the M/S relationship, etc., and 
suddenly she offered to beta-read for me! She probably regrets that now, but 
she's too nice to tell me. =) Also a devout Scullyist, Dahlak has published some 
excellent pieces which get deeply inside the characters' heads and showcase her 
understanding for both Scully and Mulder: the short vignette "At the Crossroads" 
and an insightful investigation into Scully's position on the Holy Remission 
Chip, to which there really must be a sequel (write her and tell her to hurry 
that along!). The latter is "Circumscribed Path," and both can be found at 
Gossamer.
I asked Maya (woman of the infinitely many clever sigs) to beta-read for me 
after she'd written me wonderfully detailed and critical feedback letters on my 
earlier stories, and she took to the task with more dedication and helpfulness 
than I ever could have expected. Unafraid to tell me what didn't feel right or 
what parts of the plot didn't make much sense, she was also a great source of 
encouragement. One of the best things about beta-readers is you get feedback 
throughout the writing process, so you don't feel like you have to publish fast 
to get that "fix." Maybe Maya realized that, because she kept me patient. =)
I cannot express my gratitude to these folks deeply enough; for once I actually 
_revised_ and thought and I think both I and my work are the better for it. 
Consequently, this story is for these most excellent individuals, and they'll be 
getting a percentage of my profits.
Of course, as a very wise archivist once told me, "Ten percent of zilch is 
zero." Sorry, my friends, my undying gratitude and a dedication will have to do. 
=)
Thanks also to everyone who ever invented anything on the internet. See why in 
my references section at the end.


NOTES: 
I'm trying something a little different here.
First, I wanted to write an X-File where something rare and wonderful happens, 
but I can't tell you right now what that is without giving away a crucial part 
of the plot. 
Second, this is set after Demons, near the peak of the cancer arc. There's been 
a lot of fanfic about this period asserting that Mulder is trying to get Scully 
to talk about the disease because it'll be good for them both. I don't exactly 
see that in the show, though--Elegy would seem to indicate that they don't talk 
about it but that he understands she prefers it that way and respects that. I 
think the disease _does_ cause problems for their relationship, but it's 
something more complex than that, which is what I've tried to present here.


DISCLAIMER: 
Mulder and Scully and the X-Files are mere pawns whose lives take on a warped 
significance to fit Chris Carter's megalomaniacal cosmology. I'm just borrowing 
them for my own less-than-megalomaniacal cosmology, and I promise to return them 
in the same condition I found them: depressed, neurotic and endlessly endearing.







PRELUDE
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April 19, 1997
Anticorps, Inc.
South San Francisco
12:33 a.m.
"...Baby go and you push me down
I know you like to watch me crawl..."
Dr. Charlie Jorgensen bounced in cadence with the song, carrying two plastic 
bottles filled with yellow broth from the centrifuge to the counter. He decanted 
the broth into the metal sink, revealing the mushy white mass of bacteria at the 
bottom, packed together against the plastic by the super-gravitational force of 
the centrifuge's powerful rotor.
He was the only one in the lab at that hour, so his loud music blared from the 
CD player, and he sang the words under his breath:
"...No air, headed my direction
I need help I need some protection
Can't seem to breathe without obstruction
I need air, I need to breathe.
"See me
Feel me
Watch me turn blue..."
Charlie had always been a night person. Not by any choice made by his body, but 
only so he could work alone, no fighting over equipment, no one to tell him to 
turn down his music.
"...Now I know I look good in blue
It's no excuse for what you do
So you come and suck my hair
You suffocate me and call it care..."
He added a measured amount of a clear detergent to the bacterial pellet and 
closed the bottles, shook them violently. 
"...Wish me passion, I might feel,
Wish me dead, I'll be healed..."
But Charlie Jorgensen was not alone in the lab that night. Through the 
glass-paneled door, a man was watching. Waiting.
Oblivious, Charlie added another solution to the bottles and mixed them again.
"...No fair, can't resist seduction
No man, you follow this destruction
My air, feed it to you suction
I need air, I need air..."
The face in the doorway disappeared. A minute passed. 
Suddenly, a high-pitched keening noise pierced through the music. The bottles 
forgotten, Charlie started to raise his hands to his ears, an expression of 
agony on his face. 
His hands didn't make it.
Charlie's flesh began to boil obscenely. It was too late to scream--his vocal 
cords were likewise bubbling, as was every organ in his body. Mercifully, his 
nerves severed a moment later, and within a few seconds, all that was left of 
Charlie Jorgensen was a pinkish puddle on the ground, surrounding crumpled, 
sticky clothing.
The noise stopped; the music played on unaccompanied.
"...See me
Feel me
Watch me turn blue..."
---------------------------------------------------
Georgetown Hospital
Washington, D.C.
Dana Scully tried to find a more comfortable position--she hated sleeping on her 
back but the discomfort of the bandages at her armpit and groin made any other 
pose untenable. She couldn't sleep.
She had joined the FBI so she wouldn't have to spend so much time in hospitals. 
Obviously she'd made a career mistake somewhere along the way. 
It didn't help that she was far too used to sleeping in a double bed. Maybe 
that's why you've stayed single all these years, Dana. No, that's not why. 
Besides, a single bed was better than the chair she'd slept in for two nights at 
the last hospital, just last week.
That time, Mulder'd gotten the bed.
He'd left her scant hours before; if she closed her eyes she could still feel 
his cool lips against her cheek. She was as resentful of that touch as she was 
thankful for it. He had never kissed her before all of...this...and though the 
affection was touching, it was also unnerving. She counted on Mulder where her 
family failed: to have faith in her to fight past this disease. True, he never 
spoke of it in any terms except those of possible treatments and cures. He never 
treated her like an invalid. But the kisses, combined with the increased 
frequency of light touches: his arm against hers, his hand on her shoulder or 
waist--they all outlined to her a crack in his faith. He was hedging his bets, 
and she resented it. It was her job to doubt, his to believe.
She was terrified he'd one day soon tell her he loved her.
Not that she didn't know it, but that wasn't the point. Saying it, thus 
ameliorating regret, would be the ultimate acknowledgement of her mortality. Her 
mother asked her at least twice a week when she would stop working; Scully had a 
feeling that would be the day.
But even with Mulder's faith and support, she had to admit to herself the day 
was coming soon. The cells they had withdrawn from her lymphatic system might 
this time reveal the invaders she dreaded daily. 
And that was an invasion no faith could repel.
The light from the full moon outside caught the edge of her necklace, lying on 
the bedstand table beside her, and it glittered in her peripheral vision, 
distracting her. She frowned and stretched out a hand to move it out of the 
light, wishing hospitals provided more substantial curtains.



CHAPTER ONE
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Anticorps, Inc.
South San Francisco
8:16 p.m.
Mulder stooped over the sticky puddle, holding a handkerchief over his nose to 
mask the thick, unpleasant smell. It reminded him of the one time he'd tried a 
diet shake, multiplied a hundred-fold. The photographers had finished their job 
almost twelve hours ago, and Mulder was regretting his insistence that the crime 
scene--if that's what it was--remain untouched until he'd had a chance to survey 
it. He'd been scouring the room for clues for almost two hours, and this after 
three hours of belligerent argument with the local police.
He grimaced at the memory. Cases were always much more difficult when the locals 
felt their territory was being invaded. And the detective who'd called him in 
obviously hadn't had the wholehearted approval of the police chief.
The chief had railed alternately at Mulder and the woman--Detective Vasquez--for 
hours, insisting that this was a waste of funds and manpower, that it was a job 
for a haz mat team, not the police. Vasquez, whose cool responses had quickly 
earned Mulder's respect, had answered that with the FBI around, South San 
Francisco's limited police funds could be reserved for the chief's more pressing 
concerns. The kind of crime lab analysis needed for this case, to which the PD 
had limited access, would cost the FBI pocket change. And, she'd insisted, she 
wouldn't need any other manpower with two FBI agents on the case.
"Where the hell's the other one?" the chief had exclaimed. "I only see one, and 
I may not have some fancy-ass Berkeley degree but I'm pretty sure I can count."
Vasquez, who, Mulder assumed, held the fancy-ass Berkeley degree, had answered 
smoothly before Mulder could. "Agent Mulder's partner had an appointment this 
morning. She's scheduled to arrive tonight. She's a pathologist with a 
background in hard sciences--I think her knowledge might be especially useful on 
this case."
Mulder shot Vasquez a grateful look. He had euphemistically spoken of Scully's 
"appointment," and was relieved when she didn't inquire further. In actuality, 
Scully was being released that morning after another hospital stay, another 
biopsy to check for metastasis.
With much grumbling and several half-veiled threats, the chief had finally given 
in. "All right," he'd cautioned Mulder. "It's your case. But I've done my 
background reading on you, sir, and as God is my witness, if you go telling my 
city that we're investigating a murderer who turns his victims into puddles of 
pinkish putty with an alien ray gun, I swear I'll have your superiors up your 
ass faster than you can say 'flying saucer.'"
Mulder's only answer was a short, smirking, 'very funny' laugh.
"X-Files," the chief muttered disdainfully. "If the public had any idea what you 
feds waste their money on...."
This seemed to be a dismissal, or at least, Mulder had taken it as such. Never 
mind. He had the case.
And a fascinating case it was. He wrinkled his nose at the gooey puddle on the 
floor of the laboratory. This puddle had once been a person, or so the clothes 
resting within it suggested. It was the third such puddle discovered in a month. 
Vasquez had contacted him that morning, having read about his work a week 
earlier while searching the NCIC database.
Could this be the work of a second Virgil Incanto, the fat-sucking mutant-man? 
He was pleased to discover Vasquez hoped so. If it were, if such an experiment 
had been repeated (by nature or something with a more sinister agenda), it could 
lend validity to the claims so casually dismissed two and a half years ago, when 
he and Scully had tracked that internet-trolling killer. He had learned many 
things from Scully, and one thing was that evidence had to be reproducible.
He heard the click of heels approaching down the hallway from outside and 
glanced at his watch. He closed his eyes for a moment, measuring the gait 
against his memory of his partner's familiar rhythms, concluded before the door 
opened that it wasn't her. When the footsteps stopped at the door, he 
straightened. 
"Detective Vasquez," he said, without turning. "Are they pressuring us to get 
this mess cleaned up?"
"How'd you know?" she asked, and now he turned to face her.
She was a tall woman, whose waves of short dark hair framed her rosy-tanned 
cheeks with carefully-modelled precision. Her shoulders were strong and square, 
and her grey skirt flared slightly over her hips. Although she was near his age, 
she'd confessed to him on the way here that she was relatively new to the force, 
having abandoned a career as a lobbyist for an environmental group. When he'd 
asked her why, her answer had been simple: "I was tired of talking. I wanted to 
make something happen. And I like the idea of having a new problem to solve all 
the time, instead of rehashing the same issues again and again."
He'd wondered whether the police force was satisfying her wish. Doubtful.
"How'd you know?" she repeated, and he chided himself for his momentary 
distraction, then pretended she'd been asking about the clean-up, instead of his 
"spooky" display. "I've been through this many times," he told her.
She tilted her head and her mouth twisted in a smile. "I can see that," she 
answered. "I think you're the first guy who's seen this mess and not thrown up." 

Mulder grimaced, deciding not to confess how, a few years ago, he would've been 
running to make an offering to the porcelain god. "So, they want us out of 
here," he restated.
"Yeah," answered Vasquez. "They say you should've had long enough. It's late, 
the clean-up people want to get home."
"My partner hasn't seen it yet. She really should be here any minute. She called 
me from the airport forty-five minutes ago."
"Well, I'll try to hold them off a little bit longer. I hope your partner's 
quicker at a crime scene than you are, Agent Mulder."
"Oh, she is," Mulder replied absently, looking back to the floor.
Anna Vasquez nodded shortly and stepped out the door again. She made her way 
down the long tiled hallway, past a handful of glass-mirrored doors. Despite the 
nearby crime scene, several scientists were scurrying about in these rooms, 
having begged to be allowed to stay due to the time-sensitive nature of their 
experiments. A small cluster of them at the end of the hall eyed her warily as 
she passed, their voices dropping in conspiratorial worry.
They didn't wear labcoats, as on TV. Like most denizens of Silicon Valley and 
Biotech Bay, T-shirts and jeans were the norm. Anna felt oddly out-of-place 
here, in her trim, efficient suit and heels, while everyone around her subtly 
boasted their Ph.D.'s and incredibly inflated salaries by their lack of 
power-dress. But they were scared. Anybody could see that. Scientists or no, 
they were hoping she could give them some answers, even if they didn't believe 
them.
After the first death, Anna had spoken with every member of the small research 
company. A Haz Mat team had been through, and a Public Health Officer had 
carefully inspected the grounds, but found nothing. The death had been ruled a 
lab accident. But when a death with an identical MO was uncovered at Alameda, 
far from any high-tech biology lab, Anna had opened a case. And now, horrified 
though she was by the this third apparent murder, a small part of her couldn't 
help but whisper 'I told you so.' In the somewhat erratic path of her career, 
Anna had already collided once or twice with the glass ceiling, and had the 
bruises to prove it. She had been fully aware that the chief's reaction to her 
pursuit of the case had nothing to do with its validity and everything to do 
with the boys' club, of which the man was a card-carrying member.
She was actually relieved that the FBI had come onto the case. She'd read up on 
the X-Files a few days ago after discovering the Incanto case in the NCIC 
database, and this new murder had prompted her to seek out the division, of 
which she had never before heard. Their work sounded crazy, but then, so did 
this case. Agents Mulder and Scully seemed to specialize in puddles of goo.
And anyway, in the few hours she'd known him, Agent Mulder had proved easier to 
work with than any man on her squad, despite the transparently intentional 
attempts to set people off guard. She knew that trick--take control of a 
situation by unbalancing the others from the beginning. Especially effective for 
an attractive, confident man like him. It was a strategy that no doubt served 
Mulder well, but she wasn't going to fall for it.
Still, it was easy to ignore without treading on his ego. She'd had plenty of 
time to practice that art while working the legislature in Sacramento.
When she reached the break room, where the clean-up team had been waiting for 
Mulder to finish, she knew she'd met the partner.
A red-haired, trenchcoat-clad woman, badge in hand, was listening steely-eyed to 
Officer Murdoch, who was in the middle of explaining why she couldn't see the 
crime scene.
"...understand that, ma'am, but we were supposed to have this cleaned up hours 
ago. We can't wait around for someone else to go through it. We've taken 
pictures and samples and dusted for prints--everything we're supposed to do. But 
we're on overtime here."
Agent Scully tucked her badge into her coat. "I understand your frustration. I'm 
sorry I couldn't be here earlier. Now where is the room?"
"Ma'am--"
Anna stepped in. "Agent Scully?"
The woman turned, looked Anna up and down. "Yes?" she asked.
"I'm Detective Vasquez," Anna informed her. "The one who contacted the Bureau. 
Your partner's down here. Come with me."
Murdoch opened his mouth to protest, but Anna silenced him with a glare. "We'll 
get you home as soon as possible," she assured him curtly.
She walked away, aware that Scully was following her in step. The woman was a 
full head shorter than she, not at all what Vasquez had expected for an FBI 
agent. Short, young and a woman. The only thing she had going for her was being 
Caucasian. Anna wondered fleetingly if the agent had done any bedroom-hopping to 
get where she was, but something about the woman's steady stride and perfectly 
professional mask made her think not.
"I appreciate your coming," Anna said as they walked. "Did you have a chance to 
review the files on the way out here?"
"Not in their entirety," Scully replied. "In fact, I only received the lab 
results and the overview by fax--none of the interviews or photos."
Anna frowned. "I'm sorry about that. Our secretary must have made a mistake." 
Silently, she added, Or the chief made a stupid decision.
"Well, it kept me busy," Scully said as Anna pushed open the door to the crime 
scene.
Mulder had been staring out the window, but turned at their entry. The room was 
divided into long bays by waist-high lab benches; the puddle was out of sight 
between them.
His only acknowledgement of his partner's arrival was a brief onceover, looking 
her up and down as if appraising her. Anna might have been offended, but there 
was no trace of a leer in his glance.
"So what do you think, Scully?" he asked her, by way of greeting.
Scully crossed the room to meet him, but included Vasquez in her answer. "Well, 
it's not another Virgil Incanto," she said immediately. "On the surface, the MO 
is similar, but no biochemical components were detected missing in the lab 
analysis, whereas, I'm sure you remember, Incanto's victims were depleted of 
adipose tissue. Everything is there in its correct proportion: lipids, protein, 
nucleic acids and small molecules. It's as if they just melted. But not from 
heat."
"Why not from heat?" Mulder asked.
Even Anna knew the answer to that.
"Heat oxidizes, Mulder. You get carbon." Scully said, and he began nodding as if 
he had just realized it. 
"Here," she continued, "your molecules are mostly intact. It's more likely some 
kind of...chemical meltdown, though neither I nor anyone at the Bureau labs have 
any idea what kind of chemical would leave so little damage to individual 
molecules yet disintegrate the person."
Mulder turned to Vasquez. "So put out an APB on a young girl with pigtails and 
red-sequined shoes traveling with three oddly-dressed men," he deadpanned.
Anna didn't miss a beat. "From what I could tell, Agent Mulder, none of the 
victims wore black hats. I think your theory needs a little refinement."
He rewarded her with a pleased half-smile, and she thought, See? I can play too.
"Where is the bo--er--remains?" Scully asked, looking around.
"You can't smell it?" Anna asked, her eyebrows raised. 
Scully blinked at her. "I have a poor sense of smell," she answered.
"Guess that's a good thing, for a pathologist," Anna said lightly. She walked 
around the two lab benches and Scully followed, not acknowledging Mulder's 
significant gaze.
She saw the puddle and squatted in front of it, regarding it dispassionately. It 
was roughly three-feet in diameter, touching the base of one of the benches on 
one side. A pair of jeans, shoes and a T-shirt were all evident in the mess; 
they appeared unscathed. Scully knew from reading the reports that the clothing 
from the previous incidents had yielded no trace evidence.
The puddle was a thick, pinkish-white, shapeless paste--even the bones were 
gone. Scully's first inclination was to believe this wasn't a person at all, and 
if it hadn't been for the previous two deaths she might have said as much. But 
those two men hadn't returned and she suspected this one wouldn't either. There 
was a definite mystery here.
Mulder's voice startled her out of her study. "Was there any evidence of 
peptidases in the samples?"
"No," Scully replied, following his train of thought. "No digestive enzymes of 
any kind. All the proteins were completely broken down."
She turned to look past Vasquez at her partner. "Sorry to disappoint you, 
Mulder, but I see no evidence of any regurgatory quasi-human monster here."
"Then where's the fun?" Mulder teased.
Neither woman laughed.
---------------------------------------------------
Peking Duck Restaurant
9:48 p.m.
Scully barely picked at her pork, feeling like she had to enjoy it after 
Vasquez' enthusiastic endorsement of this place for a late dinner. Scully had 
always been a decent eater, never one of those women who ordered salads out of 
self-consciousness. But when your taste buds betrayed you, the fun was gone. 
Eating good food was a stinging reminder of what she'd lost. Was losing.
She knew that Mulder had been trying unobtrusively to get her alone all evening, 
and she'd been thwarting him at every opportunity--walking faster when he fell 
back, even announcing she'd also visit the ladies' room when Anna did. She knew 
he'd ask about the hospital, how she was, when she'd get the biopsy results 
back. And she didn't want to discuss it.
There was nothing to discuss anyway. They wouldn't have the results for another 
week or so. Worrying about it wouldn't do either of them any good.
She'd gratefully endorsed Vasquez' suggestion that they discuss the case over 
dinner. Not only did it delay Mulder's inevitable questions and potential 
attempts to comfort, but she wanted to be filled in on the case anyway. So here 
she sat, beside her partner as usual, facing the young detective.
"Two biologists and an army officer," Scully was saying. "What's the 
connection?"
"Well, Anticorps does have some military contracts," Vasquez supplied. "They're 
working on new ways to kill microorganisms, a popular field now with all this 
antibiotic resistance going around."
Scully nodded. She appreciated this woman--helpful and intelligent. Not to 
mention a convenient barrier for the moment. "Did the two dead scientists work 
on antibiotic resistance?"
"Well," Vasquez answered, "the first wasn't actually working for Anticorps. He 
_had_ worked for them, but quit last year and went to another company. He was 
what's called a bioinformaticist, in very high demand in this area. But everyone 
at Anticorps works on antibiotics of one form or another."
"What exactly is a bioinformaticist, anyway?" Mulder asked. 
"A programmer-slash-biologist," Scully answered quickly. "Someone who is trying 
to figure out how to give meaning to enormous volumes of biological data, like 
the human genome project."
"Or in this case," Vasquez added, "bacterial metabolism. Bioinformatics is very 
big in industry right now because there's a new field for drug design using 
computers. I've learned a lot about this in the past few weeks. Biologists have 
traditionally experimented in vitro--that is, in a test tube--or in vivo--in an 
organism. Now, they're experimenting in silico--on a computer chip."
"I've read about this," Scully supplied, nodding enthusiastically. "You write a 
program that simulates metabolism for a particular microbe, then have the 
computer simulate what would happen to the organism's growth rate if you blocked 
a particular metabolic pathway. Then you can use a computer to predict what kind 
of small molecule would best inhibit the key enzyme in that pathway, then turn 
it over to the organic chemists for synthesis."
"Right," said Vasquez. "I'm no expert on the science, but that's more or less 
what the first victim had been doing for Anticorps. His new job was at 
Genentech, though, and there he was working on genome analysis. But he died 
while visiting some old friends at Anticorps one night."
"And no one saw anything," Scully said. It was not a question.
"Right," confirmed Vasquez. "It happened in an elevator."
Mulder frowned. "You say he was working on microbial metabolism? Could this 
company have developed some kind of engineered bacterial strain that--"
"--devours human flesh in under an hour, having meanwhile rendered the victim 
motionless?" Scully finished sharply. "I don't think so, Mulder."
Anna blinked at the acerbic tone, uncertain whether Scully was joking. Although 
she wasn't smiling, Mulder didn't look angry either; he looked thoughtful. Anna 
decided to press on, deftly snagging a won-ton with her chopsticks.
"Okay," she continued. "So. Department dismisses it as a lab accident, even 
though there's no evidence of that and the guy didn't work with chemicals. Then 
Col. Packard of Alameda turns up dead, so we know we're not dealing with a 
hazard isolated to a South City lab."
"South City?" Mulder asked.
"Sorry, South San Francisco," Anna corrected herself. "A separate city from the 
real San Francisco, hence the moniker. Surely you saw the letters coming in from 
the airport."
"Ah yes, the big white letters on the hillside." Mulder nodded sagely. "'South 
San Francisco, The Industrial City.'"
"That was up there even before I lived here," Scully said, grinning. Then, to 
Mulder, "We've been through SFO airport twice on cases before Mulder, and I've 
pointed it out both times."
Anna raised her eyebrows at Scully. "You lived here before?"
"Yeah, at Alameda, actually. My dad was stationed there for awhile. I spent my 
freshman year at Berkeley, but then he was transferred and so I transferred 
too."
"Really? I'm a Cal grad myself," Anna answered. "What year were you there?"
"Eighty-two."
Anna smiled, pleased. "I was a sophomore that year. What department?"
"Physics."
"Oh," Anna replied, unfazed. "I was in poli sci. Still. We probably knew a lot 
of the same people. Strange coincidence. Why'd you transfer?"
Scully looked down. "My family moved. We moved a lot. Military. I ended up at 
UMD."
It seemed strange to Anna that a college-age woman would follow her family, and 
she was trying to think of a tactful way to ask about this when Mulder smoothly 
cut in. 
"So, Col. Packard died alone in his office at Alameda," he said. "Another 
puddle, this time on the chair. No signs of a struggle, no physical evidence 
except for the remains. No apparent connections to Anticorps or to any of the 
Anticorps scientists. And he had just moved to the area too, little time to make 
an enemy."
Anna sensed that she had just been diverted. She was uncertain what to make of 
these two: at first, their terse, factual manner with each other had made her 
assume they didn't like each other much. But after only an hour with them, she 
had begun to sense that the terseness was just a shorthand, a convenient economy 
of the familiar. She wondered how long they'd been working together, and exactly 
what the nature of their relationship was. Only a professional interest, she 
assured herself, glancing at Mulder's coolly polished features. Or perhaps she 
was cautioning herself....
Scully's voice snapped her back to attention. "Col. Packard died, and now, a 
week later, we have this Dr. Jorgensen dead this morning. What did Dr. Jorgensen 
research?"
"Jorgensen was an MIT-educated biochemist," Anna supplied. "He's been with 
Anticorps since the company was founded three years ago. No one's been able to 
give me a straight answer about what he's doing yet--everyone's afraid of 
leaking as-yet unpatented information. I've arranged an appointment with the 
company president, herself a scientist, for nine tomorrow morning. I'd already 
told Agent Mulder, I hope that's all right with you."
"Yes, sure," Scully said, sipping her tea. "I'd like a chance to talk to as many 
of the scientists as possible."
Anna saw her eyes slide to Mulder, who had been mostly silent and thoughtful 
throughout the briefing. He gave an almost imperceptible nod. "I'll be reviewing 
the background checks on the Anticorps employees tonight," he said, and Anna 
detected a note of caution in his voice. "I'll know better tomorrow what path to 
pursue."
The business conducted insofar as it could be that night, Anna and Scully traded 
a few Berkeley stories and were soon laughing over shared acquaintances and 
events. Mulder jumped in with an occasional sarcastic comment but was mostly 
silent, sipping his tea reflectively.



INTERLUDE


*****************************************************************
THE HOSTAGE AT GUNPOINT

*
In its extensive dealings with terrorist situations, the FBI has adopted a 
four-point general strategy for managing the conflict safely. The goal is to 
obtain the terrorist's trust, keep him from lashing out in anger or fear by 
acknowledging his emotions. The steps are:
1) Honesty
2) Containment
3) Conciliation
4) Resolution
A good terrorist response team will avoid the execution of tactical movements at 
all cost, attempting to ensure the safety of the hostages through a peaceful 
resolution. 
However, it rarely happens that the trained negotiator is in fact the hostage. 
And no Quantico course teaches the Agent how to behave when the identities of 
the hostage and terrorist are inextricably tangled and confused.
*
Silence lay heavy in the car, not like a comfortable shared blanket, but like a 
thick, smothering cloak, unfamiliar to the two in weight and texture.
She had sensed his concern and he had sensed her evasions, and neither wished to 
acknowledge the existence of either. Sadly, the chaotically successful myth of 
communication can sometimes fail even the most lauded of linguists, and this is 
what happened that night to Mulder and Scully.
Autonomic nervous systems drove them through the mindlessly familiar hotel 
check-in procedures, and they took two rooms across from one another. Watching 
her key into her room with the thin plastic card, he fumbled frantically for 
words that might stop her, might make her hear him, but finding none he only 
mumbled an acknowledgement of her "Good night," and then she was gone.
He was acutely aware that something much more imposing than two cheaply paneled 
hotel room doors separated them. The awareness left him feeling oddly 
unconnected, as if his inner ear were mounted on a wobbly platform suspended 
from some unseen hook high above him. Perhaps perversely, he resented her for 
it.
He perused a few pages of background notes but the lines blurred before him, and 
after realizing he'd read the same paragraph four times and still could not 
understand it, he resolved to right this thing between them, right it now and 
ground himself again.
So he found himself at her door, expectant and disconcertingly nervous. Tapping 
softly.
Her shoes were off but she was still fully dressed. She did not invite him 
inside but he pushed past her, pretending not to notice. He took a seat on her 
bed; she leaned against the opposite wall, arms folded across her chest.
They appraised each other across an invisible but tangible line of challenge.
She crossed it first. "I was expecting you."
He thrust. "I wanted to know what the doctors said."
Parry. "I know." 
He waited, feigning injury. The bluff paid off; she continued at last. "The 
results won't be back for at least a week, probably more."
They regarded each other silently across the seemingly infinite gap, though the 
swords of their spirits were tangled in an-almost stalemate, each one pushing 
with every ounce of strength, willing the other to yield first. 
Finally, Mulder conceded, adopted a defensive pose. "I just want to know how 
you're doing."
Her answering blow struck him hard. "I'm fine, Mulder."
He acknowledged the strike with a lowering of his head. He hated when she lied 
to him.
Perhaps his next move was somewhat unfair, but the rules of this game are 
unclear and often broken. He attacked before she was ready. "Well, when you stop 
being 'fine,' Scully, I hope you'll admit it to yourself if not to me, rather 
than endangering us both by pretending everything's still normal. I don't 
appreciate games of 'let's pretend,' and you of all people should know that 
imagining something won't make it true."
Her response was quick and cold. "I don't think I'm the one with the poor sense 
of reality here. I'm dying, Mulder, and I do not deny it. Neither should you."
He gritted his teeth; she had cut deep with that blow.
"But 'endangering us both,' Mulder?" She crossed the room to tower over him, 
fierce and taut. "Do you not trust me to know my own limits? Do you not trust me 
to have our best interests in mind? Do you not trust me to watch your back?"
She had beaten him to the ground, and he couldn't meet her eyes. "No, Scully," 
he mumbled. "Of course I trust you. Of course I do. I'm just...I wish you could 
trust me with what's happening to you."
It was a feeble blow, and not quite a truthful one, yet it seemed to have struck 
a sensitive spot, for her face crinkled and her eyes softened.
But before Mulder could sigh with relief, her next move crippled him.
She sank onto the bed beside him and reached for his hand where it rested on his 
knee. Instead of clasping it, though, she patted it awkwardly, rubbed her thumb 
over his wrist, never meeting his eyes. "It's not that I don't trust you," she 
whispered--he could barely hear her. "It's that I don't trust myself. Not yet." 
It was the first honest thing she'd said to him that night.
He looked down at their hands helplessly, feeling his lip begin to tremble and 
halfheartedly hating her for it. He turned to search her eyes--which still would 
not meet his--for the malice or deception he suspected might be there. Though 
she didn't look at him, her blue gaze was more sad than malicious, more resigned 
than afraid. 
He squeezed her fingers roughly, conceding her victory. There was nothing else 
he could say, but the only other options were to leave or sit in silence, and 
both seemed equally unappealing.
So he compromised, raising her fingers briefly and somewhat helplessly to his 
lips, just for a second, then stood and began the journey to the door. He 
thought he might be limping--he certainly felt like he should be.
He had always been his own man, his emotions never subjugated to the whims of 
another, at least, not another who could be seen and heard and felt. He resented 
that Scully now wielded this power over him, and even as he granted her that 
power he begrudged her it.
Why couldn't she see that he needed to know the weight of her burden, support 
the half that was rightfully his?
Perhaps it is too bad he could not see the woman he'd just left on the other 
side of that cheaply paneled hotel door. She had fallen backwards onto the bed, 
forearm across her eyes, which were tightly closed and holding back tears. For 
she thought that he had won that battle, and in her grief and fear she resented 
him for holding that same power over her.
Why couldn't he see that she needed this facade--not to maintain an illusion but 
to maintain her own strength?
Mulder and Scully had discovered that it is a frightening and wonderful thing to 
be at the mercy of one whom you love. Even the purest and deepest of friendships 
can begin to make you feel like a hostage.
But perhaps this is all love is: mutual terrorism of the heart. 
*****************************************************************




CHAPTER TWO


---------------------------------------------------
April 20, 1997
Anticorps, Inc.
9:24 a.m.
"I assure you, we'll cooperate in every way we can," the dark, short--haired 
woman was telling them.
Mulder again glanced down at his notes. Reba Gregor had a Ph.D. in microbiology 
from Duke University and had been with Anticorps since its initiation in 1994. 
Under her direction, the company had blossomed and only recently gone public. Of 
course she'd cooperate, Mulder thought cynically. She had hundreds of 
stockholders breathing down her neck.
"After the last incident," Gregor continued, "we closed everything down, did 
everything in our power to investigate a possible on-site hazard, but 
Environmental Health and Safety, OSHA--they all came up with nothing. We thought 
it was a one-time thing."
"Yet your labs are open now," Scully said evenly. She was seated beside Mulder, 
tablet balanced on her knee. Vasquez stood beside Gregor's desk, listening 
silently. 
"Well, yes," Gregor admitted. "But not the one where Dr. Jorgensen died, of 
course. But really, we just can't afford to shut down now, and since there's no 
evidence of any known environmental hazard..."
"Do your laboratories do any genetic engineering of microorganisms?" Mulder 
asked. He felt Vasquez' slightly amused gaze on him. So she remembered Scully's 
dismissal the previous night.
"Agent Mulder, almost all biological research labs do genetic engineering of 
microorganisms. It's how we get the work done. The Human Genome Project relies 
on it. The insulin that diabetics take is produced by genetically engineered 
bacteria."
Mulder started to interrupt but Gregor held up her hand. "I'm not telling you 
this to be evasive, sir. I'm just giving you a preamble to explain that we 
understand such genetic manipulation very well, because I can see where you're 
going. So, yes, we do genetically engineer microorganisms, but only in very 
controlled ways. No bug could've been responsible for the deaths we've seen."
Scully leaned forward, changing the topic. "Exactly what kind of research did 
Dr. Jorgensen do, ma'am?" she asked.
"Well, I can't give you the specifics--patents, you know," Gregor smiled 
apologetically and Mulder frowned to himself. He didn't like this woman. "But," 
she continued, "I can tell you that he was looking for a way to block multi-drug 
resistance in bacteria."
"Was he having any success?" Scully asked.
"It was too early to tell," Gregor answered. Mulder saw her eyes drop, wondered 
what she was hiding. He slid his eyes sideways to Scully to see if she'd caught 
it.
She didn't meet his glance. "Can we have a list of anyone who has worked with 
Jorgensen in the last year?" she asked. "We'd like to talk to them."
"Certainly," Gregor replied. "But I should tell you, this is a very small 
company--less than forty employees. People have been deeply affected by this, 
and not just because they're afraid. Many might not be in today. I'd appreciate 
it if you treated them....respectfully."
Vasquez spoke smoothly before either of the agents could register their offense. 
"Of course, Dr. Gregor. I hope you don't mind that we'll need to be talking to 
people from time to time throughout the next few days, and will probably need to 
come back to you as well."
"As I said," Gregor answered with a polite smile which Mulder thought was 
strained, "I'll cooperate in any way I can. I'd like this closed up as quietly 
and efficiently as I'm sure you would."
"We appreciate that, ma'am," Vasquez answered. 
---------------------------------------------------
3:05 p.m.
"Do you think that any of Dr. Jorgensen's work could've made enemies?" Scully 
asked. Just as she had asked four other men and women today. 
Dr. Liu gave a by-now familiar answer. "I couldn't see how. I mean, there's a 
lot of competition in this field from the big drug companies, but we're the only 
place doing it exclusively. We have a couple of military contracts which other 
companies might envy us for, but nothing huge."
"Why is the military interested in your work, Dr. Liu?" Scully already knew the 
answer, having asked this question several times as well. 
"Well, the military is of course interested in antibiotic resistance. 
Antibiotics have done wonders for the practice of war, as I'm sure you're aware, 
being a doctor. If penicillin hadn't been discovered, millions more would've 
died in World War II than actually did. Back then, though, the whole world 
thought we'd found the end to disease; now, of course, penicillin is practically 
useless. You don't unnecessarily prescribe antibiotics, do you, Dr. Scully?"
"I'm a pathologist," she replied. "I don't prescribe much of anything."
"Oh. Sorry, I just can't pass up an opportunity to evangelize." The man leaned 
back in his chair, looked around the room at the three of them. Scully was 
seated across the table from him, having taken over the interrogations early on 
as the necessary questions were frequently technical. Mulder was seated in a 
chair a few feet behind her, browsing background files. Scully had long been 
aware that he was only half-listening, and she was increasingly irritated by his 
inattention. She was accustomed to taking the lead in an interrogation, to 
ferreting out the necessary facts, while Mulder's sixth sense honed in on the 
testimony, sniffing for lies and pouncing when he caught a whiff of something 
suspicious. Though he hadn't said a word, she could tell he'd already written 
off these interviews as a waste of time. She wasn't sure which she resented 
more: his inattention or his lack of attempts to cut this short, apparently 
"indulging" her. 
Anna Vasquez had already interviewed most of these people after the first death, 
and so she hovered in the background, occasionally prompting additional 
testimony with a short question. She had been scheduling the interviews and 
herding the scientists in and out of the impromptu interrogation room (formerly 
a coffee lounge), for which Scully was grateful.
"Dr. Jorgensen's work was not funded from a military contract, though," Scully 
continued. "In fact, he hadn't had any results as far as I've heard."
She waited for Liu to contradict her, but he didn't. "That's right. I wasn't 
working on his project, but I was in the same group. If he'd found anything, he 
hadn't told us yet. But I doubt he could have. I mean, he'd only been working on 
the project for about seven months."
"I see," Scully said. She'd known that too.
To her surprise, Mulder spoke up. "Sir, what had Dr. Jorgensen been working on 
before his most recent project?"
Scully glanced at him briefly, trying to grasp the significance of his question. 
They already knew the answer to this too. Or had he not been listening? When he 
didn't look back at her, she returned her gaze to Liu, awaiting his answer.
"He was in the biophysics group," Liu answered. "Probing the bacterial cell wall 
for reliable drug targets. Really, scientific competition can get ugly, but not 
this ugly. I really can't think of any reason why someone would 
do....this...kill him, I mean, for his research. To be perfectly honest, the guy 
was pretty fresh--not exactly a genius or anything. I think if you believe it's 
a murderer, you should be looking for personal enemies."
After pausing for a second in case Mulder wanted to follow up, Scully continued. 
"Did Dr. Jorgensen have any personal enemies that you were aware of?"
Liu shrugged and shook his head. "I didn't know the guy that well. I've only 
been with the company about six months myself. I've got a family, you know? I 
just get here and get the work done, I'm not one of those live-in-the-lab types 
who's got hours to kill socializing. But far as I could tell, he was just a 
normal guy."
"Is there anyone here who you believe might have had reason to dislike Dr. 
Jorgensen?" Scully asked, aware that Mulder had gone back to his reading.
Liu shrugged again. "Well, he had a reputation for having something of a temper. 
Yelled when things weren't going well, blamed mistakes on the technicians. I 
heard him yelling at one of the glassware people once. It was really uncalled 
for, and I stepped in and stopped him. But he'd just been upset over a gel that 
hadn't run right. He apologized. That kind of thing. But really, I don't mean to 
overstate that. No one here would have, could have, killed him for it."
Scully nodded. Another coworker had told a similar story, but it didn't sound 
like much to go on to her. "Okay, Dr. Liu, one more question." Here you go, 
Mulder, she thought. "What bacteria do you work on?"
Liu frowned, as if uncertain of the relevance of the question. "We're not 
equipped for BL3 organisms, only BL2. We have a lot of noscomials 
around--pseudomonas, strep, that kind of thing. Nothing that a person with an 
uncompromised immune system should even blink at."
"Are you aware of anyone doing cross-species engineering which might increase 
the toxicity of those bacteria?" Scully persisted.
Liu abruptly understood. "Oh! You think that the--that it was bacteria? That's 
crazy. Even if an organism capable of such destruction could be engineered, we 
certainly wouldn't do it. I'm not naive, don't worry, I'm sure the government is 
doing that kind of thing, treaties or no. But you'd know more about that than 
me, right?" He grinned, but when Scully only stared back at him, continued 
awkwardly. "Really, though. If something like that did exist, it could never act 
over such a short time period. Why wouldn't Jorgensen have called for help? And 
we would've seen the bacteria in the chemical analyses of the remains, wouldn't 
we?"
"Answer the question, please," Scully insisted, resisting the urge to glance at 
Mulder.
Liu blinked. "Oh. No, I'm not aware of anyone making a better bug. I mean, 
making more toxic bacteria."
Scully glanced back at Vasquez and Mulder, but seeing no questions in their 
eyes, turned back to Liu. "Thank you, Dr. Liu, I think that'll be all." 
As he left, Vasquez showed the next scientist, a young man, into the room. "Have 
a seat, Dr. Crothers," she said, gesturing at the chair Liu had just vacated. 
"We know you're probably upset over your colleague's death. We just need to ask 
you a few questions."
Crothers sat down, hands clasped nervously in front of him.
Scully finished adjusting the tape recorder and settled back in her own chair. 
"Dr. Crothers," she began, starting from the top. "In what capacity did you know 
Dr. Jorgensen?"
Mulder heard the next interview start and closed the folder he was reading, 
chewing on his lower lip. This was going nowhere. A dozen scientists had worked 
with Jorgensen, and they had already spoken with half of them, but all had 
seemed surprised and totally ignorant about his death. Mulder was fairly 
confident that they were dealing with something more complex than research envy 
or mad scientists. They were focusing too much on the man's history, and not 
enough on his connections to the other victims. The link between the 
biotechnologist and bioinformaticist--that was easy and obvious. But the link 
between those two men and an army colonel--Mulder was certain the key lay in 
that connection. But none of these scientists were going to be able to explain 
it.
"When did you last see Dr. Jorgensen?" He heard Scully's voice drone out the 
next question--he could tell she already knew them by heart. But that last one 
on Liu had been new. What was that about? Okay, Scully, I get it, no one thinks 
the bacteria idea is plausible. Fine. Guess we're back to the mutant murderer 
theory, huh? Because I've yet to hear your idea.
A flash of fabric caught Mulder's eye through the glass panel on the door. He 
turned, but it was already gone. Imprinted in his memory was the fleeting image 
of a face. That same guy, Mulder was sure of it. He must've passed the door a 
dozen times in the last few hours. What was he doing?
Mulder rose, put the files on his chair. Scully turned to look at him, raising 
her eyebrows questioningly, and he crossed the room to touch her shoulder and 
lean over by her ear.
"There's a peeping tom outside, I'm gonna check it out," he whispered, and she 
nodded.
Mulder nodded at Vasquez, who was looking at him expectantly, then moved 
smoothly out of the room and glanced up and down the hallway.
Laboratory doors lined both sides of the hall; Mulder speculated that the 
watcher might have been just using equipment in two rooms and moving between 
them frequently. But something in the man's curious, furtive glances into the 
interrogation room made Mulder think there was more to it than that. He started 
down the longer direction of the hall, glancing into open doors as he walked.
Suddenly, the man leaned out of a doorway to Mulder's right and beckoned. Mulder 
started to enter the lab, but the man shook his head quickly and started walking 
down the hall away from Mulder. With a patient sigh, Mulder followed at a 
distance.
The man was in his mid-thirties, bearded, and clad in jeans and an untucked red 
flannel shirt. Mulder smirked--the fashion sense of the scientific community was 
truly appalling. No wonder he wasn't a scientist.
He thought the man was about to get on the elevators, but instead he made a 
sharp turn and entered the emergency stairwell. Mulder glanced around, unsnapped 
the catch on his holster with a precautionary click, and went through the door.
The man was waiting on the landing half a flight below him. Mulder waited until 
the door closed behind him before speaking. "So, here we are," he said in a 
conversational tone. "Got something to tell me or are you just flirting with 
me?"
"I needed to talk to you in private," the man hissed, gesturing for Mulder to 
join him.
Deciding he presented no realistic physical threat, Mulder closed the distance 
between them with a few strides, skipping every other stair.
"What's your name?" Mulder asked, reaching the man.
"Warren Gegenmir. Who're you?"
"Fox Mulder, FBI." Mulder automatically produced his badge.
"So it's true," Gegenmir answered, looking askance. "What'd they bring the FBI 
in for?"
"My partner and I have experience in...unusual cases like this one. The South 
City police called us in."
"So you've seen this before?"
Mulder frowned at the man's curiosity. "I didn't say that," he said slowly. "You 
said you had something to tell me."
Gegenmir swallowed, and Mulder noticed the man kept running his thumb over his 
forefinger in an unconscious nervous gesture. "Uh...yeah. Listen, you're talking 
to the people he worked with, but the one you should be talking to isn't here 
today."
"Who's that?" Mulder asked calmly.
Gegenmir bit his lip. "I don't like saying. I mean, if I'm wrong, I'm a real 
asshole, right? And he's a nice guy, mostly. Deceptively so. But he's...weird. 
And I think--he had reason to--"
"Who?" Mulder repeated.
"Neil Ledbetter," Gegenmir said finally. "He's just a tech down in the chemistry 
lab. Didn't work with Charlie Jorgensen per se. But I got a feeling..."
"Why do you think we should be suspicious of Neil, Mr. Gegenmir? Or is it Dr. 
Gegenmir?"
"Doctor, but--whatever. You should be suspicious of him because I know he hated 
Jorgensen. Jorgensen gave him hell, a real hard time, and was pressuring him to 
get this drug synthesis completed. Kept saying it was easy. Neil was working his 
ass off, too, but he couldn't get this one thing right. The day before Charlie 
died, they had a big fight when Charlie went to see Neil, and I heard Charlie 
say he'd talk to Neil's director, get him fired."
"So you think Neil might've killed Charlie Jorgensen?" Mulder persisted. "How 
would he have turned Charlie into a puddle?"
Gegenmir looked distinctly uncomfortable with that description. "Well, I don't 
know," he said. "But I know that if anyone would be capable, it'd be Neil. Like 
I said, the guy's nice, but not in a believable way. And he's weird.... This'll 
sound crazy, but...he does this...black magic thing. He's one of those, you 
know, like, witches or something. Not that I believe any of that crap, but if he 
found a way, you know, some kind of chemical thing...."
"How do you know all that, Dr. Gegenmir?"
"Oh, everybody here knows it. They just don't talk about it outside of closed 
circles, though, you know, this is the Bay Area. One big happy PC family. Guy 
wants to do black magic, let him. But I'm just saying there's something weird 
about him. And I know he was fighting with Charlie."
"That night, when you heard them fighting," Mulder said. "How did you hear 
them?"
"Outside my office. I wasn't trying to hear, believe me."
"Do you work in a lab?"
"Not anymore. That's why I'm a little nervous about...all this. I've got a new 
job, see, overseeing the non-antibiotic antimicrobials labs. It's good money, 
and I don't have to get my hands dirty anymore. I don't really want to risk it 
pointing fingers.... Listen, I can't be away long, I'm supposed to be meeting 
with Reba in a few minutes. Maybe I could catch up with you tomorrow, off the 
premises or something?"
Mulder considered. "Sure," he said finally, handing Gegenmir a business card. 
"My cell number is on the back. Just give me a call."
He didn't add that he would have to get this man's testimony on record if any of 
this panned out. And there was something Gegenmir obviously wasn't saying. But 
he had opened up a new avenue that looked a little more hopeful.
He'd have to meet this Neil Ledbetter to be sure.
Gegenmir went on down the stairs while Mulder climbed back up. He walked back 
down the hallway quickly, intending to leave the rest of the interviews to 
Vasquez so he and Scully could check Ledbetter out.
But Vasquez met him in the hallway.
"Where'd you go?" she asked, approaching him.
"To meet an informant," he said with a deliberately mysterious smile.
"Cut the crap, Agent Mulder," she said. "Seriously. You look like you're in a 
hurry--you must've found out something."
He chuckled appreciatively at her dismissal. "Yeah, a guy approached me. Gave me 
a lead."
"More solid than what we're getting in there?" Vasquez jerked her head at the 
door behind which Scully was still talking to Dr. Crothers.
"You don't think that's useful?" Mulder asked, careful not to let his own 
opinion color his voice.
"I've heard it all before," Vasquez answered. "Same as last time--they don't 
know how it could have happened and they're certain no one here would have or 
could have done it."
Mulder nodded, his plans changing. "Why don't you come with me to follow up on 
this?" he suggested.
She shrugged. "Okay. You gonna tell me about it?"
"On the way. We have to drive."
"What about Dana?"
Mulder noted that she had already decided on appropriate names: he was still 
Mulder but Scully was Dana. Interesting. He wondered if Scully had said 
something to her or if it was just a female thing. "She can handle the 
interviews on her own," he said. "If there's anything to be gotten from them, 
she'll get it."
"Okay. Your call," Vasquez said. 
Mulder reached for the pad and pencil in Vasquez's hands, and she gave them 
over, eyebrows raised. 
Mulder scribbled a short note: Following up on a lead. He handed the paper to 
Vasquez. "Take that inside and put it on my chair but don't interrupt her. I 
have to go get an address from Gregor's secretary. I'll meet you at the car."
Vasquez nodded her assent.
---------------------------------------------------
Ledbetter Residence
San Mateo
4:46 p.m.
The man who opened the door looked like hell. He was immensely overweight, and 
appeared to be wearing nothing but an enormous black terrycloth robe. His 
sand-colored hair was greasy and uncombed, and his eyes and nose were both red. 
His narrow, dark eyes, which deserved the term beady more than the eyes of 
anyone Anna had ever met, regarded them with nervous suspicion.
When Mulder didn't speak right away, she assumed he expected her to take the 
lead, so she did.
"Mr. Ledbetter?" He nodded dumbly at her and she continued. "I'm Detective 
Vasquez and this is Special Agent Fox Mulder, with the FBI. We're investigating 
the death of Charles Jorgensen. Can we come in for a few minutes?"
Ledbetter looked back into his apartment, which Vasquez could see very little of 
through the small foyer. He seemed to be considering. 
"Just a few questions, sir," Mulder prompted. "It won't take long."
Ledbetter swallowed and nodded. "Okay," he said, opening the door wider. "Do you 
mind if I put some clothes on?"
"Please do," Anna replied, and as he turned away, she caught Mulder's amused 
smirk. As the possible interpretations of her words hit her, she shrugged and 
grinned back.
Mulder moved past her into the living room. The apartment was small, cluttered 
and dirty. Following Mulder, Anna reflected that some strange product of a cross 
between Alex Crowley and a fraternity boy must have done the decorating. The 
windows were hung with black curtains decorated with inverted gold five-pointed 
stars, a geometric theme that was repeated throughout the room on walls, books 
and knickknacks. Candles were scattered haphazardly around the furniture, which 
was mostly worn black leather. A genuine-looking bear rug, complete with gaping 
head, lay on the floor, and murky incense was burning from a gold censor in the 
corner. But the incense couldn't mask the omnipresent smell of rot emanating 
from the empty pizza boxes scattered about the room, and a pyramid of empty beer 
cans in one corner rose almost to Anna's waist. The windows were taped with 
masking tape where they'd once been broken, and peering around the corner into 
the kitchen, Anna could see that the it was in a similar state of total 
disarray, with more dishes piled in the sink than a single man should even own.
It was a bizarre place.
Mulder was studying the bookshelves, which were crammed with much-used 
paperbacks. Anna moved over behind him, peering over his shoulder. "Wow," she 
whispered, scanning the titles, which were mostly of an occult theme. "This guy 
_is_ the wicked witch of the west."
Mulder ran one finger horizontally along the spines of the books. "Yeah," he 
said, holding up his fingertip. It was coated with dust. "He knows all his 
spells by heart, apparently. And he's obviously a very goal-oriented kind of 
guy." He gestured at the two rows of books just below eye level, and Anna peered 
closer, scanning the titles.
Spells of Seduction was appropriately positioned next to _Heart's Desire_, which 
was followed by a long row of books with titles like Hot and Spicy, Tit for Tat, 
and Debbie Joins a Sorority. Both rows were similarly organized, and these 
spines didn't look quite as dusty.
"I'm sensing that this guy's a little...sexually frustrated," she whispered.
"Hey, just because he has a little...collection...doesn't mean he's not getting 
any," Mulder whispered back.
Something in his grin made Anna abruptly very conscious of how close they were 
standing and how strongly he smelled of cologne. She couldn't exactly say she 
didn't like it, but she backed away awkwardly all the same.
Fortunately, Ledbetter choose that moment to return to the room. He was now 
clothed in a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt with "MAUI" printed in big blue 
letters over a beach sunset. A few hula girls bounced on the cotton as he 
walked.
He saw what they'd been looking at and blushed fervently, but didn't comment. 
Instead, he just cleared some newspapers off the couch. "Have a seat," he 
offered, taking the chair opposite them.
Mulder moved to the couch, and Vasquez seated herself beside him and crossed her 
legs. He glanced at her navy skirt and smiled inwardly. It hadn't taken much 
time working with him for Scully to realize skirts were a bad idea in the kind 
of field work they tended to find themselves dealing with. He wondered if 
Vasquez was going to learn that lesson on this case. Fixing his gaze on 
Ledbetter's bulk, Mulder doubted it.
And frankly, that was fine with him.
Stop that, idiot, he chided himself. Just because you're really not getting 
any....
While he was rambling internally, Vasquez had produced a tape recorder and 
started the interrogation.
"Interesting hobby you have, Mr. Ledbetter," she said coolly, making a pointed 
sweep of the room with her eyes.
For a moment, Ledbetter's eyes flashed with anger or irritation--Mulder couldn't 
tell which. "I'm not sure I'd use that word, ma'am, but yes, it is interesting."
Vasquez nodded absently as if she'd only been asking out of polite curiosity. 
"Well," she continued briskly, "we're just checking in on Anticorps employees, 
finding out if they saw or heard anything the night of Dr. Jorgensen's death. We 
wondered if you could tell us anything you remember from that night."
Glad she was competently taking the lead, Mulder crossed his arms and studied 
Ledbetter silently. This apparently made the man nervous--he kept casting 
anxious glances at Mulder as he spoke.
"Oookay. I was working that night. Down in the basement, where my bench is. I'm 
a research associate, master's in organic synthesis from USC." Scully had 
briefly schooled him in laboratory hierarchy that morning, and he recognized the 
use of the term 'research associate.' 
"Ph.D.'s call them techs, they call themselves RAs," she'd told him. "They're 
usually people who dropped out of doctorate programs, hence the tension."
As Ledbetter continued, Mulder thought 'tension' was a slight understatement. "I 
suppose you're coming to me because I didn't like him, is that it?" Ledbetter 
asked. He didn't wait for an answer, forging ahead. "Well, I didn't, but I 
wasn't the only one. Anyway, yeah, I saw him that night. We were both working 
late. Why not--not much to come home to, right?" He gestured helplessly around 
the room. "He came down to ask again about this synthesis he's been wanting me 
to do. But Charlie was no chemist. He just couldn't understand why it wasn't 
easy. The crazy thing is, I think I figured it out that night, right after he 
left. Right as he was...I guess when he was...dying." The last word was 
strained, and Ledbetter looked away, swallowing as if trying to get control.
Mulder was not impressed.
"Could you tell us everything that happened exactly as you remember it?" Vasquez 
prompted. "Sequentially?"
Ledbetter swallowed. "Yeah. Sorry. I'm just a little shaken up. I mean, this is 
the second guy, you know? So. Okay. I was working at my bench and Charlie came 
down. He asked if I had figured out the problem yet, and I said no, not yet. He 
asked me, what was I doing then, and I said I was doing a synthesis for Mark. 
Mark Gingham. He's a guy working in--well, you don't care. Anyway, Charlie said 
I should be focusing on his stuff, that he had deadlines and didn't I know that, 
and he was really in my face, you know? And so I started yelling back that I had 
a million projects for a million people and he's not the only guy in this 
company and stuff like that. We had it out. We'd been on the verge of having it 
out for months. I thought it was okay, though. You know, sometimes guys who work 
together gotta do that. And the awful thing is, after he left, I suddenly 
thought of how to do it. I haven't tried it yet, of course, I've been here at 
home, but..."
"So you didn't see Dr. Jorgensen at all after your argument?"
"No."
"And what time was that?"
"I don't know. I don't pay much attention to the clock, just to my timer, you 
know? Probably, eight o'clock or so."
"Why haven't you been at work the past two days, Mr. Ledbetter?"
Good. Exactly what Mulder had wanted next.
"What do you mean?" Ledbetter's face assumed several pouty wrinkles. "I'm upset. 
I mean, I might've been the last guy to speak to the guy, and we were just 
yelling at each other. And after Grady last month...."
"Grady? The bioinformaticist?"
"Yeah. I knew him back when he worked for us. Not well, but, you know. Okay. I'm 
not used to people I know dying, especially not like that."
Vasquez leaned back and crossed her arms. "Funny," she remarked casually. "I 
wouldn't think a practitioner of black magic would be so upset by death."
Mulder smiled inwardly, approving. Sounded like something Scully would've said.
Ledbetter's eyes flashed again. "You've obviously got some prejudices to work 
through, ma'am. Followers of the Temple of Set don't promote what the world 
calls 'evil.' Evil and good are just made-up words for a dichotomy that humans 
have created and artificially imposed on reality. What you call white magic is 
actually just Magic of the Right Hand,while we practice Magic of the Left Hand. 
Different ways to do things, but our only goal is self-awareness."
Mulder noted the sudden change in vocabulary and diction. "Are you a practicing 
member of the Temple of Set?" he asked.
Ledbetter pursed his lips, as if surprised Mulder had spoken. "I think I already 
said so, but why?"
"I'm curious," Mulder answered. "I have a professional interest in those sorts 
of things. Do you belong to an order within the temple?"
"Yes, the Order of the Trapezoid," Ledbetter replied, irritated. "What does this 
have to do with Charlie?"
Mulder was about to answer when his cell phone shrilled abruptly. Knowing who it 
was, he considered ignoring it and pleading ignorance later. But knowing what it 
was probably about, he decided she'd be less pissed later if he answered now. He 
retrieved his phone, and answered in a rough voice that he hoped she'd correctly 
interpret as busy. "Mulder."
She sounded angry and irritated. "Where are you?"
"I'm talking to someone," he answered, glancing from Ledbetter to Vasquez.
"Is Anna with you?"
Anna. Not Vasquez. What's in a name? "Yes."
He heard her exasperated expulsion of breath. "Why didn't you tell me where you 
were going?"
"You were in the middle of something," he answered, aware of the defensive tone 
already creeping into his voice.
"You ditched me during an interrogation."
He bit back his first response, which was to remind her of the not-so-distant 
time he'd told her that, and willed himself to answer her calmly in front of 
this audience. "You didn't need me. You had everything under control."
"You should have told me."
"This is a bad time," he said in a low voice. "I'll meet you back at the hotel 
by six, okay?"
Her voice was icy. "You took the car."
"Oh. Right. We'll pick you up then."
"Fine," she said, in a tone of voice which clearly indicated that it was not. 
The line went dead.
Mulder tried not to let his face betray his emotions, willfully returning 
himself to the interrogation. This sniping, this latent hostility...what the 
hell was happening to them?
He was distracted, he'd forgotten his place. Ledbetter and Vasquez were both 
looking at him expectantly.
He spotted an iron statuette over Ledbetter's shoulder: a trapezoid inscripted 
with an inverted five-pointed star. Right. Order of the Trapezoid.
He turned to Ledbetter. "The Temple of Set. So you believe in the Words of the 
Aeons? Forgive my ignorance, I'm a little rusty here."
This was untrue. Mulder had reread much of his literature on black magic shortly 
after seeing a woman cough up a pound of nails. But he was curious as to how 
serious this man was.
He wasn't disappointed. Ledbetter appeared pleased to show off his knowledge. 
"Well, it's actually a voluntary choice to take a Word to heart in the Temple of 
Set, but everyone I know has done it. The word of the Aeon of HarWer was 
Thelema, which is the will by which stars chart their courses through the 
universe. The Word of the Age of Satan as Indulgence, and the Word of this Aeon, 
the Aeon of Set is Xeper, which means coming into being as an alert, oriented, 
balanced magician capable of creating change in accord with Will. But the 
secondary Word of this Age, which I have also taken to heart, is Remanifestion, 
which implies 'a rebirth of the self through deliberate use of all that has been 
previously in order to bring about a Magician who Comes Into Being as a new and 
more fully faceted Being.' So you see, my goal is higher awareness. What you 
call evil has been wrongly associated with black magic in this Age. Nobody gets 
that, they all automatically hate you because they have these neatly constructed 
prejudices, and then you don't get the job, don't get the promotion, don't get 
the--"
Mulder cut him off, nodding. "Are you an adept?"
Ledbetter blushed and looked down. "Well, I'm trying to become a Master," he 
admitted. "But it's taking awhile."
"Spells aren't working for you?" Mulder said sympathetically, and Ledbetter's 
eyes flashed with offense.
"Look, I really don't see what this has to do with Charlie," he said firmly. 
"Now if you don't have any other questions...."
"One more question," Mulder insisted, holding up his hand. "We need to know if 
you knew Colonel Robert Packard."
Ledbetter blinked and frowned. "Packard," he said slowly. "No, I don't think 
so."
Mulder took a gamble. "That's funny, he seemed to know you," he lied. He was 
aware of Vasquez' subtle glance, but she thankfully didn't look surprised.
Ledbetter swallowed and one hand knotted in his shirttail. "What do you mean?" 
he asked. 
That was all Mulder needed. "Doesn't matter, he's dead now," he said lightly, 
starting to rise.
Ledbetter seemed to want to say something else, but he was obviously uncertain 
what. He fumbled for a moment before he finally said, "Well, um, okay. I hope 
you figure things out."
Mulder nodded and Vasquez thanked the chemist.

---------------------------------------------------
6:31 p.m.
"...but it turned out the nurse was the good guy. Or girl. Whatever. We never 
caught the doctor, unfortunately."
Anna's brow furrowed in disbelief. "So you believe there's some plastic surgeon 
running around out there killing people to make himself eternally young? Again 
and again?" 
"Yes," Mulder replied. He turned their car into the Anticorps parking lot. 
Before they reached the lobby doors, Scully appeared, striding purposefully 
toward the car with a bundle of files under her arm.
"I still don't understand how the snake could've gotten to the man's house," 
Anna said, unbuckling her seatbelt to move to the back.
"Snake? Oh, you mean the Satanists." 
Scully had opened the back door, shaking her head at Anna. "It's all right," she 
said. "You can sit up front." Then: "Satanists? What are you telling her, 
Mulder?"
She situated herself in the backseat, and Anna heard the seatbelt click. Mulder 
pulled away. 
"We're going to an Italian place in the city, Scully. Sound okay?"
"Sure. You're late."
"Traffic," Mulder replied to the rearview mirror. He turned back to Anna. "I 
have no idea how the snake got there. But I don't think it was an ordinary 
snake."
Anna turned to include Scully in the conversation. "Mulder's been telling me 
about some of your cases. We thought it'd be appropriate briefing after this 
interview today."
Scully cocked her head at an angle, raised her eyebrows at the rearview mirror. 
"Which interview was that?" she asked.
There was a subtle, almost undetectable sharpness in her voice, but Anna heard 
it.
"I hope you didn't mind that we went to look into this," she said, when Mulder 
didn't speak. "But we may have a suspect."
"What makes you think that?" 
When Mulder still didn't answer, Anna continued. "Well, he's got a believable 
motive, was seen fighting with Jorgensen the night Jorgensen was killed, and has 
a connection to Col. Packard, which is the thing that stands out most."
"Okay, how'd he do it?" Scully asked.
"Witchcraft," Mulder answered shortly.
Anna was half-turned in her seat and saw Scully's reaction: she turned her face 
toward the window, lips pursed. After a second, she responded. "Well, I 
certainly didn't see that coming."
Mulder chuckled. "You talked me out of the bacteria theory," he said 
defensively. "Where's that leave me?"
"With the rest of the case," she answered quickly, as if it should be obvious. 
"Mulder, there's so much to work with here! Mysterious deaths which are 
suspected to have been caused by some hazardous material are occurring at a 
scientific research company. There's no need to go looking for the answer in 
occult practices. Save that one for next time."
"Hear me out, Scully. This guy is lonely, paranoid and is the worst kind of 
nerd--the kind without any kind of congratulations from society, like a 
doctorate. He fits the profile--"
"Profile? Since when is there a profile? This morning the profile was for a 
unicellular life form."
"There's a new profile," Mulder answered calmly, with a hint of a smile. 
Scully snorted derisively. "Okay. So he fits the profile. Where's the witchcraft 
come in?"
Mulder explained his encounter with Gegenmir in the hallway and their interview 
with Ledbetter. The story was somewhat disjointed as Anna gave him directions. 
They were well within the city now, headed for North Beach, San Francisco's 
Little Italy.
Scully listened quietly, occasionally prompting him with short questions, her 
arms crossed and her lips drawn into a thin line. 
She waited until they had found a parking lot, eight blocks from the restaurant, 
to respond.
The trio exited the car and Mulder handed his keys to the attendant. 
"Just because the man thinks he's practicing witchcraft doesn't make him a 
suspect, Mulder. And what you're suggesting is nothing like the kind of thing 
we've seen before. You've done enough reading on the subject--have you ever come 
across a recipe for a potion that can turn people into puddles of sticky goo?"
"No, but I did see one once for turning people into tasty pudding desserts with 
chocolate and strawberries."
"I think you're getting your reading materials confused, Mulder."
Mulder flipped out his palm. "Okay, what about the connection to Packard?"
"Mulder, he said he didn't know Packard!"
"He was lying."
"You thought he was lying."
"He did get nervous," Vasquez interjected.
"Well, he probably read in the papers that the guy's dead. He probably realized 
you suspected him. Of course he got nervous when you told him Packard knew him."
Vasquez blinked. She had a point.
"Okay, so what's your big theory?" Mulder demanded finally. 
Scully stopped walking and was silent for a long moment. "I think you're 
overlooking something important about the research," she said at last. "You're 
completely ignoring the location, the obvious ties between the victims, in your 
pursuit of something so obscure as to be potentially irrelevant."
Until now, Anna had stayed awkwardly out of the conversation. But now she felt 
she had better interrupt and start playing mediator before things got ugly. 
"Dana, I know it sounds crazy and I frankly have a lot of trouble believing it 
too. But there might be something to it. Maybe the guy just thinks he's casting 
a spell or something, but has really made some sort of poison. I don't know. But 
I think he was lying to us today and I want to know why."
Scully turned to meet Anna's eyes with the beginnings of what might have been an 
apologetic, indulgent smile. Anna had started to contemplate the meaning of that 
expression, deciding whether or not to be embarrassed for interrupting, when she 
was distracted by Scully's face.
"Dana, you're bleeding," she said, reaching out a concerned hand.
"Oh," Scully put her the back of her finger up to her nose, pulled it away and 
looked at it. "It's nothing," she said, frowning and dabbing at her face with 
the back of her hand. "A--a bloody nose. I get them sometimes."
She pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket and covered her face. Mulder's 
expression was unreadable, but his voice was suddenly quieter. "You okay?" he 
asked.
A cabbie stopped beside them on the street, hoping for a fare. Mulder waved him 
on.
"Yeah, I'm...okay," Scully answered, wiping away the blood. But more stubbornly 
trickled out of her nostril.
"Maybe you should sit down," Anna suggested, gesturing at a bench a few yards 
away.
"No, it'll be--" Scully stopped, closing her eyes. She swayed a little and 
Mulder immediately grasped her upper arm.
Anna followed as he led her over to the bench. She sank onto it and Anna noticed 
how Mulder's hand slid up she arm and lingered briefly on her shoulder before 
moving away. Scully tilted her head back and held the cloth to her nose as Anna 
approached.
Anna prided herself on being very good with people, but she couldn't quite put 
her finger on these two. Moments earlier they had been arguing fiercely, all but 
calling each other idiots, but now Mulder's concern was clearly more than 
professional. And Scully's condition was clearly more than a bloody nose.
"Should I call a doctor?" Anna asked uncertainly, then as both of them 
half-grinned at her, she realized her mistake. "Or," she said lightly, "should I 
just see if my ankle will fit in my mouth along with my foot?"
"It's okay," Scully assured her, removing the kerchief and wadding it up, 
apparently satisfied. "I just got a little dizzy for a second. I think the 
bleeding's stopped now."
She stood and they continued on to the restaurant. Scully and Mulder had stopped 
arguing.




INTERLUDE


*****************************************************************
1. HONESTY

*
The first rule in hostage negotiation is to "be as honest as possible."
In the court of public opinion, honesty always wins out over truth. In a court 
of law, exactly the opposite is meant to occur. This is a well-accepted fact 
that illustrates the distinction between two noble concepts. Any negotiator 
recognizes that one can be completely truthful, yet not completely honest, or 
completely honest but not completely truthful. It is the latter strategy that 
she must pursue in resolving the hostage situation, saving the truth for the 
inevitable trial.
Unfortunately, this tack is rarely sufficient.

*
"I would've liked your thoughts on the people I interviewed to after you left."
No matter how they're closed, car doors have the unfortunate habit of sounding 
as if they are slamming. Scully discovered this too late, having just punctuated 
her words with the closing of a door. It made them sound snappier than she had 
intended.
"Are you still angry about that?" Mulder's voice was irritated, which made 
Scully decide that her answer should be 'yes.'
Humans are not as rational creatures as they believe themselves to be.
"I would have appreciated being consulted, yes." The black-cloaked pair walked 
side-by-side through the parking garage to the elevator, where a young couple 
was waiting by the glowing button.
Mulder did not reply. Like an old married couple, they knew better than to fight 
in front of strangers. Arguing--now that was a different matter. Depending on 
the stranger, Scully thought, reminded of Vasquez' amusing foray into 
peacekeeping earlier that day.
The young couple standing with them apparently had not yet learned these rules.
"We've been doing all your stupid stuff ever since we got here," the woman 
hissed. Her blond hair was neatly coiffured on top of her head, and her short 
blue silk dress glistened beneath her white coat. "The least you could do is sit 
through one play."
The man was clothed in a spiffy, expensive suit that hung and stretched in all 
the wrong places. "Shakespeare in the nude is not my idea of theatre," he 
replied archly.
Scully and Mulder looked at the floor, the cars, the elevator button, anywhere 
but at the arguing couple or each other.
The silvery doors slid open in invitation, and the four moved inside.
"No," the anonymous blond was replying, "Grown men tackling each other over a 
stuffed piece of leather is your idea of theatre." Before he could defend 
himself, she held up a hand and continued. "I didn't like the show either, but 
that's not the point. It's the _principle_ of the thing."
"What principle?" the man exploded. "You didn't like the show, I didn't like the 
show, so why waste our time?"
Scully leaned against the back of the elevator and jammed her hands in her 
pockets, studying her shoes.
"This is about more than a 'show,'" the woman told him scathingly. Thankfully, 
the elevator dinged softly, reminding Scully and Mulder to exit. They did so, 
leaving the young couple behind to uncover for themselves the true meaning of 
Shakespeare in the nude.
The pause had stolen their argument's momentum before it even began rolling. 
Nonetheless, Scully followed Mulder wordlessly into his room.
As Mulder shucked off his jacket and loosened his tie, she toed off her shoes 
and slipped out of her coat in an odd parody of a couple returning home after a 
long day's work. Which in a way they were, Scully knew, and the knowledge made 
the hotel's floral prints more strikingly gaudy than they actually were.
Mulder deposited the files on the table and Scully took a seat before them, 
shrugging out of her jacket. She shuffled through them until she found the one 
she was looking for and began skimming its pages intently, looking for 
something.
Mulder sank onto the bed and watched her, wondering if they were going to finish 
the argument. He suspected they were not: it was one of those discussions which 
has no real end, but which repeats itself endlessly, droning throughout the 
years. The words might vary slightly, and they might try different tones ranging 
from professional upbraiding to personal hurt, but occasionally it was easier 
just to assume they both had read the script and move on.
So he watched her silently, taking rare advantage of her turned back to memorize 
her here. This was a guilty indulgence, and he would never have confessed to her 
the album he kept in his head, the Scrapbook of a Thousand Scullys. He had been 
keeping it for years, ever aware that she might vanish from his life at any 
moment yet not quite acknowledging the possibility. But in recent months the 
pages had been turning more quickly, crammed more tightly with mental photos as 
he selfishly strove to preserve everything about her in what he stubbornly 
refused to call her last months.
Her flame-red hair was slightly tousled, revealing a triangle of creamy skin at 
the back of her neck. The white silk of her blouse glistened, but was not quite 
sufficiently opaque to disguise the ridges outlining her bra. When she leaned 
forward as she was now, her shoulderblades protruded slightly, knobby testaments 
to the disturbing reality that she was, in fact, blood and bone, like any other 
mortal.
The chair hid her hips and thighs, but Mulder could see her feet, neatly crossed 
at the ankles and colored dark grey by her stockings. The seams of the stockings 
were not quite aligned with her toes.
It occurred to him that he ought to be wondering what she was reading, ought to 
be thinking about the case, but the juncture between her neck and her blouse had 
a much more powerful grip on his attention and he surrendered to it.
Her hand reached back, obscuring the object of his quiet musing from view as it 
rubbed her neck absently. Mulder crossed the room automatically before 
considering what he was doing. "Here," he said matter-of-factly, pushing her 
hand aside with his own. His hands landed on her shoulders, kneading firmly, 
while his thumbs traced tight circles over the lower part of her neck.
She bowed forward, accepting the gesture with a soft sigh which was music to 
Mulder's ears.
It would be so easy, she thought, so easy to lose herself in this simple 
sensation. Lately, she wouldn't much mind losing herself. Dying Dana was 
depressing. When she closed her eyes at night, she saw visions of a tangled, 
fibrous mass stretching out dark fingers to tempt the surrounding network of 
blood vessels closer, closer, evilly harnassing her body's natural processes for 
its own dark ends. She saw engorged, elongated cells with unnatural nuclei, 
sometimes two per cell, creeping across the thin endothelial membrane and 
tumbling away, free and easy, alongside neutrophils and erythrocytes to 
locations all over her body. Angiogenesis. Metastasis.
There were times when she would surrender almost anything to rid herself of 
those images, replace them with something kinder so that she could sleep 
peacefully again. 
The obvious mechanism towered over her right now, digging his fingertips into 
the hard, thankfully resistant muscle of her back. What would he do if she 
leaned back right now, what would he do if she kissed him and lost herself that 
way?
He'd kiss her back, she supposed. No, that wasn't true--he wouldn't. He'd accuse 
her of giving up, of starting to check things off a list of things to do before 
she died, which might be partly true. Or maybe he'd tell her this wasn't the way 
to escape, make her face the truth of that fibrous mass anyway. No. She would 
never give Mulder the need to tell her to confront reality: that was a shame she 
would not endure.
Even if he said neither of those things, even if he did kiss her, he would think 
them. Equally unacceptable.
So she said the most reasonable thing she could think of, which was: "I'm 
certain this is linked to a research project people don't want to talk about, 
Mulder. Maybe a military contract, which may be how Packard fits."
Well, it was honest.
Mulder was only half-listening to her words, focused, as humans often are, on 
something more visceral than rational investigation. Like the blood rushing 
through veins and arteries beneath his hands. So his reply was automatic. "That 
doesn't mean it can't be witchcraft. You're talking motive, I'm talking 
mechanism."
Not bad for automatic.
Scully continued. "After you left, I talked to several others--none of them 
really knew what Jorgensen had been working on before he started his current 
project. Except this woman--Thrush." She gestured at the file before her. "I 
think she knew. She dodged around it, saying it was company secret. It would've 
been nice to have you there."
Bait.
Mulder didn't bite. "I'll talk to her tomorrow."
This case had not gripped him as he'd hoped it might. It had only served to 
remind him that the more pressing investigation lay beneath his fingertips.
The truth is in me, she'd told him once, and right now he didn't really give a 
damn about truth, he just wanted whatever it was out of her. 
Sometimes when we cannot think of the words to hold our thoughts, or perhaps 
when we are too ashamed of the thoughts to speak them aloud, we say something 
else. Maybe that is what happened to Mulder.
"Look, Scully, there's nothing more we can accomplish tonight. Why don't you go 
take it easy for the night."
He felt her stiffen beneath his hands, but she didn't look at him. "I feel fine, 
Mulder," she said guardedly. There was a long pause, as she debated whether to 
continue, but then she forged ahead anyway. "I thought we'd been through this. I 
can make my own decisions about when I do or do not need rest."
He'd stepped back. He hadn't meant that. He had meant to convey that, but he 
hadn't meant that. So of course, he said, "That's not what I said at all."
She turned in her chair. "It is what you said. You've never in all the years 
I've known you told me to 'take it easy'--it's always been assumed that when I 
needed to I would and if you asked me to do something I didn't want to do, I'd 
say no. Same goes for you. But now--now, that is what you said."
"Okay," he said, backing away, hands raised. "Don't take it easy. Do whatever 
the hell you want. You're fine, I know."
"Do you think I'm lying when I say that?"
"I don't know!" he exploded. "I don't know what you mean when you say that. It 
sounds to me more like, 'fuck off, it's none of your business,' but maybe that's 
just me."
Not quite true, but honest.
"That's not what it means," she said darkly, standing up. "It means exactly what 
it sounds like. I'm fine. I'm content with current circumstances and do not ask 
that they be altered." She was moving toward the door, scooping up shoes and 
jacket on the way. Near the door, she stopped and turned to face him coolly. "I 
can't talk about it just because you want all the gory details, Mulder. When I 
do want to talk, you'll be the first to know."
Mulder rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger. "Scully...." he began.
"You're right, Mulder," she said. "There's nothing more to be done tonight. But 
I'd appreciate it if you'd look over that file on Thrush and talk to her 
tomorrow. Okay?"
Mulder nodded at the floor. "Okay," he sighed, accepting her truce.
Honest, but not quite true.
Which was good, because the negotiations would have been far bloodier had they 
spoken in truths. 
*****************************************************************



CHAPTER THREE

---------------------------------------------------
April 21, 1997
10:05 a.m.
Mulder rapped sharply on the door. "Dr. Gegenmir?" he called, when there was no 
answer.
There was some shuffling behind the door and finally Warren Gegenmir emerged, 
his hair ruffled and eyes wide. He ushered Mulder quickly inside the small 
Anticorps office.
When the door was safely shut, he hissed: "I thought I made it clear that I was 
approaching you confidentially."
Mulder nodded. "I realize that, sir, but we're talking to almost everyone here, 
so I don't think it will appear strange that I'm talking to you. Please, sit 
down."
Gegenmir gestured that Mulder should sit, reminding them both whose office it 
was.
As Gegenmir moved around behind the desk and took a seat, Mulder eased himself 
into the facing chair and turned his gaze around the office. Several file 
cabinets lined the far wall, and the wall to Mulder's left was almost entirely 
composed of bookshelves. Mulder scanned the titles--mostly biology and chemistry 
texts and literature, but also some physics and philosophy of science. On the 
wall to his right was a long, worn red couch that looked like it had been 
teleported in from the seventies. A scruffy pillow and blanket were crumpled on 
it, and the imprint of a body was still apparent on the cushions. Mulder 
would've bet money that the cushions were still warm.
"I have a couple of questions for you, Dr. Gegenmir," he said finally. "Do you 
mind if I use a tape recorder?"
"Actually, I'd prefer you didn't," Gegenmir answered sharply.
Mulder shrugged and produced a tablet and pen from his pocket, crossed one leg 
over the other to balance the pad on his knee. "Okay," he said. "So. I talked to 
Mr. Ledbetter, and I'm curious about something." He paused, watched Gegenmir's 
invitingly raised eyebrows. "You said you heard Ledbetter and Jorgensen fighting 
outside your office. But Mr. Ledbetter works in the basement, and your office is 
up here on the fourth floor. Maybe you could give me a clearer picture of 
exactly what you heard and where."
Gegenmir had the grace to look guilty. "Did I say from my office?" he asked. 
"That's not what I meant."
"That's what you said," Mulder replied solidly.
"I meant, I was walking by the chem labs in the basement."
"Why were you doing that at such a late hour?" Mulder persisted.
Gegenmir swallowed and looked down at his hands, then at the single picture on 
his desk. Mulder put his pen down and leaned forward to look at the photo: a 
young smiling woman holding a small boy.
No answer appeared forthcoming. "Is this your wife and son?" he asked finally.
"Yeah," Gegenmir answered, reaching out to turn the picture a little more toward 
Mulder. "Tracy and Sean."
"I bet they don't like it when you spend the night at work, huh?" Mulder asked, 
gesturing at the recently slept-on couch.
He had anticipated a hostile answer, evidence of a marital conflict, but he 
wasn't quite prepared for what he got instead.
"They're dead," Gegenmir said simply, blankly.
Mulder blinked, cursing himself. Not where he'd wanted to go. But here he was, 
so.... "I'm very sorry," he said soberly. "May I ask how it happened?"
Gegenmir continued to regard him stonily. His answering query was terse, 
clipped. "Have you ever lost someone close to you, Agent Mulder?"
Mulder nodded slowly. "Yes, I have," he answered quietly, trying to keep the 
wariness out of his voice.
Gegenmir accepted that answer. "Have you ever _watched_ someone you love 
die--lived with them every day knowing that in a month or a week they'd be gone 
and you'd never see them again?" His voice remained dry and toneless.
Mulder hesitated only a second. "No," he said. "I haven't."
He meant it.
Willing himself to put aside any personal empathy, he forged ahead, trying to 
regain control of the interview which was not exactly an interview. "But you 
have, haven't you, Dr. Gegenmir," he intoned gently.
"Yes," the man answered huskily, his blank facade finally cracking."Sean--my 
son--he died. Two months from the time we took him to the doctor. That's all it 
took. He was only four. Tracy...Tracy was so broken up over it, she 
couldn't...she didn't...."
His voice trailed off and Mulder looked away, hearing the words he hadn't said. 
An oddly distant part of him wondered how she'd done it--sleeping pills? razor 
blade? Statistically, women attempted suicide more frequently, but men more 
often succeed because they chose more reliable methods. Like pistols. 
He shook his head to clear it. This was not good. This was not how things were 
supposed to be going. He could almost hear Scully's voice in his head: You're 
empathizing with the victim, Mulder. Losing your objectivity.
Victim? Gegenmir wasn't a victim, at least, he wasn't the victim.
But glancing again at the framed photo, Mulder had a sudden eerie suspicion that 
Gegenmir thought he was. Otherwise, why had he allowed--encouraged--Mulder to 
pursue such a sensitive and seemingly irrelevant line of questioning?
He phrased his next words carefully, deliberately. "I'm sorry for your loss, Dr. 
Gegenmir. I know what it's like to lose someone, and so lose yourself in your 
work."
"What are you?" Gegenmir snapped. "Some kind of shrink?"
Mulder shook his head, and there was silence in the room. Uncomfortable silence. 
Mulder regarded Gegenmir calmly as the man grew increasingly agitated and 
finally spoke, unable to bear the silence any longer.
"You want to know why I was in the basement," he said, leaning forward. "You 
want to know why I think it's Ledbetter."
Mulder nodded solemnly, holding the man's uncertain gaze and waiting. 
"You're going to think I'm crazy," he whispered.
Mulder leaned forward, tucking the pad significantly back into his coat pocket 
as he willed the man to trust him.
"I've been following Neil Ledbetter," Gegenmir whispered harshly. "Watching him. 
For eight or nine months now, ever since Sean..." --he broke off, took a moment 
to recover.
"I'd always had this creepy feeling about him, and when I found out he practiced 
black magic and other crazy shit like that, I thought, oh, okay, that's why. 
He's really...odd...friendly and sometimes a little stupid, but if you get him 
talking he gets...like I said. Creepy."
Mulder was careful not to betray his agreement with that evaluation. "Do you 
think he had something to do with your son's death?" he prompted quietly.
"I know it sounds ridiculous," Gegenmir said, pleading with his eyes for Mulder 
to disagree. "But no doctor had ever seen a patient with Sean's symptoms. No one 
had the faintest idea where to begin, and before anyone could figure it out, it 
was too late. He'd sometimes get these fits where he'd just cry and scream in 
the most horrible pain for hours and hours, but we couldn't find anything wrong 
with him."
"Why do you think Ledbetter was involved?" Mulder asked.
"It was the timing," Gegenmir said softly. "These things only happened to Sean 
after Neil and I had had one of our...discussions...."
"Discussions?"
Gegenmir sighed and paused for a long time, as if considering whether or not to 
continue. "Yeah," he said finally. "Discussions. Neil was...I guess you could 
call it blackmail. Anyway, I was paying him. And when I kept threatening to tell 
someone, the things started happening to Sean. When the doctors decided he was 
dying...I...I'm sorry."
Gegenmir covered his face with one hand and took several deep breaths. Mulder 
waited patiently.
When he spoke again, his voice was muffled by his hand. "After Tracy killed 
herself, I thought for awhile that there was nothing left, that I shouldn't even 
try. I thought....I thought a lot of things. But I finally realized that I could 
still have a purpose, a goal, that it was still worth living."
"You wanted to prove Neil Ledbetter did it," Mulder finished for him.
Gegenmir looked up in surprise. "Yes," he said softly. "Yes. So I followed him. 
I watched him at work and I watched him at home and I watched him go to his 
meetings with the people, the people involved with the Temple of Set.
"I don't know how much you know about this, Agent Mulder. I know how absolutely 
crazy it sounds. But I think Neil Ledbetter is practicing black magic for his 
own ends. How else could you explain how a man got turned into a puddle, when no 
scientist has yet been able to offer an explanation?"
He stopped, studying Mulder's face intently for any sign of derision.
"What was he blackmailing you for?" Mulder asked neutrally.
Gegenmir's face fell. "I don't want to discuss that," he said. Then, hopelessly: 
"You don't believe me, do you?"
Mulder considered carefully. "In following this man, have you gathered evidence 
of him blackmailing others? Or have you seen him practicing these acts?"
"No, I haven't found him blackmailing others," Gegenmir answered. "You have to 
realize, I'm not an expert at this, I'm just a biologist. But yes, I've seen him 
doing spells. I've seen him do some pretty weird shit. I've even seen some stuff 
I can't quite explain. And I've found some stuff in his lab notebooks.... I know 
it's nuts. If I were you, I'd be laughing at me right now. Hell, just a year 
ago, I'd've been laughing at me. But now...."
Mulder nodded. "Can I see the lab books?" he asked.
Gegenmir bit his lip. "Well, some of it is confidential for patent reasons, of 
course. But I made photocopies of the stuff I thought looked strange. I guess I 
could show them to you."
Mulder nodded. "I'd appreciate that."
This had turned out better than he'd hoped.
---------------------------------------------------
Alameda Naval Base
10:32 a.m.
"I don't understand it," Anna murmured, leafing through the files. "This office 
is supposed to have gone untouched. They knew I was coming back here...."
Scully frowned, digging through a desk drawer. The office was large and oddly 
airy for a military establishment. Scully sat behind the great teak desk, while 
Vasquez knelt on the floor, rummaging through filing cabinets.
"You didn't take all the files out immediately after the murder?" Scully asked.
"No," Anna admitted sheepishly, looking over at Scully. "It took us awhile to 
get this out of the hands of the Haz Mat people, and then the military police of 
course wanted to take care of this. I had other cases, too. Only after 
Jorgensen's death did this become priority. But they promised me they weren't 
going to touch anything."
"And they have," Scully said slowly, regarding the other woman steadily.
Anna shrugged. "Someone has. These files have the same names, but the forms 
inside are different."
"How can you be sure?"
"I remember some things. This file was thicker, that one had red copy-proof 
papers in it. Things like that."
Scully was nodding, sucking quietly on one cheek. Anna felt increasingly 
miserable. "Who would do this? Why? I should've hauled everything out right 
away...."
"No," Scully answered slowly, absently. "You had no reason to distrust the 
military."
There was some unspoken irony in her voice which Anna could not quite put her 
finger on. She bit her lip in frustration and swiveled her gaze around the room. 
Col. Packard had died right here. The stain was still on the carpet.
Scully was also staring fixedly at the stain. "How?" she said softly, almost to 
herself. "If it's some kind of chemical, how do you smuggle enough of it into a 
well-guarded military installation? You have to be military, and then you raid 
the crime scene, the office, to cover your tracks."
Anna nodded, tugging at the waist of her jacket as she stood. "But if it's some 
kind of chemical, you'd expect that to have come out of the biotech world, where 
the other deaths occurred, not the military. What if our UNSUB doesn't need a 
chemical?"
Scully gave Vasquez a bemused glance. "So Mulder's got you hooked, huh?" she 
said, half-smiling, one eyebrow raised.
Anna felt herself blush slightly, even as she furiously tried to control it. "I 
don't know," she said finally. "It sounds absolutely crazy. But it's easier to 
believe than some things right now. What if he's got something he calls a magic 
potion, but it's really some chemical catalyst that causes a self-perpetuating 
degenerative reaction?"
Scully's brow furrowed. "That's an interesting theory," she admitted. She was 
silent for another long moment as she scanned the room thoughtfully. Anna 
watched her tentatively, until her gaze stopped on the computer. She reached 
under the desk and flipped on the power.
Anna circled the desk to stand behind Scully's chair, watching the screen 
intently, understanding what she had in mind. But a few clicks of the mouse 
revealed that the hard drive was blank; it had been formatted two days earlier. 
"Damn," Anna muttered. "How could they do this?"
Scully had picked up Packard's phone and was dialing. At first, Anna assumed she 
was calling Mulder, but a second later she was speaking to someone else.
"This is Scully. Can you kill the tape-recorder?...I mean it....Okay. Alameda 
Naval Base. I got a job for you, okay?"
A look of irritation passed across her face. "I'm fine, Frohike, and he's not 
here."
Anna moved away. There was a low leather couch on the wall by the door, and she 
began halfheartedly digging her gloved hand between the cushions.
"This is probably Byers' schtick, but I've got something for you too, if you're 
interested....Yes, it's a good story, at least, it's shaping up that way....I'm 
on a land line, office of a Colonel...can't do any better than that."
Anna's fingers brushed against something hard and smooth.
"I need you to find out if there are any tape back-ups online of the following 
client: 36.102.43.2....Yes....I don't really know. Anything to do with the 
biotech company Anticorps--that's like Peace Corps but one word--or any 
biologists. Or"--she glanced at Vasquez--"Neil Ledbetter. Okay?"
Anna pulled a pen out from the folds of the couch. For a moment she was 
disappointed, but upon closer examination she was rewarded.
"And also, look into Anticorps' history, all right? One last thing--have any of 
you heard of any kind of chemical that could cause a body to disintegrate into a 
puddle of sticky lipids and amino acids? Some kind of catalyst?" She exchanged 
another significant look with Vasquez. "Just think about it, okay? I'll tell you 
more later. Thanks...."
She hung up.
"DC lab?" Anna asked.
Scully's lips twitched in a half-smile. "Sort of," she answered.
"Didn't know they'd break into military computers," Anna said, letting her 
amusement creep into her voice.
"Like I said," Scully answered, "sort of. What do you have there?"
Anna crossed the room and handed the pen across the desk. Scully turned it in 
her fingers, eyebrows raised in satisfaction. "Well," she said, nodding. "What 
exactly did Col. Packard do at this base?"
The pen was an advertisement, the kind given by drug companies as freebies to 
doctors to encourage prescriptions. "Finamycin" was printed in capital, 
italicized letters along the side. Underneath, in smaller print, were the words: 
"The next wave in antimicrobial therapy."
---------------------------------------------------
South San Francisco
3:12 p.m.
Mulder was leaning over the table in his hotel room, having retreated there to 
find the quiet he needed to work. Well, not precisely quiet. The TV flickered 
and chattered softly in the background. But he needed the privacy.
Nonetheless, when his cell phone began ringing, he leapt to answer it.
"Mulder."
"Ledbetter was lying," Scully's voice told him.
Mulder frowned, ran a hand through his hair. "Where are you?"
"At the base, where else? Listen, someone's gone through Packard's office. Moved 
files around, formatted his hard drive. I had the gunmen check for a tape 
backup, though, and they found Ledbetter's name in a spreadsheet that had been 
deleted from Packard's computer."
"What kind of spreadsheet?"
"An accounting one," Scully replied. "Ledbetter was getting checks from Packard. 
I can't really tell much more than that--Byers is going to email this to you."
"Where's your laptop?" Mulder wanted to download the file immediately.
"With me. But listen, there's more. Did you know Packard had an M.D., residency 
in infectious diseases?"
Mulder raised his eyebrows and an eager smile started to creep across his face. 
"Really?" he asked, piqued.
"And you might wonder what an army man is doing at a naval base, right?"
"Sure."
"So would I. He manages some contracts using Alameda as a base. The contracts 
are with various drug companies prospecting for antimicrobial agents, among them 
Anticorps. He came here after spending thirteen years at USAMRIID."
"The army's answer to the CDC," Mulder murmured. "Think he got tired of working 
in a space suit?" He didn't wait for her answer. "Listen, how soon can you get 
back here? I think we can get a warrant for Ledbetter."
"That spreadsheet is currently inadmissible, Mulder," she warned. "We've filed a 
request with the base for a copy of the backed-up hard drive but it'll take a 
day or two to process and I wouldn't be surprised if the information magically 
disappears or the request is denied. The gunmen have a copy, but it's going to 
take days for them to sort through it. They say it's pretty cryptic. And 
anything they find is, like I said, inadmissible."
"Well, if I'm right, Scully, we're not going to have much time. We'll have to 
get together enough evidence another way. I got some interesting material from 
Anticorps today, some stuff from Ledbetter's lab journals. Can you look at it 
and tell me what it is?"
"A chemistry lab notebook?" Scully said incredulously. "Mulder, I'm flattered, 
but I only worked part-time in a lab for a couple of years in med school, and 
that was a virology lab. I was good at orgo but I really don't think--"
Mulder drummed his fingers impatiently on the table. "Well, do you know someone? 
I don't want to just send this back to the Bureau--they're not going to look for 
what I want. And if the gunmen are busy with that computer...."
He could hear her thinking, could virtually see her intent face. This was always 
the best part of a case. "Yeah," she said finally. "Yeah, I know somebody. A 
professor at UCSF. An old acquaintance of mine."
"Great," Mulder said. "Can you give her--him--whatever, a call, meet up for 
dinner?"
"Him. Ben Hsu. Yeah, I'll call him." There was a pause, and he heard Anna's 
muffled voice in the background.
Then Scully was speaking to him again. "I think we're done here for now," she 
said. "We'll be back in an hour or so."
"Okay. I'm at the hotel."
Mulder disconnected abruptly and returned to the notepad in front of him. He 
picked up a pen and began scribbling numbers with renewed energy.
---------------------------------------------------
4:43 p.m.
Scully found the door was propped open, the lever that had replaced a chain 
turned two-hundred degrees so that it was scissored between the door and frame. 
She pushed lightly on the wood and stepped inside. "Mulder?"
Anna followed. At first glance, the room, though strewn with crumpled papers and 
file folders, was devoid of human life, but a second later the bathroom door 
opened immediately to her right and Mulder came careening through, crashing into 
her.
"Oh, hey, sorry," he said, gripping her shoulders to keep her balanced. Anna was 
too startled to speak. He'd discarded his suit for a pair of jeans and a black 
turtleneck. She recovered quickly though, and as he stepped away gestured at his 
new attire.
"What's with the duds?" she asked. "Going undercover?"
He smirked, turning slightly to include Scully in the expression. "Don't want to 
scare our friendly scientists with the G-man routine."
"So you settled on starving artist instead?" Anna quipped. "I've got some 
plainclothes in the car, lemme run down and get them, okay?"
"Sure," Mulder answered. As Anna left, he turned to Scully. "We barely have time 
to talk. What took you so long?"
"Traffic," she replied evenly, a faint smile playing about her lips.
He snorted, conceding the point, and moved across the room to the table, took 
the chair in which she had sat the previous night.
"She's better than most of our local contacts, don't you think?" he asked, 
nodding at the door. "How was your day with her?"
"You're just saying that because you've got her starting to believe you," Scully 
answered, folding her arms across her chest. "But, yes, she's more than helpful. 
What do you got there?"
"I'd rather wait til she gets back, not tell the story twice. But I'll give you 
the punchline, just to give you some time to think about your argument in 
advance, how's that?" His words might have seemed harsh but his grin was 
genuine, and she found herself returning it unwillingly.
She shook her head slowly and looked away, shoulders shaking in a brief, silent 
chuckle even as a wave of sad nostalgia swept over her. His quip returned her to 
the train of thought she'd disembarked from the night before: they didn't even 
argue like they used to. There was an unsettling cushion between them that 
prevented hard blows and encouraged indulgence. She wasn't quite sure who'd 
started it, who feared hurting whom, but it hadn't used to be necessary and she 
suspected their investigations suffered for it. 
Though she usually preferred working alone with Mulder, this time she was oddly 
grateful for Vasquez' efficient presence: it dispelled at least some of the 
surface tension between them--they both had to pretend as if everything were 
normal.
She became aware that Mulder was regarding her with an almost wistful expression 
that made her uncomfortable even as it touched her. She wondered if he'd been 
thinking the same thing, and prayed he wouldn't say it. As soon as such 
admissions were laid on the table between them, any attempt to rectify them 
would seem insincere.
Thankfully, Vasquez breezed back into the room at that moment, plainclothes 
folded neatly under her arm. She stopped just inside and looked from Scully to 
Mulder, as if uncertain what she had interrupted, then recovered quickly. "Can I 
use your bathroom to change?" she asked him.
He gave a 'go-ahead' wave of his hand, about to reply, but Scully spoke first. 
"Actually, I want to change too. Why don't we just go over to my room?"
Anna shrugged and nodded.
Mulder raised a suggestive eyebrow. "Can I come too?" 
Anna was already partway out the door but stopped to call back, "Agent Mulder, 
one of these days you're going to wind up getting slapped with a sexual 
harassment suit."
"Sounds kinky!" he called after them.
Five minutes later they were all denim-clad and assembled around the table, 
which Mulder had pulled over to the edge of the bed to compensate for the 
presence of only two chairs.
"Okay," he said, looking at Scully. "I promised I'd tell you the punchline 
first. I think he chooses his dates and times to kill based on the numbers. But 
before I go into that"--he tapped his notepad--"let me tell you about the 
conversation I had this morning."
He recapped the story quickly, explaining that Gegenmir believed Ledbetter was 
responsible for his son's death and, indirectly, his wife's subsequent suicide.
"Do you believe him?" Scully asked.
"I believe he believes he's telling the truth, and I don't think that a 
molecular biologist would be easy to convince of paranormal powers like that."
"Ledbetter's a scientist--he believes," Vasquez pointed out.
"Yes, but Ledbetter is not a normal guy," Mulder replied. "As I explained in my 
profile. Gegenmir--he was just a normal, intelligent, working man, with a wife 
and a kid and a good job."
"Then it all fell apart," Scully said. "Couldn't that make him grasp at straws 
for an explanation? He's looking for someone to blame, and Ledbetter hasn't 
exactly kept his hobby a secret. If Gegenmir had any kind of prejudice toward 
that sort of thing, it could be exploited."
"My initial thoughts exactly," Mulder answered. "But then he provided me with 
these." He placed a poorly collated stack of photocopied pages on the table, 
perhaps 100 in all. Scully took the top sheet and Anna followed her lead, taking 
the second sheet.
Each page was numbered and dated in a messy ink scrawl. Scully recognized 
chemical reactions and chemical names, tables describing amounts, and the 
numbered steps of protocols, telling what was mixed with what and when.
"Ledbetter's lab journals," Mulder said. "This is what I need your friend to 
look at, Scully." 
She raised her eyebrows and nodded. "Well, I'm glad we called him, then, because 
there's no way I'm going to be able to wade through this. Maybe we should send 
it back to the Bureau labs, if you're so sure it's important."
"Can't," Mulder answered shortly. "Company secrets. Gegenmir gave this stuff to 
me only with the explicit promise that I wouldn't let anyone who could _do_ 
anything with it see it. He could lose his job, maybe even be prosecuted, and 
without a warrant that evidence is inadmissible anyway."
"So we have a pile of inadmissible evidence and a suspect who's been implicated 
by a man who is not a witness and whose judgment is psychologically 
questionable," said Vasquez. "Great. Is this how you two always work?"
"Only in even months," replied Mulder smoothly. "Which brings us to the final 
point, which may be the best admissible thing we have to work with."
Both women looked up, listening. Mulder placed a new sheet of paper in front of 
them, this one containing several short arithmetic problems.
"I started looking for significance in the dates of the murders, which would be 
a signature of a sacrificial killing. Although such cases are poorly 
substantiated"--this with a significant glance at Scully--"the lore depends on 
obscure numerology.
"After a few false starts, the pattern was glaringly obvious. The first victim 
died at night on March 23, though he was discovered on March 24."
"Well, actually, we can't pinpoint the time of death," Anna reminded him. 
Mulder shook his head. "Just a minute. The second death occurred fourteen days 
later on April 6, which might suggest a pattern, but the third was on April 18. 
All the remains were discovered on the following day and the deaths presumed to 
have occurred sometime during the night. At first, I looked for combinations of 
numbers with our calendar, and then I turned to more strictly lunar calendars, 
which led me to check on the phases of the moons on these dates. March 23 was a 
new moon, April 6 a waxing half-moon, and April 18 a waxing gibbous moon."
"Gibbous?" Scully asked.
"A moon which is not quite full, but appears to be," Mulder answered. "Adherents 
of the Temple of Set believe that power is derived from five pillars erected at 
the vertices of a pentagon. When these pillars were actually physically 
constructed, they were built so that they would align with the rising moon in 
different phases and different seasons. The phases were the new moon, the waxing 
half-moon, the waking gibbous moon and its sister, the waning gibbous moon, and 
the waning half-moon."
Anna asked the question on both their minds. "Why not a full moon?"
"Because they practice black magic," said Mulder. "You don't celebrate the 
brightest night. I'm sure it's more thoroughly justified than that, but that's 
my interpretation."
"So you're suggesting that the next death will be tomorrow, aren't you?" Scully 
said. "For the waning gibbous moon? You only have three data points--I'm not 
sure you should be extrapolating with such confidence."
"It's a pretty compelling coincidence, Scully. Rituals were often performed at 
the same phases of the moon, hence the positions of the pillars."
"But you said the pillars were built to correspond to moonrises in different 
seasons as well."
"Yeah, that is a problem. I think he's in a hurry. Maybe he doesn't have to 
adhere strictly to all the tenets of this faith."
"Sort of like a Cafeteria Catholic?" Anna asked. "Cafeteria Satanist?"
"The Temple of Set isn't a Satanist organization, but yes, that's the idea," 
Mulder told her. "Also, the rituals I mentioned were usually performed so as to 
climax at midnight, which is when I'd wager these deaths are occurring."
"But why?" Scully insisted. "What's the motive?"
Mulder held up a finger. "Ah, that's the good part. Members of the Temple of Set 
divide history into Ages, and each Age has a word of power which is itself a 
goal. Ledbetter wants to fulfill the goal of this Age, to infuse the word with 
power and thus gain self-awareness. He may have concocted a ritual he believes 
will do this, will grant him understanding of 'Xeper.' And it requires that he 
kill people in this bizarre way on astrologically significant dates."
"But why Packard? Why Jorgensen?"
"I don't think the person matters much. It goes back to who Ledbetter is. He's 
got this image of himself as someone who's misunderstood, persecuted, but he's 
going to show them. He needs someone to kill, so he chooses people who've pissed 
him off somehow."
Scully was frowning; Anna looked intrigued. "So who would he go after next?" she 
asked.
"I don't know. And I still don't know how he's doing it."
"This is all speculation, Mulder," Scully said finally, "and whenever the 
circumstances don't exactly fit, you're brushing over it by saying he just 
hasn't done his homework. But if he hasn't done his homework, why is he so 
successful at this bizarre M.O., which you're suggesting requires magical power 
of some kind?"
"Maybe it's not magic, Scully. This guy's a chemist. That's why we need to go 
through these journals."
Anna glanced at her watch. "Speaking of which...." she hummed.
"Right," Mulder said. "Where are we meeting?"
"Mission district," Anna replied. "Let's take my car."
As they waited for the elevator, Scully suddenly remembered. "By the way, 
Mulder," she said. "Did you get a chance to talk to Dr. Thrush today?"
"Thrush?" He looked momentarily confused, then remembered. "Oh, the woman you 
talked to yesterday. No. Sorry. I've been working on this." He nodded down at 
the notes. At Scully's slightly disapproving glance, he added: "Tomorrow."




CHAPTER FOUR

---------------------------------------------------
Mission District
San Francisco
6:30 p.m.
The three entered the restaurant, Scully leading the way. She stopped to speak 
to the waiter playing host, but a call from midway back in the restaurant 
stopped her. "Dana!"
All three turned to the source of the voice, a tall, clean-cut Asian man wearing 
narrow round glasses and waving from a large round table. Scully's face assumed 
the wide, social smile that Mulder so rarely saw, and she led them back to meet 
them.
Ben Hsu moved immediately to embrace Scully, ducking to kiss her cheek. "Haven't 
grown any, I see," he quipped. "And what's with the hair? I thought people got 
greyer with age, not redder. But really, you look great."
Mulder felt slightly off-balance, wondering exactly how well Scully knew this 
man and why he'd never heard of him. But he didn't have much time to think about 
it because Scully was already introducing them, and there were hands to be 
shaken.
"It's good to see you too, Ben," she was saying, that smile still decorating her 
face. "This is Detective Anna Vasquez, with the South City P.D., and this is my 
partner, Fox Mulder."
"Anna, Fox," Ben was saying, nodding to them. He looked directly at Mulder. 
"Fox, huh? Guess you've probably heard all the jokes anyone can imagine, so I'll 
forego them. Besides, I don't know--do FBI agents joke?"
Mulder smiled thinly. "That's a government secret, Dr. Hsu. I could tell you, 
but then I'd have to kill you."
"Mulder isn't your average FBI agent," Scully said, with a slight emphasis on 
the first word which Mulder appreciated, knowing she'd spoken the sentence only 
as an excuse to say his name. The wide smile of the Scully he barely knew had 
melted into a more familiar pleasant expression, much to his relief.
A young woman in her early twenties stood up from the table, and Mulder noticed 
her for the first time. She was clad in a red T-shirt and green flannel, her 
shoulder-length blonde hair clasped back in a poorly-contained ponytail.
"Oh, and this is one of my graduate students," Ben supplied hurriedly. "Isabelle 
Frank. She knows chemistry better than I do, so I asked her to come along."
"Thanks for coming," Scully said, reaching across Ben to shake the young woman's 
hand.
"Sure," Isabelle replied. "Free food, right?"
Mulder snorted, tapped his back pocket. "Courtesy of your Uncle Sam," he assured 
her.
"Cool," she said vaguely, barely clasping his hand to shake it.
They arranged themselves around the table, Scully beside Ben and Anna beside 
her, leaving Mulder next to Isabelle. Ben passed laminated menus around to all 
of them. "The burgers are great," he said. "I figured you east coasters would 
want something a little more traditional."
Mulder barely glanced at the menu, not very interested in food, then tucked it 
pointedly under the pile of lab notes he'd set on the table. He caught a slight 
glance from Scully warning him to slow down and took the hint: these two owed 
them nothing and probably didn't share their sense of urgency. He wondered 
exactly what kind of imposition this was, trying to gauge how quickly he could 
pace things.
"So how long have you and Scully known each other?" he asked Ben.
Ben looked up from his menu, glanced sideways at Scully. "Scully, huh? Wow, you 
really have gone all the way with this FBI thing. Should I not call you Dana 
anymore?"
Scully snorted. "Dana's fine." To Mulder, she said, "Ben and I knew each other 
in college. But I haven't seen in him in--what?--six years?"
Ben shook his head. "Yeah, well, you just made one wrong choice after another, 
Dana," he sighed with mock regret. "Leaving science for medicine, then leaving 
medicine for law enforcement...." He paused, then said seriously, "I never 
would've pictured you where you are now." Then, as if realizing how that 
sounded, he amended hurriedly: "Not that that's a bad place to be. Do you like 
it?"
Scully resisted the urge to look at Mulder. "Yes, I do. Very much."
Something in her voice stopped Ben from making the obvious joke and asking if 
she'd speak differently in Mulder's absence. Instead, he just smiled sincerely 
at her. "I'm glad you found what you wanted, then."
"What about you, Ben?" she asked. "Academia treating you well?"
Ben glanced sidelong at Isabelle, who was poring over her menu with a bored 
expression, oblivious to the pleasantries. "It's passable," he answered. "I have 
great people in my lab, and the work's been going well. A little more political 
than I thought it'd be, though."
"I'm afraid I haven't kept up with your work," Scully said apologetically. "Are 
you still interested strictly in DNA-binding proteins?"
Hsu seemed inordinately pleased that she'd asked, and proceeded to tell her 
about work in the lab while Mulder and Anna listened and Isabelle studiously 
ignored them all. After the waitress took their orders and poured their water, 
Scully apparently decided it was time to get down to business.
At a convenient pause in the conversation, she reached across the table for the 
papers in front of Mulder, pulled them across in front of Ben. "We were hoping 
you could look these over for us," she said. "I have to ask that they be kept 
confidential."
"Of course," Ben answered, picking up the top sheet just as Scully had done 
scant hours earlier. "Can I ask what it's about?" He glanced at Mulder and 
grinned. "Or will you have to kill me?"
"It's a lab notebook from a synthetic organic chemist at a local biotech company 
involved in finding new ways to combat microbes," Scully explained.
Isabelle abruptly sat forward, leaning her thin elbows on the table. "Anticorps? 
Are you working on the deaths there?"
"You know about them?" Anna asked, surprised. She'd managed to keep the press 
mostly quiet by repeating the truth: that it was still officially a lab 
accident.
"Sure," Isabelle replied. "Everybody does. We're all talking about how it 
could've happened. Other students, I mean."
"Come up with anything good?" Mulder asked her hopefully.
She grinned. "Nope. But if you give me some of the details, maybe." She too 
lifted a sheet from the stack of papers.
"We've had scientists and Haz Mat crews review the data," Anna told her.
Isabelle shrugged, as if she didn't have much faith in either recourse. "Is this 
the journal from the guy who died?" she asked.
"No," Scully said quickly. "Just someone who worked there."
"You think his work might've done it?"
"We'd like to see what you think," Scully told her carefully.
Isabelle took a sip of her water and nodded, then leaned over the page in front 
of her.
For the next twenty minutes, the two scientists reviewed the information 
quietly, occasionally conferring with one another or pointing out interesting 
readouts on graphs that were interspersed with the handwritten text. The 
investigators looked on silently, understanding few of the tersely exchanged 
phrases.
When their food arrived, Ben pushed the pages back. "Well, I think one thing's 
clear," he said. "We're going to have to take these back to the lab. Need some 
books to identify a lot of this. This guy takes terrible notes. Sorta like you, 
Isabelle." He grinned wryly at his student.
She wrinkled her nose and pursed her lips distastefully. "At least my 
handwriting is legible, unlike that of some," she replied.
"Does it look like ordinary lab work?" Scully asked. "Something that Anticorps 
would be interested in?"
"It's really impossible to tell without some references," Hsu said 
apologetically. "We just can't identify these things by memory--they're 
hydrocarbon rings. Could be anything."
"Well, maybe we could go back to your lab after dinner," suggested Mulder. There 
was a slight edge of impatience in his voice which Scully hoped only she could 
detect.
Anna might have heard it too, though, or at least caught the agents' shared 
glance, because there was a certain purpose to her next words. "So, Isabelle. 
You're a doctoral student?"
"Fourth year," the young woman confirmed, nodding. Ben asked Scully a question 
which Mulder didn't hear, and she smiled politely, answered.
The party returned to exchanging the staple of unfamiliar company: pleasantries 
and stories. Scully was soon discussing college with both Ben and Anna, and then 
the talk returned to research, skirting the case by touching on methods of 
antibiotic resistance in microbes. Mulder listened with only one ear, rarely 
participating. He was anxious to get back to work and vaguely irritated that his 
fellow investigators did not seem to feel the same pressure. 
When he had finished his meal, he saw that no one else was even halfway done, 
and felt his impatience grow. Small talk had never been his forte, and besides, 
they had work to do. They needed to get a warrant tonight if they hoped to 
prevent the next death.
He folded his napkin and tucked it under his plate, excused himself. He weaved 
through the tables back to the restroom, which he quickly discovered was a 
one-room, one-person affair. He tried the handle--it was locked. So he leaned up 
against the wall outside, waiting.
He knew the scientists were doing them a favor, and that they couldn't be 
expected to translate Ledbetter's notes from memory. It was difficult to 
emphasize the urgency he felt without risking their spreading rumors about how 
they had helped with a murder investigation. Further, he knew that if he spoke 
up, tried to hurry them, Scully would be irritated. It's only fifteen more 
minutes, she'd remind him severely with her eyes.
He recognized semi-consciously that a large portion of his irritation wasn't 
related to the delay, but stemmed somehow from Scully. She had been chatting 
amiably with Ben and Anna throughout the meal, and though both had made attempts 
to include Mulder, she seemed to recognize he wasn't in the mood. Which was 
fine, good. But for some undefinable reason it irritated him that she was 
participating. One of the things he liked best about their partnership was that 
they didn't indulge in the chatter he found so false and irrelevant. If there 
was nothing to say, neither said anything, and that was it. To see her so easily 
engaged in artificial socializing annoyed him.
The restroom door opened, and a man exited. Mulder entered and locked the door.
Then there was the matter of Ben Hsu. He hadn't missed the man's affectionate 
greeting, nor had he missed the subtle glances at Scully's fingers or the way 
the man leaned toward her, engaged in prolonged eye contact when she spoke. So 
what? he thought. This isn't the first time someone's flirted with her.
Was he jealous? Well, not in any traditional sense. Whatever their history, he 
knew that the past he and Scully shared was stronger; it was hard to feel 
threatened. And hell, as far as he knew, she hadn't been on a date in years, 
except for the one that ended going up in flames. Literally. How could he 
begrudge her a little flattering attention from an old friend?
Six months ago, it wouldn't have bothered him. Now....
Now he felt oddly possessive. He knew this was somehow linked to her cancer, but 
it was not a connection he wished to pursue very deeply.
Anyway, there were other things to think about. Like the case, for instance. 
He rinsed his hands and exited the restroom. Halfway across the room, though, he 
stopped, caught by the image of his partner, her face turned away from him 
toward Anna, laughing. Not chuckling or smirking, but genuinely laughing. With 
Anna. Ben and Isabelle were smiling politely.
He found the sight disconcerting; this was not a Dana Scully he had had 
encountered very often, and that it surprised him was disturbing. More 
disturbing was the sudden, incredibly vivid memory of a much younger Scully, 
standing in an Oregon cemetery drenched in cold, pouring rain. Laughing with 
him.
She'd thought he was crazy.
He couldn't remember the last time they'd laughed like that. Maybe that was the 
last time.
Isabelle caught sight of him, and her gaze drew Scully's attention, for she 
turned to see him standing still, watching them. Her laughter faded to a more 
familiar smile, and she slowly turned back to Anna, leaving Mulder feeling a 
little silly at having been caught staring. He straightened his tie and moved 
quickly back to his seat just as Ben began telling some newly irrelevant story 
about his childhood.
Luckily, the check came quickly. Outside they divided into the two cars, 
Isabelle riding with Mulder and Anna so she could direct them. Ben, of course, 
suggested that Scully ride with him, so that they could continue to 'catch up.'
As they walked back to the car, Isabelle trailing behind in by-now 
characteristic silence, Vasquez leaned into Mulder slightly. "What's wrong with 
you?" she murmured.
He glared at her, irritated both that she'd recognized his mood and that she'd 
pointed it out. "Just wanting to get to work on the case," he answered.
"Oh," she said, nodding. 
---------------------------------------------------
University of California
San Francisco
7:41 p.m.
UCSF--hospital and medical school--was built into the side of a hill, so that if 
one entered on the ground from the back, one found oneself on the fifth floor. 
Scully had always loved the topography of San Francisco; the hills gave a 
layered effect to the city's buildings that made the skyscape far more 
aesthetically appealing than that of any other city she had visited. And Scully 
had visited a lot of cities.
The other three arrived minutes later, and they entered the building together. 
Scully gazed with an odd fondness at the tall grey freezers and steel carts 
lining the hallway, smiling faintly at the simple memories the rundown, 
quasi-industrial corridor engendered.
She remembered how nervous she'd been before presenting data at her first lab 
meetings in her second year of medical school, the only year during which she'd 
worked in a biology lab. She remembered how her friends, who had opted out of 
the laboratory experience, had winced when she told them how one sacrificed a 
mouse--grip the back of its neck between thumb and forefinger, then give a sharp 
yank on its tail.
"Ugh, that's so gross, Dana! How can you do that? Why don't you just gas them or 
something?"
"It's much kinder," she'd answered. "Instant. Gas can take minutes, and they 
essentially suffocate."
It hadn't been as easy as she'd pretended, but it had been somehow important to 
her not to distance herself from the act of killing, not allow herself to 
pretend it was anything else. It was only fair to the mouse.
Ben Hsu's lab had no mice, however, only chemicals. While he and Isabelle went 
to work looking up the properties of the compounds in Ledbetter's lab journal, 
Mulder commandeered a laboratory computer and downloaded his email, hoping for 
something new from the gunmen. Feeling useless, Scully asked Ben for a list of 
compounds she herself could check, while he and Isabelle instead tried to 
predict the purposes behind the protocols.
Armed with a Sigma catalog and an organic chemistry book, Scully set to work 
pinning down the names and origins of the chemicals. Within thirty minutes, a 
trend was obvious. She called Mulder and Anna over to see.
"They're natural products," she announced. "Polypropinates, isonitriles, a 
haliclonacyclamine. He's synthesizing and reacting compound aromatics, largely 
by testing creative catalytic agents and sometimes even by reverse-engineering 
enzymes."
"English, Scully," Mulder prompted. Anna had a blank look on her face.
"Natural products are chemicals produced by biosynthetic pathways of plants or 
animals or bacteria that can have therapeutic value. Taxol, for instance, is an 
anti-cancer drug that comes from a South American tree. Originally, it had to be 
distilled from the bark of that tree, but recently an organic chemist figured 
out how to synthesize it in the laboratory. It looks like that's what 
Ledbetter's been doing."
She could see that Mulder was beginning to get excited. "Do you know what 
they're from?"
"A couple of them," Scully said. "This is from a sponge, this from seaweed, this 
from some sort of plant in the Atropa family. But most of them I only recognize 
by their relatedness to other compounds."
"From plants?"
She saw where he was going. "Well, yes, but--"
Mulder placed his hands flat on the table in front of her and leaned forward. 
Anna had to step closer to hear.
"He's making potions, Scully," Mulder said. "He's using the active ingredients 
from traditional herbs and animal or bacterial preparations to perform spells."
"Mulder, he works for a company looking for ways to kill bacteria! Plants, fungi 
and even other bacteria have worked out strategies for doing this over millions 
of years--that's what most natural product therapies are! All our current 
antibiotics were discovered this way!"
"Do the notes say what he's doing with them?" Mulder challenged, speaking more 
loudly now. "Is he testing their antimicrobial effectiveness or is he mixing 
them together for no apparent reason?"
"I'd say he's mixing them," said Isabelle suddenly. She was seated several feet 
away but had apparently overheard. She held up several sheets of paper which 
showed printouts of spiky graphs. "See these spectra? These are the products of 
reactions he engineered between the chemicals Dana has. I haven't come across 
any antimicrobial assays at all."
Ben was now listening too, perched on a stool on the lab bench next to Isabelle. 
"Can you interpret the spectra?" he asked her.
"Well, he hasn't given me any clues, which is odd, because I'd think he'd write 
down the compound structure himself, but these notes are obviously both poor and 
incomplete, you know?" she said. "So I've figured out a few of them, but they're 
nothing in any of the books. Multicyclic aromatic hydrocarbons. Probably have 
biological activity. This one's kinda cool--it resembles a neurotransmitter."
"Isabelle can read NMR spectra in her sleep," Ben said proudly.
"Neurotransmitter?" Mulder repeated. "So these chemicals could have effects on 
brain processes?"
"This one could," Isabelle acknowledged. "But there's absolutely no evidence of 
that here. He might have been trying to make a channel inhibitor or something, 
but he hadn't gotten to the testing phase. But that has nothing to do with 
bacteria, I have no idea why he'd do that."
"Is there anything at all in the notes to suggest antimicrobial research?" 
Mulder persisted.
"The only bacteria he's worked with, as far as I've seen, are E. coli," Ben 
supplied, "and we all use E. coli for cloning. Nothing unusual there. To me, it 
looks like he's been trying to recreate plant molecular pathways in harmless 
bacteria."
"Why would he do that?" Anna asked.
"To get the bacteria to synthesize the plant products?" Mulder asked with a 
glance at Scully, who shrugged and nodded, acknowledging the possibility.
"But, Mulder, there's no evidence that these are actually chemicals from herbal 
lore. And even if they are, they might be part of some herbal medicine 
experiment. Maybe he's trying to find ways to synthesize the active ingredients 
of traditional herbal treatments. Anyway, if he were making potions, why 
wouldn't he just use the plants themselves?"
"Potions?" Ben asked.
Mulder ignored him. "Maybe he can't get them in Northern California? Maybe 
they're psychoactive and therefore illegal?"
Scully rolled her eyes. "You can get any psychoactive plant in Northern 
California, Mulder."
"Well, maybe he's looking for a better, faster way to do it. Lots of ancient 
spells called for herbs to be treated or dried for months. Maybe those 
instructions exist just to encourage the production of chemicals Ledbetter wants 
to make. C'mon, Scully, this could be a scientific explanation for something 
that's always been considered supernatural."
Isabelle and Ben exchanged confused glances and Anna wet her lips nervously.
Scully raised one eyebrow. "Don't you think some chemist would've figured that 
out by now? And some trace of such a chemical would have been present in the 
analysis of the remains. Let's figure out what plants and fungi make these 
things before we jump to any conclusions."
"There's not time for that," Mulder said. "Ledbetter's our man. The gunmen sent 
me the spreadsheet, and it details eleven payments from Packard to Ledbetter, 
personal checks. Gegenmir said Ledbetter was trying to blackmail him too."
Scully frowned. "Mulder, if Packard was being blackmailed, why would he keep 
records of his payments on his computer at work?"
"Not everybody has home computers?" Mulder suggested. "I don't know. What I do 
know is that we have enough to pull Ledbetter in for questioning, and maybe even 
enough to arrest him."
"There's no way you're going to get a warrant for this," Scully replied 
heatedly. The others in the room were now looking away, at walls or papers or 
anything except Mulder and Scully. "None of this"--she gestured at the notes in 
front of her--"is admissible, and neither is that spreadsheet. What are you 
going to do, go to a judge with just Gegenmir's testimony that Ledbetter made 
his son sick by exercising powers of darkness and ask for a warrant?"
Mulder put his hands on his hips, turned sideways and drew an exasperated 
breath. It occurred to Scully that her partner was genuinely angry. His next 
words confirmed it.
"Can I speak to you for a minute?"
Scully glanced at Anna, who pointedly did not meet her eyes. She looked at Ben 
and Isabelle, who had both turned back to their papers, pretending not to hear 
though they obviously had. Then her eyes returned to Mulder, who was watching 
her closely. Though he stood four feet away, she had the sudden sensation that 
he was invading the air around her that she considered her space. It unnerved 
her even as it exacerbated her own...what? Anger?
She stood and strode past him, hearing him follow her into the hallway. They 
walked side-by-side in silence to the end of the hall, where he quite suddenly 
was invading her space, leaning over her to whisper harshly, "Scully, I don't 
expect you to agree with me and I certainly don't expect you to keep your mouth 
shut when you disagree, but I do expect that you don't belittle my theories in 
front of the people I have to convince if I'm to get anything accomplished."
Yes, she was definitely angry. "You mean Anna?" she asked, then hesitated just 
long enough to let the implication sink in but not so long that he could accuse 
her of implying anything. "Anna's heard your theory. She's been rather 
surprisingly tolerant of it. You say you don't want me to keep my objections to 
myself, but at the same time you're telling me not to speak up because it 
undermines your goal? Whose goal are we talking about here--yours or _ours_?"
"It's not your objections I have a problem with, it's the tone in which you're 
choosing to voice them. Sarcasm is fine between us, Scully, but not in public."
"Bullshit, Mulder," she hissed. "If that were a rule, you'd be guilty of 
violating it a hundred times over. In any case, it was hardly public. Anna 
deserves to hear anything pertaining to the case--it's still her case, after 
all. And Ben and Isabelle have no impact on this case beyond their conclusions, 
which they will justify with facts regardless of what they think of our 
investigation. But I really want to know, Mulder, whose goal is it?"
He leaned even further over her, making her feel every inch of his superior 
height, and she resented him for it. "I don't know," he answered acidly. "I'm 
not quite sure what our goal is."
"I thought it was to solve this case."
"That and keep anyone else from dying. We have just over twenty-four hours to do 
that, Scully, but you don't seem terribly concerned about this timeframe."
"I'm not convinced of the timeframe! But even if I were, that's no reason to 
rush. If we rush, we'll get sloppy. Arresting the wrong man isn't going to stop 
someone else from dying."
"But arresting the right man might."
"You're willing to put an innocent man in jail on that chance?"
He considered only a moment. "Frankly, yes, I am," he replied. His next words 
were deliberately emphasized. "But I don't think he's innocent."
She heard the subtext which he would never speak: And I'm rarely wrong about 
these things, so you should trust me. She broke his gaze and looked off to the 
side, hesitating.
Finally, she looked back at him. "Okay, Mulder. I still say there's no way 
you're going to get a warrant. Pull him in for questioning if you can find him, 
and get a court order to turn over his journals so that this evidence is 
admissible and we'll go from there. Is that acceptable?"
"That's fine," he answered, relaxing a bit. "You'll stay here and keep working 
with Ben and Isabelle to figure out what he's doing?"
She rubbed her temples with thumb and forefinger, feeling the fingers of a 
headache starting to squeeze her skull. "Yeah. Okay."
He started to turn away, apparently satisfied, but then stopped, turned back to 
her. "I don't mind you arguing," he repeated. "It was just the tone."
She didn't feel like defending herself. If he wanted the last word, fine. So she 
nodded, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, just acknowledging him.
He reached out awkwardly with his left hand, hesitated a moment before closing 
it around her upper arm, which he squeezed briefly. Without another word, he 
turned and started back toward the laboratory.
Expecting her to follow. Knowing she'd follow. For a reason far larger than 
their angry exchange, a certain quiet rage lodged in her breast. Fox Mulder, 
profiler extraordinaire, manipulator extraordinaire, had won again. And she was 
sure he'd won unfairly, though she wasn't quite sure what rule he'd broken.
Well, someday he'll walk away like that and I won't be following, she thought 
with an immature satisfaction for which she was immediately ashamed. The 
alternate (and perhaps more true) interpretation of her secret thought did not 
occur to her until she entered the lab.
She dismissed it quickly. This was neither the time nor place.
Never and nowhere were the time and place.
Mulder was already explaining their conclusions to Anna, who was nodding in 
agreement, satisfied with the compromise and probably relieved that she wouldn't 
have to go to a judge alleging that Ledbetter killed using "magic" based on the 
testimony of a single man who had witnessed nothing. The two of them quickly 
departed to obtain the court order, after Ben promised to drive Scully back to 
their hotel later that night.
---------------------------------------------------
11:33 p.m.
He answered the phone on the second ring. "Scully?"
"That's how I answer my phone," she told him. It was a poor joke, and he didn't 
respond. So she continued. "We've identified several of the chemical sources, 
Mulder."
"Shoot."
"Well, one is from Atropa belladonna, commonly called nightshade."
"Isn't nightshade deadly?"
"Not all nightshade, but this one, yes."
Mulder nodded thoughtfully.
"Don't get too excited yet. Another is isolated from the root of Marrubium 
vulgare, or horehound, which has no known toxicity. It looks like he is reacting 
them together, though we're still not sure about the products or the intent."
"He's a modern potion-maker, Scully. No black cauldron, but--"
"Double, double, toil and trouble?" she sighed.
"By the pricking of my thumbs...." Mulder answered wryly, letting the remainder 
of the poem dangle between them. He paused a second, then: "Well, unfortunately 
our investigations weren't quite so fruitful. Ledbetter wasn't home, and no 
judge would see us at this hour without us being able to demonstrate that we 
needed the order immediately. We'll have to go in the morning."
"What about the twenty-four hours?" Scully prompted. "That should be urgent 
enough."
"The justice office did not find my reasoning 'compelling,'" Mulder answered 
shortly. "They're willing to issue a search warrant at 8 a.m., though."
"Oh," was all Scully could think of to say. There was an awkward pause. "Well. I 
guess we'll go in the morning."
"Yeah."
Scully glanced behind her. "I'm gonna stay here a little while longer, if you 
don't need me for anything."
"I don't know if it's necessary. We'll have the court order tomorrow, so we can 
have our labs review the journals as well. I think we've got enough from your 
end, if you want to get some sleep."
"It's okay," she told him, shifting awkwardly. "Just a little longer."
"Okay. I'll see you in the morning, then." The line disconnected and Scully 
punched the 'end' button on her phone, set it down on the blue sofa cushion 
beside her. Behind her, Ben entered carrying two half-filled wine glasses.
"So, Dana," he said. "I'm really glad we have some time to catch up."




INTERLUDE


*****************************************************************
2. CONTAINMENT

*

Containment should be the ongoing objective of every official involved in a 
hostage situation. Above all else, the negotiators and hostages _must_ be made 
safer at every opportunity. Agents are trained to remove them from danger and to 
find alternative targets for the emotions of their captors whenever possible. 
These targets may include inanimate objects, ideals or systems the 
responsibility for which cannot be attributed to any person, or even people from 
the terrorist's past, such as a distant family member. Every opportunity for 
release of _any_ hostage without concurrent risk of the life of an Agent must be 
exploited. Contrary to popular belief, Agents are not called upon to risk their 
lives unnecessarily for those of the hostages; heroic antics are not encouraged. 
Instead, stealth tactics by properly armored Agents are to be employed, with 
direct conflict avoided at all costs.
*
The drink was warm and sour, and it licked at his esophagus with tongues of 
welcome fire. He made a face before he could stop himself, and his companion 
laughed softly.
"Not much of a drinker, are you?"
Her voice was sticky-sweet, dripping like honey, and Mulder was hungry.
He shook his head. "Not much," he agreed.
He raised his cup in a parody of a toast--to what, those who watched could only 
guess. Before the cup reached his lips, she blocked its journey with a hand on 
his arm.
"Maybe you shouldn't," she suggested gently.
"Why not? Nowhere to drive."
This was correct. His room was a few stories above them. His room. The one with 
a bed. Not like his home. Hotel rooms were one of just two rooms, really, either 
the one with a door adjoining Scully's room or the one without such a door. He 
suspected at times that everywhere he went, a quantum doorway let him sleep in 
one of the two, suspended somewhere independent of space-time.
"You've had a couple yourself," he noted.
"Yes," his companion answered soberly. The silence that followed was warm and 
hazy, foggy with an unspoken but shared understanding.
"I'm sorry we're having such a rough time with the case," she offered.
He received her gift gracefully. It really was a lovely present. "There'll be 
time in the morning. I've had things go worse, and still work out in the end."
He wasn't planning. He wasn't plotting. And they were not drunk, neither of 
them, he knew that.
He was just doing what he had to do. It didn't really make much sense to him, 
but really, it made all the sense in the world--not much.

*
Deja vu is a stubborn offender, continuing to tickle even when its victim cries 
stop! Sitting on the couch across from her companion, sipping from a glass of 
red wine, Scully had been screaming stop! in between the gales of cheerful 
laughter for almost an hour now. Luckily, he already knew the prom story--he'd 
heard it years ago.
The words were superfluous; the reacquaintance a choreographed pas de deux in 
which each knew the final position.
Long past were the questions about who was seeing who, about his divorce. When 
he'd asked "Is there anyone in your life now, Dana?" she'd only hesitated a 
second before saying "No," and she soothed the pangs of guilt by telling herself 
it wasn't what he meant. She'd answered what he meant to ask truthfully.
"It took me years to get over you, you know," he'd told her, and he seemed to 
see she didn't want that, so he quickly added: "But my divorce has made me 
unfortunately cynical. I don't look for the same things anymore. Maybe that's 
not unfortunate."
Dana didn't know whether it was or not.
She was relieved when he stood, took her empty glass from her hand and vanished 
into the recesses of his home which she had not seen. She slumped forward, 
elbows on knees, exhaled deeply. Would the curtain fall early? Did she want it 
to?
His return caught her by surprise, his hands landing on her shoulders like 
sandbags. She stiffened, and felt his hesitation, but then his hands clenched 
tightly onto her shoulders and began kneading them as if she were made of dough, 
unrisen.
"Hey," he said, mistaking her reaction for suspicion. "It just looks like you 
could use it."
So she closed her eyes and let him circle around to perch on the sofa arm behind 
her, fingers pressing into her back and neck in patterns which (thankfully) her 
partner never followed.
With a sudden resolve, she leaned back, angling her head into his shoulder, and 
his mouth closed over hers without question.
It had to be done, she told herself. It wasn't quite rational, but it seemed to 
her perfectly sensible. Now.

*
It was scathingly surreal. When he closed his eyes, the images he saw were 
bizarre, sad and erotic all at once. When he opened them, the visions were 
reduced to the purely primitive. So he kept his eyes open, the better to avoid 
contemplation of the aesthetics of his dark imagination.
Besides, the primitive was appealingly aesthetic. Beads of sweat on the sweet 
curve that connected hip to breast stood out in bas relief on sculpted honey 
skin. The narrow furrows of flesh which graced the landscape of an inner thigh 
invited his tiny nipping kisses like fertile soil begs the farmer for seed, 
steering him inevitably toward the musky flower at their apex. The concentric 
circles of a breast, darkest at their center, drew him in like an explosion in 
reverse, contracting into the swelling peak of a nipple.
If he kept his eyes open, he couldn't hear the insistently niggling voice behind 
his ear which told him what a terrible idea this was.
If Scully came by when she returned, he'd have to answer the door. She'd know. 
She'd tell him exactly how unprofessional and irresponsible this was. 
She'd be right.
She'd give words to her anger, but not to her hurt, which he would see 
nonetheless. He was uncertain what right she'd have to be hurt, but that hardly 
mattered. He didn't want to hurt her.
It was a risk, but the odds for the alternative strategy--sending Anna 
home--were worse. 
She drew him inside her, and even through the latex he could feel the warm 
moisture, strong muscles clasping him solidly along his length. His eyes slipped 
closed for an accidental second, and even as he groaned with animal 
appreciation, he saw a twisted, naked form, a vestige of a video, writhing 
before him. Beyond that body lay a misty darkness in which a dark figure stood 
watching. Abruptly a glaring white light from overhead illuminated the backdrop, 
but the figure was still dark, a shadow, until it turned to face him. Then he 
could see its eyes--familiar blue, her eyes--shining with fear.
All this he saw in half a second, and he snapped his eyes open again, lost 
himself again in this woman, this act, this now.
He would never forgive himself for failing to protect Scully years ago. But he 
could try to protect her now, although he wasn't exactly sure who he was 
protecting--himself or her--or from whom--her or himself.
It was an odd choice of defenses, but it was a highly effective one. 
*
Her eyes were closed and the room was dark. The scent of him had changed little 
over the years, and a part of her could almost believe she was thirteen years 
younger, no longer a child but not quite an adult, a first-time lover heady and 
nervous with uncertain expectations. With her eyes closed, she could imagine 
them into a Baltimore studio apartment, when the largest real concerns were the 
diff e-q exam next week even though they could pretend that 2000 nuclear 
warheads pointed at the Soviets were actually the largest concerns in their 
lives. 
Those had been good, easy days, full of the fresh challenge of coursework and 
the comfortable arrogance of a definable, crystal-clear ideology. Ben had made 
love to her in the midst of those days; she'd finally laid down her 
schoolgirlish crucifix and stepped past it in a bold statement of independence. 
She, Dana Katherine Scully, had controlled her own destiny.
As she did tonight.
With her eyes closed, the only clue that betrayed the time for what it was lay, 
ironically, in the considerably better sex. Like any skill, sex improves with 
practice, and despite her not-quite-willing chastity of late, she discovered 
that it really is like riding a proverbial bicycle.
"Dana...." he murmured as her small fingers glided teasingly along his shaft. 
She was Dana here. It helped the illusion.
The woman Ben was speaking to was not dying of cancer, had not lost three months 
of her life or had a sister shot fatally in her home. This woman was not trapped 
between the threatening spectres of her partner's need for her and, worse, her 
need for her partner.
At the first touch of his tongue on the folds of her sex she shivered with 
exquisite pleasure. When he parted her with his fingers, nipped with precision 
at her clitoris, she gasped, exhaling in slow shuddering breaths.
God.
She opened her eyes, just for a moment, and was violently jerked back to the 
present by the vision of her own dimly-lit, oh-so-thin naked body, interrupted 
by Ben's dark head between her thighs. For a moment, she remembered she was not 
twenty, not in Baltimore, not healthy. That one she loved dearly would in all 
likelihood ask where she had been and she would have to lie to him. 
The arousal drained swiftly out of her.
But since the only currently apparent alternative to having to lie to him was to 
strangle him, it was a budgeted loss.
She closed her eyes again and let herself be coaxed back to Baltimore, where the 
promise of golden waves of fantastic, mind-numbing heat was whispered 
insistently.
She was an excellent capacitor, but lately the current was running too high. If 
she didn't touch something, connect with something, discharge, the build-up 
might destroy her. Better this way than via the most likely contact; the closed 
circuit she and her partner shared couldn't sustain this high a voltage 
potential.
Let it go.
Defuse the crisis...as much as you can.
*****************************************************************



CHAPTER FIVE

---------------------------------------------------
1:13 a.m.
Dr. Carol Thrush, Anticorps' premiere microbiologist, hunched low in her car 
when the man came out of the building. She'd worn a grey windbreaker that, when 
hooded, covered most of her features, and she prayed he wouldn't see her.
What would he do if he did?
Once, she would not have feared him, but now, she was completely uncertain. He 
had said she was not his enemy, but she wasn't sure if that mattered now. If he 
knew she was following him, he might change his mind.
She peered over the dashboard until she saw his shadow enter a car. She waited 
until his engine had roared to life and the car had pulled out of the parking 
lot before starting her own car.
This late in the city, it was easy to follow him, but hard to make it look 
unintentional. He seemed quite directed, though, and she prayed he was too 
focused on where he was going to notice her.
I need to talk to him, she thought, not for the first time. Tell him I agree 
with him but this just isn't right.
She followed him up the fourth street ramp onto 80. Why was he getting on the 
bridge? Had he noticed her? Was he trying to lose her?
The bridge had more traffic on it--this city slept more deeply than New York, 
but only barely. They skimmed across the water on the lower deck, over Treasure 
Island without a second thought (she'd never stopped there, how odd, after all 
these years), and then they were on the long span, heading into Oakland.
He took the 880 turnoff, heading south, and Carol followed. They sped through 
the brightly-lit city on the raised highway, and she tried to keep a car or two 
between them, always nervous that he'd exit.
When he did, though, she had plenty of warning. It was easy to follow him up the 
street, though harder now to keep her presence secret. When he stopped, she had 
to drive on by to keep him from getting suspicious, but she knew why he'd 
stopped there already, knew that she'd been wasting her time. 
Of course. The cemetery.
She sighed.
Well, she couldn't be sure. But she should make the call anyway.
Carol pulled over at a darkened gas station and headed for the payphone, put in 
a quarter and dialed.
A sleepy man's voice answered. "Hello?"
She made a quick decision and spoke in a low, harsh voice so as not to be 
recognized. "You're in danger," she said curtly. "Be careful." 
"What?" The voice was fully awake now.
She hung up. Bit her lip and looked at the ground, then at the sky.
She'd only wanted to do science. How had this become her life?
---------------------------------------------------
South San Francisco
1:32 a.m.
Anna sighed contentedly, then rolled over to prop her head up on one hand, her 
breasts settling against Mulder's naked side. The sheets lay loosely over their 
hips in some parody of modesty even though she'd turned the lights off some time 
ago. 
His eyes were closed, his breathing even, but she could tell by the faint 
twitching of his eyelids that he was only feigning sleep.
Hoping she'd leave, probably. She smiled to herself. Typical.
But she wasn't any twenty-year-old romantic. She wasn't going to pressure him or 
cajole him or try to snuggle up against him. This night had been about sex, pure 
and simple, and she had no objection to that. Hell, she'd more or less initiated 
it.
She'd suspected he was a good lover, and she hadn't been disappointed, but she 
hadn't expected the ferocity, the intensity, with which he went about his task. 
He'd kissed her with the desperation of a drowning man, and even as it inflamed 
her at the time, she was now beginning to feel unnerved.
He was a good guy, of that she was certain. But something dark and hungry was 
chasing him, and when it caught up with him, she was equally certain that she 
didn't want to be swallowed up with him.
So it was with the intention of saying goodbye that she leaned over, began to 
kiss him softly. No hard feelings.
But when her lips touched his, he jerked away involuntarily, turning his head. 
He still didn't open his eyes, but after a moment, he spoke. Apologetic. "Anna. 
This...wasn't a good idea. I--"
Anna silenced him with a hand pressed flat against his sternum. "You love her, 
don't you," she stated, not unkindly.
Mulder's eyes snapped open. "What do you mean by that?" he asked, turning his 
head to meet her eyes, so near his own.
She tried to let her expression convey only a gentle teasing. "What part was 
unclear?"
He frowned and stretched, putting one arm behind his head. "We're not--we've 
never been lovers, if that's what you mean."
"I can see that," Anna answered, gesturing vaguely at their intertwined bodies. 
"I'm pretty good with people, and though I can see you both definitely 
have...issues, I don't think you're a jerk."
"Sleeping with you would make me a jerk only if Scully and I were lovers?" 
Mulder countered.
"You're evading my original point," Anna noted slyly, tapping her fingers 
against his chest. "That you love her."
"I'm not afraid to admit that," he answered, immediately defensive. 
Anna sighed softly, but it was a sigh of sympathy, not regret, and he reached up 
to run his fingers through his hair as if exasperated. Once again, Anna thought 
about simply leaving, but there was something endearing about his gesture, 
something that compelled her to gently ask: "Then why are you here with me?"
She could see his features change as he decided to put on an act, willfully 
misunderstanding. He turned to cup her cheek in his palm in a gesture which was 
almost sincere. "Hey. Look," he murmured. "I'm really sorry if I misled you. 
This has been a very good--"
But she cut him short with a grin. "Cut the crap, Mulder, I know why I'm here 
and I got what I wanted. I'm just trying to help you figure out what you want. I 
like you. I like Dana, too. I'd like to help you."
She realized it was true as she said it, and so settled into the bed, resolving 
to stick around for the long haul.
Mulder dropped his hand and turned away again. "You're in an odd position to be 
playing matchmaker, Anna."
She laughed lightly. For a psychologist famous for getting inside the heads of 
serial killers, this man was amazingly dense about ordinary emotions. "I'm not 
trying to tell you anything chincy like, 'if you're lookin' for love, it's right 
in front of you.'" She enunciated those words with a sarcastic, lilting 
shoulder-swagger. "You're both adults, and you've obviously made decisions about 
the nature of your relationship. I wouldn't presume to question them. But still, 
you came to me for a reason, and somehow it seems more like you're running from 
something than looking for a quick--albeit really good--fuck."
The words might have been harsh but there was no sting in her voice. Mulder 
wasn't quite sure what to say. Very rarely did he find himself out-maneuvered. 
Of course, he rarely had to maneuver in such personal territory as this. It was 
dangerous, but somehow compelling, attractive.
So he found himself telling her the truth.
"It's just...so hard to watch her stumble," he heard himself whisper harshly. 
"She tries to hide it but I see her every day, I know. And when I put out a hand 
to help her, she slaps me away. I know how much she values her pride, her 
independence. But I have made myself"--he hesitated--"so vulnerable to her...." 
He trailed off, unwilling to continue. 
"Vulnerability is a gift," Anna said softly. Her hand had finally stopped moving 
on his chest; it lay still and flat there now. "She accepts it from you because 
it lets her be strong for you, but she won't give you the same satisfaction, 
right?"
"I don't like how you phrased that, but yes," Mulder answered thoughtfully. "It 
wasn't always this way. Though I guess it almost always was. We came...so 
close...to discussing it, just a few weeks ago. We were on a case and she went 
so far as to withhold evidence from me to preserve her position of strength. No, 
that's not fair, I'm overstating it. It wasn't really evidence, just sort of.... 
Anyway, I confronted her but I couldn't take it to its logical end. She ran away 
from me and I didn't have the heart to follow her.
"But you know what got me the most about that?" He didn't wait for an answer. 
"When I came into work the next day I found out she'd been talking with the 
Bureau shrink. Which is...fine, I guess...at least she's talking to _someone,_ 
but why a stranger and not me?"
He sought Anna's eyes briefly. "Don't answer that," he warned. "I know the 
answer."
She didn't. Instead, she only raised her eyebrows and ducked her head toward 
him. "Who are you talking to, Agent Mulder?" she reminded him.
He snorted, looked away. "Point taken." He was silent for a long moment. "Look, 
I'm sorry to have drawn you into this. It's not fair to you."
"It's okay," she answered honestly. "I'm using you too. No one ever does 
anything truly unselfish."
He continued as if she hadn't spoken. "I wouldn't have done this, not before. 
It's just never been quite this bad because the consequences have never been 
quite so concrete."
Her eyes invited him to elaborate, but he pretended not to notice.
"I wasn't quite telling the truth before," he confessed. "I wasn't being fair to 
her. I know that she needs her strength--hell, I need her strength--and I don't 
want to break her. I say that only because it is a believable excuse for my 
actions."
"What actions?"
Mulder considered how his creativity had lately improved to provide him with 
more excuses (which she surely saw through) to be near her. How strained 
once-easy dialogues had become, and how simply once-guarded topics could be 
broached. It would be comforting and mostly welcome, this closeness, were it not 
for the shadow which loomed over the motives. So much easier to say he wanted 
her to share her pain than attempt to coalesce his myriad irrational emotions 
into rational communication.
But though he would willingly (no, gladly) bear any part of her burden, he 
didn't actually need her to share it. 
"What actions?" Anna repeated softly, her hand splayed firmly in the center of 
his chest.
He shook his head. "I'd rather not go into that."
She paused, studying his face. Her scrutiny unnerved him, and he turned suddenly 
away from her, onto his side. She let him go. After a long moment, she spoke. 
"Listen, I know it's none of my business, and if you don't want to talk about 
it, that's fine. But it really seems to me like you've got something on your 
mind and saying it might do you some good."
"I have a degree in psychology, you know," he muttered into the pillow.
"So what do you think is motivating your actions? As a psychologist?"
He sighed. He'd asked himself that question a dozen times, and each time avoided 
the answer. But he spoke it now, quietly. "Anger. Guilt. Resentment." 
Desperation.
"Why?"
He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "I'm angry that she may...leave. I 
feel guilty because the price of her loyalty to me and the X-Files is very high, 
higher even than my price. And I resent her for being able to make me feel these 
things."
It felt like betrayal, speaking such uncharitable words. But it was a broken 
truth he'd needed to confront, to examine, if he wanted to repair it.
"Leave?" Anna was saying. "Has she said something to you like that? From the day 
I spent with her, and she told me some about the X-Files, I believed she was 
very committed to the work. I'm surprised."
Mulder closed his eyes at the word 'committed.' There was nothing he could say 
to her.
Perhaps sixty seconds passed before he felt Anna shift slightly, heard the soft 
indrawn breath as if she was about to speak, then reconsidered.
Then spoke anyway.
"Mulder? Was the nosebleed really...just a nosebleed?"
He squeezed his eyes shut, furious with himself for having allowed her to guess, 
for not being able to lie quickly enough.
"I know," she continued after a moment. "It's none of my business. Well." 
Another long pause. He could tell she hadn't been expecting this when she'd so 
generously offered an ear, and he remembered there were good reasons for not 
talking to others.
She continued after a slight pause, obviously disconcerted. "I think it's time 
for me to go. Just...um...this was really nice, but I don't think we ought to do 
it again."
Mulder exhaled deeply. "I think you're right on both counts," he said softly, 
relieved.
He heard the sheets rustle and deliberately did not turn to look--though he'd 
seen every inch of her naked flesh only an hour before it seemed somehow 
indecent now. He listened to her dress, lying defeated and wishing her gone.
He heard her footsteps, shoe-clad and heading for the door. "Anna?" he called, 
suddenly deciding to at least resolve one source of guilt.
She stopped and turned; he sat up to look at her. Her hair was disheveled, her 
clothes wrinkled and untucked, and the afterglow of sex still hovered about her 
cheeks. She was rumpled and beautiful, and despite himself he felt a stirring in 
his groin. But he pushed that aside, said simply, "I do appreciate it. You get 
the next interrogation, ok?"
She snorted, smirked. "You're welcome."
And then she slipped out.
Mulder fell back in bed with a thoughtful sigh. 
Scully.
He should talk to her. Explain.
Thus resolved, and hoping she hadn't seen Anna leave, he tossed back the covers 
and threw on sweatpants and a T-shirt, pocketed his key and crossed the hallway. 

Of course, Scully wasn't there.
---------------------------------------------------
3:13 a.m.
She was lingering on the verge of sleep in a completely unfamiliar bed, beside a 
man who was only slightly more well-known.
She didn't think he was asleep either. But neither would admit that, because 
then they might have to talk. He might have to admit to her that he was lonely, 
that his wife had left him because his work had taken too much of his time, and 
that in fact, he didn't really regret that it did. She might have had to admit 
to him....what?
It didn't matter. There would be no admissions of anything. Soon, he'd drive her 
back to the hotel and neither would speak of it, because they both knew there 
were no words worth speaking.
Which, quite honestly, was fine with Dana Scully.
"Dana?"
His voice startled her, and she looked over at him quickly, but his eyes were 
closed.
"Yeah, Ben?" she sighed.
"If you're going to be in town much longer, I don't suppose you'd have time to 
have dinner sometime?"
She smiled despite herself. Maybe she'd misjudged his motives. "I'd like to, 
Ben, but the truth is, there probably won't be much time. This case...."
There was an answering smile in his voice. "Sure, I understand. You seem as 
married to your work as I am. I'm glad you've found something that makes you 
happy. I never saw you as a doctor anyway."
She snorted softly. "I always knew you'd end up in science, though. How was your 
path always so clear?"
"It's not what I expected," he answered softly. "I said I was married to my 
work, but...it's not exactly a blissful marriage."
Scully nodded into her pillow, forgetting that he couldn't see her.
He rolled over to loop an arm around her stomach. "This was nice," he said, 
close to her ear. "We should do it again sometime."
She smiled, a melancholy smile. "Yeah. Maybe next time I'm in the neighborhood."
For a moment, she was able to forget how unlikely it was that she'd be back. 
---------------------------------------------------
3:42 a.m.
"I know who the fuck you are," Reba Gregor snapped. "Do you know who the fuck I 
am? I am the president of a company. A company who has done you and your 
stupid-fucking black ops commandos a big favor."
Her husband lowered his head into his hands. She was crazy. The woman was going 
to get them both thrown in jail. Or killed.
"No, you listen to me, you stupid sonofabitch!" She stood up, carrying the phone 
around the bedroom. "This is out of hand. You know what's happening, and I swear 
to God if you're behind it I'll come after you, hunt you down, and cut your 
balls off, stuff them in your mouth. But you'd know more about that than I 
would, wouldn't you? You've probably done it to people. Viet Nam? Or just 
organized crime?"
Her husband cringed. He'd long ago given up trying to talk her down.
"You've ruined my company! People are dying, do you get that?"
Heavy pause.
"Well, I don't know whose fault it would be. Certainly, it's none of my people. 
And you're the only assholes who--"
Silence.
Mr. Gregor curled his fingers into a fist, praying that a deal was being made.
"No, I want action! Protection! Not these fucking feds. They couldn't find their 
way out of a wet paper bag, especially with you breathing down the necks of 
everyone they talk to who knows anything. They'll never guess the truth."
Another long pause.
"Is that a threat?"
Silence.
"Yes. Yes, I know. I don't think we have anything more to say to each 
other....Fine."
She slammed the phone down and he heard her exasperated, frightened release of 
breath behind him.
Then her footsteps, as she approached him, put her arms around him from behind. 
She kissed his hair. "We're gonna be fine, honey. I don't want you to worry. 
We're gonna work this out."
He leaned back into her, praying she was right.
---------------------------------------------------






INTERLUDE

*****************************************************************
3. CONCILIATION
*
Any attempt at negotiations must be founded on trust. Each party must be 
consider the other's goals, that a satisfactory compromise may be achieved. This 
compromise is ultimately what will permit resolution of the situation. 
Participants should not expect miracles; indeed, a guarded agreement is a 
significant victory. 
*
4:58 a.m.
The soft snick of her keycard sliding through the handle of her door should not 
have been loud enough for him to hear, even through the paper-thin hotel walls. 
Later, she would wonder whether he had been peering through the tiny telescope, 
waiting.
Because the next sound was that of his door yanked violently open. She turned, 
mouth open in surprise, to find her partner staring at her. He was fully 
dressed, Armani grey crisp on his shoulders.
"Where the hell have you been?" His voice was harsh and hissing.
Outside, a police siren began to wail plaintively.
Scully met his eyes with an emotionless stare. "Is something wrong? I had my 
phone, why didn't you call me?"
Mulder looked away. "There's nothing wrong," he admitted, then hastily amended: 
"With the case."
Good intentions are all very well, but you know what they say about the road to 
hell. 
She lifted her chin. "Then I'm going to get an hour's sleep."
His voice was thin but rapier-strong. "We need to talk."
That, at least, was the truth. Outside, the police siren faded away.
She rubbed the bridge of her nose. "So talk."
"In here," he said firmly, opening his door wide. 
Scully locked his eyes and a brief, silent war ensued. Have you considered my 
needs, for sleep, respect, privacy?
His answer seemed to be that he had, yet judged this more important. It had 
always been unspoken between them that this prerogative was afforded them both.
So she brushed past him into his room, her footfalls scuffing against the rough 
carpet. He closed the door and she faced him, arms crossed, coat closed. 
Offering nothing. The room felt hot and sticky, also oddly rich and tangled, 
like a swamp.
He seemed uncertain what to say. "Where were you?" he repeated finally.
She blinked. "If you were concerned, why didn't you just call?" she countered.
"I didn't want to interrupt anything," he answered snidely.
Her expression did not change but he felt as if a dense thicket had suddenly 
sprung up between them and absently regretted his choice of words.
She didn't bother with trying to lie. "Then what's the problem, Mulder?"
He wished she'd sit down. He wished the cool mask which made her such an 
excellent investigator would crack. He wished the ceiling would retract and the 
walls would fold down into the floor to reveal a sunlit paradise where pain held 
no power.
South San Francisco didn't quite cut it.
Hours earlier, he had intended to tell her the irrational truth. But the words 
which tumbled from his mouth were anything but.
"I've never had reason to question your professional behavior, Scully. But this 
crosses the line. How can you expect to be effective in the day when you've 
stayed out all night? And personal involvement with someone who we need for a 
case?" 
Oh, that was weak. Would she let him slide by? 
No. "Stayed up all night like the countless times I have with you?"
She did not add "after your nightmares:" she was not that cruel and left her 
intended meaning--personal or professional--unspoken. But he was nonetheless 
reminded of the dark nights of which they never spoke, which had found him 
curled in her arms like a child.
But her next reply was not so kind, and the professional coolness of her voice 
suddenly heated a few degrees. "And personal involvement, Mulder? This from 
_you?_ Particularly after you spent the night with our local authority contact?"
His jaw dropped involuntarily, and he cocked his head. How had she known? Was 
the scent of sex was not so certain in the room?
At his look, she rolled her eyes disdainfully, as if loathe to explain. The mask 
finally cracked, and she looked away with what might have been embarrassment, 
muttered: "There're condom wrappers in your wastebasket. I'm assuming it 
wouldn't have been anyone else."
Shit. He looked down and to his right--she'd passed it on the way in without 
visible reaction.
She continued, still not meeting his eyes. "I wouldn't have said anything, but 
as long as you...." Her voice trailed off.
He ran one hand over his face, hearing the rough scratch of day-old growth. 
"It's not what you think," he said softly.
"It's none of my business," she answered tonelessly.
He looked askance. "But it is, in a way." 
"Yes," she agreed, her voice a hushed whisper.
He felt as though there was a murky fog between them and though they stood in 
the sucking grasp of the same mire, and that they could escape if only they 
could reach one another.
There was really nothing he could say now.
Her voice came to him as if from a great distance, but it was only her quiet 
tone. "We do need to talk, Mulder. I'm not really sure what you want me to say, 
though. If it makes any difference, I didn't exactly talk to Ben, either."
"That's not--" he began, but stopped. The words were buried in mud.
"It doesn't have to be like this," she said. "Let's get through this case, focus 
on the job now. We'll take some time when we get home, talk about this."
He swallowed, accepting. "Okay, Scully."
"I'm going to go get a little rest, then," she said, and for a moment Mulder 
thought he heard a hint of sadness in her otherwise flat voice.
She passed him without looking at him, and he wanted to touch her somehow as she 
did so, but he couldn't quite seem to move.
*****************************************************************




CHAPTER SIX


---------------------------------------------------
April 22, 1997
6:53 a.m.
Anna strode purposefully down the carpeted hallway, her ivory trenchcoat 
swinging, mantilla envelope tucked under one arm. She hesitated briefly at 
Mulder's door, but in an abrupt decision crossed the hall and went first to 
Scully's door. Knocked.
The door was opened almost immediately, revealing Dana Scully, neatly dressed in 
a navy suit though Anna had called only fifteen minutes earlier. Though her 
manner instantly struck Anna as professional and efficient, the woman was 
obviously in the process of disguising the bags under her eyes. She held a 
powder case in one hand.
Anna started to apologize, but Scully spoke first. "I'll be ready in two 
minutes," she said, her voice even but not cold, as Anna had secretly feared it 
would be. Would he have told her?
"Okay," Anna answered. "I'll get your partner." A deliberate choice of words, 
just in case.
Scully nodded shortly and stepped back inside while Anna went to Mulder's door.
He opened it before she got there. He already had his coat on. "Heard you 
talking," he said in answer to her look of surprise. He held out his hand. "Can 
I see?"
She handed him the envelope wordlessly, and he worked the papers out of it, 
glanced over them quickly. Warrant to search the residence of Neil Ledbetter, 
546 Casio Way, Apt. 4B. Anna had obtained it less than thirty minutes earlier. 
He nodded his satisfaction. "Good work."
She shrugged. "It's not an arrest warrant."
"Yeah, but there was no way we were going to get that. Don't worry. We'll take 
him into custody for questioning anyway."
"You think he'll talk?"
"I think he'll trip up. He didn't strike me as a very sly or clever guy, despite 
the creepy show he puts on."
Anna nodded her agreement as Mulder returned the papers to the envelope and 
handed it back to her. "I couldn't get the chief to assign me back-up for this," 
she told him. "He doesn't buy it. We're going to have to do the search on our 
own."
"Your chief has problems with arrogance," Mulder observed, and Anna gave a tight 
smile.
They were interrupted by the sound of a door, and Agent Scully quickly joined 
them. "Okay," she said. "Let's go."
---------------------------------------------------
Ledbetter Residence
South San Francisco
7:12 a.m.
Mulder knocked, the two women standing a foot or so behind him to either side. 
There was no answer. 
"Mr. Ledbetter?" he called. "This is the FBI. We have a warrant. Open your door 
immediately please."
No response.
Mulder shrugged and glanced at his companions, who each drew their weapons and 
nodded. He produced a lockpick gun from his pocket. A few seconds later they 
were all inside the small apartment.
It appeared essentially as Anna and Mulder had left it two days earlier. Black 
curtains were drawn, and dusty books and statuettes were scattered among the 
pizza and Chinese take-out boxes. Scully wrinkled her nose disdainfully, then, 
with a glance at Mulder, started down the hallway to the bedroom. She could hear 
Mulder less than a pace behind her, knew his gun was ready.
The bedroom door was open, though, and after a quick check from the doorjamb, 
Scully stepped calmly inside. 
The sheets were rumpled, and clothes lay in piles all over the floor. The closet 
door was wide-open, and piled high with cardboard boxes, as if the man hadn't 
yet bothered to unpack. There was little room for someone to hide, but Scully 
moved forward and checked under the bed anyway.
"He wouldn't fit, Scully," Mulder told her. "Trust me."
She snorted and straightened as Anna entered the room.
"I searched the bathroom," Vasquez announced. "He's not here."
Scully frowned. "Where would he be this early in the morning?"
No one answered her.
"I'll start in the living room," Mulder announced.
"Guess I'll stay here," Scully sighed, looking without relish at the disastrous 
bedroom.
Anna followed Mulder back into the main room. He stopped by the bookshelves, and 
so she crossed to the opposite corner, hearing the snap of latex as he pulled on 
a pair of gloves.
After forty-five minutes, they had found a small, slightly withered herbal 
garden, a mortar and pestle containing an unidentifiable brown grist, a small 
pie tin blackened by fire and still sporting grey ashes, and, in the 
refrigerator, two thermoses of a cloying, thick, whitish liquid. The final (and 
perhaps most hopeful) pieces of evidence were a few photographs Mulder had found 
tucked, oddly enough, into a cookbook. They showed several robe-clad figures, 
Ledbetter among them, standing in a semi-circle around a nighttime fire. The men 
appeared to be holding beer bottles and just talking in one picture, though in 
another the bottles were gone and all stood, arms raised in eerie ritual. The 
location was difficult to discern, but it was definitely outdoors. No 
journals--personal or scientific--had been found, and there was no computer. 
They piled these items onto the kitchen table and stood around them, looking at 
one another.
"Well, what now?" Vasquez said finally. "None of this means much of anything."
"What about the pictures?" Mulder asked her. "Do you have any idea where they 
could have been taken?"
Anna leaned down and studied them again. "Honestly, I don't. They used a flash 
at night, so basically everything outside of the flash range is obscured. 
There's this weird whitish glow off to the left, but I can't tell what it is. 
This--here--is the edge of a eucalyptus tree, so they're probably somewhere not 
far from the coast. But 'not far' just means, 'not in the Central Valley.' 
Eucalyptus are everywhere around here."
Mulder pursed his lips.
"It looks like grown men playing dress-up," Scully said skeptically. "Look, 
they're standing around drinking beers and taking pictures of each other. Not 
very sinister."
"Well, it _does_ tell us he's practicing something ritualistic with others," 
Mulder said with a shrug. "And this other stuff..." He gestured at the herbs and 
powders.
"None of it means anything," said Scully.
"We don't know that," Mulder said carefully. "We need to get it analyzed and see 
if any of it corresponds to the journals from Ledbetter's lab."
"It's not really all that suspicious," Anna said doubtfully. "I was hoping for 
something more along the lines of a book open to a page on melting people."
Scully snorted. "She's right, Mulder. This is a very long shot, even by your 
standards."
"There's got to be something here," Mulder insisted.
"Okay, so we'll send it back to the D.C. labs, get it analyzed. But it's not 
going to reflect well on our report when this stuff turns out to be basil and 
burnt incense and Carnation Instant Breakfast."
Mulder ignored the jibe, shaking his head. "If we send it back to D.C. it won't 
get to the labs 'til tomorrow. There will be another murder tonight if we don't 
arrest this guy. Tomorrow's too late." He glanced at Scully, appraising her 
mood.
She took a step back, shook her head and raised her hands in a gesture of 
protest. "Oh, no. Don't even think about it."
"What?" asked Anna.
"Is there anyplace that could do it around here?" Mulder asked his partner.
"There are chromatographers, I'm sure, but no labs with forensic expertise," she 
admitted reluctantly. "But if it has to get there today, we can go put it on a 
plane right now, have Danny pick it up, make a few calls to get it done fast."
"Danny's on vacation," Mulder replied. "No one would pick it up or deliver it 
until tomorrow. And besides, I don't trust the lab to treat this with the 
seriousness it deserves, not if it's coming through on our E07."
Anna was frowning in confusion but she did not interrupt.
"I'll write them a note. They listen to me."
Mulder blinked. "Pendrell listened to you," he reminded her gently. "Now...."
Scully pursed her lips, her brow furrowed. After a brief hesitation, she said: 
"Mulder, your entire theory that any of this 'evidence' is meaningful and that 
someone else will die tonight is built on a very fragile foundation. Do you 
honestly think that playing that hunch is worth losing me on the investigation 
for a few days?"
"What?" Anna said again.
Mulder stepped closer to Scully, locking her eyes. "I'm not losing you on the 
investigation," he said carefully, deliberately. "We'll be in touch by phone. I 
have no reason for suggesting this other than that I don't trust anyone else to 
handle this correctly."
Scully stared back at him, trying to discern whether he was in any way trying to 
coddle her.
Smelling the tension like a wreath of smoke around them all and more than a 
little concerned that it was partly her fault, Anna decided it was time to end 
this. "You want Agent Scully to take the materials to D.C. personally," she 
said.
They both looked startled, as if they'd forgotten she was in the room. There was 
a long, awkward pause, finally interrupted by Scully.
"Fine," she said. There was no detectable emotion in her voice. She produced 
several evidence bags from her pocket and began collecting samples of the items 
on the table.
Mulder retrieved his cell phone, dialed a quick number. "Domestic reservations, 
please," he said after a second. "Yes, I'll hold."
---------------------------------------------------
1:45 p.m. PST
Neil Ledbetter wiped the sweat from his forehead, looking back longingly at his 
car, parked up at the top of the embankment. This stretch of field, leading down 
to the roaring ocean, was the only place he'd ever been able to find mullein, 
and he'd never succeeded at culturing it at home. 
But he wasn't having much luck today. Forty minutes walking up and down, 
stooping in this itchy grass, and he'd only found two plants. 
He was hot, tired and frustrated.
He wondered briefly if it was really worth the effort, but that was beside the 
point.
There was nothing else he knew to do.
---------------------------------------------------
Quantico, Virginia
5:11 p.m. EST
Redmond glanced mournfully at his watch. Scully caught him. "I'm really sorry, 
Steve," she repeated. "It really is important. We need the results as fast as is 
humanly possible."
"I understand, Dana, it's just that Candy and I had plans tonight. Have a sitter 
and everything."
The man was sitting on a stool in front of the large gas chromatographer, a 
monstrosity of tightly coiled pipes and plastic tubing that culminated in a 
small graphic readout that looked more like that of a lie detector than an 
expensive piece of analytical equipment.
"I'll make it up to you," she said earnestly, thinking of Mulder's season 
tickets to every sports team in a seventy-mile radius. She didn't want to 
promise anything specific, not knowing even what teams they were. "This is 
really a life-or-death matter."
Of course, she didn't know whether that was true or false. Worse, she didn't 
know which she was pulling for.
Redmond sighed. "Okay. But the overtime goes on your account."
"I know. I appreciate it. How long do you think it'll take?"
He eyed the samples she'd laid out critically. "Not too long, I guess. I'll do a 
GC, maybe TLC for the white stuff--you say that was in a fridge? What you really 
need is a spectrum, but that takes longer. I'll do NMR on whatever looks 
interesting off the GC."
"That sounds fine," Scully replied. "Thanks, Steve."
"You gonna hang around?"
Scully made an abrupt decision about the thing that had been nagging the back of 
her mind ever since she stepped on the plane that morning. "No, I'm going to run 
a quick errand, if you don't mind. Should be back in a couple hours. You have my 
cell number if you need to reach me."
Redmond produced a long needle from a stryofoam package, began rinsing it with a 
plastic spray bottle. "Sure," he sighed. He didn't watch her leave.
---------------------------------------------------
Green Library
Stanford University
2:12 p.m. PST
Anna dropped another pile of books on the shelf above the cubicle Mulder had 
claimed as his own. "No one ever told me when I took this job I'd be playing 
research assistant again," she remarked.
His answering smile was a mere tightening of the lips. He didn't look up from 
the text he was skimming.
Anna sighed, becoming less enchanted with this case every passing moment. "I 
guess I'm gonna start going through _Mongolian Herbal Medicine,_" she announced.
"Fine," Mulder answered, distracted. His finger was skipping down the page more 
quickly than any human could possibly read.
"Are you finding anything?" she asked, leaning on the cubicle wall.
He finally looked up at her, and his face was haggard, intense and vaguely 
desperate. She wondered if he'd slept at all the previous night, and resisted 
the urge to reach out and smooth his tousled hair. That was not her role, they 
had agreed.
"Not really," he said, answering the question she'd almost forgot she asked. 
"Horehound and the sponge--Ircinia--don't seem to be implicated in any herbal 
lore, although nightshade figures prominently in a lot. I did find one story 
about someone witnessing a man 'melting,' a reference to a fourteenth century 
manuscript which I couldn't read even if I could find."
Anna nodded. She hesitated for only a moment. Then: "Mulder, I'm afraid I just 
don't have the background for this. From what you've told me about your past 
cases, and what Dana's told me about your hunches, I'm willing to believe we're 
on the right track. But I don't think I'm helping you here."
Mulder rocked back in his chair and sighed. "Okay," he said. "Why don't you go 
and see if you can hustle up Ledbetter now. If anyone's seen or heard from him 
at work, or if he's home yet."
"Sounds good," she replied, secretly relieved at the promise of something more 
familiar. She'd been planning to do that anyway, but it was good that he'd 
suggested it. "I'll see you later."
"Yeah." 
Before she walked too far away, he called back to her. "Anna?"
She turned, eyebrows raised.
"Be careful."
She gave him a rueful, understanding smile, then left.
---------------------------------------------------
Georgetown Medical Center
Washington, D.C.
5:59 p.m. EST
Although the staff pathologists had gone home some time earlier, a few 
technicians were scattered about the lab, probably waiting on samples from 
surgery. One was processing a lump of tissue, and Scully watched him for a long 
moment, unwilling to admit to herself that she was judging the quality of his 
work.
He was fixing thin wafers of parafin-embedded tissue to microscope slides. After 
this, she knew, would come the purple DAPI stain, which would fix itself to DNA, 
shadowing the nuclei of the cells with a bluish cast. Cancer cells divided 
frequently, and hence often had four copies of their chromosomes instead of the 
normal two. This, combined with their propensity for chromosomal anomaly, would 
unmask the cancer cells for the malignant threat they were by painting them a 
dark, brooding purple.
The technician noticed her watching and turned. "Can I help you?" he asked.
Scully flipped out her badge officiously. "Dr. Fourier, FBI. I was sent over to 
consult on some samples."
She closed her badge before he could get too close.
"Okay," the technician said with a shrug. "What's the name?"
"I can get it myself," she answered. "I've done this before."
Well, she told herself defensively, it's true. She had been asked to consult for 
Georgetown path before, just never on her own samples.
She strode efficiently past the man to the oddly-shaped file drawer, opened it 
and began skimming through the names. The other technicians blithely ignored 
her.
When she found the file marked Scully, Dana, she removed and opened it. Inside 
was a plastic sleeve containing a dozen microscope slides, each with barely 
visible reddish streaks of tissue pressed onto them and covered with a thin 
piece of glass. She glanced at the accompanying paper, a form for the resident 
to fill out, containing notes of where each slice had been removed from. It 
hadn't been filled out yet.
She was proud that her hands were steady as she placed the first slide 
(superficial inguinal lymph node) on the microscope, peered through the 
eyepiece. Turned the focus dial and watched the blurry red dissolve and 
reappear.
Cells. A thin, folded-over line of epithelia, representative of an accidental 
scraping of the node's lining. Then thousands of white blood cells, large, 
pinkish, both round and amorphous. The tell-tale rough nuclei and granules of 
basophils, the dark red of stained eosinophils. Amoeboid macrophages.
And here and there, clusters of stuck-together cells that didn't belong. 
Purplish, large, de-differentiated.
Metastasis.
Scully had a sudden vision of the cancerous cells sprouting fingers which thrust 
and clutched at the surrounding endothelial tissue, punching and probing until 
they caught a hold, maybe pulling two valiantly defending cells of the blood 
vessel wall apart. The angry warriors moved across the barrier and then were 
free, tumbling throughout her body and coming to rest wherever they willed.
Metastasis.
Stage four neoplasia. Expected survival: a few months at most.
She swallowed, placed the glass slide neatly back in the plastic sleeve and 
tucked the folder away without looking at any of the other slides. She knew what 
she would see, now.
She held her head high, fists clenched inside her sleeves, as she walked out of 
the small laboratory. Dimly, she heard a technician ask if she'd gotten 
everything she needed.
"Yes," she answered automatically. "Thank you."
If he replied, she didn't hear him.
She strode as if on auto-pilot through the hospital hallways, some mechanistic 
part of her searching out an acceptable place to sit down. For a minute.
Just one minute. 
Not long.
Because there wasn't much time.
She saw an unmarked door and tried the handle, found herself in a dark broom 
closet where the smell of bleach was so strong that it nearly overwhelmed even 
her desensitized nose. 
Of course, the stinging bleach was why her eyes clouded with tears.
She sank slowly onto a low step-stool and bent over her knees, letting the tears 
come and trying to breathe slowly. 
There could be a mistake. She should've checked the other slides. And she was no 
expert in histopathology. Better to let someone who did this every day tell her 
what it meant. She should never have looked.
These thoughts were no comfort.
No time.
No time for a miracle, even.
Dana Scully was not ready to die. 
Especially not this way. Not in a bed.
---------------------------------------------------
6:02 p.m. PST
Mulder expertly activated his phone and pressed the speed-dial one-handed, 
keeping his eyes on the road.
She answered on the first ring. "Scully."
"Hey, it's me," he said. "I hadn't heard from you yet."
"We got the analysis finished an hour ago. I tried to call you but I only got 
your voicemail. Did you check it?"
"Oh. No. Not yet. Sorry, I was probably on with Hsu's lab."
"Hsu's lab? Why?"
"I've got something I need them to do. But first, what about the substances?"
Her voice was careful and cool. "It's a dead end, Mulder. The ashes in the pie 
tin were sandalwood and ordinary paper. The white goop in the refrigerator is a 
lot of things, but mainly sugar, echinacea and extract of legumes and yeast. 
Some new-age drink or something, that's all. Redmond even tasted it, but he had 
to spit it out."
Mulder tried not to let the disappointment creep into his voice. "What about the 
plants?"
"Toothwort and nasturtium were the only ones we identified. Odd, but edible. I 
checked for nightshade and horehound but they definitely were not that."
"Are you sure, Scully?"
"What do you mean, 'am I sure?'" She sounded very tired, and he regretted his 
tone.
"I'm not questioning your judgment," he said quickly. "I'm just saying, do you 
think they did a good job? Are you sure every avenue--"
"Yes, Mulder, I'm sure." She took a breath, then asked, somewhat apologetically: 
"So what do you want the Hsu lab to do?"
He turned onto Seventh Avenue and revved the engine to climb the hill. "Run a 
protocol for me."
"Protocol? Like a lab protocol?"
"Yeah. I've spent the day at the library. Found a couple of references from the 
middle ages that describe people melting, attributed to witchcraft."
"Mulder, medieval fairy tales are hardly justification for--"
"--I know, Scully. I had the same objection. I didn't even think anything of it 
until Anna brought me the notes she'd subpoenaed from Ledbetter's desk. He's 
still missing, by the way."
Mulder swung into a parking spot and killed the engine. "Anyway, most of it 
looked like chemistry. You know, nothing out of the ordinary. But there was an 
older lab notebook, dated back a couple of years, that had a few out-of-place 
pages near the end. They were headed with a word I recognized: concetamentum."
"Concetamentum?"
"Right. The spoken word is very important to practitioners of Black Magic. The 
word has power, and, more importantly, words can be negated by other words of 
power. The word used to describe the 'melting' stories I mentioned in the 
medieval stories was purgativis, which, in Latin, could be interpreted the 
antithesis of concetamentum."
He waited for Scully to play her part, to ask him if he was suggesting that he 
perform a spell of his own, and then chastise him for his utter ridiculousness. 
He waited for her to point out that the root of purgativis was purg, to purge or 
cleanse, closely related to "purgatory," making it a likely coincidence.
But she didn't. She was silent.
"So," he continued, a little awkwardly. "That word, concetamentum, was at the 
top of the page. Underneath were the numbered steps of a protocol. I think that 
Ledbetter has discovered the chemical properties of what, for centuries, has 
been considered magic. The words may or may not be necessary. But I've asked 
Isabelle and Ben to run through this protocol. If we can't arrest him before 
another murder occurs, maybe we can prevent the murder from occurring 
altogether."
Silence again.
"Scully?"
She sighed. "Mulder, this is way out there, even for you. You've extrapolated an 
extremely small and somewhat inconsistent body of evidence into a complicated 
theory complete with predictions, and I think you've taken it too far. But I 
know I'm not going to be able to talk you out of it, so go ahead."
He wasn't sure whether to be angry or concerned. "Scully...." He didn't know 
what else to say. He chewed briefly at his lip, finally settled on: "Are you 
coming back here, then?"
"I'm at the airport now, Mulder. My plane's boarding, in fact. I'll be back just 
after midnight."
"Good. Could you...take a look at this protocol on the plane?" he asked 
uncertainly. "I'd appreciate your opinion."
"Sure." He didn't think she believed him. "Hang on, let me get a pen."
He repeated the protocol verbatim for her. It read like a recipe: mix this much 
of this with that much of that. Boil, extract, rinse. He dimly remembered 
chemistry lab in college, was somewhat familiar with most of the terms. She 
asked no questions, though, merely scribbled down everything he told her.
After she'd hung up, Mulder sat still in the car for a few minutes more. Maybe 
she was right. Maybe this was a bigger hunch than usual. Insecurity was an 
unfamiliar emotion for Fox Mulder, and though he'd been secretly plagued by it 
on this case, he'd chalked it up to his concern for Scully and his apparent 
inability to express it acceptably. It was frustrating, distracting. The most 
wonderful part of his professional and personal relationship with her was that 
it was a pillar he could put his back up against, so that he never had to look 
behind him and could always stand at ready, facing the world. He wasn't supposed 
to have to turn around and examine the pillar for cracks.
Scully's disease wasn't a crack. It was a fissure. 
He rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hand. He knew his theory was 'out 
there.' He didn't know whether he hoped it was right or not.
---------------------------------------------------
9:18 p.m., PST
Mulder leaned against the lab bench, watching Isabelle, hair wound up and 
secured by a pencil, go through the motions of science. Ben Hsu was working in 
the ventilated chemical hood to his right. They had agreed to help him easily, 
eager and excited to be part of a real investigation.
The eagerness had been somewhat grating, in fact. He was honestly trying, 
really, he was, to feel charitable toward this young professor. But he found 
himself more irritated with Hsu's helpful but naive attitude than the man 
deserved. After all, the man was helping them for free, and on as little sleep 
as Mulder himself.
Probably.
Don't go there.
Had there ever been someone to ask him, he would have sworn emphatically that he 
wanted nothing but happiness for his partner, and God knew she deserved a decent 
date for once in four years. Perhaps what bothered him was the knowledge that it 
hadn't been a date in any usual sense.
Or perhaps he just found Hsu ingratiating and uninteresting, and secretly 
disliked the absolute lack of nervousness or tension he'd exhibited with respect 
to Mulder. 
Knowing exactly where Scully would tell him he could stick his alpha-male 
complex, he forcefully schooled his mind back to the case, where it belonged.
He hadn't told them what they were making, not exactly. Just that he suspected 
it might have something to do with the melting. Isabelle had studied the 
protocol for several minutes, then announced she wasn't quite sure what the 
final product would be. But her eyes were already glowing; he could see she 
wanted to know.
Despite his willingness to help, Ben hadn't seemed quite as interested 
intellectually--he was, Mulder presumed, not quite as publication-hungry as his 
student, just beginning her career. When the young student had asked, he'd 
shrugged and promised her they could be on the paper, if there was one. Sure, 
whatever.
Isabelle decanted the yellowish liquid in her beaker into a second beaker, 
leaving behind a dark red precipitate, to which she added a series of clear 
solutions Mulder couldn't have identified had his life depended on it.
Ben had insisted on taking every precaution, more than a little nervous that 
Mulder did not know the intent of their procedure. He and Isabelle stopped 
occasionally and argued over an organic chemistry textbook, trying to 
theoretically predict what compound was in their flasks at any given time, but 
they couldn't always agree.
"Ideally," Ben told Mulder, "we'd have days to do this. We'd identify the 
product at each step by spectrometry, and compare it to known chemicals to guess 
at it's physiological effects. I'm not sure that hurrying like this is wise."
"What's the worse you can imagine happening?" Mulder had asked.
Ben shrugged. "Maybe an explosion, but I'm pretty confident we'd be able to 
predict that coming. Volatility at low temperatures is a rare thing, and nothing 
in this protocol indicates excess heat that might be suspect. But we may end up 
creating a toxic gas."
"That's what the hood's for, though, right?" Mulder said, gesturing at the 
device.
It was a large cabinet which occupied space from floor to ceiling. One stood 
outside of it and handled materials inside through a glass window. Vents at the 
opening of the glass and at the top of the hood created an airlock with only one 
exit--up through a chimney which led to a powerful filtering device buried 
somewhere deep in the building. Gasses would not be able to escape.
"It'll be fine," Isabelle had agreed, firmly.
So they'd continued.
Anna, meanwhile, had called Mulder every hour to announce that she had spoken 
with yet another Anticorps employee, but Ledbetter was still missing. She'd 
shown the pictures to everyone to whom she spoke, hoping someone might be able 
to hazard a guess as to the location, but they'd had no luck so far. And they 
couldn't even predict his next target. 
Mulder glanced at the clock and rubbed a hand over his eyes, feeling the 
exhaustion borne of poor sleep. If he struck, it would be at midnight. Less than 
three hours.
---------------------------------------------------
10:21 p.m., PST
Scully rubbed a hand wearily over her eyes and returned her attention to the 
paper on the airline tray table in front of her. She was absently grateful for 
something to do, knowing that sleep would have evaded her despite her 
exhaustion. She didn't want to have to think about those purple cells. Not now.
The paper was filled with her own scribblings, ball-and-stick models of 
hydrocarbons dotted with arrows and electron-representing dots.
She'd been very good at organic chemistry, once. She was fairly confident of 
most of her structures.
Still, without a textbook, she couldn't identify most of the compounds or even 
predict their effects. She could write the reactions, do the stoichiometry, 
predict what additives were catalysts and calculate whether the added heat was 
sufficient to break a double bond here or there. But when it came down to it, 
her chemistry would be pointless if she didn't know what the damn molecules did.
Her neighbor in the tiny cramped airline seating shifted and she leaned away 
from him. Ten hours on a plane in one day was not a good thing.
Even in the ridiculous eventuality that Mulder was right, what was he supposed 
to do with the result? Cram it down Ledbetter's throat? Or mix it with whatever 
glop Ledbetter had stirred up? Or did Mulder actually believe the simple fact of 
its production would negate whatever Ledbetter was doing?
She knew he realized it was a long shot. He counted on flying by the seat of his 
pants, and she had to admit, it usually worked. 
It could be worse, she decided. At least he wasn't chasing after Krycek or a 
shape-shifting creature, benign or otherwise, without the faintest idea what to 
do when he caught up with them. At least he was safely ensconced in the four 
walls of a laboratory.
It must be driving him crazy, to be able to do nothing more than watch others 
work. Knowing this made her smile fondly. Too bad he wasn't using up more of his 
opportunities to go running off without her while she was still around to 
follow.
There was no bitterness to the thought, just a shapeless nostalgia.
She forcibly shook off such thoughts and returned to the protocol Mulder had 
given her. The next step instructed: "sonicate product for one minute at 600 
Hz."
Now that was odd, she'd thought so when he read it to her. Sonication--the 
application of high frequency sound waves--was used frequently to break open 
bacterial cells to permit extraction of their DNA, but she'd never seen it used 
in a chemical context.
She frowned, staring fixedly at the structure she'd drawn as the most recent 
product, wondering what sound waves would do to it. Would it just increase the 
Gibbs? Break weak interactions? Was there a macromolecular superstructure she 
wasn't seeing here?
Suddenly she blinked and whipped out her cell phone, pretending not to notice 
the horrified look of her neighbor who undoubtedly dreaded listening to her 
conversation. She dialed a number and waited. "Hi, it's Dana Scully. I'm on a 
plane, but I need to talk to someone with a Handbook of Chemistry and 
Physics...Thanks." 
---------------------------------------------------
11:34 p.m.
Mulder glanced nervously at his watch again. "How much longer?" he asked, trying 
not to let his voice betray his anxiousness. He hated feeling out of control 
like this.
Hsu was in his office, having turned the work over exclusively to Isabelle while 
he tried to discern the nature of the product they were making.
Isabelle glanced back at him over her shoulder. "I don't know. Twenty, thirty 
minutes. I got to heat this for five minutes, then the sonication for three, 
then chill and precipitate what's left, which will probably take fifteen minutes 
or so. What's the rush?"
Mulder shook his head, unwilling to confess his suspicions lest she think he was 
crazy.
She gave him a disdainful look and turned back to her work while Mulder fidgeted 
absently with a length of green tape, periodically sticking and then unsticking 
the ends together.
She put the beaker in a larger, water-containing beaker on a hotplate, leaned in 
to read the thermometer in the water.
Mulder waited. Anna had called twenty minutes earlier, said she was going to 
join him at the lab, having exhausted the avenues of investigation possible at 
this hour. He could hear the doubt in her voice as he'd explained to her how far 
things had gotten.
But his own doubt had been somewhat dampened. He could feel something about 
this--he was certain they were close to something. A palpable wind, loaded with 
anticipation, which no one but he seemed to sense. His gut was clenching, he was 
breathing a little faster than usual.
Something was going to happen. He was almost sure of it. This instinct had 
rarely misled him.
He was startled by the ringing of his cell phone.
"Mulder," he answered automatically, still playing with the length of tape.
"It's me," Scully's voice said with an unexpected urgency.
"Scully! Hi. I didn't expect you to be on the ground yet."
"I'm not. But we're descending, and there's already a stewardess coming toward 
me."
"You know they made the Prime Minister hang up on the queen because his plane 
was taking off, don't you?"
"Mulder, are you at UCSF? How far have you gotten?"
"Yeah. Isabelle's right here. She's heating the sample, then she's 
gonna...sonicate?..it. We're almost done, and I really think--"
"Mulder, tell her to stop right now."
Mulder frowned. "Why?"
He heard a woman's voice speaking angrily in the background. The stewardess, he 
guessed.
"Just do it, Mulder, trust me." Her voice was intense, fierce. "The 
sonication--I can't predict exactly what will happen but I'm certain you could 
be in danger. It's a set-up, Mulder."
The woman's voice in the background was getting louder, more insistent. He could 
make out her words: "I'm sorry, ma'am, but I have to insist--"
"Scully, we only have a few minutes left. I'm sure--"
"Stop her, Mulder, you have to--"
Her voice faded on the last few words, as if someone had pulled the phone away 
from her face. The line abruptly went dead.
Mulder frowned, hit his speed-dial for her number. It rang three times, then her 
voicemail answered.
Mulder silently cursed the inadequacies of modern communication. He looked up at 
Isabelle, who was looking at him with curiosity. "What was that about?" she 
asked.
He didn't answer. "Where are you in the protocol?" 
She shrugged. "Almost done, like I said. I was just going to pour this into a 
tube for the sonicator."
Mulder crumpled the piece of tape, still in his hand, uncertain what to do. He'd 
spent most of the day getting to this point, and he was almost positive someone 
else would die tonight. Unless.
Unless his instinct and his Latin were right.
But Scully had told him to stop.
She had never believed him, throughout this case. Not that he expected her to, 
but she was usually more generous than she had been these past few days. He'd 
chalked that up, like so much else, to the apparent rift between them, to the 
ever-encroaching disease of which they did not speak but which he knew she 
thought about.
What had she learned on an airplane that the impeccably helpful Professor Ben 
Hsu hadn't yet uncovered in his office?
He worried at his lower lip, aware of Isabelle staring at him, waiting. 
She'd called it a set-up. Who could've set it up? Ledbetter? Had he created some 
kind of decoy to trap anyone who caught onto him?
"Uh, Agent Mulder?" Isabelle prompted, holding the beaker up in front of her 
face questioningly. "What's the problem?"
He aimed the crumpled piece of tape at the garbage can across the room. It 
bounced off the rim and landed on the floor. "Stop," he told her.
"What?"
"I said, 'stop,'" Mulder repeated. "Don't finish the protocol."
"Why not?"
"I don't know yet."
"We're almost done."
"I know."
She looked supremely irritated. "Well, what do you want me to do?"
"Just wait a bit." He retrieved his wallet, pulled out a twenty. "Here, why 
don't you go down to the hospital cafeteria and get something to eat."
She gave him a funny look, but set down the beaker and the clear liquid it 
contained, took the twenty. "Ooookay. You want anything?"
"Coffee," he told her, stroking his chin. "Large and black."
She gave a puzzled "whatever" shrug and headed out of the room. Mulder stared at 
the beaker and its small volume of liquid. He swallowed, hoping Scully was 
right.
---------------------------------------------------
12:14 a.m.
Vasquez was turning onto Seventh Avenue when her phone rang. She pulled it out 
and flipped it open. "Did you finish?" she said into the phone, expecting 
Mulder.
"Anna, it's Mark, at the station," the voice answered. 
She frowned. "What?"
"We've got another one."
"Another what?"
"Another body. Reba Gregor's husband just called 911. Reba Gregor is a puddle in 
her living room."
"Reba Gregor? That's the President of Anticorps! I talked to her just this 
afternoon!"
"That's her. She's dead. Call came in less than ten minutes ago."
Anna stopped the car, scrambled around for a pen. "What's the address?"


CHAPTER SEVEN


---------------------------------------------------
Gregor Residence
Pacific Heights District
San Francisco
1:26 a.m.
Mulder covered his nose with a handkerchief to mask the horrible smell that 
pervaded the tasteful living room. A pinkish puddle lay in an around a bathrobe, 
dripping obscenely off the couch even as the San Francisco crime scene team 
tried to contain it.
"Mulder."
He turned at the sound of his name, watched Anna approach. She tried not to look 
at the body, but her face was faintly ill nonetheless.
"You finished talking to Mr. Gregor?" he asked her, stepping back into a corner. 
She followed.
"Yeah," she answered, looking at the floor. "He wasn't very coherent, though."
She looked as sick, tired and disappointed as he felt. Mulder put a sympathetic 
hand on her shoulder. "You couldn't have prevented this," he told her.
"I saw her just today. I should have guessed. It was in the pattern--anyone in a 
position of authority at Anticorps was in danger."
"That's not necessarily true," he told her. "There wasn't enough of a pattern to 
predict the next victim."
Anna bit her lip and looked away. "Mr. Gregor said that his wife had gotten out 
of the bath just a few minutes before. She'd been reading down here. He heard a 
noise outside, went to check it out, and when he came back--this."
"So we know the time of death?"
"Right around midnight is the best he can give us."
It was Mulder's turn to bite his lip. It had happened exactly as he'd predicted. 
That doesn't necessarily mean Scully was wrong, he reminded himself.
But it did strongly suggest it.
He shook his head. "What did he hear? The noise, I mean."
"Just some banging around garbage cans. There was nothing there, he said."
"Maybe someone wanted him out of the house," Mulder said thoughtfully.
Just then he heard a familiar voice coming from the foyer. 
"Agent Scully, FBI. I'm looking for Agent Mulder." 
"Scully!" he called, brushing past Anna and making his way toward the front 
door.
She entered the room, dodging a photographer. She had changed since this 
morning, was now clad in a simple black pantsuit and flat-soled black shoes. She 
glanced peripherally and with little interest at the remains on the couch, then 
strode straight toward Mulder.
He closed the distance between them and put a hand on her arm, leaned down to 
speak quietly. "She was killed at midnight. Her husband was out of the house 
just for a minute, after he heard a noise outside."
She tilted her head up at him and he could see the lines under her eyes. She 
looked exhausted. "You didn't finish the protocol, then?"
"No," he answered. "You told me not to."
She let out a breath of relief. 
"But you didn't tell me why, Scully," he continued quickly. "I'm a little 
concerned that we could have saved this woman's life."
He tried to make the words gentle, but he'd been expecting her to be a little 
more doubtful. Instead, her eyes were bright despite her obvious exhaustion.
"You wouldn't have saved anyone's life, Mulder," she said confidently, and as 
she spoke her hand came to rest briefly over his on his arm, softening the cool 
tone of her next words. "You're being played."
He frowned. "How?"
"I can't be sure yet. We need to go back to the lab. Why weren't you answering 
your phone?"
He dropped his hand, breaking the contact, felt the front pocket of his coat. 
"Oh. I must've left it at UCSF. I left in a hurry when Anna called about this 
death."
They both looked over at Vasquez, who had engaged herself in a conversation with 
another officer.
"Yeah, I found out where you were through the PD," Scully answered. "Is she 
coming with us?"
"You mean back to the lab? I'm not sure that's where we should--"
She cut him off. "I'm sure of this, Mulder," she told him seriously.
He studied her eyes for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Okay."
He turned away from her, crossed the room to speak briefly to Vasquez, then 
returned to Scully, who was waiting impatiently. "She's going to finish up 
here," he said.
Scully nodded once and headed for the door. Mulder followed. 
---------------------------------------------------
UCSF
1:52 a.m.
"We didn't know where you'd gone," Ben was saying, walking quickly to keep pace 
with the two agents, who strode purposefully down the hall toward the lab. 
"Isabelle had started to clean up."
"Sorry about that," Mulder muttered, feeling Scully's brief glare. They turned 
into the laboratory, where Isabelle was wiping the counters.
"Your coffee's cold," she said to Mulder, who smirked in response.
"Did you throw out what you'd made?" he asked.
"Not yet," she said, holding up the beaker. "You ready to continue now?" Her 
voice was just short of sarcastic, and Mulder decided finally that he didn't 
like this girl.
"They need a mouse," Ben said. "Can you go get one? One we can sacrifice?"
"That's an unfortunate term," Mulder observed.
"It's the commonly used one," Scully told him.
Isabelle was frowning. "What for?"
"A test," Scully replied. "Do you have one?"
Isabelle shrugged. "Sure. Whatever." She strode past them, out of the room.
Ben was unplugging a piece of equipment at one of the lab benches, carrying it 
toward the chemical hood. It was a simple design, a few metal rods shaped like 
an upside-down L, terminating in a long metal probe. Attached was a digital 
control panel. He set it in the hood and rummaged around for a free outlet, 
plugged it in.
"No," Scully told him. "We need a timer. You know, like one of those...those 
things you put on your lights or your coffee maker so that they come on at 
certain times."
Ben turned to look at her. "Why?"
"We can't be in the room when we do this," she replied. "Do you have one of 
those things?"
He ran a hand through his hair. "We used to, back when Laura was around. I 
wonder what happened to it...."
A look of inspiration crossed his face and he headed for a drawer, began 
rummaging through it.
Mulder watched the proceedings with growing anticipation. The feeling was back. 
Something was going to happen.
Isabelle returned with a cage in her hands. Inside was a small black mouse. 
"This okay?" she asked, holding it up for Scully, who peered at it.
"It's great."
"What do you want me to do with it?"
"Just set it on the bench there."
"Ah ha!" Ben cried, producing a small outlet timer from the drawer. He held it 
up triumphantly. "So, what, should I set it to come on in five minutes?"
"Fine," Scully told him.
He moved back to the hood and began fiddling with the sonicator. 
Scully turned to Isabelle. "Can you pour a little of the solution into a tube 
for the machine?" she asked.
Isabelle did as directed, then took the tube over to Ben, who carefully aligned 
it so that the metal probe was embraced by the test tube, just barely dipping 
into the solution.
Everyone turned to look at Scully. "Go ahead and start the timer," she said to 
Ben, who reached into the hood and did so. "Now," she continued. "We go wait in 
Ben's office."
She turned and left the room, waited until they had all filed out to shut the 
door behind them.
"This isn't going to hurt anything in my lab, is it?" Ben asked, trying to sound 
like he was joking but without success.
She smiled briefly at him. "I don't think so," she answered honestly.
Mulder opened the door to Ben's office, which was around the corner, and they 
entered silently.
And waited.
The minutes ticked by in silence. No one tried to make awkward conversation, all 
at least peripherally aware that something critical was about to happen. Mulder 
broke the silence only once, to ask if anyone else was on the floor.
"Not that I know of," Ben answered slowly. He glanced at Scully. "Do you really 
think this is unsafe, Dana?"
"Not at a distance," she answered.
"I don't think anyone's here this late," Isabelle affirmed.
Another silence. Mulder glanced at his watch.
Scully leaned her hip against Ben's desk, arms folded over her chest, looking 
fixedly at the floor.
Ben drummed his fingers impatiently against a filing cabinet, then sheepishly 
stopped after an irritated glance from his irreverent student.
She didn't look tired at all. Mulder wondered absently what kind of hours she 
kept.
They waited.
Finally, Mulder glanced at his watch again. "Time's up," he said.
Scully pushed away from the desk and headed back down the hallway, toward the 
closed laboratory. The others followed.
She hesitated briefly at the door, then with an air of decision turned the 
handle and pushed it open.
The room was exactly as they'd left it, except for the mouse, which had 
dissolved into a pinkish-white puddle.
---------------------------------------------------
3:33 a.m.
The night was still but for the voice of a single man, chanting softly. A small 
fire burned in front of him, small enough that it wouldn't be visible from the 
air. The brightly-lit, statuesque white cross several yards behind him would 
also help to mask the light of the fire. Not that many aircraft flew low over 
this hill anyway.
He was nervous, and he didn't really believe what he was doing would work. But 
it was the only thing he could think of to do.
He was being hunted. He knew that now. 
Surely no one would find him here.
He stopped speaking when he stumbled over the memorized, bastardized Latin, and 
shrugged his shoulders, giving up. He should just leave the country. Lord knows 
he had enough money. They'd made him promise not to spend it, not for a decade, 
but would they find him if he ran to, say, Chile?
Yes.
Caught between a rock and a hard place.
He was a chemist, not a spy. How the hell had this become his life?
He folded his legs beneath him and sat down on the cool grass, staring glumly 
into the fire. An owl hooted overhead.
When the high-pitched screeching noise began, his first, completely irrational 
though was that the owl had attacked him. He clapped his hands over his ears and 
cried out in pain, but then all pain was gone, because his nerves were suddenly 
quite dead.
As was the rest of him.
The fire crackled on, oblivious to the pinkish gooey puddle at its side. The owl 
did not cry out again.
---------------------------------------------------
3:41 a.m.
"It's sort of like a laser for sound," Scully explained to the shocked 
observers. "The most important part of the laser is its resonator, which lets 
light pass back and forth through the active material, providing a feedback loop 
which results in stimulated emission, a tightly focused, very intense beam of 
light."
"Except in this case it's a beam of sound," Ben said slowly, as the idea became 
clear to him.
"A SASER?" Mulder quipped, ignoring Scully's rolling eyes. "So the compound 
produced by this protocol acts as a resonator to focus the sound waves?"
"I don't think it's quite like that," Scully replied. "Sound needs to travel 
through a medium, so 'focus' has no real meaning for it, whereas light is 
composed of photons which need no medium. But it _is_ similar to a laser in that 
it contains a substance which modifies the wavelength and amplifies the incoming 
sound through positive feedback. The molecular structure of the substance is 
designed to somehow both modify and amplify incoming sound waves, so that they 
leave the compound as an amplified sound at a different frequency."
"A frequency that causes dissolution of eukaryotic cell membranes," Ben 
continued, nodding. "Humans, mice, yeast, anything like that. It must excite the 
lipid bilayer or something in the extracellular matrix and cause those molecules 
to break apart. The result would look something like melting."
"Of course," Scully continued, "I can't exactly explain how it degrades bone and 
hair as well--"
"It could be multiple frequencies," Ben interjected, "or maybe one can do it 
all. I've never heard of that, but I suppose if you knew enough about the 
physical properties of the chemical groups, you could design modifiers for any 
combination of incoming or outgoing waves, somewhat like light filters for 
emission and excitation."
"So you're saying these people were turned into puddles by sound waves?" 
Isabelle asked, clearly excited.
Mulder frowned. "Ledbetter may have been working on the chemistry of magic, but 
they didn't have sonicators in the middle ages."
"What the hell is he talking about?" Isabelle asked, jerking her thumb at Mulder 
and looking at Scully.
Mulder ignored her. "Ledbetter didn't think of this. You're right, Scully, it 
was a set-up. Someone planted that protocol on his desk, someone who knew I'd 
follow the clues in that notebook. They made it just difficult enough to make it 
seem like it couldn't be coincidence, but easy enough that I'd follow it 
reliably. The whole notebook may have been planted, since Ledbetter didn't have 
anything mentioned in it anywhere in his house."
Scully was nodding, her face glowing with excitement. "It would have to be 
someone who did his homework on you and me, Mulder."
Mulder frowned, looked askance. His face was clouded, mind turned inward, 
racing. There was a long pause, as they all watched him, then: "The military, 
Scully. They'd love to have this, wouldn't they?"
She shrugged. "Sure. So you think Packard--?"
He turned to their two companions. "Is there a way you can find any scientific 
articles published on sound waves like this? And can you get me a list of 
publications by Warren Gegenmir?"
They nodded, both moving to a computer in the corner of the lab.
"Gegenmir?" Scully asked. "Why him?"
"He's been leading me," Mulder replied. Scully raised her eyebrows at the ease 
with which he stated this admission, but Mulder didn't notice. "He led me right 
to Ledbetter, that notebook....I believed him because he told me a sob story 
about his wife and kid....a story which may still be true, actually..."
Scully took a step toward him. "How would Gegenmir know about the X-Files?"
"He saw us come in the first day," Mulder answered. "He probably did some 
background research right then. He probably had Ledbetter lined up as a possible 
fall guy--hell, he probably had lots of people lined up as fall guys, and just 
picked the one we'd believe. The lab notebook might've been mostly bullshit, you 
know, the nightshade, all of that. And he probably chose those dates 
deliberately, but if I'd been a by-the-book profiler, they probably would have 
coincided with significant local events that could have precipitated action by 
an UNSUB. This guy has thought this through."
"But why?"
"I don't know yet. But I bet Ledbetter's on his target list."
"So you think we can't find him because he's dead? But if Gegenmir was trying to 
point the finger at him--"
"Exactly. No, I think Ledbetter's nervous. Ledbetter knows he's on the list, and 
he's hiding."
Isabelle approached them, a printout in her hand. "Here's Gegenmir's 
publications according to Medline," she said. "Nothing to do with sound, 
though."
Mulder bit his lip and his brow furrowed as he gazed at the list. Scully crossed 
to join him, looking over his arm. Twelve citations were listed, all in 
microbiology and biochemistry journals.
"I don't--" she began.
Ben's voice interrupted her. "Here!" he cried from the computer. The other three 
moved quickly to join him, peering over his shoulder at the screen.
A Medline output of a scientific abstract was displayed. Scully scanned the 
paragraph intently, reading important fragments aloud. "...a modulator substance 
to modify and focus the sound waves...destroy glycopeptide 
bonds...sterilization...I get it. The cell walls of bacteria are different from 
the cell membranes of eukaryotes like us. Someone made one of these devices to 
kill microbes by breaking down their cell walls! Good work, Ben. Who published 
this?"
"Your friends at Anticorps," Ben answered, pointing to the top of the page, 
where three authors were listed. "But they never did a follow-up, and the 
technique is pretty imperfect here. This is a pretty backwater journal, I'm sort 
of surprised. If they've advanced this far"--he gestured vaguely at the mouse's 
remains--"it should be big news."
"Unless someone bought the technology," Mulder murmured, glancing significantly 
at his partner. "How do they make it microbe-specific here, and human--excuse 
me--eukaryotic-specific there?" He pointed at the mouse.
"Different modulator substances," Isabelle said unexpectedly. "They were 
designing an antimicrobial agent that would be both specific and to which 
bacteria could never evolve resistance. Oh,this is really cool. You could modify 
it for anything--cellular material, plants, concrete...."
Mulder snorted. "Yeah. Cool," he muttered.
"I didn't mean--" the young woman began, but he cut her off.
"Carol Thrush, Tracy Ferrill, Charles Jorgensen," he read, pointing at the 
author on the list. "Gegenmir's wife was named Tracy."
Scully turned to Mulder, her mouth open. "Dr. Thrush," she repeated. "And 
Tracy--Mulder, you don't think--"
He stopped her with a sober glance. "I think Tracy was a little too successful," 
he said slowly. 
Scully stepped backward, away from the computer, and Mulder followed her. "It 
makes sense, Scully," he told her. "We've seen what these people can do. The 
military picked up her work. They paid off Anticorps but she couldn't stomach 
it. They threatened her son. Gegenmir didn't lie--they probably killed the boy. 
And she probably killed herself."
"So Gegenmir's out for revenge against anyone who took or gave the hush money," 
Scully breathed. "Colonel Packard must've been paying. The dead scientists were 
in on it, and Reba Gregor probably signed the deal."
Mulder started to reply but was interrupted by the ringing of his phone. He 
clapped his hand to his jacket, but it wasn't there. He looked briefly around 
the room, tracing the source of the sound, then found it on the countertop from 
which he'd watched Isabelle carry out the protocol hours before. He ran to 
answer it.
Anna's voice, quick and breathless. "Mulder, how fast can you meet me at Mt. 
Davidson?" she asked.
"Where?"
"Mt. Davidson. You're at UCSF? It's not far. Fifteen minutes. I figured out 
where those pictures are from. That white light on the side of the picture--it's 
from the big cross on top of Mt. Davidson. It's lit up at night. I knew it was 
familiar, and there have been rumors of rituals being carried out up 
there--candles and fires and stuff. We thought it was just harmless,but.... 
Anyway, I've got a hunch Ledbetter is there."
"Anna, listen to me," Mulder said clearly. "Ledbetter didn't do it. He's not the 
guy. Don't go up there alone."
"I'm in the parking lot just below the trailhead right now. There're a couple of 
cars here." she answered. "But of course I'm not going up alone. I was going to 
wait on you--"
"Ledbetter is _not_ the guy, but our killer may be looking for him," Mulder 
repeated. "Anna, get back in the car and wait for us at the bottom--"
"I see someone!" she interrupted. "Hang on--"
"Anna--"
Her voice was slightly distant, as if she were speaking to someone else. "Dr. 
Thrush?"
A sudden crash followed, and Mulder pulled the phone quickly away from his ear. 
The phone had been knocked to the ground. He heard footsteps and a strangled 
scream, then the line went dead.
"Fuck!" he cried.
He whirled to find Scully beside him, her eyes wide with concern. He grabbed her 
arm, started heading for the door. Stopped and turned to the watching 
scientists, who were watching him, puzzled.
"What's the fastest way to Mt. Davidson?"




CHAPTER EIGHT

---------------------------------------------------
Mt. Davidson Park
4:01 a.m.
"Dammit, Carol," the man whispered harshly.
Anna stood stock still, heart beating against the arm that encircled her throat. 
The cold barrel of the gun pressed hard into her temple and her back pressed 
into the long body that held her.
She couldn't see him. Hadn't seen him. Damn, damn, shit, fuck!
Thrush, her greying hair hanging loose and dirty around her shoulders, stood 
across the hood of the car, gun aimed at Anna.
No. Not at Anna. At the man who held her.
"She's a cop, Warren," Thrush said. Her voice and hands were shaking. "A cop. 
You can't kill a cop. They've figured you out."
"You told them!" he cried, anguish tearing at his voice. "You told them!"
The gun at Anna's temple trembled and some calmly sarcastic part of her thought, 
Great, taken hostage by people who've probably never shot guns in their lives.
It was not a good thing.
"I didn't," Carol Thrush said evenly. She was a smallish woman, dressed in jeans 
and a grey windbreaker. The gun seemed horribly incongruous. "I didn't tell 
them."
"I don't wanna kill you, Carol," Warren said brokenly. It sounded to Anna as if 
he were crying. 
Oh God, please let him not be crazy.
"You don't have to kill me, Warren. But you have to stop killing the others. I 
won't let you do it anymore."
Warren. Warren Gegenmir. It finally registered in Anna's brain. "Dr. Gegenmir--" 
she began.
"Shut up!" he screamed, jamming the pistol into her head and pulling back on her 
throat. "Just shut up!" To Thrush, he continued in a whining voice, "You won't 
kill me, will you, Carol?"
"Only if I have to," she assured him. "Please don't make me have to. You can't 
keep killing people. It won't bring Tracy back."
"They killed my son!" he cried.
Police sirens. There was recognition of betrayal in his voice. "You called the 
police! You promised you weren't going to say anything!"
"I didn't call the police," Thrush told him, her voice wavering. "That cop was 
on the phone when you grabbed her. They'll be here any minute. It's over, 
Warren."
"No!"
"I'll tell them the truth, Warren. I'll tell them everything. But you know they 
won't believe me. The military's rigged everything. It's over."
Despite the decreased air supply, Anna was beginning to understand.
"Warren," she said softly, carefully.
"I said to shut up!" he cried, near her ear.
She took a breath and continued, "Warren, you're doing their work for them. They 
want you to kill the others, they want you to clean up their mess."
"SHUT UP!" He jerked her roughly against him, choking her. She gagged, and for a 
second believed he would pull the trigger, but then a police bullhorn 
interrupted.
"Put down the gun."
He jerked her roughly, looking around. They were standing in a small parking lot 
in front of a wooded hill, the twinkling lights of the south bay spread out 
before them--the voice had come from the road below, where red and blue lights 
flashed.
She heard the blades of a helicopter.
"Oh, shit...." Gegenmir whispered. It sounded like a sob.
"She's right," Thrush said, her voice growing louder and more even. "You're 
doing exactly what they want you to do. Killing everyone who knows. There'll be 
no one to back up your story."
"They wouldn't have backed me up anyway," he said roughly. "They let my son die! 
They sold out! You sold out too!"
"I didn't, Warren. I signed their papers because you made me but you know I 
didn't take the blood money. I'm on your side. But I can't condone the killing. 
When I found out what you were doing...I've been trying to stop you. I didn't 
want it to end this way."
Anna willed her breathing to slow, wishing desperately that she could wipe away 
the sweat that had begun to trickle into her eyes. Strange, how it could seem 
worse than the stranglehold around her neck.
The white light of the helicopter blinded them.
"Mr. Gegenmir," said the bullhorn, "you can't win. It's best to just put the gun 
down. Let the detective go."
Despite herself, Anna felt a twinge of embarrassment at being so identified 
after having been caught so unawares.
"Back off!" Gegenmir screamed at the helicopter. "Back off or I'll shoot her!"
The helicopter backed up, but the light still shone on them. The noise combined 
with Gegenmir's screaming was almost deafening. 
The bullhorn on the road below them sprung to life again, but the voice had 
changed.
"Dr. Gegenmir? This is Fox Mulder. You're in a pretty tough situation there, 
aren't you?"
She could hear Gegenmir's breathing, ragged and harsh in her ear. But he was 
listening. 
"Dr. Gegenmir, I can ask the helicopter to back off, but I want to come up there 
and talk to you, okay? No one has to get hurt here."
Gegenmir was trembling against Anna's back. She swallowed against his arm. 
"Listen to him," Thrush whispered, her finger still on the trigger of her own 
gun.
"I know you think you're doing the right thing, Warren," Mulder's voice 
continued. "They did some real fucked-up shit to you, didn't they? But this is 
not the way out. Please. I'm unarmed. Let me come up and talk to you."
His voice was reasonable and matter-of-fact, concerned but not panicked. Even 
Anna found it oddly soothing. Good, Mulder, she thought. Earn his trust with 
honesty.
She could almost hear Gegenmir's frantic thoughts. "I want a deal!" he screamed, 
and she resisted the urge to reach up and cover her ear.
"Okay, we can talk," Mulder said. "I'm telling the chopper to back off, okay? 
I'm coming up the road."
Gegenmir breathed quickly and harshly, unconsciously pressing the gun more 
tightly into Anna's temple.
A moment later, the helicopter backed away, hovering a few hundred yards off the 
face of the hillside. The light was turned off.
Anna was struck suddenly by the beauty of the night-time bay spread out before 
her. The city was over the hill and behind them from here, but South Bay 
glittered with yellowish lights. The San Mateo and Dumbarton bridges sparkled 
off to the left, and to the far right, all light was swallowed by the black 
mountains that descended to the ocean.
She dearly loved her home.
Gegenmir's grip on her tightened, and she saw what he had seen--a dark figure 
climbing the asphalt hill to their right. His hands were raised in the universal 
gesture of peace. Mulder.
She wondered what he planned to do.
She heard Thrush take a step closer, and Gegenmir whirled, nervous. "Stay right 
there, Carol!" he warned her.
The woman trembled but didn't lower the gun.
Mulder was about twenty yards away now, his hands still raised.
"Stop!" Gegenmir shouted abruptly. "Now, talk."
Mulder stopped. "Are you okay, Anna?" he called.
"At the moment," she managed to answer. This time, Gegenmir didn't choke her, 
and for that she was relieved.
"Dr. Thrush," Mulder said slowly. "I know you're only trying to be helpful, but 
I think everyone would feel a little better if you put the gun down. Go ahead. 
Put it down on the ground. Can she come down here, Warren? You don't want to 
kill her, do you?"
Gegenmir's response was slightly strangled, and Anna was quite sure now that he 
was crying, though she still hadn't seen his face. "No," he admitted. "Okay. She 
can go."
"Okay," Mulder said, his voice even and cool. "Come on down here, Dr. Thrush."
Anna heard footsteps as Carol Thrush slowly approached from behind them and five 
yards to the left. Then the woman came into view, walking slowly, hands raised. 
She passed Mulder, who told her something inaudible, then continued down the 
hill, toward the police cars below.
Anna wet her lips nervously. He was doing everything right--containing the 
situation so that the fewest possible people were in danger. She knew what came 
next, though, and surely even Gegenmir knew that the FBI did not deal.
"Now it's just the three of us," Mulder continued calmly. "That's good, Warren. 
You're doing the right thing. I know that's what you want to do."
"What I want," Gegenmir cried roughly, "is justice!"
"I know," Mulder said soothingly. "Can I come a little closer? It's a little 
hard to shout. I'll keep my hands up."
Pause. "Okay," he said finally.
Mulder closed the distance between them by half. His raised arms parted his 
trenchcoat and revealed the empty holster at his waist. Anna devoutly hoped he 
knew what he was doing.
"Okay, Warren," Mulder continued. "I know you faked those notes. You even tried 
to kill me, didn't you?"
Anna felt Gegenmir tense against her.
"But killing me wasn't the point, was it?" Mulder continued calmly. "You wanted 
people to know the protocol, know how you were doing it, so we'd know this 
weapon existed. Killing me was a side benefit. It's okay--I don't take it 
personally. You just wanted to finish your work. I can appreciate that."
Anna resisted the completely irrational urge to giggle at how Mulder's 
conversational, conciliatory tone contradicted his serious words. Gegenmir was 
breathing more quickly.
"Well, I know now, Warren," Mulder said quietly. "I know what they did to you. 
You could have told me and I'd have believed you, but I guess there was no way 
you could know that, right? I worked for the government too, didn't I? It's 
okay."
"You would've stopped me," Gegenmir said weakly. "You wouldn't've let me 
finish!"
"Are you finished, Dr. Gegenmir?"
His grip around Anna's neck tightened spastically and she almost--but not 
quite--screamed. "No!"
"So what do you want, Dr. Gegenmir?" Mulder continued gently. "What is it that 
we can give you?"
"Justice!" the man screamed again.
"I promise you," Mulder said solemnly. "I promise you that I will do everything 
in my power to see these men prosecuted. I know they killed your son. I know 
they stole a terrible technology. I will not let that go. I'm on your side here. 
But taking a police officer hostage is not going to help you. You have to let 
her go. She wants justice too."
Gegenmir made a soft keening of indecision in his throat. 
"I know you don't want to hurt Anna Vasquez," Mulder said. "You only want to 
hurt the bad guys. She's one of the good guys. I promise you. These same men 
who've hurt you--they've hurt me too. I know you're telling the truth, and I 
will not let this rest. But you need to put...the...gun...down."
Anna wondered distantly what her fellow officers thought of this exchange and 
how Mulder had talked them into allowing a negotiator to get so close, to play 
along this way. This wasn't a by-the-book resolution. Surely they thought Mulder 
was crazy.
She wasn't quite sure if they were wrong. He'd chosen a dangerous path in 
agreeing to so frankly negotiate a reconciliation.
"How do I know you're telling the truth?" Gegenmir demanded. The gun at her 
temple trembled and she willed her breathing to slow again.
"I can only give you my word," Mulder replied earnestly. "I told you, these men 
have done things to me as well. I've seen their work many times. They are 
experts at hiding the truth. You want the truth brought to light, and I can help 
you."
Gegenmir's next words were almost inaudible. "Will I go to jail?"
Mulder sighed. "Probably," he admitted. "You can't kill people, Warren. But the 
guilty ones will go there too. We need you to testify. Now please, just put the 
gun--"
Gegenmir tensed abruptly, and Mulder saw it. The helicopter was approaching 
again.
Mulder turned, irritated. "Back off!" he yelled, waving both hands at the 
chopper. But it didn't back off.
Anna saw the red beam of a laser on the ground out of the corner of her eye. Oh 
God. They were going to try to shoot him. She squeezed her eyes shut.
Gegenmir saw it too. She heard the safety of the gun at her temple, heard Mulder 
shout, "No!"
The pistol shot was deafening, and she was thrown to the ground.
Then feet, running. The warm gushing of blood. 
First, she realized that she was alive.
Second, she realized that the blood wasn't hers.
She lifted herself on her elbows with a groan, found herself looking into the 
face of--Dana Scully?
Scully's hands were on her arms, firm and strong, helping her to sit. A second 
later, Mulder was beside her as well, and she could hear the running footsteps 
approaching them while the helicopter still whirred overhead.
"What happened?" she gasped.
Mulder produced a handkerchief and wiped the blood from her face. Gegenmir's 
blood. "Scully was behind you," he told her, his voice agitated. He glanced over 
his shoulder at the helicopter, then looked back at Anna. "She came through the 
woods. Just in case. When Gegenmir panicked, she grabbed the gun, pulled his arm 
back enough so that he shot himself."
Anna turned. Gegenmir's body was indeed twitching on the ground behind them, 
leaking out a quickly growing pool of blood. The left side of his face was 
obliterated, and brain and bone fragments were scattered throughout the pool.
"They spooked him," Anna whispered, looking back up at the helicopter. "He was 
going to give up."
"Yeah," Mulder agreed roughly, and there was a bitterness in his voice deeper 
than Anna could quite fathom. "I think he was. This is not the resolution I was 
looking for. I'd like to know who that cop with the laser aim was taking orders 
from."
"You think he wanted Gegenmir dead?" she asked, incredulous. She felt Scully's 
hands at her neck, gingerly probing the bruises, and winced.
"Sorry," Scully said. "He really got you here. There's an EMT at the bottom of 
the hill. Let's get you up, okay?"
"Yes," Mulder said, answering Anna's question. "I wouldn't be surprised if he 
wanted Gegenmir dead. These cover-ups can run deep."
"I don't believe it," Anna whispered. But a part of her did.
---------------------------------------------------
5:23 a.m.
Mulder took a long sip of the coffee someone had given him. It tasted like motor 
oil but after two sleepless nights, it was better than nothing. He watched the 
scene around him with growing disinterest.
They were working on the hilltop now, below the giant white cross. Glaring 
spotlights had been set up around the scene, but Mulder stood outside of them, 
in the shadows. Brooding.
The crime team had been photographing Ledbetter's remains for some time now. It 
was the same as the others--a puddle of pinkish white goo. Thrush had tearfully 
told her story, and was now at the police station being formally questioned. But 
Mulder already knew what had happened.
She'd figured Gegenmir out, followed him until he came here. Tried to stop him 
and when she'd pulled the gun he'd run to grab Anna. He wasn't stupid, but he 
wasn't a cool-minded criminal, either. He hadn't been prepared to deal with the 
ensuing scene.
Hostage-takers rarely were prepared. Mulder recalled the story of the Libyan 
terrorist who'd taken a passenger plane hostage and, when the airport refused to 
let the plane land, had panicked and instructed the pilot to land on water and 
"drive" up onto the beach. Frantically pointing to the seat-pocket safety 
brochure, which depicted evacuation procedures from a plane that had crashed in 
water, he didn't believe the pilot when told that planes couldn't do perform 
this feat.
No, Gegenmir was no seasoned criminal, and his actions had been carefully 
planned, but he'd obviously panicked in the end. Ledbetter must have done work 
for the final product, Mulder guessed. Hence the payments from Col. Packard's 
office to Ledbetter. Gegenmir had probably made up the blackmail story knowing 
it would provide an explanation for those checks. Probably the first dead 
bioinformaticist had been receiving the hush money as well. But Gegenmir had 
said he wasn't finished. Mulder suspected Ledbetter was supposed to have been 
saved for the last target, but Gegenmir must have learned that someone was onto 
him (how?) and abandoned his plans to kill as many as he could, as quickly as 
possible. Mulder wondered how deep the cover-up went.
He saw Scully and Anna approaching him in the dim light of the hilltop. Anna had 
gotten new clothes from the EMT and was no longer covered in splotches of 
Gegenmir's blood and brain. Most of the spatter had missed Scully, thankfully.
"Where'd you get the coffee?" Scully asked. Even in the predawn dark, he could 
see how drawn and tired her face was.
He handed her his cup. "It's all yours. Terrible, but caffienated."
She clasped her hand around it and drank, grimacing.
"No one could find a sonicator," Anna reported. "We've combed the whole area, 
and we won't stop now. But I don't think we're gonna find it."
"I'm not surprised," Mulder answered grimly. "I'm sure it was here. But somebody 
got to it first. Look around. Several police departments, fire department, SWAT 
team...all kinds of convenient confusion."
Anna shook her head slowly. "Man, you guys have some job here. You act like 
you're used to this."
"Happens to us all the time," Mulder replied. "There's a transient black hole 
following us around when it comes to evidence. Sorry to have dragged it along."
Anna smiled. "That's okay. I don't think we ever would've figured this one out 
without your paranoia, so at least we got something. And Thrush's testimony 
might be enough to prosecute. I'm not sure she'll be willing, though. She has a 
family and she's scared."
"She should be," Mulder answered darkly.
Anna was about to reply when they were both startled by Scully.
"Oh shit," the woman said, handing the cup quickly back to Mulder. Anna turned 
curiously. 
Blood was dripping quickly from Scully's nose, despite her attempt to stem the 
flow with her fingers.
Mulder fished in his pockets for a handkerchief, then remembered he'd used it on 
Anna earlier. 
"In my pocket," Scully said, both hands cupped around her face.
Mulder straightened her trenchcoat and probed her pocket quickly, produced 
another handkerchief. As she took it, leaning forward so the blood fell on the 
ground and not her blouse, he gently pulled her hair back in his fingers, 
holding it at the back of her neck. She wiped her face, then tipped her head 
back, holding the cloth to her nose.
Anna bit her lip, watching the scene. Momentarily, she considered calling for a 
medic, but decided this was not her role.
A minute passed in silence, no one moving. Finally, Scully drew away the cloth, 
now soaked with blood. "I think it's stopped," she said. Her nose was still red, 
though there was no blood on her face.
Mulder released her hair and gently took the cloth from her hand, watching her 
with concern.
Finally, Anna spoke. "Listen," she said. "You two need to get some rest. Why 
don't you go back to the hotel and sleep. Come down to the station anytime and 
we'll figure out the reports. We don't need to do that now."
Mulder glanced at her, then back to Scully, who gave a small, tired nod. "Okay," 
he said. "I think we'll do that, if you don't need us here now. Thanks."
There was a deeper significance to his tone, and Anna knew he was thanking her 
for more than just putting off the report. She smiled slightly. "Sure," she said 
firmly.
"See you tomorrow--actually, later today--then," he said, and turned away. 
Scully smiled her thanks to Anna, then followed him.
As she watched them round the bend of the path, she saw Mulder slip his arm 
through Scully's. She closed her eyes against the unexpected sadness the gesture 
produced in her.
It absorbed her only for a moment, though, and after a pause she turned back to 
the investigative crew. She was pretty tired herself.
But her work was not done. If what Gegenmir said was true--if what Mulder said 
was true--there was much more to be done than she had ever imagined.






INTERLUDE


*****************************************************************
4. RESOLUTION

*

When resolving a hostage situation, experts will refer to the Hanafi model, 
developed by the FBI during a 1977 Washington hostage crisis. The militant 
Hanafi, led by Khaali, their mentally unstable leader, had threatened to kill 
all foreign Muslims in order to avenge the killings of his family. His followers 
took 134 hostages in several buildings, killed one man, and shot or beat 19 
others. The model identifies the objectives of all involved actors, and 
considers those objectives in resolving the situation. It outlines four 
alternative resolutions: 
1) Implied Violence--move in with heavily armed forces highly visible to 
terrorists and begin making demands for immediate surrender.
2) Armed Assault--attack the terrorists in an attempt to kill or capture them.
3) Procrastination--use police and negotiators to weaken and disperse the 
terrorists via presentation of inconveniences which they may not have foreseen.
4) Active Negotiation--negotiators permit terrorists to fulfill their needs with 
as much procrastination as possible, without allowing the terrorists to forget 
that they may not harm the hostages.
It is impossible to predict which mode of resolution will be used in a given 
situation; however, an expert tactician will carefully review all possible 
outcomes before making a decision.
*
The scent of the April dawn trickled tauntingly into his nostrils, and he 
wondered if she, walking beside him, could smell it. They walked the path 
between one crime scene--Ledbetter's remains by the great white cross--and 
another--Gegenmir's body in the parking lot--slowly and in silence. Briefly, he 
could almost imagine they were simply on a companionable stroll through a low 
forest.
He liked that vision.
She stopped.
He turned to look at her, the outline of her face grey in the dim predawn light. 
Her face held so many things, so much knowledge, so much memory, so much 
danascully, so much him. All that was important, she was or knew.
When the blood ran down her face, splitting her open, he was terrified that some 
of that essence, that knowledge, would leak out with it. Leaving him alone. 
Selfish bastard, he chastised himself. She's the one who's dying.
No.
But her face was not bleeding now. She was looking off into the woods at a 
narrow, slightly overgrown trail. Abruptly, she shrugged out of his gentle grip 
and glided quickly off in that direction.
So quickly that she was gone before he knew what had happened.
He glanced around as if uncertain whether anyone had seen them, but no one was 
near. He could hear voices from the parking lot below, distant as if from 
another world. Thankfully.
So he did the only thing he knew to do. He followed her.
Greenish-yellow grasses licked against his trousers, twiggy branches scratched 
at his face if he didn't push them away quickly enough. A spiderweb broke across 
his lips and he wiped it away with disgust. 
Where was she going?
He could hear her just ahead of him, knew he should call out to her, but knew 
also, in that way we sometimes know irrational things, that he should not.
He kept his distance.
Scully, for her part, did not notice the cobwebs, most of which broke across her 
slender body. She welcomed the abrasive caresses of the branches slapping 
against her arms and cheeks, reminding her that she lived. Here. Now.
She had killed a man scant hours before. Indirectly but still.
Dead.
She ducked under a low-hanging thick branch, relishing the way it caught her 
hair and gently tugged.
Even she could smell the fresh morning air.
Had she been asked, she could not have said where she was going. A tiny, 
insistent voice spoke to her from deep in her abdomen, whispering for her to 
move forward. Quickly. Turn here. Climb that embankment. Now.
She dug her fists into the soil when her feet were insufficient, mindless of the 
earthy moisture. Her pace was hurried but smooth. Climbing. 
At the top, she crawled under a low-lying log too densely mired in brambles from 
above. She had left the trail now.
But she knew with certainty where she was going.
Her breaths were ragged, her path had become steeper now. She did not know how 
long she had been moving--time was irrelevant, wasn't that the point?
What was the point?
The light was getting lighter, the forest thinner. She could see the clearing 
now, unmarked and perhaps, unremarkable, but she knew it for her destination. 
Atop a mountain. An outcropping of whitish rock which may have sunk miles below 
the earth and was far, far older than she (geologic time is vast) lay before 
her. She scaled it nimbly, soon standing at its peak, ten or twelve feet above 
the ground.
San Francisco and its bay stretched out before her.
The Twin Peaks ahead and to her right. The TransAmerica pyramid ahead and to her 
left, beyond the still-sparkling Bay Bridge. The Bay and it's millions of sleepy 
inhabitants, all below her.
It was going to be a clear morning.
She turned east, where the sky was purpling and reddening just over the 
low-lying mountains. The herald flags of the sun's mighty entrance.
Atop a mountain between a bay and an ocean, standing alone on the almost-edge of 
America, was Dana Scully. Watching, not the rising of the sun, but the turning 
of the earth.
She was newly struck with wonder at what most men forget, pinned as they are to 
the gears of analog clocks and the electrons counting digital time. She 
remembered what she had always known--that we mark the passage of time in solar 
terms, that the cosmos to which most of us give no thought but which could 
swallow us whole in the proverbial blink of an eye, numbers our days. 
It always has.
Mulder kept an even distance, concern warring with curiosity. So many Scullys. 
Should he not also know this one, even if she terrified him?
He wiped his dirty hands on his coat after climbing the embankment. Had she been 
here before? Where was she going?
He wondered if she knew.
Then he came out of the trees and he saw her, standing tall above the rocky 
hilltop. Arms slightly held out at her sides as if preparing to fly--
she wouldn't, would she?
--and dark coat flapping gently around her like the cloak of a fairytale hero. 
The breeze lifted her copper hair and he was struck by the incredible power and 
strength which emanated from her--strength he always knew was there but had 
never been quite as visible.
He could make out the tops of buildings beyond her, could see the bay and its 
sparkling bridges below the rising sun to their right.
He knew not to speak, feeling oddly privileged that he could even watch.
They stood in silence, separated by a dozen vertical feet, ten horizontal yards 
and a painful gulf of unspoken truths.
They watched the sun rise.
Purple and red and yellow clouds on the horizon, visible rays stabbing out at 
the center of the sky, a literal illumination.
He knew, in that light, that they would not end this here. Not really.
Still.
He did not know how much time had passed. It may have been a second, or it may 
have been a day. Probably, judging by how far the sun had come, it had been 
twenty minutes, but this was irrelevant to them both.
Her voice, clear and warm in the chill morning air, was unexpected, startling 
him out of his reverie. More startling was that it spoke his name.
"Mulder."
He swallowed, answered the only way he could. "I'm here."
"Come here," she said clearly.
There was a tingling in the pit of his stomach which felt like nervousness, 
fear. But it was a welcome fear, the anticipation of something significant and 
sure. 
He approached the outcropping and followed the same path up its surface which 
she had climbed, ages and minutes before. The peak on which she perched was too 
narrow for him to join her, so his feet came to rest on her left, some eighteen 
inches below hers. For once, she stood taller than he.
He gazed out over the scene below and before them, waiting for her to speak. The 
lights of the San Mateo bridge twinkled balefully at him, off to the south.
When she did speak, her voice was tender with memory. 
"I came here when I was seventeen years old. When high school felt like a steel 
ball around my ankle, chaining me back to an insignificant and meaningless past, 
while the future, so close I could taste it, promised action and 
reason...meaning."
He did not look at her, letting her words wash over him as he gazed out to the 
west, where the ocean lay, white and grey-blue. Eternity in an ocean. How many 
of those water molecules had been part of primitive man? Dinosaurs? 
Single-celled primitive creatures? Himself?
"For so long," she continued, "I marked my time by achievements--honors and 
degrees, the encouraging words of those who'd gone before me, who I respected. I 
was determined to build...something...a list, maybe, that I could see and my 
father could see and it took me longer than it should have, perhaps, to realize 
that these achievements too were meaningless. That I had done nothing which was 
truly significant to anyone, including myself, except, ironically, my father."
Mulder snuck a quick glance at her face, but she was not watching him. She was 
looking straight into the half-sphere of the sun. It was odd, her being suddenly 
taller than him. His eyes were level with her shoulders.
"He was so proud of me. The degrees and the awards were something he could 
understand. He could never understand why I joined the FBI."
Mulder knew that. He wanted to touch her somehow, but he was afraid she would 
realize he was standing there and stop talking. He didn't want her to stop.
"But even that didn't satisfy my craving for something real, something 
meaningful. As cliche as it sounds, I wanted to feel like I was making a 
difference, and despite all the standard justifications--you know, that you act 
vicariously through your students--it felt false and unsatisfying."
A soft breeze ushered the scent of the sea to them both. Lack of sleep is like a 
drug--sometimes a person will say things without sleep that they would never 
speak aloud otherwise.
"I was lost, then, Mulder. For the first time in my life. In my newfound adult 
'wisdom,' I began to believe my goals had been naive, or worse, dishonest. I 
worried that I wanted to do something significant for exactly the same reasons 
that I had wanted to pursue degrees. I worried that my ego had allowed me 
wrongly to believe I was one of the rare individuals who could make a 
difference.
"But I never stopped believing, Mulder. I doubted, but I didn't stop believing. 
I found our work, and you, just in time. Now I know to mark my time by the lives 
I've touched, that this is where meaning lies."
He physically felt his heart constrict in his chest.
"It's ironic how much of our time we spend wishing it were tomorrow," she 
continued sadly. "Watching this sunrise, I'm having trouble wishing that."
She paused. A bird chirped somewhere behind them.
"I want to tell you something," she said slowly, the words difficult. "Something 
I should've said a thousand times."
No. This wasn't right. "Scully--"
"No," she insisted, emphasizing the gesture with a flattening of her palm 
against the air between them. "I want you to know how much you mean to me. How 
much I--"
"Scully." More firmly. He reached out to take her hand in his own, now meeting 
her gaze. "Don't. We will not say our goodbyes now."
"It's not 'goodbye,'" she protested, hurt.
The sun shone through the stray strands of hair, making it seem to him like 
fire. He choose his next words carefully, spoke them gently, caressing her 
fingers with his thumb.
"It's making sure there will be no regrets. That's the same thing." He paused. 
This wasn't easy for him either, and he let himself resort, just a little, to 
his usual defense against seriousness. "You know me better than anyone, Scully, 
so you know what a terribly selfish asshole I am. You know I'm perfectly serious 
when I say I won't let you have that peace. I know you, as well, and I know that 
if anything will keep you here it's your honor and integrity." He was completely 
serious now, and it wasn't quite as hard as he'd feared. "You won't leave a hole 
like that, so I won't let you fill it."
She frowned. "That's ridiculous, Mulder, not to mention patronizing." But she 
did not withdraw her hand. "I don't even have to be talking about my 
cancer--either one of us could leave this world anytime, with the lives we lead. 
And why the hell does this have to be about death anyway?"
"It doesn't," he replied, falling as easily she into their comfortingly familiar 
pattern, "but the ultimate connection is inevitable."
Scully's brow furrowed and she looked away. A long, consterned silence followed, 
broken by the increasingly loud birds behind them, who seemed determined to fill 
every silence with chatter.
"Are you giving up that easily?" he asked finally.
"It's not exactly like arguing one of your theories, Mulder," she answered, and 
he knew it was true. "It's kind of hard to say such personal things to someone 
when they've already said they don't want to hear."
Immediately, he answered: "I didn't say I don't want to hear."
"Will you stop it with the fucking games?" Her voice was irritated, severe. 
"Literal precision is not the object here." 
She paused, gazing up the bluish-purple sky. 
"It's just so frustrating," she said finally, but her voice was tired and sad, 
not frustrated. "Why is it that we can communicate so well in our work and in 
debates, but so poorly about what we are to each other?"
He squeezed her hand, glad he still had it. "I don't think we communicate poorly 
at all," he told her gently. "I just don't think there are words for what needs 
to be communicated."
"Then why do you seem to agree I have something to say?"
Familiar patterns, again.
He sighed, looked back out to the distant ocean, over the thousands of unlit row 
houses. There was no clear path to navigate from here.
"Actually, I can think of something worth saying," he said finally, hesitantly. 
It was time to say this, at least. He just wasn't sure how. "I'm just curious, 
you understand. I never asked you about it, and that should tell you whatever 
the answer, it doesn't really matter, not to us. But if--" He stopped. Thought. 
Continued. The words tumbled out hastily. "Did Van Blundht really have the right 
idea? Do you really wish things were different?"
He thought he heard her chuckle, and he was relieved. "Sometimes," she admitted, 
and he could feel her amused eyes on him. "And sometimes not."
He smiled himself. "Me too." 
Society has an odd expression: 'more than just friends.' As Mulder and Scully 
knew, 'just' is a poor choice of words. But when people use that phrase, they 
usually mean that the pair in question are lovers. And Mulder and Scully knew 
they were in fact more than _that._ Perhaps this made the confusion, the 
question of who was hostage to whom, more terrible. 
But these were words which had no meaning and therefore should not be spoken. 
They both understood this.
"Okay, my turn," Scully said wryly, not-so-deftly changing the subject. "Do you 
really want me to back off from work?"
"No." His answer was immediate and severe. 
Humans are by nature inconsistent, in contrast to almost everything else in 
nature. The rising sun demonstrated that.
She licked her lips, hearing the words behind his monotonic reply. "Mulder, I'm 
dying," she told him. "We both have to come to terms with that."
His voice was husky; his eyes pleading as he looked up at her. "You're not gonna 
die, Scully."
Her reply, like her face, was tender. "Everyone dies, Mulder."
Slowly, painfully, Mulder released her fingers and reached up to cup her cheek 
with his palm. "Not you," he whispered, eyes bright.
She leaned briefly into the caress, brought her own hand up to cover his. 
"Mulder, please tell me you don't believe that." Unexpectedly, she pulled his 
hand away, dragging it down to her throat, pressing it almost viciously into her 
carotid artery.
"You feel that, Mulder? It means two things: I am alive now, but I am human. 
Please don't treat me like I'm neither."
She knew that was harsh, and what she would say next was harsher, so she 
ever-so-carefully drew his hand away from her throat, keeping his intense and 
slightly fearful gaze locked with her own. She did not quite know what she was 
about to do, but her hand had done it before her mind could completely consider 
it.
She drew his hand inside her coat, beneath her jacket, and pressed it into the 
silk that covered the side of her breast, over her heart. She felt his hand 
stiffen, and feared for an instant that he'd misunderstood, but his eyes told 
her otherwise. Slowly, she felt his fingers relax against the curve of her 
breast, stretching up toward her collarbone, warm and heavy and firm. 
He felt the powerful drum of her heart beneath his hand. He found it a beautiful 
and compelling rhythm.
He was almost surprised when she spoke again, though the intensity of her voice 
would not be ignored. "I would do anything in my power to save you, Mulder, but 
I am not, and I don't want to be, your salvation. I don't want you to believe I 
will not die."
He swallowed. "I believe a lot of things," he said slowly, carefully. "But I 
believe in you more than anything else. If anyone can get through this, it is 
you. And I swear to you, Scully, if you let go because your science tells you 
you must, I will never forgive you. Never. You are going to beat this. Promise 
me."
He thought there were tears in her eyes, but with the sun behind her like that, 
he couldn't tell. When she spoke, he felt the vibration against his palm. Her 
words were quick. "I can't promise that."
"Promise me you will never give in," he insisted steadily.
He thought she trembled, or perhaps it was just her indrawn breath. Finally, she 
whispered the words he needed to hear. 
"I promise."
That was a promise she could make, although, as she'd pointed out herself, 
literal precision was not the objective. She knew then that she could not tell 
him of what she'd seen in the pathology laboratory, the cells more purple than 
the sky around them. Didn't he know he didn't need to make her promise, that 
already the thing she'd most regret (if one can regret things once one has died) 
was leaving him alone?
He was leaning up toward her now, and the child's rule came back to her quite 
suddenly: a promise sealed with a kiss.
When his cool lips touched hers she did not feel the same fear she had felt when 
he'd kissed her before. This was not, as he'd gone to great lengths to point 
out, goodbye.
It was a warm and lingering kiss, though a chaste one. His lips were soft and 
smooth, his breath warm and the scent of him welcome. When he drew back, she 
almost leaned forward, almost did not permit the contact to be severed, but he 
was only bending forward, and she felt his breath on her neck, then the soft 
touch of his lips at her throat, just above her necklace. She held her breath, 
aware of her pounding heart, as he gently pulled his hand away from her breast 
and tugged aside her coat.
She should not permit this, she knew. But she felt fixed, unable to move. Over 
his head, she could see the distant ocean, rolling repeatedly against the 
shores, and this somehow held her entranced.
Softly, reverently, he kissed the fabric over her heart, where his hand had lain 
a second earlier. "I know you're alive, Scully," he told her softly, not looking 
up. "I'm sorry if it's ever seemed otherwise, but I do know it."
He kissed her again, then turned his cheek and rested his head against her 
breast, listening to the comforting and constant--though quick--rhythm of her 
heart.
Scully swallowed, then wrapped her arms about him and bent her head over his, 
laying her cheek in his hair.
She was absolutely determined to keep her promise.
Neither knew how long they stood there together--it might have been a second, it 
might have been a day. Probably, judging by how far the sun had come, it had 
been five minutes, but this was irrelevant to them both.
Finally, Scully broke the spell. "Mulder?" she said to his hair.
"Mmmmm." His voice was muffled against her blouse.
"I'm really tired," she confessed.
He pulled away, keeping his hands on her arms, and looked up at her. Her hair 
was disheveled and her face worn.
He smiled ruefully. "Me too. Ready to go back?"
Back to the hotel, to the reports, to the world, to the ticking clock of the 
purple cells.
"Yes," she answered. Her voice was certain.

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




CHAPTER NINE
---------------------------------------------------
April 22, 1997
South San Francisco Police Headquarters
11:22 a.m.
"Well, I think that about wraps it up," the chief said. "I can't say I'm 
entirely happy with the outcome, and since Thrush won't testify I'm not sure 
what to think of your stories about the military, but I don't think we'll be 
needing you around anymore. No offense."
"None taken," Mulder said blandly. He still didn't like this man.
The chief pumped his hand once, nodded to Scully, and left the three 
investigators alone in the small interrogation room.
"It was good to work with you both," Anna said after a moment. "Really."
Mulder shrugged. "It's too bad, though. You really didn't see us at our best." 
He glanced sideways at Scully, a glance that might have been an apology.
"You know," Anna said, leaning back in her chair and looking at Mulder. "Well, 
your off-the-cuff profile was still right. Gegenmir was lonely, paranoid and the 
worst kind of nerd."
"Yeah, and just because you're paranoid..." Scully began wryly, glancing back at 
Mulder with a smile.
There was a brief silence, but it was a friendly silence.
Anna stood up from her chair. "Well, I guess I'll be seeing you," she said, 
extending her hand to Mulder. "If you're ever out in the bay area..."
He took it, shook it firmly, but instead of releasing it, continued to hold it 
in his grasp. "The investigation's not closed, as far as I'm concerned," he told 
her. "We'll be in touch."
"Maybe not with me, though. Or something. I don't know."
At their confused looks, she smiled with chagrin. "I'm thinking of leaving the 
force."
"Why?" Scully asked, surprised.
"I've never been impressed with how I'm treated, but that's not the point," Anna 
answered. "After this case, after seeing what passes for justice--this just 
isn't something I can believe in."
Mulder released her hand as Scully stepped forward, gripped the other woman's 
shoulder. "Anna, I've had the same thoughts," she said firmly. "I've seen more 
miscarriage of justice than you can imagine. There are men out there who would 
as soon burn innocent men and women as they would the constitution or a log of 
wood--it makes no difference to them. And they have a lot of power, but they're 
not unstoppable. Ideology isn't achievable, but it's still a standard you can 
approach. You can still make a difference."
"Oh, I know," Anna answered. "At least, I believe that. I think I do. I'm just 
not sure that this is the right place for me to be doing it."
"What would be the right place?" Mulder asked.
She pursed her lips and gave a small shrug. "I'm not sure yet. I've been 
thinking about it a lot, though. Maybe law."
She looked away momentarily, quite suddenly uncomfortable with her admission. 
Others' opinions of her were rarely of any consequence to her, but for some 
reason she didn't want these two to think she was backing out. 
But her thoughts were too unformed to be explained right now. Maybe later. 
"Listen," she said dismissively, "you two have a flight to catch. It was good to 
work with you."
"And with you," Scully told her. "We usually don't get so lucky when we're 
teamed up with others."
Anna smiled gratefully at her, hearing the genuine friendliness in the words. 
"You take care," she said to Scully.
Scully sniffed and smirked, hearing the reciprocal sincerity and knowing the 
caution had been less about politeness than bloody noses. "Yeah," she answered. 
"You too."
Anna watched them leave, then closed the door and looked at the mess of papers 
on the table. She'd seen the evidence with her own eyes, and yet it didn't quite 
come together here. This wasn't how justice was supposed to happen.
In theory, anyway. 
---------------------------------------------------





I want to tell you that she does not get eaten by the shrieking eels at this 
point.
What???!?
It's just that you looked concerned. 





---------------------------------------------------


REFERENCES
Information on terrorist situations came mostly from The Texas Association for 
Hostage Negotiation (http://www.tahn.org/), which receives support from the FBI. 
"Confronting the Terrorist Hostage Taker" by G. Dwayne Fuselier, Special Agent, 
Special Operations and Research Unit, FBI Academy and Gary W. Noesner, Special 
Agent, FBI, Washington Metropolitan Field Office 
(http://www.halofax.com/yakuza/documents/hostaker.txt) was also helpful. I 
learned about the Hanafi Model from http://ahp.net/hierarchon/htmfiles/han.htm, 
the abstract of a journal article. I never saw the four steps listed in the 
Duane Barry ep, but I used them as guidelines anyway--in the real world there 
are many possible models which negotiators choose from.
For the botanists, horehound is used in treating sore throats. Nightshade really 
is deadly, and mullein is used in making gold dyes and treating coughs. The 
compounds listed are really products of plants and sponges, but not necessarily 
those mentioned.
For the biologists, I made up the sonication thing, but everything else is 
pretty much true. I don't have references, but if you're curious, drop me a line 
and I'll recommend something.
For the chemists, I took some liberties with the natural products, as I'm sure 
you can tell. Everything I mention is really a natural product with medicinal 
use; however, it's not necessarily linked to the proper source. Sorry. If you're 
curious about this, contact me.
Also, I realize NMR takes longer than I allowed for here. But if Scully can do a 
Southern Blot in five hours, I can do NMR in 20 minutes. So there. =)
For the physicists, I'm just sorry. I am fully aware that what I've suggested 
isn't remotely plausible. Deal with it. =)
Information on black magic was gleaned from the Temple of Set 
(http://www.xeper.org/pub/tos/index.html). Although it exists within black 
magic, the specifics of the herbal stuff and astrology were entirely made up by 
me, so if you're an offended Knight of the Trapezoid, go ahead and curse me or 
something. Go ahead! I dare you! I'll just call the FBI and I'm sure they'll 
protect me. =)
Latin dictionary: http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/cgi-bin/lexindex. I also got the 
"Macbeth" text off a website for the complete works of Shakespeare with 
commentary, but I don't remember the URL.
Brief song in the teaser: "Blue," a little mixed with "Lovely You," by Eve's 
Plum (from the album "Envy" c. 1993 Sony Music).


Started 05/16/98
Completed 06/22/98
-----------------------------17618566724152 Content-Disposition: form-data; 
name="userfile"; filename="InsiderTrading.html" Content-Type: text/html 
Title - Insider Trading
Author - Nascent
E-Mail address - nascent70@flashmail.com
Rating - R (language, adult situations)
Category - TA
Spoilers - The Red and the Black
Summary - A fast-paced myth-adventure with lots of plot twists, featuring 
Scully, Mulder, Skinner, Krycek, and Samantha. A little quality time for our 
favorite agents, Generous!Ratboy, and Skinner on a hog.
Please do not archive.




TRAILER: 
Hey, why not? With all this discussion about summaries as spoilers, why not do 
it the way CC et al do? Just imagine the credits are rolling on the right side 
of your screen.... =)
*
The immediate aftermath of an enormous explosion, with a dark silhouette of a 
man in front of the flames, walking toward camera. He's carrying something heavy 
over his shoulder.
*
Gun-barrel. Zoom out to see Scully holding it with a look of fiery 
determination, her face scratched and hair tangled. 
*
Skinner lifting a small vial with a latex-gloved hand a la Memento Mori, 
studying the writing on the side. Zoom in to the words: "Scully, Dana 
Katherine."
*
Mulder dashing down a narrow, metallic hallway alongside a tall, dark man in a 
suit. Scully voiceover: "Krycek lives by one rule: if you see a back, stab it. 
He's been trying to trip us up from the start." 
*
Close-up of Scully, lying asleep in a large, bolstered bed, twisted up in a 
sheet but obviously naked. Camera zooms back to reveal a bloody dead man, also 
naked, lying beside her. 
*
Adult Samantha, talking on a telephone: "He...he was young. Dark, short hair. 
And he only had...he had one arm, Fox!" A figure is out of focus over her 
shoulder.
*
Mulder and Scully standing side-by-side on a ship at night, looking out over the 
railing. They're dressed casually; Mulder is wearing a Hawaiian shirt. Scully: 
"I've become an _object._ A body, over which I so often have no control, a body 
which others use or abuse and will eventually discard."
*
Skinner close-up, his face tight and angry: "I'm gonna get that bastard!" Zoom 
out, we see Skinner is on a motorcycle, which abruptly guns into action and 
races away, leaving Scully standing behind with a look of shock on her face.
*
Scully in a courtroom, gavel falls with a loud crack. Scully voiceover: "The 
only thing we can say with confidence, though, Mulder, is that we were 
manipulated into being here. Someone wants us to do something."
*
Krycek and Mulder grappling on a metal staircase. Krycek knocks a gun out of 
Mulder's hand.
*
Mulder and Scully sitting at a table in a darkened tavern. He's looking at her 
intently, seriously. "If that's true," Mulder says, locking her eyes with a 
serious gaze, "then we had better be careful _not_ to do it."
*
INTRODUCTION: 
I started this with every intention of creating a short Action!X break from the 
angsty X-File I was writing, but inevitably it grew on me, and then developed a 
little angst of its own. Can't seem to stop doing that.
Long story short--it's a mythology ep, and I tried to stay as true to 
"traditional" mytharc form. There's a mystery, chases, suspects, evidence, 
explosions, travel in a foreign country, and mixed, almost-clear agendas. The 
only way in which I deviated was in keeping Mulder and Scully together for most 
of the plot, just because I like that much better anyway.
But the more I wrote, the more I got drawn into Scully's head, and that's where 
the angst comes from. To me, Carter's version of ScullyTorture seems much more 
personal than his MulderTorture, and I tried to figure out how they both feel 
about that. While Mulder tends to get himself into trouble, trouble seems to 
come looking for Scully. And when it finds her, it takes the form of 
victimization, compromising the integrity of her body or even her will in a way 
that approximates rape. Whether that's indicative of a subtle bias in Carter's 
vision is another discussion, but given that it's happened, how is she dealing 
with it? That's the backdrop for "Insider Trading".
Of course, I didn't do nearly as good a job in that regard as last week's most 
excellent episode: "All Souls." Oh well. I guess that's why I'm writing fanfic, 
huh? =)
Nascent
04/29/98
p.s.--one warning: if you skip parts you _will_ get confused.
p.p.s.--if these sorts of things matter to you, it's not MSR but I won't get 
upset if you read that way.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: 
Armando Islas Torres--Thank you very, very much for your help with the Spanish, 
particularly the colloquialisms and proper phrasing of Spanish as spoken by 
natives versus non-natives. Hope you enjoy the final product. Thanks also for 
everyone who volunteered to help me on this!
Amperage, CiCi, Jill, Karen, Livengoo, Luvmulder, Meredith, Morgan, and 
RivkaT---thank you for introducing me to the wonderful world of fanfic by 
writing the kind of stuff I so enjoy--indepth character studies firmly rooted in 
_plots_ (or just really funny stuff!). I've had interesting email conversations 
with all of you (though not necessarily from this account), and I can't tell you 
how helpful and encouraging these exchanges have been in getting me going.
OBSSE Sistren and Brethren!--Thank you for great discussion on our blessed 
saint, which helped me shape how Scully might be dealing with her victimization, 
which is so different from Mulder's in that it compromises her body and will. 
Readers who've given me so much helpful and encouraging feedback on my previous 
stories--I'm hooked and want more more more! Without you, I wouldn't be doing 
this all the time. Wait...maybe that woudl be a good thing....=)
Archivists--thanks for taking all the time to make the perseverance of fanfic a 
reality, rather than just an extreme possibility.

DISCLAIMER: 
Not mine, oh 1013 gurus, but thine. 

AND YES, THERE IS A STORY:
---------------------------------------------------
"Insider Trading"
by Nascent (nascent70@hotmail.com)
---------------------------------------------------
Baltimore, Maryland
Monday
12:32 a.m.
A large rodent scurried across the dark warehouse floor, sniffing for an 
unlikely scrap of food. It came to the oblong projection of a moonlit window and 
stopped at the border, its nose and whiskers twitching delicately. Instinctively 
hesitant to cast its silhouette against the bluish light, it scurried along the 
rectangular border, only to encounter a nearby pair of booted feet.
The rat scampered across the human's path, adrenalin replacing its hunger. The 
looming shadows of the warehouse swallowed it wholly.
Alex Krycek watched the dark figure approach across the sparsely burdened cement 
floor. He fingered the butt of his gun nervously, well aware that this could be 
a trap. But caution and a finely honed instinct for survival had kept him alive 
this long; he was confident they would not fail him now.
His voice, when he spoke, was appropriately caustic, challenging. "Kept me 
waiting long enough. I was about to go home."
"I had to be sure I wasn't followed," the shadowy figure replied darkly. "I 
don't approve of your choice of meeting venues."
Krycek snorted. "I certainly don't approve of yours. I told you, this is on my 
terms. Now what did you want to tell me?"
"I know of a deal. A deal you'll want to stop."
"Why?"
"The merchandise being purchased is of interest to you. It came out of Chisinau, 
but originated in Tunguska. Remember Tunguska?"
There was an edge of mockery to the voice, and Krycek could feel the man staring 
at his well-crafted prosthesis. Krycek narrowed his eyes hatefully. "What is 
it?"
"A resistant strain," the man replied coolly. At Krycek's quick intake of 
breath, his voice smiled. "I knew you'd be interested."
"I would think you would be, too," Krycek replied, recovering.
"Oh, I am, believe me. I want you to get it for me, before the product is sold."
"Who's buying, who's selling?"
"The merchant is an old acquaintance of yours. I can't tell you who's buying," 
the man answered. "There are many who want this."
"You can't tell me, or you won't?"
The man didn't answer, but held out a slip of paper, let it fall to the ground. 
He turned away and strode off into the shadows, his heels clicking on the 
cement.
Krycek bent down and retrieved the paper, frowned at the name and place written 
there. "How do I know this isn't a set-up?" he called after the retreating 
figure.
The man turned back to him, regarding him for a long moment from the dark. "You 
don't," he said, quite coldly, then spun back on his heel and melted quickly 
into the blackness.
Krycek narrowed his eyes, staring at the slip of paper.
They'd better not be lying to him.
---------------------------------------------------
Alexandria, Virginia
4:30 a.m.
The phone rang and Mulder was instantly awake and alert. He rolled over on his 
stomach, groped around the floor for his cordless. Where had he dropped it last 
night?
It rang again. His hand snaked under the couch and captured it, brought it to 
his ear. There was only a dial tone. For a second, Mulder thought the other 
party had hung up, but then the ringing startled him again. His cell phone. 
Shit.
He surged to his feet and began rummaging through the pockets of his suit, which 
was draped over the chair in front of his computer. He managed to answer on the 
fifth ring.
"Mulder," he said gruffly.
"Fox?"
That voice.... The voice which haunted his dreams, even though--or perhaps 
_because_--he couldn't even be sure that the voice was hers.
"Who is this?" he demanded, already knowing her answer. Dreading being lied to.
"It's...it's Samantha."
He released the breath he'd been holding. Should he challenge her? What if it 
was truly her? Either way, she'd insist that she was, indeed, Samantha Mulder. 
Or Samantha....whatever her married name was. And if it really was her, he'd 
only hurt her.
She spoke again, sounding confused by his silence. "Fox? I--something happened 
tonight."
"Where are you?" he asked tightly. He felt as if a great weight was pushing on 
his chest, and the crazy image of himself flattened under a shiny cartoon piano 
flashed absurdly before his eyes.
"At home."
"Where's that?"
There was a long pause. "I--I don't think I want to tell you right now, Fox. 
I...I only called because the man said this was related to you. I think you may 
be in danger."
"How did you get this number?" Ha. There, he had her.
"It was on the card the man gave me."
Damn. Mulder dragged his hand raggedly over his face, catching his thumb on his 
lower lip. "What man?" he finally asked.
"He's at the hospital now. The police took him away. He was on my porch, he'd 
been shot in the leg."
"What?" Mulder leapt to his feet.
"He woke up my daughter!" There was real fear in her voice. Her daughter? Mulder 
pushed this revelation aside to be dealt with later, fighting for control. "He 
said--he said he wanted to speak to Samantha Mulder."
In the background, Mulder heard a male voice speaking to her. "Who's with you?" 
he asked.
"That's my husband."
Oh. Her husband. Shit, fuck, shit. Unbidden, the image of a man's face swam into 
Mulder's mind. A man watching his wife talk to her long-lost brother whose crazy 
quest for alien life had brought a criminal with a gunshot wound to their house 
in the middle of the night and scared their daughter. Mulder's imagination 
couldn't make out the man's features, but his expression bore a disturbing 
resemblance to Bill Scully.
Samantha was still talking. "He gave me your phone number on a card, told me to 
call you. He told me to give you a name." She sounded genuinely frightened.
"Why didn't he call me himself?" Mulder remained suspicious.
"He said you wouldn't listen to him. He said you'd know who he was."
"What did he look like?" Get every detail, Mulder. You're a profiler. If she's 
lying, you'll catch her. Right?
"He...he was young. Dark, short hair. And he only had...he had one arm, Fox!"
"Krycek." The growl escaped his lips before he could contain it. 
"You know him?" Her voice was half-panic, half-relief.
"He killed my father," Mulder answered. He couldn't bring himself to say 'our 
father.' He still wasn't sure. And besides, even if this was her, she believed 
that cigarette-smoking sonofabitch was her dad. 
He heard the woman's gasp, then the mouthpiece was covered while she conferred 
with whoever was with her. Her husband. Or whoever.
When she returned, she spoke quickly. "I called the police, and they came and 
took him away in an ambulance just ten minutes ago. But he told me I had to tell 
you to talk to Bernard Hollandaise right away. That he would give you all the 
information. He said you were in danger, Fox."
"He's setting me up," Mulder said. "The danger is in listening to him."
"Fox...he said..."--there was a tiny hint of a sob--"he said I shouldn't open 
the door for strangers. He said I should be careful..."
Mulder had always secretly prided himself on his eccentric unpredictability, but 
at times like this he felt like a naked emperor. They knew exactly what buttons 
to push. Samantha might be in danger, he might be in danger. It might be a trap, 
it might not be, but he had to follow. 
He knew someone had won. He just wasn't sure who.
"I'll check it out," he told her. "Can I call you with what I find out? How can 
I reach you?"
There was a long pause, as if she were deliberating. Finally, she gave in. 
"(301) 555-3762. Please don't call except about this, and only if you have to," 
she whispered.
Baltimore area code. Mulder was silent for a long moment. "I'll call you," he 
told her. He disconnected.
He flipped on his computer and dialed up the internet. A few moments later, he 
knew Hollandaise was a French consul and had two addresses: one in Georgetown 
and the other in Nice, but the phone number was unlisted. He was not surprised.
Scully. He should call her. If going into this without back-up didn't get him 
killed, she'd finish him off. But if he called her, she'd insist on waiting for 
a more reasonable hour, waiting for this possibly completely innocent man to 
wake up, at least. She'd gently remind him that he had absolutely know reason to 
trust this woman (no shit, Scully), and she'd suggest that he was once again 
being manipulated. She'd tell him not to play their game.
But he had to play. Their field was the only one available.
He compromised. He typed a short email telling her to call him and giving her 
the number "Samantha" had provided, in case she couldn't find him. He did not 
include any other details. Hell, if he couldn't trust that the woman who looked 
like, sounded like and knew everything about the childhood of his sister was his 
sister, why the hell should he trust PGP encryption?
He dressed quickly and headed for Hollandaise's home.
---------------------------------------------------
Georgetown, Washington, D.C.
Monday
5:14 a.m.
When he arrived at the tall, red-brick house, he was surprised to find a police 
car parked in front. Two officers were conferring quietly by the steps of the 
building, occasionally peering up at it through the midmorning dusk.
Mulder swallowed. Yes, the cops could be a coincidence, but coincidences rarely 
happened to Mulder.
He approached the officers with his best G-man swagger, flipped out his badge.
"What's going on?" he asked, keeping his voice quiet.
One of them stepped forward, peeking out from under his cap like a scared 
rabbit. "Who called the FBI?" he squeaked.
Traffic cops, Mulder thought to himself. Great. "I received a phone call this 
morning telling me to come to this building," he replied carefully. "I don't 
think it was an official request for help."
The other officer's eyes narrowed. "Who called you?"
"An anonymous source," Mulder answered shortly. "What's going on?"
"We got a call from a neighbor," the man replied. "Said she heard a gunshot 
coming from that house about half-an-hour ago."
"Half an hour? Why haven't you done something?"
The man looked a little embarrassed. "Well....we've only been here about ten 
minutes. And there are no lights on. This is a good neighborhood. Besides, we've 
gotten calls from that lady before." His tone suggested that he suspected the 
woman in question was unlikely to correctly identify a gunshot.
"We were just debating whether to wake Mr. Hollandaise," said his partner the 
rabbit, trying to be helpful.
"Wake him," Mulder said, his voice steely with authority.
The officers looked at each other, then back to Mulder.
"Okay, I'll wake him," Mulder announced, seeing their indecision. "Who is this 
guy, anyway?"
"You don't know?"
"I know he's a French diplomat."
"He's a consul of the French government. A real nice guy," Officer Rabbit said 
fondly. "One of our guys pulled him over for speeding once, and he didn't pull 
any of that diplomatic immunity crap. He sent the department several bottles of 
French wine for 'doing our job.'"
"Sweet guy," Mulder replied, unimpressed. "I'm sure he'd appreciate your 'doing 
your job' if he's been murdered."
Before the officers could discover that they were offended, he strode past the 
them and up the stairs, where he rapped sharply on the door.
There was no answer. He pressed his thumb against the doorbell. No sound came 
from within. Broken?
The officers were behind him now. "Look," one of them began. "We didn't mean 
to--"
Mulder knocked again, louder, ignoring the man.
He let a minute pass, then fumbled in his pocket for a lockpick gun. Out of the 
corner of his eye, he saw one of the Rabbit's mouth open in surprise that he'd 
been prepared for this. He flashed a grim smile. "I was a boy scout," he lied, 
in explanation.
He inserted the lockpick gun and heard the click almost immediately.
"Hey!" one of the men protested. "We don't have probable cause..."
"I'd say possible murder is probable cause, wouldn't you?" Mulder frowned 
sternly at the man as he pushed through the door and into the house. "Mr. 
Hollandaise?" he called.
There was no answer. The house was dark.
He turned to the men. "Look around," he told them perfunctorily. He started up 
the staircase.
It was a beautiful house. In the dim light from the elevated windows, Mulder 
could make out the enormous chandelier hung above the foyer, and the paintings 
on the staircase looked authentic--he thought he recognized French artists from 
the last five centuries.
The top of the stairs were rimmed by a balcony, from which three hallways 
radiated. Judging that his object, the master bedroom, would be the furthest 
away from the rest of the house, Mulder chose the most distant hallway and 
started down it. "Mr. Hollandaise?" he called again. Downstairs, he could hear 
the officers calling out the same words, walking around the house.
The double doors at the hallway's end looked promising. Mulder tapped on them, 
called out again.
Mr. Hollandaise did not answer. But someone else did. 
It was a sleepy, half-conscious "Wha--?" A woman's voice. And it sounded like--
Mulder slammed the door open and flipped on the lights, his heart in his throat.
The enormous bed across the room had two occupants. One of them was dead, and 
the other was Scully.
Mulder raced to her side, confusion and fear battling for dominance of his 
brain. "Scully!" he cried. "What are you--"
He stopped, because what she had been doing was obvious. She had just propped 
herself up on one elbow, was shielding her eyes from the light. Her hair was 
tangled and there were blackened pits under her eyes from her smeared make-up. 
And though her lower half was partly tangled in the sheets, she was quite 
obviously naked.
The equally naked man beside her lay on top of the sheets, which on his side of 
the bed were drenched in almost-fresh blood. The bullet had bored cleanly 
through his heart. 
Scully's eyes were beginning to adjust to the light and she looked up at him, 
confused and clearly afraid. She didn't seem to have noticed the body beside her 
yet. But she didn't protest as Mulder pulled the bloody sheet away from her and 
shrugged out of his coat, draping it over her body. "Get up, Scully," he said 
frantically.
She swiveled her head around, taking in her surroundings, and he saw her eyes 
come to rest on the dead man beside her. The gun lay on his pillow. She opened 
her mouth.
Afraid she would scream, Mulder clamped his hand over her mouth, holding the 
back of her head. He had to get her out of here before the policemen found this. 
"Get up," he repeated urgently, and when she still didn't move, he wrapped the 
voluminous coat firmly about her small body and started to lift her.
He wasn't fast enough. There was a voice from the doorway. "What the fuck?"
It was Officer Rabbit's Partner.
Mulder hastily began fussing with the coat, pulling it up around her shoulders 
as if he were only concerned with covering her nudity and not with getting her 
out of here. 
"What'd I tell you?" he said grimly to the policeman. Please, Scully, follow my 
lead. 
The man seemed unable to look at the bloody body on the bed. With relief, Mulder 
noted he couldn't meet Scully's eyes either. He looked only at Mulder, and 
something in his face was simply pleading for Mulder to take this horrible, 
bloody, sex-scarred mess off his hands and let him go back to writing curbside 
parking tickets.
Which Mulder fully hoped to do.
"Listen, Officer..."--he strode across the room and peered at the man's 
uniform--"...Reynolds. This is an incident of international import. A diplomat 
has been murdered. It's not exactly a matter for the local authorities. I'll 
call in some back-up, get this cleaned up, but if you want to help out, you 
should be looking around the grounds for the killer."
Mulder was confident that the killer was nowhere near the grounds, long since 
gone. Unless the killer was....he refused to complete that thought. Scully had 
had faith in him when Amy Cassandra's blood was on his shirt. 
But that chip in her neck....oh, please don't let it....
"What about her?" Reynolds was saying. "Don't you think she did it?"
Mulder glanced back at Scully, who was sitting up now and watching them warily, 
hugging his coat against her body.
"I'll take her in for questioning," Mulder answered. "But I don't think she's 
responsible."
If he told Reynolds who she was, the police would in all likelihood consider it 
inappropriate that he handle things and insist on taking over the case or 
calling someone else. They were green but he doubted they were stupid.
The rabbit-mannered policeman joined them now, took one look at the scene, and 
promptly raced out again, covering his mouth.
Then again....
Reynolds walked further into the room, willing himself to look at the bed.
"But...sir," he said hesitantly. "The gun's right there." He pointed at the bed.
Mulder's eyes followed his finger, saw that a gun that looked very much like 
Scully's was lying on the bed between her and the dead body. He hurried back 
toward her, anxious to interpose himself.
"What's your name, ma'am?" Reynolds asked her.
Scully lifted her chin and Mulder sighed with relief. She was in control. "I'd 
prefer not to answer any questions without an attorney present," she said 
clearly. "But I will tell you I have no recollection of what happened here. I 
don't even know how I got here."
Mulder stepped forward authoritatively. "Thanks for your help, Reynolds. I'll 
have more agents here shortly. Right now, I'm taking her in to get her 
statement."
Reynolds swallowed and nodded his assent.
---------------------------------------------------
6:01 a.m.
His car sped away from that horrible house with his partner in the passenger 
seat. He'd brought along only the gun, which had indeed proved to be Scully's. 
He'd made one phone call--to Skinner.
"Where are we going?" Scully's voice was dull and quiet.
Mulder looked over at her, concerned. They had been unable to find her clothes 
at Hollandaise's home, and so she was still dressed only in his coat. Her hair 
was tangled and her face pale and drawn.
He slid his hand to the back of her neck, turning his eyes back to the road but 
needing the contact. "Are you hurt at all?" he countered.
"I don't feel anything," she answered.
She had an air of resignation about her that he had never seen before, a 
defeated glaze over her eyes. It terrified him.
Suddenly, a horrible thought occurred to him. "Scully, I have to know. Did 
he--did someone...?" He couldn't bring himself to say it.
Fortunately, he didn't have to. "There was no intercourse, Mulder," she said 
evenly.
Mulder released the breath he'd been holding. But would she know...? He knew 
that women could tell that sort of thing better than men, but he had to be 
certain. "Can you be sure?" he asked.
She turned to look at him, and he dropped his hand from her neck under her 
expressionless gaze. "I'm sure, Mulder," she answered coolly. End of discussion. 
"Who was the man?"
"Bernard Hollandaise. French consul. I don't know any more than that right now. 
Had you ever met him or heard of him?"
"No. How did you end up there?"
"I'll explain that later. Let's worry about getting you to a hospital."
"Is that where we're going?"
"No, first we're going to your house so you can get some clothes," he replied. 
"Then, yes, the hospital."
"Mulder, I'm not hurt, I don't need to--"
"Trace evidence, Scully," Mulder interrupted. "There might be something on your 
body, and you were almost certainly drugged. We need to prove that first."
"Maybe not, Mulder," she said slowly, looking out the window again. "The 
chip...."
For a horrible instant, the road seemed to fade to the corners of his vision as 
Mulder relived the endless walk along that Pennsylvania bridge, sidestepping the 
charred remains of men and women, among whom might have been his partner. That 
could not happen again, could it? Besides, she had had some forewarning of that.
"What, exactly, do you remember, Scully?" he asked her. 
She was silent for so long he was about to ask again, but when she spoke he knew 
she'd only been considering, trying to be thorough. "I...I remember going to bed 
Sunday night, early, around 9 o'clock. I was really tired. That's the last 
thing."
"Then you're only missing about eight hours. Did you have any strange feelings 
before that?"
"Not that I can remember," she answered. "I talked to you around noon and had 
dinner with my mother. Everything was normal."
Mulder turned onto the beltway and his hand found her knee. "We're going to 
figure this out, Scully. I know you didn't kill that man."
"That's good," she answered grimly. "Because I don't."
---------------------------------------------------
Hollandaise residence
6:42 a.m.
Walter Skinner found the police officers in the yard behind the house. They were 
stooped over, scanning the dirt. Skinner thought without humor that they looked 
like pecking chickens. Mulder had warned him they were only traffic cops.
"Officers!" Skinner called from the porch. They both looked up, and he watched 
their faces melt with relief at the sight of his authoritative figure and 
trenchcoat. They approached him quickly.
Skinner looked down at them from the low deck. Poor boys. They'd had no idea 
what they were getting into when Fox Mulder showed up. Skinner knew, a little, 
how they felt, though he'd never admit it.
"I'm Assistant Director Walter Skinner with the FBI," he told them, flashing his 
badge. "You spoke with my agents?"
"With one of them, sir, yes," said Officer Chicken. "An Agent Mildred."
Skinner blinked slowly so that they wouldn't see him roll his eyes. "Mulder," he 
corrected. "And"--he hesitated--"there was a woman here too."
"Yes sir," said Officer Chicken's Partner. Skinner studied the man, who peered 
out from under his cap like a frightened rabbit. "Agent Mulder took her in for 
questioning."
"I'm sure he did," Skinner answered, more to himself than to the men. Mulder had 
explained the situation and said he was taking Scully to the hospital.
"She can't leave the scene of the crime," Skinner had told him tightly.
"She can in my custody, sir," Mulder had answered.
"You're her partner, not custody," Skinner had admonished.
"She didn't do this, sir. You and I both know how absurd it is. You also know 
that she's not going to try to run or hide--we just need some time to figure out 
what happened. You can get us that time. Just keep them from charging her."
"I know she's innocent, Mulder, but we have to open a casefile on this. If you 
don't get her statement ASAP, she's going to look guilty and you'll look like 
you're protecting her."
"I know that. I'll take her in to give a statement as soon as we're done at the 
hospital. We need you to see that this case goes into friendly hands."
"I can't guarantee that, Agent Mulder. Since this involves an agent under my 
supervision, it'd be seen as a conflict of interest if I try to influence who's 
assigned to the case. Besides, it'll have to be handled through the D.C. field 
office. But I'll see what I can do."
"Thank you, sir."
Skinner cursed inwardly, remembering that conversation. You'd think after his 
own similar experience and that business with Mulder last year in Rhode Island, 
the three of them would have honest evasion down to an art form. Your turn, 
Scully, he thought bitterly.
The barnyard officers were staring up at him expectantly. "What were you looking 
for out here?" he asked them finally.
"Footprints, sir," supplied Rabbit.
"Find any?" Skinner asked.
"No sir," the man replied.
Skinner wasn't surprised. Of course, he'd already called in a team to go over 
the place with a fine-toothed comb. In fact, the sound of voices entering the 
front of the house announced their arrival at that very moment.
"Well, thanks for your help," Skinner said in his best wrap-it-up tone. "We'll 
take things from here and call you when we're ready for your statements. Just 
leave your names with one of those men coming in now." He jerked his thumb back 
into the house.
The cops filed past him obediently, seeming relieved that this business was out 
of their hands.
Skinner regarded the yard silently for a long moment, hands on hips. Why was he 
doing this? Why was he sticking his neck out to protect them again? Mulder 
undoubtedly knew more than he was saying: something had to have precipitated 
this. There were times when he was glad they withheld information from him, but 
at times like this it irritated him to no end. He felt, not for the first time, 
uncertain who should be calling who 'sir,' and, a little shamefully, he resented 
it.
He was not quite as confident as Mulder that Scully had not done this--how could 
he forget that incident on the bridge, so fresh in recent memory? If something 
like that had happened here....
Nonetheless, he was absolutely confident of Scully's innocence. Even if her 
finger had squeezed the trigger, someone or something had been pushing on her 
finger. He had seen these agents used and abused a dozen times over, in the most 
solicitous of ways, and irrespective of any personal feelings for them it 
angered him unspeakably. That there were men within this government who had such 
blatant disregard for its laws and principles made him furious. He had fought 
and almost died half a world away for those principles, and he had risen up 
through the FBI ranks, sacrificing his marriage and any hopes for a family, 
buoyed only by his belief in justice and democracy. What Dana Scully had 
suffered, all because of men who flaunted their governmental power with 
impunity, was a direct affront to the ideals to which he had dedicated his life. 
Staring at this yard in the chill morning air, he knew with bitter confidence 
that those same men were in some way responsible for this, and he would take 
them down if he could.
Besides, he liked her. A lot. And even though he harbored no illusions that 
without Scully, Mulder would've skewered himself on Roche or someone like him 
years ago, Skinner liked Mulder as well. Although he often took issue with their 
methods, he couldn't help but respect their competence. And he certainly shared 
thier goals.
Skinner would help them again. But they had to understand that if they wanted to 
keep their jobs, their access, Skinner had to keep his, and that might mean he 
couldn't risk as much as they might ask him to.
---------------------------------------------------
Annapolis Medical Center
7:51 a.m.
Mulder paced anxiously in the hallway outside the examination room. Scully had 
been inside for almost forty minutes now. 
He hated this place. The very smell of a hospital--antiseptic air tinged with 
endless disposable plastic--made him feel helpless. Always in these places he 
was _waiting,_ unable to act, while things happened around him that were utterly 
beyond his control. Whether the reason for being there was himself or Scully (or 
a barely-known little girl), he could do nothing but wait, while doctors and 
nurses scurried around him doing things he did not understand. He hated having 
to trust strangers this way.
Particularly when the strangers were evaluating his partner. He had told them to 
look for evidence of coercion or drugs, but he knew they would also be looking 
for evidence of guilt. It angered him that once again, Scully's body had been 
required to serve as a clue.
He greeted the sudden shrill ring of his cell phone with frustrated irritation.
"Yeah," he answered as he clicked it on.
"Agent Mulder," said the voice on the other end.
With relief, Mulder recognized Skinner's voice. "Did you find anything, sir?" he 
asked.
"I may have. I'm at Hollandaise's house now, supervising the sweep. The ME 
thinks the time of death was around 4:30, which is consistent with the 
neighbor's story. He hasn't found any evidence of sex, consensual or otherwise. 
It appears Hollandaise was simply shot in his sleep. There's no sign of forced 
entry, but that doesn't mean anything."
"So what did you find?" Mulder prompted.
"I'm in his office right now, looking at his Rolodex. He's an old-fashioned guy, 
no palm pilot or anything. But Mulder--Scully's name and phone number are in 
here."
Mulder swallowed. "Handwritten?" he asked hopefully.
"No, typed, like the rest of these cards. This guy was anal."
Mulder sighed. "So we can't get a handwriting analysis on that. I'm sure it was 
planted there, though--Scully says she's never heard of this guy."
"I hope you're right," Skinner replied. "But there's something else here."
"What?"
"One of the cards is marked with a hand-drawn symbol I recognize. It's the logo 
for Roush."
Mulder sank into a plastic chair, ran a hand through his hair. "The biotech 
company Blevins and Kritschgau were paid by. Very interesting. What's it say?"
"It's got a name and phone number on it, but no business or address."
"What's the name?" Mulder gripped the phone between his shoulder and ear, 
fumbling in his breast pocket for a pad of paper and pen.
"Rex Kaleck." Skinner spelled it. "The number is (202) 555-9399. That mean 
anything to you?"
Mulder finished jotting it down. "Not a thing," he replied, narrowing his eyes 
at the name.
"Well, it's all I've got so far," Skinner said. "Where are you?"
"Hospital," Mulder answered shortly, still staring fixedly at the name.
"How's Agent Scully?"
"Unhurt," said Mulder. "They're checking her over now. Should be done soon."
"Okay then. You need to take her downtown when you're finished. I can't 
emphasize that enough."
"I know, sir. Call me if you find anything else." Mulder disconnected before 
Skinner could answer and lowered the pad of paper to his lap, staring at it 
fixedly.
REX KALECK
He scribbled underneath it:
CARY LEXEKK
CARY LEKKEX
He frowned, pausing. Then he saw it, so glaringly obvious he didn't even need to 
tick off the letters.
ALEX KRYCEK
This time, he was going to kill that sonofabitch.
Mulder fumbled to retrieve his cell phone, dialed the number Skinner had given 
him. The phone rang once, twice, then a recording answered. "We're sorry," the 
tinny operator's voice told him. "The number you dialed has been disconnected."
Fuck.
Mulder dialed another number. 
"Danny? Fox Mulder. Listen, can you get a prior address on a disconnected phone 
number for me? And the date it was disconnected?...yeah, next season, okay? I 
promise. Have I ever lied to you before?....I know, I know, but that was the 
only time....Yeah, okay. 202-555-9399.....Right....Wait--one other thing. Can 
you check to see if any calls were made to this number in the past year from any 
numbers registered to Bernard Hollandaise of Georgetown?...Yeah, I know it's a 
lot, it's really important, though....okay, okay, four tickets....Yeah, I 
promise."
He repeated the information for Danny, then hung up, unsatisfied but stumped.
---------------------------------------------------
FBI Regional Office
Washington, D.C.
12:25 a.m.
"Can you tell me everything you did yesterday?"
Scully folded her hands neatly on the table. The venetian blind pattern cast 
into the room by the afternoon sun ran almost perpendicular to the woodgrain of 
the table. Scully estimated that the angle of incidence was about fifty degrees 
(although for the time of day it should be about 80--the blinds distorted time: 
she'd have to remember that trick). She imagined hundreds of similar 40-50-90 
triangles with the woodgrain for a base and the light rays for a hypotenuse. 
Mentally she perched a series of parallel planes on the triangles, extending 
them back up to the venetian blinds to her right, creating a slotted wall 
between herself and the woman questioning her.
Thoughts like these kept her sane.
She spoke evenly, proud of the measured strength in her voice. She may have been 
on the wrong side of this table for once, but she hadn't forgotten the rules. "I 
woke up around 7 a.m. and had breakfast, then went for a jog. I came back home 
and worked for several hours reading background for a paper I'm putting together 
with some people over at Johns Hopkins."
"Paper?"
"A scientific study for a peer-review journal. An analysis of some hippocampal 
slices taken from a killer in a case I worked on a few months ago."
"Could this have anything to do with the events of last night?"
"I doubt it," answered Scully. "The killer had had an interesting psychic 
ability which arose apparently coincident with a brain tumor. My collaborators 
at Hopkins managed to get some electrophysiological data and are now attempting 
to look for subcellular histological anomalies, but this is fairly routine." 
This information was unnecessary, but Scully did not want to appear to be 
hesisitant to speak about anything.
"I am, however, fairly confident the event was work-related," she continued. 
"But I'll finish telling you about my day first."
The inquisitor--Agent Rakowski--gestured for her to proceed. While at first she 
had been clearly uncomfortable interrogating a fellow agent, she seemed to have 
been relaxed by Scully's honest, nonconfrontational manner.
"I had lunch around noon, and made a phone call to my partner shortly after 
that, to confirm his opinion on some events of the case I told you about. We 
spoke about that, then discussed a few other work-related things, and agreed to 
meet for breakfast the next day."
The woman frowned, shifting uncomfortably. "Agent Scully," she began 
reluctantly. "I need to ask you, and you don't have to answer, but I need to ask 
you anyway, given the somewhat questionable actions of your partner this 
morning. Are you personally involved with Fox Mulder in any way other than as 
professional partners?"
Scully raised her eyebrows. "Is Mulder under suspicion here?" She hadn't thought 
of that, but it suddenly occurred to her that others might see his actions as 
those of a jealous lover who she was now covering for. And of course, Mulder had 
taken her "into custody," which might be seen as him protecting her. Which it 
was. She cursed to herself. She should have insisted they remain at the crime 
scene.
But he'd been right about looking for trace evidence. If she'd gone through 
normal channels the clues might have degraded before anyone let her go to the 
hospital.
Rakowski was still waiting for her answer.
"Agent Mulder and I have been working together for more than five years now, " 
said Scully, carefully choosing words that would be clear but not defensive. 
"The experiences and dangers we've shared have brought us very close. As an 
agent yourself, I'm sure you can appreciate that your first instinct in a crisis 
situation is to protect your partner, which is what Mulder was trying to do this 
morning. But if you're asking if we are lovers, the answer is no." 
Rakowski hesitated, and Scully imagined the woman was measuring that statement 
up against the gossip she'd undoubtedly heard, even though she worked with the 
Washington division and not headquarters. "Are you romantically involved or have 
you recently been romantically involved with anyone else?" she asked.
"No."
Rakowski nodded, apparently satisfied. "So you talked to Agent Mulder," she 
prompted.
"Yes," Scully replied. "And then I continued my work on the paper. I sent some 
emails to my collaborators, and met my mother for dinner at a restaurant around 
seven."
"Which restaurant was that?"
"Luigi's, on Sixth Avenue." Scully hesitated, debating whether this was the 
right time to voice her suspicion. She decided it was. "You are aware that 
traces of ethanimate were found in my system this morning, correct?"
Rakowski nodded. She had seen the hospital report.
"Ethanimate is a sedative prescribed to insomniacs," Scully continued. "We found 
a needle puncture wound in my groin, which doctors speculated was the result of 
my having been injected with ethanimate. However, I find it difficult to believe 
that anyone would have been able to gain access to that particular region of my 
anatomy without my knowledge."
Rakowski couldn't help but smile, and Scully returned the smile thinly, even 
though she didn't think it was very funny. "So," she continued, "I believe the 
ethanimate was administered orally, probably late in the meal at the restaurant. 
I did feel remarkably tired when I got home. And oral administration agrees with 
the timeframe, in that it would've taken at least thirty minutes for sufficient 
amounts to accumulate in my bloodstream."
"I see," Rakowski said. "So you believe someone working at the restaurant 
slipped you a mickey?"
"Essentially, yes. It could have been a patron, but I was going to suggest you 
check on everyone who was working there last night."
"I'll see what I can do. Did anyone else know you were going to dinner with your 
mother and where?"
"Only Agent Mulder and my mother, and anyone who listens to my phone 
conversations."
Rakowski chuckled at the joke.
"I'm serious," Scully told her, thinking, Mulder would have beamed with pride if 
he heard that.
Rakowski looked uncertain as to how to take that. "You suspect your phone is 
tapped, Agent Scully?"
"It wouldn't be the first time. Which brings me to why I believe this event to 
be work-related."
Rakowski leaned forward, waiting.
"In our work with the X-Files," Scully began, "Agent Mulder and I have 
repeatedly come up against shadow forces within the government who have 
attempted to obstruct our search for the truth in our cases."
Rakowski had assumed a condescending, sympathetic expression that Scully had 
grown very familiar with: she had once favored Mulder with it. But that was long 
ago. "I know it sounds crazy," she said, "but I can tell by many of your 
reactions that you've at least heard about some of the cases we work on. Perhaps 
you heard about my testimony to congress last year regarding these conspiracies. 
Surely you recognize that if these things didn't have at least some truth to 
them we'd have lost our jobs by now."
Rakowski blinked, but didn't speak.
"Agent Mulder and I have both paid dearly for our attempts to expose these men," 
Scully continued. "I suspect that what happened last night is somehow linked to 
that."
"Linked how?"
"I don't know yet. But I'm determined to find out, and I will certainly keep you 
informed."
Rakowski abruptly seemed to remember that this was supposed to be an 
interrogation and she was supposed to be the interrogator. "Agent Scully, let's 
put the Oliver Stone stuff aside for a minute. How did Agent Mulder end up at 
the house?"
Scully knew Mulder was giving his own statement in another room at that moment. 
He had told her about the phone call he'd received.
"Unfortunately, that's a little Oliver Stonish as well," Scully answered. "He 
got a phone call this morning from someone claiming to be his sister, who has 
been missing for twenty-five years. She told him to go to Hollandaise's house, 
and claimed to have been contacted by a man named Alex Krycek, who is wanted for 
murder and treason. We now believe that Krycek is somehow connected to 
Hollandaise."
"I see," Rakowski said, her thin lips indicating cher skepticism clearly. "Let's 
come back to that in a moment, and go back to the hospital report."
"Yes?"
"The needle puncture. What do you think that was for if not to administer you 
the ethanimate?"
"I think it was to draw a blood sample," Scully answered. "The location was 
chosen in hopes that I wouldn't discover it in the morning."
"Why would someone want your blood?"
Scully pursed her lips and lowered her eyes. "I don't know. My only guess is 
that they're monitoring an experiment."
Agent Racowski raised her eyebrows. Scully felt very tired. 
---------------------------------------------------
2:43 p.m.
Scully found Mulder sitting outside her interrogation room. She had been 
released for the moment, but instructed not to leave the city or turn off her 
cell phone. They still might arrest her.
Mulder looked tired and dejected, his elbows resting on his knees, hair still 
uncombed after his rush to the Hollandaise house that morning.
"Hey," she said softly, approaching him. She tried to infuse her voice with 
optimism, but was unsuccessful.
He looked up at her, stretched. "How'd it go?"
"Oh, just great," Scully answered, the sarcasm dripping from her voice like 
syrup. "I explained everything to her--that a man who got me abducted by 
masquerading as an FBI agent, killed your father, was infected by a toxin from 
the bottom of the ocean then took up with an armed right-wing militia before 
selling out to the Russians finally visited your sister, who's been missing for 
twenty-five years. I told her that what happened last night is related to my 
abduction by shadow forces in the government and I explained the implant and the 
cancer and then we felt all warm and fuzzy from all that personal sharing so we 
traded pictures of our kids."
Mulder gave her a pained look. "Scully--"
She waved her hand to stop him. "It's okay, Mulder. I'm not trying to sound 
bitter. I'm just illustrating how ridiculous it sounds. She thinks I'm crazy, 
and if I were her, I would've thought the same thing."
"Now that you're on that side of the fence you're just wishing you could get an 
investigator as gullible as me on your case, huh?" Mulder meant it as a joke, 
but it was too close to the truth to be amusing.
"How'd your interview go?" she asked him.
He nodded. "About the same. But don't worry about it, Scully. Skinner knows 
we're not crazy. He'll be down here soon to talk to them."
"I'm not worried about whether I'll be charged, Mulder." She gestured for him to 
stand as she started walking out of the office complex. He followed her closely, 
leaning down to hear her.
"I'm worried about whether or not I did it," she told him quietly.
"Scully, we know you didn't," he whispered back. He put his hand on her shoulder 
to slow her down. 
"We know I didn't mean to," she corrected. "But if my finger pulled that 
trigger, Mulder, I need to know that. You of all people should understand that."
They stopped by the elevator, which was just going down. They stepped inside 
quickly, but the presence of two others in the car kept them silent. When they 
exited on the first floor, she continued.
"If someone was able to make me do this and not remember a thing, Mulder, then I 
have to know it. If that's true, then I'm a danger to everyone around me, 
including you."
Mulder struggled with that theory, unwilling to admit its plausibility. "Scully, 
it was probably the drug, like you said. Someone slipped you a drug at the 
restaurant, then waited until you fell asleep at home, undressed you and set you 
up at Hollandaise's house. Then they killed Hollandaise with your gun. That's 
the simplest explanation."
"But why would they do something stupid like that, Mulder?" she asked. They 
found the car on the curb, and Mulder unlocked her door. "I'm an FBI agent. They 
had to have known we'd find out about the ethanimate. And anyone who did a 
little background research would find out how ridiculous it is that I'd be in 
bed with some French diplomat."
As he got in the other side, he answered her. "We know it's ridiculous, and 
whoever did this to you probably does too. But as you so nicely pointed out, our 
explanation of the motive sounds a hell of a lot more ridiculous than does some 
kind of lovers' quarrel scenario."
"Oh, they pulled that on you too?" Scully snorted. She glanced sideways out the 
window. "Look. I'm not questioning who was responsible. But I do need to know if 
I pulled that trigger. And if I did, well...I may have to do some very careful 
thinking about this chip in my neck."
Mulder had been about to put the car into drive, but he slammed it back into 
park and banged his hands with frustration against the steering wheel. He curled 
his fists around it and slid them up and down, as if the friction would slow and 
soothe him.
Scully watched him sympathetically. Oddly, the thought of removing the implant 
didn't upset her much. She suspected this was only because it so clearly upset 
Mulder. As long as he could play the buoy, rising and falling with the waves, 
she could play the anchor, rooting him solidly in the earth. But should he ever 
sink down to join her on the peaceful ocean floor, should he ever not be shaken 
so violently by the winds and waters which rocked their daily existence, then 
she knew she would surely float to the top and be carried away. He needed her to 
distance herself from her own emotions, to be the strong one, just as 
desperately as she needed him to need that.
She waited for him to calm down, then reached across the car and pressed her 
cool fingers over his clenched fist. He looked at her, and his face was again 
composed. She smiled at him. "Let's go to the office, Mulder. Try to dig up some 
facts."
He swallowed and nodded, then disengaged their hands to put the car into drive.
---------------------------------------------------
FBI Headquarters
3:22 p.m.
Mulder unlocked the door and Scully followed him through. 
"We need to call the woman who called you this morning," Scully told him, 
closing the door behind them. She was careful not to say 'your sister.'
"I told her I wouldn't," Mulder objected, but it was a weak protest.
"Then I'll do it," Scully answered. She studied his uncertain features. "Mulder, 
you have no reason to believe she was your sister," she continued. "We need to 
find out if she was telling the truth or if this is part of the game."
Mulder turned away from her and moved to his desk. He sat down and began 
shuffling through the open file folders, stacking them and pushing them aside. 
Scully watched him, waiting. Finally, he looked up at her, realizing she wasn't 
going to let him off the hook, and shrugged, as if conceding. He picked up the 
phone.
Scully noted that he had already memorized the number.
Mulder dropped his head into his free hand and rubbed his forehead, waiting for 
an answer. Suddenly, he looked up at her, smirked grimly. He handed her the 
phone.
Scully took it, confused. A female voice on the other end, starting to sound 
irritated, said, "Can I help you?"
"Who...who is this?" Scully asked, her brow furrowing.
"Sail Away Cruises, ma'am. How may I direct your call today?"
Scully's eyes closed. Dead end. "I'm sorry," she said. "I must've dialed the 
wrong number."
She replaced the phone in its cradle. "Mulder--"
"So she made up a phone number," Mulder interrupted. "That doesn't mean 
anything. She might have done that no matter who she was."
He surged to his feet. "Listen, Scully, I'm going back over to Hollandaise's 
house, see how things are going there. Why don't you try to find out if any area 
police or hospitals have arrested or treated a one-armed man for gunshot 
wounds."
"They won't let you into the crime scene, Mulder," Scully told him, but his hand 
was already on the door. "They told me to stay away from the investigation and 
I'm sure they'll say the same for you."
"We'll see," he answered.
As he disappeared into the hallway, Scully called after him in exasperation. 
"Don't jeopardize our position any more than it is already!"
He called something inaudible back to her, just to acknowledge he'd heard.
Scully snorted in exasperation and sank down in his chair. Calling the local 
police and hospitals looking for Krycek was a waste of time; they'd told their 
story to the D.C. agents and they'd have the manpower to follow that up. 
Besides, if Krycek had been arrested or treated for a gunshot wound, he would 
have been fingerprinted, and by this evening they'd have found the match from 
his FBI records and figured out he was a wanted criminal. 
Meanwhile, Mulder would be accused of trying to tamper with evidence at the 
crime scene. Wonderful. And he'd taken the car, while hers was still at home.
The ringing of the office phone shook her out of her irritated reverie. She 
picked it up. "Scully."
"Hi, Dana, it's Danny. Is Mulder there?" said a familiar male voice.
"Hi Danny. No, he just walked out. But did you get the information he asked you 
for?"
"Sure did. Listen, I heard a little about what's going on over there--are you 
okay?"
Scully leaned back in the chair. Word spread fast. "I'm fine, Danny. Can you 
tell me what you've got?"
"Sure. Hey--tell Mulder he doesn't owe me the tickets for this. I didn't realize 
you were in trouble."
Scully shifted uncomfortably, hoping he'd continue without her having to 
acknowledge that. After a second, he did. 
"The disconnected number Mulder gave me was a Motorola cellular number 
registered to a 'Hadrian Buller.'"
Scully scribbled the name down quickly. "Hadrian like the wall?" she asked.
"Right. In fact, he's a Brit. At least, he has a British passport number. I went 
ahead and ran a check on him."
"Thanks. What else did you find out about him?"
"Nothing, really. He seems to be a very mysterious individual. No address, no 
phone number, no relatives that I could find."
You don't know the half of it, Scully thought to herself, recalling Krycek's 
fabled ability to drop off the face of the earth only to crawl back through the 
crust out of some hole in some completely unexpected location. She tapped her 
pencil, thinking.
"So," Danny continued, "I also checked on phone calls made from Hollandaise's 
Georgetown residence to Buller's cell phone in the past year. Nine calls were 
made, all last September."
"Interesting. What were the dates?" Scully said. Danny told her, and she 
scribbled that information down as well. "You've been a big help as usual, 
Danny. Thanks."
"Anytime, Dana. Tell Mulder I said hi."
"I will. Talk to you later."
"Good luck," Danny answered. "Oh, and Dana--we all know this business with the 
dead French guy is nonsense."
Scully bit her lip. She desperately disliked being the center of attention this 
way. But she managed to politely thank him and disconnect as quickly as 
possible.
Hadrian Buller. So this was Krycek's latest identity. Or maybe not the latest, 
since the D.C. phone line had been disconnected. Still, it was something. 
She stared at the dates Danny had given her. Three calls on September 20, two on 
September 21, and one each on the fourth, twelfth, fourteenth and eighteenth.
Well, it was worth checking.
Scully dialed another number. "Yes, this is Special Agent Dana Scully, ID number 
2317-616. I need to check the manifests of all international flights that left 
the D.C. area between September 19 and September 25 for a Hadrian Buller....Yes, 
I know that's a lot, I've narrowed the dates as much as I can....Yes, I'll 
hold."
It was a long shot, but what if? They knew that Krycek was active in the 
international black market. Hollandaise had marked the Rolodex card containing 
his name with the Roush logo, affiliating Krycek with a product. What if 
Hollandaise had been a customer? His contact with Krycek/Buller had been 
brief--only over a few weeks last September, with calls increasing later in the 
month, a pattern reminiscent of a business deal being closed.
One thing bothered her, though. If Hollandaise had a phone number registered to 
Buller, why had he known Krycek's real name? He had written "Rex Kaleck" for a 
reason.
If her name had been planted in the Rolodex, how could she be sure that his 
hadn't as well?
The voice in her ear startled her. "Agent Scully?"
"I'm here," she replied quickly.
"I found one flight. Hadrian Buller left BWI on September 23 on a SwissAir 
flight which terminated in Tripoli, via Geneva. I went ahead and checked his 
complete itinerary for you--he returned to BWI direct from Athens on October 
12."
That was odd. "Was he confirmed on the leg from Geneva to Tripoli?"
"Yes, he was."
"Hmmmm. Well, thank you very much." Scully hung up. She had a feeling she was 
onto something.
Tripoli was on the Libyan coast. 'Buller' had bought a ticket all the way to 
Tripoli and actually disembarked in Geneva and managed to get confirmed on the 
flight anyway, just to cover his tracks, then used some other method of 
transportation to get to Paris. Or he actually went to Tripoli, then bought a 
ticket to Paris on a minor airline which didn't register its manifests with the 
FBI. But why Tripoli?
Planes weren't the only way to cross the Mediterranean.
Scully blinked. Surely not. That's an awfully big leap, Dana.
But it was a compelling coincidence.
Scully grabbed a Baltimore phonebook, flipped through the pages. There it was. 
She dialed the number quickly.
A woman picked up on the second ring. "Sail Away Cruises, how can I help you?"
Scully leaned back in her chair. "I'm Special Agent Dana Scully, with the 
Federal Bureau of Investigation," she said. "We're trying to track someone who 
might have been a customer of yours."
She could hear the woman on the other end getting nervous. "Ummm....okay...what 
can I do?"
"Look up a name for me. Hadrian Buller."
"Ma'am, that information would be confidential. How do I know you're an FBI 
agent?"
"You don't," Scully said patiently. It was good to know that some people thought 
about these things, as irritating as it might be to real agents. "I can come 
down and show you my badge but I'm a little pressed for time here and I was 
hoping you could help me over the phone. I can give you my badge number, which 
you should write down, and if you want to call the bureau to check my 
credentials, that's fine. They can transfer your call directly to me, so you'll 
know it's really me you're speaking to."
The woman agreed and Scully told her the number, then hung up and waited. Five 
minutes later, the phone rang.
"Scully."
"Agent Scully, this is Cheryl at Sail Away Cruises."
"Thanks for calling back," Scully replied. "Now, if you wouldn't mind...."
"Hadrian Buller, yes. I pulled up the file while I was on the phone."
Scully smiled, wondering if Skinner would ever approve funds for an X-Files 
Division Secretary. She doubted it, but she'd remember this woman Cheryl, just 
in case.
"Mr. Buller has been a very good customer, Agent Scully. He booked three cruises 
with us in 1997."
Scully leaned forward, drawing in a breath. "Where and when?" she asked.
"Well, we book with lines all over the world," Cheryl answered. "He toured 
Southeast Asia from February 4 to February 28, Vancouver to Alaska on June 9 to 
June 19, and Casablanca to Athens on September 25 to October 12. I can fax you 
the full itineraries if you like."
"Please do that." Scully rattled off her fax number. "Do you have a phone number 
or address for Mr. Buller?"
"Yes, ma'am, but the address is just a P.O. box. Would you like those as well?"
"Yes. How did he pay for these cruises?"
"There's no credit card number listed, if that's what you're asking. It must 
have been check or cash."
Scully nodded. A credit card would have been too good to be true. "Thank you, 
Cheryl. I really appreciate this."
"You're welcome, ma'am. Have a nice day."
Well, her day had certainly started poorly, but things were looking up.
The fax arrived twenty minutes later, and Scully turned immediately to the 
Mediterranean trip. As she'd suspected, the listed ports of call included Nice, 
Hollandaise's French home. A quick call to the French consulate could confirm he 
was in Nice on that date.
But what about the two days between Krycek/Buller's arrival in Tripoli, Libya, 
and his boarding of a cruise ship in Casablanca, Morocco? Why had he crossed 
Algeria, and how? By camel?
The image of one-armed Krycek, gowned in white and wearing a turban and 
sunglasses, plodding across the Sahara rolling side-to-side on a camel, struck 
her as absurdly funny. For the first time that day, she permitter herself to 
laugh out loud, then remembered the fax contained other important information.
The phone number the cruise company had was the same one Buller had 
disconnected. Nothing new there. A quick call to the Baltimore post office 
confirmed that the P.O. Box was checked out to a Hadrian Buller, who had paid 
for the box in cash.
Still, she had a lot more to work with than before.
Quite suddenly, though, the implications of the source of the phone number hit 
her. Why had 'Samantha' led them to the cruise company?
---------------------------------------------------
4:14 p.m.
"Why cruise ships?" Mulder said into the payphone. He hadn't reached 
Hollandaise's house yet--afternoon traffic was a bitch. Too bad the Metro didn't 
go to Georgetown. 
He was standing on a street corner, having insisted they get to a landline as 
soon as Scully started to tell him about the Krycek/Buller connection. She'd 
explained the whole story.
"Cruise ships are notoriously lax in customs," Scully replied. "Much easier to 
carry illegal substances on them than on planes, if you've got the time and 
money. They're not too popular with drug-runners, because of their expense, but 
terrorists have used them on many occasions to evade airport security."
"And Buller or Krycek or whoever has booked three such cruises in the last 
year?"
"Right. It's impossible to speculate right now on the reasons for the first two, 
but I think we can safely say the most recent one was at least in part to sell 
something to Hollandaise in Nice."
"But this 'Buller' had a D.C. area code! Why didn't he just deliver the goods to 
Hollandaise in Georgetown?"
"I don't think he had them then," Scully replied. "That's why he flew to 
Tripoli. He picked up the goods somewhere between Libya and Morocco. He didn't 
want to carry them by air, so he boarded the ship with them, and then met 
Hollandaise in Nice."
Mulder chewed his lip thoughtfully. "So. The woman who called me this morning 
said Krycek came to her house with Hollandaise's name on his lips. Then she gave 
me a phone number for a cruise company which you think Krycek is using to pick 
up and deliver goods. You think she was just trying to put us on the trail?"
"I don't know. And I don't know how this relates to what happened to me this 
morning. But what do you mean 'you think?' What's your theory?"
"I think you're right about the cruises, the merchandise, Hollandaise being a 
customer. But this just doesn't smell like Krycek."
"Mulder, how do you know how Krycek smells?"
He continued as if she hadn't spoken. "First, it's too stupid. Whoever's doing 
this is bound to get caught, and Krycek is not stupid. Second, how would Krycek 
be connected to Roush? Third, the only reason you think it is Krycek is because 
the anagram on that Rolodex card Skinner found was associated with a phone 
number registered to this Buller guy. But there was a Rolodex card with your 
name on it too and--"
"Mulder, hang on a second."
He could tell from her voice that something was wrong, and he waited, fidgeting 
and frowning. A minute later, she came back on the line. 
"Mulder, I have to go."
"Where?"
"Downtown. They're arresting me, Mulder."
"What?" 
"I can't talk to you right now," she said, her voice tight and even. "They said 
the arraignment's scheduled for ten tomorrow morning."
"Scully, that's ridiculous! With all the evidence we have--how can they....?"
"It's okay, Mulder. We'll get it sorted out. I'm going to leave all the 
information I've gathered in your top desk drawer, okay? I'll see you in the 
morning."
"Scully--"
"Goodbye, Mulder," she said firmly, and the line went dead.
"Fuck," Mulder muttered, slamming down the phone. He put his hands on his hips 
and looked around him.
Well, this was all the more reason to go on to the crime scene now. They 
wouldn't have arrested her unless they'd found something new.
He got in his car and pulled back into the traffic.
---------------------------------------------------
Hollandaise Residence
4:42 p.m.
Skinner shrugged into his coat as he strode down the front steps of 
Hollandaise's home. He'd gone back to the office for awhile, but returned a few 
hours ago to personally oversee the cleanup. He'd read Scully's and Mulder's 
statements, substantiated their stories inasmuch he could. Clearly, Scully had 
been drugged and framed, but why?
Ballistics were a match for Scully's weapon at close range, and her fingerprints 
were the only ones present. No other evidence had been found in the house, save 
the Rolodex card with her name on it.
He'd insisted on being informed of any new developments in the case, and he'd 
received the phone call just ten minutes earlier. He was hurrying back to his 
car when Agent Mulder pulled up in front of him, killed his engine.
"Sir!" he called out.
Skinner jogged over to Mulder's window, leaned down. "From the expression on 
your face, I take it you heard," Skinner began.
"Heard what? I only know they arrested her. I've been trying to get information 
from the D.C. office but they won't talk to me."
Skinner expelled a breath and straightened, twisting his gaze around. "It's 
bogus, Mulder, it's got to be. They said they've got a witness."
"To the shooting?" Mulder cried incredulously.
"No. A witness to an affair between Hollandaise and Scully."
"What?"
"You heard me. They questioned Hollandaise's secretary, a Jacqueline Couvier. 
She claims that Scully and Hollandaise have been seeing each other for three 
months now, and that Hollandaise asked her to pick out a gift for Scully for a 
special evening last night."
"Special--this is bullshit, Skinner. This Couvier person is on someone's 
payroll, and it's not Hollandaise's." He paused, looked away, then swiveled back 
to Skinner. "Even if they believe this, they still don't have a motive--it's not 
enough!"
"It's enough for an arraignment," Skinner replied. "And Mulder, they do have a 
motive."
"What?"
"Hollandaise was on the Board of Directors at Transgen Pharmaceuticals. He 
stepped down when Dr. Calderon disappeared."
Skinner waited a moment, letting that last revelation sink in with Mulder. 
"Listen, Mulder, I need you to tell me the truth. Has Agent Scully been 
investigating Transgen or Dr. Calderon, you know, on the side, since Emily's 
death?"
Mulder's brow furrowed. "Well, yes sir, we both have. Of course. But neither of 
us knew about this."
Skinner studied Mulder's face. He believed him. "Then we need to figure out 
who's setting who up," he said finally.
"I think there's someone who can tell us," Mulder said firmly.
"Who's that?"
"Hadrian Buller."
Skinner cocked his head. He'd never heard the name.
---------------------------------------------------
Tuesday
Washington, D.C. Courthouse
10:42 a.m.
"Ms. Couvier," said the thin-faced attorney. "You're saying that your employer 
and Dana Scully, who you've seen in Hollandaise's office on numerous occasions 
over the past three months, had a rendevouz--a date, if you will--planned for 
Sunday evening."
"Yes sir."
Scully regarded the woman with all the focused intensity of a laser beam and all 
the warmth of liquid nitrogen. Jacqueline Couvier was a short, overweight, 
matronly woman with glasses and a mild French accent, not the kind of person 
you'd expect to lie, much less accept payment from shadow forces within the 
government. Exactly the kind of person they'd find. 
"And you were asked by your employer to purchase a lover's gift for Miss Scully, 
were you not?"
"Yes, sir."
"What was that gift, Ms. Couvier?"
"A pearl necklace, sir," Couvier answered.
"Is this the necklace?" the attorney asked, holding up a long string of 
alternating black and white pearls.
Couvier nodded, her jowls jouncing with the movement.
"Let the record show that Ms. Couvier is nodding," the prosecutor said. "This 
necklace, your honor, was recovered from the Hollandaise home yesterday."
Scully stared at the necklace. She'd never wear something as gaudy as that. 
Oyster saliva. Someone hadn't done his research.
"Thank you, Ms. Couvier." The prosecutor turned to the lawyer seated next to 
Scully, a woman in her mid-forties. "Your witness," he said.
The defense attorney stood. "Ms. Couvier, what is your impression of Dr. Scully, 
from your meetings with her in Mr. Hollandaise's office?"
Scully wished she could roll her eyes. She had tried, tried very hard, to 
convince her court-appointed lawyer of the real events of this case, but over 
the course of their interview the woman had grown steadily more quiet and 
eventually patronizing. She clearly had no idea how to proceed with something 
like this.
"Objection," said the prosecutor. "Ms. Couvier's personal opinion of Dana Scully 
is irrelevant."
"Sustained," came the voice from the bench.
Scully's lawyer looked lost for a second, then recovered. But her recovery was 
sub-optimal: "No further questions."
Scully sighed, wondering where they had found this Couvier. And speaking of 
finding people--where the hell was Mulder? She hadn't been allowed to call him 
the previous night, and given his potential involvement in the case, they hadn't 
permitted him to visit, either. And now he wasn't here, which was 
extraordinarily uncharacteristic. 
Skinner was, though. She'd seen him take a seat three rows behind her. He had 
volunteered to be a character witness, but such witnesses were not called during 
a hearing, only in trial. It was looking more and more likely that he'd get his 
chance.
The judge called for a recess to make his decision. Scully sat straight and 
still as the small audience murmured and jostled. She lowered her eyelids until 
she could only see the room through her lashes, so that people and furniture 
were reduced to colors and shapes. The space was predominantly golden, and it 
relaxed her.
Scully had confirmed each item in her statement, trying to ignore the furtive 
glances and whispers exchanged by the spectators. You should hear Mulder tell 
it, she thought to herself. Believe me, I'm tempered, compared to him.
Of course, these days, she wasn't quite sure what Mulder would say. She was as 
uncertain as ever what to believe, but Mulder had always at least believed in 
something, and believed it fiercely, even when it directly contradicted whatever 
he'd believed a week earlier. Ever since Cassandra Spender, he had seemed 
uncertain himself, and that frightened her more than she liked to admit. Without 
his faith to drive them, there was little point in her ability to keep them on 
the road.
Of course, she realized now that the statement she'd given played right into 
Their hands, whoever They were. They'd known she'd tell the truth, and hadn't 
cared whether anyone believed her, because they'd planned to reveal 
Hollandaise's connection to Transgen all along. The prosecutor had used the 
colors They'd provided to paint a very plausible picture.
He'd suggested that, after the tragic death of her unexplainable daughter, 
Scully had pursued connections to Transgen and Calderon until she stumbled over 
Hollandaise's name. Hollandaise had been on the Transgen Board of Directors for 
a few short months last winter, and had left around the time of Calderon's 
disappearance. The prosecutor alleged that Scully had struck up a romantic 
relationship with this man without revealing her personal interest in Transgen, 
hoping to gain his trust and thus information about Emily. Finally, after months 
without success, she'd planned to threaten Hollandaise's life for the 
information, and, enraged by whatever he told her (or wouldn't tell her), had 
killed him. A physician, she'd administered the ethanimate to herself and made 
the needle puncture wound herself so to make plausible the idea that she'd been 
framed. Her partner may have been an accomplice, but there was no evidence of 
that yet.
She'd thought they were stupid to come after an FBI agent who'd testified before 
congress and who was still called "Ice Queen" by snickering coworkers behind her 
back (yes, of course she knew about that). But her recent behavior on the bridge 
in Pennsylvania and the motive connected to Emily, combined with her paranoid 
though well-voiced criticism of the U.S. government, made the story plausible. 
She'd played right into their hands.
But it still didn't make sense! Why come after her now--after all these years? 
And why this way?
And how dare they use Emily against her? Her anger at that effrontery, that 
mockery of justice, was all that kept her from collapsing into tears at the 
reopening of such painful wounds. Not only had They created her and taken her 
away, but now they had the audacity to use the child's death to manipulate and 
malign Scully herself.
She wondered, not for the first time, why her connection to that child still ran 
so deep. She considered herself to be a compassionate person, with a strong 
sense of right and wrong, but she had never seen herself as one to bestow love 
haphazardly. It had surprised her, how quickly she had taken to that child, and 
how, when she learned Emily shared half her own genes, she felt an almost 
immediate surge of love and protectiveness which she never would have predicted.
Emily had been more than a little girl in pain and need, more than a person who 
shared part of Scully's genetic makeup. She had been an unlooked-for chance 
which Scully would never have again: the chance to be more than Dana Scully, 
daughter, sister, friend. She could be Dana Scully, mother.
Even if only for a year, maybe two. She'd hoped for that much time, even though 
she knew how painful it would be to give the child up, as she inevitably would 
have had to. But hell--a year ago she'd thought her own death was 
inevitable--what if they'd been able to cure Emily? There had always been hope.
Emily had represented a hope far greater than any hope Scully had seen in her 
increasingly darkened life. She relied on her strength and her ideals--truth, 
justice, and integrity--to carry her forward across the desolate, never-ending 
terrain, but there were times when these seemed too cold, too intangible, and 
she secretly longed for something warmer--faith, or the tiny arms of a trusting 
child twined around her neck.
Who would create a life whose only hope was to die?
"That you found her, and you had a chance to love her...maybe she was meant for 
that too," Mulder had said. It comforted her, that he always found a purpose in 
the tragedies that befell them. Fate. In a way, it was Mulder's hope, though it 
might also be his greatest enemy.
Scully reached up to finger the cross around her neck, remembering that day in 
San Diego, when she stood beside Emily's empty casket. Her brand of fate had a 
will--that made it harder to accept. She had held the cross sadly, wondering why 
God had chosen this path for this child--or had He chosen it at all?
She was never meant to be.
The tears had at last begun to fall as she stood there in that church. She felt 
Mulder's presence behind her and closed her eyes, bit her lip, willing herself 
not to cry in front of him. But he hadn't turned her face toward his; instead 
he'd reached around her shoulders to take the necklace from her fingers. Gently, 
he'd looped it back around her neck. She felt his fingertips brushing the scar 
under her hair as he fastened the clasps, then his hands rested lightly on her 
shoulders.
She could have asked him to leave. Wait for her outside while she shed the tears 
that had been threatening to break free for days. Cleaned up in the bathroom and 
went out to meet him, and he'd never have said a word.
Instead, she'd turned toward him and hid her face against his warm breast, 
taking hope from this small tangible thing. He'd held her for a long time, 
stroking her back and hair as she wept silently. And he'd never said a word 
about that either, for which she was grateful.
The bang of a gavel startled Scully out of those painful memories, and as the 
room came back into focus around her, she recalled why she was here, and the 
angry determination returned. She straightened, folded her hands before her on 
the table.
There was a frightening truth buried in the prosecution's accusations, if only 
in what it revealed to her about her own psyche. If she should ever find out who 
was responsible for that child's death, might she kill him?
Oh, she might. She hadn't forgotten how close she'd come with Cardinale.
The judge peered down at her from his bench. "The court finds sufficient 
evidence to try Dana Scully for charges of first-degree murder," he declared. 
"Jury selection will begin two weeks from today at 9 a.m.. Bail is set at two 
hundred thousand dollars."
Scully blinked, but otherwise permitted no emotion to leak across her face.
---------------------------------------------------
11:14 a.m.
Scully and Skinner walked out of the courthouse side by side. She waited until 
they were a safe distance away before stopping in her tracks and turning to 
Skinner, staring up at him with incredulous questions in her eyes.
"Don't get all glassy-eyed looking at me, Agent Scully," he told her. "It was 
Mulder's money."
That surprised her further. "Did he go to a bondsman?'
"I don't believe so," Skinner answered. "He handed me cash last night, before he 
left for Savannah."
"Savannah? Georgia?"
"Yes. You and I are meeting him in Miami in about eight hours."
"What? Sir! I'm a defendant in a murder-one trial! I can't leave the area...."
"I've arranged for you to be permitted to travel, provided you do so under my 
immediate supervision," Skinner replied.
Scully raised her eyebrows. "They let you get away with that?"
"Being assistant director does have its perks," Skinner replied, pleased that 
he'd surprised her. "One of them is that you're generally well-regarded. They 
trust me to keep you in line. Of course, that means we're both going on this 
little trip."
"Thank you, sir," Scully said, her voice serious. "I know you're putting a lot 
on the line here."
"They've gone too far with this, Scully," he replied. "This is not the 
government I believe in."
He paused, lowered his voice. "Anyway, there's a little time for you to get home 
and get packed. Your car's in that parking lot." Skinner pointed across the 
street. "Mulder left it there."
"Why Miami?" Scully asked, starting for the lot he'd indicated.
"Hadrian Buller's boarding another cruise ship there. Mulder got on in Savannah. 
Pack something--I don't know"--Skinner waved his hands--"touristy. I'll pick you 
up in two hours."
Scully blinked at him. Well, at least she knew why Mulder had missed the 
hearing. Had Mulder told him everything? How had she missed so much in just one 
night? "Ummmm....yeah," she said finally. "Two hours."
The business conducted, Skinner put his hand out, touched her shoulder. He had 
teh awkward look of a man who wants to say something, but instead just squeezed 
her shoulder awkwardly and turned away.
Scully shook her head after him, puzzled and a little overwhelmed. Miami? Cruise 
ship?
As soon as she was in her car, Scully pulled out her phone and punched the 
button for Mulder's cell, hoping he wasn't out of reach. He picked up on the 
fourth ring.
"Mulder."
"It's me," she said.
"Hey, jailbird!" he answered. His cheerful tone was like the baying of the 
hounds--she could tell he was on a trail.
"Not anymore. I understand I have you to thank for the get-out-of-jail-free 
card." Scully pulled out onto the street and began driving home. "Where'd you 
come up with that kind of money?"
"Oh, you know, a CD here, mutual fund there...."
Scully could almost picture him with a boyish hand behind his neck. "Sounds like 
you should've been buying me dinner all these years, Mulder. How is it I can 
keep finding things out about you that I didn't know?"
"I'm an enigma wrapped in a riddle shrouded in mystery," Mulder replied darkly. 
"Seriously, how are you doing?"
"I'm fine, Mulder. Feeling a little maligned and hoping my mom doesn't read the 
papers, but fine."
"That's good," he said, and meant it. Then: "Skinner vouched for you, right?"
"Yes. When did you talk to him? Did you tell him everything?"
"Last night and pretty much. He's coming with you down here, right?"
"That's what he says. Where's 'here' now?"
"Actually, I'm on the ship now, almost into the Miami port. The ship's called 
'Fantasy Princess.' Disgusting, I know. I've checked out one cabin--it was all I 
could get on such short notice. This is going to be a little...undercover, 
Scully, so you should...you know....dress down a little. Maybe that cute little 
green number, you know with the--hey! Okay, I gotta go."
"Muh--" she started to protest, but the line was already dead. She shook her 
head in frustration and headed home.
---------------------------------------------------
Miami, Florida
6:32 p.m.
Scully stared sourly up at the cruise ship. It looked like an enormous, 
overweight plastic whale. It was not unlike most of the people boarding it.
She scowled with distaste. Undoubtedly, there was an all-you-can-eat buffet, a 
tacky dance floor and a swimming pool (a pool on a boat seemed most absurd). She 
was quite certain she'd hate it.
She had, as Mulder requested, dressed casually: white slacks and a blue 
T-shirt--baggy and untucked to hide the bulge of her weapon at the small of her 
back. Skinner had opted for an ankle holster, and had hidden it with 
well-fitting khakis and a white T-shirt. They each carried a small bag of 
clothes.
Someone jostled Scully as they entered the crowded line waiting to board the 
ship, and she put her hand out to steady herself, increasingly annoyed. The 
motherly woman in front of them turned around and beamed at them.
"Is this your first cruise?" she cooed.
Scully looked away, trying to pretend she hadn't heard. Skinner glanced at her, 
then back at the woman. He smiled apologetically. "Yes. Yes it is."
She leaned forward to confide to him. "Don't worry, a little relaxation will 
make all your problems go away. My first cruise saved my marriage."
Skinner shifted uncomfortably, made a move to loosen his tie, then remembered he 
wasn't wearing one.
Fortunately, Scully didn't see the woman's eyes slide suggestively to Scully. 
She was looking for Mulder.
Just then, the familiar figure of her partner came dashing up to meet them. 
Well, almost familiar: he wore a brightly-colored floral Hawaiian shirt over his 
jeans.
Scully stared at him, trying not to laugh.
"I missed him," said Mulder, stopping beside them. 
"Krycek?" Skinner asked.
Mulder nodded. "I got off the boat to try to catch him in line, but I certainly 
didn't see Krycek and when I got back on they had Buller listed as already 
boarded. He's supposed to be in cabin 3101."
Scully gestured for him to move closer so they could speak more quietly. "Why 
don't we just get on the boat and arrest him, then?"
Mulder shook his head. "We need to figure out what he's after. I think it's 
better if we don't let him know we're here--it's a boat, it's not like he can go 
anywhere. The boat docks tomorrow morning in Havana, Cuba. Since all its other 
ports of call are pretty frivolous, I think it's reasonable to assume that 
Havana is his destination. I think we should lie low and figure out what this is 
all about."
"Mulder, if we let him get off in Cuba, he's technically beyond our powers of 
arrest," Scully reminded him.
"Scully's right," Skinner confirmed. "We need to make the arrest on the boat if 
at all possible. But I think it's a good idea to wait until the last minute, see 
what we can find out about his agenda. He may end up having nothing to do with 
Hollandaise's death."
"I doubt that," Mulder answered. "But I see your point. If it is Krycek, I don't 
want to let him off this boat--I've lost that bastard too many times. But I do 
want to know what's going on here."
"As do we all," Skinner reminded him.
Mulder produced two tickets from his shirt pocket, handed one to each of them.
"Where'd you get that shirt, Mulder?" Scully asked finally, unable to contain 
herself any longer. 
Mulder eyed her over his sunglasses. "Undercover, Scully," he stage-whispered.
"Yeah, that's real secretive," she muttered back. "You should be required to 
distribute sunglasses to everyone around if you're gonna wear something like 
that."
Skinner shifted uncomfortably, pretending not to hear their banter. Somehow, 
working with these two frequently made him feel like he was interrupting them, 
and it irritated him--he was supposed to be their supervisor.
The line wove its way up the gangplank and they handed their tickets to the 
white-uniformed woman on the first deck. She handed them a packet of pamphlets 
and started to explain all the pleasantries they would enjoy on the ship, but 
Mulder, nervous that someone might be watching that approach, hurried them 
along, promising the woman that he'd explain everything to them.
He led them out of the fresh air and down a narrow, winding corridor to their 
interior cabin, unlocked it ceremoniously. "I told them we're working undercover 
and only using the cabin as a home base," he explained. "I said we were after an 
embezzler, nothing violent, of course. No need to upset the staff."
Scully and Skinner deposited their bags and looked around the bleak room. It 
appeared more a cell than a bedroom--the wallpaper was even greyish-blue. Scully 
crossed to the tiny porthole on the side wall. She had to stand on tiptoe to see 
the ocean beyond.
"There's barely room to change your mind in here," she observed. "I can't 
understand why people think this is enjoyable."
She turned back to the room and surveyed it skeptically. There was a low double 
bed against the opposite wall, which meant it was about a foot away from her. In 
the corner by the door was a small luggage rack, and across the room was a small 
door leading to a tiny bathroom, the entirity of which was visible through the 
doorway.
"You're not supposed to spend time in your room, Scully," Mulder answered.
"I thought that was the point," she replied archly. "Eat and sleep, right?"
Had Skinner not been present, Mulder wouldn't have passed up the opportunity to 
interject an innuendo, but he wisely opted not to, figuring Skinner might call 
him on sexual harassment.
Instead, he suggested they make themselves familiar with the layout of the ship, 
as described in their helpful boarding pamphlets. As soon as the sun went down, 
they would begin canvassing the decks.
---------------------------------------------------
7:43 p.m.
Mulder followed Scully as she wove her way through the crowds on the dance 
floor. Irritating seventies music blared from the speakers, and the flashing 
silver lights above them reflected off the countless beverages held by 
overzealously disco forty-somethings. They had been scouting out the boat for 
the last half-hour, moving from deck to deck as unobtrusively as possible. Since 
they weren't sure whether they were looking for Krycek or some anonymous British 
man, it was impossible to gauge their effectiveness. But Skinner had insisted on 
checking out cabin 3101 alone, pointing out that he would be less conspicuous by 
himself and less likely than Mulder or Scully to be recognized by their enemies.
Mulder thought now that Skinner had just picked the less irritating job. A 
crowded boat full of people who were at this early hour already drunk and either 
dancing, eating or groping each other was not Mulder's idea of a good time. He 
was more convinced than ever that Krycek wasn't on the boat. There was no way 
Krycek was enduring this.
Scully was clearly enjoying herself even less. Here in the crowded dancehall, 
dressed in tennis shoes, she couldn't see over anyone and was constantly being 
bumped into. They had made their way around the room in increasingly widening 
circles, and finally were nearing the door which opened on the upper deck.
Scully stopped near the doorway, turned to wait for him. He shouldered his way 
past the clumps of people and leaned down toward her.
He's not here, Scully," Mulder had to almost shout.
But Scully wasn't listening to him.
Abruptly, her eyes widened and Dana Scully did a most unexpected thing. She 
gripped Mulder just above the elbows and pulled him up against her, sandwiching 
herself between his body and the wall. Mulder's mouth opened in confusion as her 
hand snaked up behind his neck, pulling his head down to hers. Her other arm 
wrapped around his waist, palm flat on his back.
Mulder's initial surprise quickly resolved into comprehension. To any observer 
they would appear to be lovers, sneaking a few moments of public almost-privacy. 
He put his hands on her shoulders and leaned down to her ear. "You see him?"
Her hand was roaming suggestively on his back. "He's right behind you. Seven 
feet. Five o'clock."
So Krycek was here.
Mulder slid his right hand down to her waist and navigated under her shirt to 
the small of her back, was relieved to find the butt of a gun. He planted a 
small, thankful kiss on her jaw--they were supposed to be lovers, right? "I ever 
tell you how much I love a woman who packs heat?" he breathed.
"Just keep your finger off the trigger, Mulder," she answered, warning in her 
voice. 
His soft exhalation might have been laughter, but his voice was serious. "Is he 
watching us?"
"I can't see--move your head a little to the left--ah!" She ducked back under 
him, pressed her cheek to his. "Yes--he's watching. Looking for someone, 
actually."
"Do you think he knows we're here?" Mulder left one hand on her gun while his 
other hand came up to frame her face, stroking her hair back under his hand. Her 
hair was the most noticeable thing about her, and he was not prepared for her to 
be noticed.
She pulled him lower so she could see again and he obediently bent and turned 
his face into the side of her neck. As his lips grazed over her skin, she 
inhaled sharply.
Mulder moved back to her ear. "What? Did he see us?"
"No," she hissed, trying to sound irritated. "Just--don't do that!"
Mulder hoped she couldn't hear his smile, trying to sound contrite. "Sorry."
She slid her fingers into his hair and pulled him down again. His breath was 
warm against her throat. "Okay, he's moved away," she said, still holding Mulder 
in place, her hand roaming over his back. "Toward the door. He's looking 
around...Okay, he's gone."
Mulder straightened, turned slowly around and scanned the room. He did not see 
Alex Krycek. He walked quickly to the open doorway, feeling his partner close 
beside him. At the door he stopped, watched her take a position opposite him, on 
the frame. She had discreetly pulled her weapon, held it at her side between her 
body and the wall so the partygoers behind them couldn't see. She gave him a nod 
and he stepped quickly through the doorway, checked from side to side. 
Nothing.
He continued across the deck to the railing, where a few scattered couples 
mingled quietly. He knew she'd be behind him, walking backwards.
He turned around, put his hands on her shoulders so she'd know it was him.
"So did you really see Krycek or were you just trying to cop a feel?" he 
whispered teasingly.
"I'm sure it was him, Mulder. He looked right at us."
"But did you--" At that moment Mulder felt the distinctly familiar muzzle of a 
gun at his neck and was silenced. Fuck! Where had he come from?
"Hold real still," a man's voice hissed.
He had no intention of moving. He felt Scully stiffen, knew she'd heard.
"Step away, Scully," Krycek hissed. "Step forward and turn around. I've got a 
gun on your partner."
Scully slowly did as he ordered. Mulder could see her face in the moonlight, as 
stark and as fierce as the gun barrel at his throat. She had somehow managed to 
put away her gun--he couldn't see where but there were no obvious bulges 
anywhere on her body so he assumed she'd tucked it back into her waistband.
"You're just as easy to take as ever, Mulder," Krycek mocked lightly. Mulder 
felt a familiar wave of rage threatening to overwhelm him. Whenever this man was 
near....
"Walk along the deck toward the stairs. Slow. Scully first, and don't forget my 
gun's on your partner's back."
They did as he instructed. Why wasn't he trying to take their guns? Ah yes, the 
prosthesis. Krycek needed to use his hand to hold Mulder at bay. Unless he 
wasn't alone, Krycek had a distinct disadvantage, and Mulder would make sure it 
cost him.
Scully was walking very slowly, only inches in front of him, and he knew why, 
silently thanked her. Had he mentioned he loved a woman who packed heat? They 
started down the staircase--one of the open-air, grandstand kinds--onto the 
less-populated lower deck.
Mulder's experienced eye surveyed their position. He had to choose his moment 
carefully, both to maximize his advantage and to protect Scully, who would be 
weaponless if he seized her gun. The stairs and her position made her 
significantly lower than him, which made shielding her easier, but he'd wait 
until the bottom so that she'd not have far to fall if something went wrong. 
There would be no way to signal her--he could only hope she'd weighed the same 
advantages and concluded this was where he'd make his move.
When Scully's foot reached the bottom step, Mulder grabbed her gun, 
simultaneously lunging forward and to one side. In the same instant, Scully 
dropped to the ground and rolled off the last step. Before Krycek could move, 
Mulder had the gun cocked and pointed at the man, who now stood two steps above 
him, ready to fire. His expression was one of surprise and anger, but it quickly 
hardened into cold rage as he realized his predicament. If anyone saw this 
tableau or if Krycek fired, the entire ship would be alerted. 
Well, Mulder had never been able to shoot him before.
Krycek aimed a high kick at Mulder's arm, knocking the agent's gun free. He 
lunged forward only to be blocked by the older man's body. He had to drop his 
gun to grip Mulder's arms, trying to force him off balance.
But it was a lost cause and he knew it. He managed to slam Mulder's head hard 
into the wall alongside the staircase, just before a strong hand wrapped around 
his ankle from underneath the stairs.
And pulled.
His foot slid through the slot between the stairs and he cried out in pain as 
his knee gave way. Mulder escaped his grasp and dove for a gun. With the 
obstacle of Mulder's body removed, Krycek slammed face-down onto the last few 
steps, Scully's hand still tugging hard on his ankle. His leg was now painfully 
wedged between two stairs, his body sprawled awkwardly across them.
"I have him, Scully," Mulder said. He roughly grabbed a handful of Krycek's 
hair, yanked his head up. Krycek's nose was bleeding and already turning purple, 
and there was a nasty gash on his forehead, but he was conscious.
"Get up, you sonofabitch," Mulder ordered gruffly. Scully crawled out from under 
the staircase to join him.
Krycek only moaned.
Scully looked up, hearing voices above them. Someone had heard their struggle.
"We've got to get him up, Mulder," she said breathlessly. "No sense creating a 
panic."
Between them, they managed to haul Krycek onto his feet. He leaned heavily on 
both of them as they hurried him away from the stairs and toward their room.
---------------------------------------------------
7:42 p.m.
Skinner found cabin 3101 with little difficulty. He knocked sharply, not 
expecting an answer.
When there was none, he opened his backpack and produced his lockpick gun. A 
moment later he was inside a small, dark, windowless cabin.
He flipped on the lights.
Nothing. A double bed was fastened to the opposite wall, and there wasn't much 
room for anything else. A small luggage rack stood in the corner; it sported a 
large black suitcase. The narrow door to the washroom was next to this.
Skinner snapped on latex gloves and went to the suitcase, popped it open.
Clothes. Touristy clothes. Nothing very revealing. A razor, some sunscreen, a 
Yankees baseball cap. A pair of Tevas.
Skinner tapped on the suitcase lid, but the cloth lining prevented him from 
hearing whether it was solid or hollow. He examined the width of the lid from 
within and without and concluded that if it contained a hidden compartment, it 
could only hold a few sheets of paper. He compared the inside and outside 
dimensions of the bottom of the case, and found this more promising. There was 
about an inch of unaccounted-for space; enough space for a secret cache.
Skinner emptied the suitcase and examined it closely. Creamy nylon lined the 
base seamlessly.
Well, if there's no seam, make one.
He fished in his backpack for a pocketknife, flipped it open and made a neat 
incision at the juncture between the suitcase's bottom and side.
He tore back the fabric to reveal a small lock. It only took him a few minutes 
to pick open.
Bingo.
---------------------------------------------------
8:07 p.m.
Mulder and Scully lowered Krycek to the bed in their cabin, where he collapsed 
limply. He moaned again, softly.
"I wish we hadn't knocked him out." Scully frowned at him, her hands on her 
hips.
Mulder snorted. "I wish we'd done more than that," he replied. He produced a set 
of handcuffs from his pocket and roughly jerked the man around so he lay prone 
on the bed. Mulder snapped the cuffs onto the younger man's flesh-based wrist 
and the headboard rails.
"Lemme have your cuffs," he said to Scully.
"He's not going anywhere," she objected.
"You know how many times I've thought that?" Mulder demanded. "Now give me your 
cuffs."
She gave an exasperated sigh and produced them from her pocket. Mulder snapped 
Krycek's ankles together.
Scully retreated to the bathroom, and Mulder heard water running. "Are you 
okay?" he asked.
She returned carrying several towels. "I'm fine. What about you?"
Mulder rubbed the back of his head grimly. "Well, I'm still seeing stars, 
but..."
"Sit down," she told him. He took a seat on the foot of the bed and submitted to 
her examination. She bent his head toward her and ran her fingers through his 
hair. He winced as she brushed against the tender knot.
"There doesn't seem to be any blood," she told him, "but you're going to have a 
hell of a lump. Let me get you some aspirin and some ice."
"I can do that," Mulder answered. "Much as I hate to say it, I think you better 
take care of him." He jerked his thumb at the man who lay prone on the bed.
She raised her eyebrows. "Getting soft, Mulder?" she asked with a flicker of 
amusement.
Krycek moaned again.
"He's not doing us much good in this condition," Mulder stated.
Scully nodded. "Well, I certainly didn't intend to leave him that way, I'm just 
surprised _you're_ telling me not to." She dropped her hands from his head, 
letting her fingers graze briefly over his cheek. Letting him know she wasn't 
quite serious. "Go get some ice, then."
Mulder stood, squeezed her arm on his way out.
It took him a good fifteen minutes to find a ziploc bag; eventually he had to 
make his way back to the party and plead with one of the bartenders. "The 
doorways to these cabins are too short," he told her, who eyed his height 
sympathetically and offered him a drink.
Mulder refused. He wondered if Skinner had found anything in "Buller's" cabin. 
Briefly, he considered going there, but he was uncomfortable leaving Scully 
alone with Krycek.
She can take care of herself, he reminded himself. It's you who needs looking 
after around that man.
Nonetheless, he returned to the cabin.
Scully had wiped away most of Krycek's blood and was now seated on the bed, 
stitching up the gash on his forehead. He was moaning more loudly now. Scully 
had covered his eyes with a moist towel to keep the blood away.
"Didn't know you'd brought your sewing kit," Mulder said to her, staring fixedly 
at Krycek's feet and not her busy hands. He hated this kind of thing.
"I brought my bag, yes," Scully said. "Except I expected to be using it on you, 
not Krycek."
"Disappointed?"
She gave him one of her rare, genuine smiles, the kind that warmed him to the 
core. "Not really."
Mulder nodded, and stood against the wall, waiting for her to finish.
After thirty even stitches, she sat back and admired her handiwork. "Not bad, 
for having only done that on dead guys for the past seven years," she announced.
Mulder wrinkled his nose. He had long ago gotten over dead bodies, but something 
still bothered him about needles. And stitches always looked 
so...Frankensteinish....
Scully pulled away the towel that covered Krycek's eyes. They were open, but 
glazed. His nose and lower lip were swollen and purple.
Krycek's gaze rolled from left to right, finally settling on her features, just 
above him.
He tugged at his bonds experimentally. Even in his half-conscious state, his 
face approximated a sneer.
"Agent Scully..." he slurred. "I never thknew you were intho bondish..."
"Cut the crap, Krycek," Mulder said fiercely, moving into his line of vision to 
stand beside Scully. "She just put thirty stitches in your ungrateful little 
head."
He blinked several times as if trying to clear his vision, then gave them both a 
lopsided attempt at a grin. "My ankle could uth a little work."
"Fuck you," Mulder answered shortly. "Enough chit-chat. What are you doing on 
this boat?"
"Same thingk you are, I 'magine..." Krycek said. His eyes were slowly 
brightening as he became increasingly coherent.
"And what's that?" Scully pressed.
"Earningk a livingk."
Mulder snorted. "I'd hardly call your line of work a 'living,' Mr. Buller," he 
sneered, deliberately enunciating the last two words.
Krycek's face lit up with excitement, and he tried to sit, straining against his 
bonds. "You know where Buller ith?" 
Mulder and Scully exchanged a startled glance.
---------------------------------------------------
8:01 p.m.
Skinner gazed in horrified wonder at the cache arrayed before him. Velvet-lined 
pockets contained metal vials, each meticulously hand-labeled. He pulled out the 
first one he saw, examined the writing.
"Gerber, Anna Louise. 53409284005. MN 2456 78:F8. 6.4.98."
The vial was cold to the touch. Skinner carefully unscrewed the cap.
Inside was a smaller tube, which Skinner removed. The outer jacket was 
apparently a thermal cooler, perhaps filled with liquid nitrogen. Skinner 
imagined the expense of such a chamber--pressurized nitrogen was hard to keep in 
a small chamber. He held the inner tube up to the light, gripping it lightly to 
minimize the first signs of frostbite, already creeping over him. The vial 
contained a frozen yellowish substance. He turned the tube in his fingers, saw 
another label. "Serum."
Skinner gasped. He replaced the tube and removed another. It was also noted to 
belong to Anna Gerber. Inside the secondary container was a tube labeled 
"Throat."
The third tube Skinner examined read: "PAP."
Dear God. What the hell was going on here?
Skinner rummaged through each of the other velvet pockets, of which he counted 
sixty in all. "Faberly, Mary Elizabeth." "Tai, Amy Li." "Benson, Abigail Rita." 
And finally, "Scully, Dana Katherine."
Three tubes.
Skinner's fingers shook with rage and disbelief. He replaced the tubes one by 
one, willing himself to do it calmly. Only then did he notice that one tube was 
significantly larger than the others and unlabeled. 
He lifted the canister--it was heavy. He turned it in his fingers. It was 
seamless steel, apparently solid. There was no way to tell what it might 
contain.
Just then, a key scraped the lock. Someone was coming.
---------------------------------------------------
8:27 p.m.
"What's Buller to you?" Mulder asked carefully.
"You thought I wath Buller, didn't you?" Krycek asked mockingly, recovering.
Scully ignored the question. She had backed away from the bed to stand nearer 
Mulder, her arms folded starkly. "Answer the question, Krycek," she said coldly.
"I don't deal in Buller'th kind of merchandith," Krycek said distastefully.
"Then what do you want with him?" insisted Mulder.
"Do you know where he ith?"
"I don't think you're in a position to be asking questions here," Mulder 
observed. In an abruptly violent movement, he grabbed the front of Krycek's 
shirt, pulling him up off the bed. Krycek gritted his teeth.
Mulder leaned in close to the other man. "What. Do. You. Want. From. Buller."
But Krycek only stared stubbornly at him. Scully tapped her foot impatiently.
---------------------------------------------------
8:18 p.m.
Skinner aimed his gun squarely at the door as the latch turned.
The door was pushed open, revealing a tall, bulky figure. "Hands in the air," 
Skinner ordered. "Don't move."
The man turned and ran.
Skinner cursed loudly and took off after him.
They pounded down the narrow hallway, past identical cabin doors. "Stop or I'll 
shoot!" Skinner shouted. 
The man didn't stop. Heads started peeking out of cabin doors. "Get back 
inside!" Skinner yelled at the spectators.
He aimed his gun at the ceiling, fired a single shot. As he'd hoped, his prey 
dropped to the ground, trying for cover.
Skinner closed the gap between them and tackled the man just as he was trying to 
stand again.
"Hadrian Buller?" he gasped, straddling his capture.
The man, who sported a receding tuft of grey hair and looked very afraid, 
nodded.
"You're under arrest." Skinner growled. "You have the right to remain 
silent...."
---------------------------------------------------
8:24 p.m.
There was a sharp knock at the door and Mulder and Scully exchanged glances.
"Scully! Mulder? It's me." Skinner's voice could be clearly heard through the 
thin door.
Mulder slammed Krycek back into the bed and moved away from him. Scully went to 
open the door. She was surprised to see that Skinner was not alone.
"This"--Skinner roughly jerked his prisoner into the cabin--"is Hadrian Buller."
He blinked, noticing Krycek for the first time. He looked quickly from Mulder to 
Scully and back. "What the hell--?"
"Well, now that we're all here...." Mulder muttered grimly.
Skinner shoved Buller over to the bed, forced him to sit down. The man's hands 
were cuffed behind his back, and the agents now saw that Skinner had also 
brought a black suitcase.
"Alex Krycek," Buller stated, staring at the bound man beside him. His British 
accent was deceptively lilting. "I always knew you were into this whole leather 
and bondage thing."
"Fuck you, Buller," Krycek snarled. 
Skinner wiped at his brow. "Will someone please explain what's going on here?"
"We captured Krycek about half-an-hour ago, sir," Scully said. "He says he's 
looking for Buller, that Buller has some merchandise he wants."
"That would be what's in this case, then," Skinner said. Mulder reached out to 
take it, but the assistant director deliberately handed it to Scully, watching 
her closely.
She propped it on the luggage rack, fished a tissue from her pocket to avoid 
fingerprinting the evidence and opened the case. It was empty, but she saw the 
false bottom immediately and snapped it wide. Wordlessly, she removed a vial and 
examined it. She unscrewed it, noted the inner tube and then handed the two 
tubes to Mulder, who had already snapped on a latex glove.
Methodically, she began examining the other tubes in the case, just as Skinner 
had done. Skinner turned back to their two captives.
"So how did you two meet?" he asked sarcastically.
"These friends of yours, Krycek?" Buller asked, deliberately ignoring Skinner. 
"I knew you liked those government types but I didn't think you hung out with 
fibbies."
"Oh, we go way back," Krycek snapped, looking deliberately at Mulder.
Mulder didn't notice; he was turning the tube in his hands, frowning.
Scully produced the larger, seamless tube, held it up for the room to see. 
"What's this?" she demanded archly.
Skinner wondered if she'd seen the tubes with her name on them yet. 
Buller looked angry; Krycek looked interested. "Ith that it?" he demanded, 
looking at Buller. "Ith that what you bought in Chithinau?"
"Chithinau?" Mulder asked.
"Chisinau," Scully corrected. "Capital of Moldova, former Soviet Union."
"Hey, Scully--ever catch Carmen Sandiego?" Mulder quipped. 
She shrugged.
"Agents..." Skinner murmured, calling them back to focus.
Buller had not answered Krycek's question.
"What's in the tube, Krycek?" Skinner persisted.
"Thomething more important than you couldth ever imagine," Krycek answered 
soberly. His swollen lip made the pronouncement hard to take seriously.
"Oh, cut the melodramatic crap, Krycek," Mulder snapped. "What the fuck is in 
the vial?"
"Parts," Buller said unexpectedly. "Electronics."
"Implants?" Scully asked.
"Implants--?" Buller looked puzzled. "No. Components for a top secret military 
aircraft."
"An aircraft some might believe to be a UFO?" Scully persisted.
"Well," Buller answered lightly, "if it's flying and you can't identify it...."
"He'th lyingk!" Krycek cried. "It'th not what you thingk it ith!"
"Then what is it?" Mulder and Scully said together.
"A rethithtant thtrain," Krycek told them.
Skinner crossed the room and leaned down into Krycek's face. "Resistant strain 
of what?"
But Krycek was silent again, glaring defiantly.
"What about these other tubes?" Scully said, looking at Buller.
When Buller was silent, Skinner crossed over to him, jerked him up roughly by 
the collar. "Did you collect those vials?"
Buller said nothing. "You collected those vials from women who you drugged, 
didn't you?" Skinner said roughly. "All of the women had been abducted or were 
missing for a long period of time, correct?"
Buller glared stubbornly at Skinner.
"Bernand Hollandaise," Mulder said clearly.
Buller's eyes shifted. Mulder advanced on the man. "You killed Bernand 
Hollandaise, didn't you? You framed Agent Scully, hoping to discredit her and 
get her put in prison where other men like you couldn't reach her. So you'd be 
the only supplier. Didn't you?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Buller said evenly.
"You did that?" Krycek asked, leering at Buller. "Jethuth. I could have told you 
not to try that."
"Shut up, Krycek," Mulder told him. "We know you had had dealings with 
Hollandaise as well."
"I gave up on Hollandaith," Krycek replied.
Mulder turned to Krycek. "You. You said you didn't deal in Buller's kind of 
merchandise. Hollandaise wanted to buy something you weren't selling, right? 
Hollandaise wanted to buy what's in those tubes. But Hollandaise broke the deal 
or something, and Buller killed him. Why?" He turned back to Buller, eyebrows 
raised.
"I didn't kill him!" Buller cried. "Yes, I've sold to him before, but this 
merchandise wasn't intended for him. He had nothing to do with this shipment. I 
don't know what happened to Hollandaise or to you." He jerked his head at 
Scully.
It was Scully's turn to round on Buller. "Someone wants those tubes, Buller, but 
it's not the same people who abducted the women, is it? They could just walk in 
and get what they want. You're collecting for someone else, aren't you?"
Buller remained stubbornly silent.
Skinner advanced on Buller, leaning powerfully over him. "Who wants them, 
Buller?" When there was still no answer, Skinner turned back to Krycek. "What're 
the tubes, Krycek?"
Krycek snorted disdainfully. "What'th in 'em? Blood?"
"And other things," Skinner confirmed.
"You're wathtingk your time," Krycek hissed. "They're nothingk."
Skinner turned back to Buller. "Did you kill Bernard Hollandaise?"
Mulder crossed the room and leaned down to Scully, who had watched the circus 
with an icy expression on her face. "Is it just me," Mulder asked her, "or are 
you feeling like we're on a merry-go-round?"
She didn't answer, because at that moment the door burst open and two suit-clad 
men entered the room.
Skinner whirled around as Mulder and Scully drew their weapons. "Freeze!" Mulder 
shouted.
The two men put their hands in the air but did not look surprised. They were of 
indeterminate age, both dark-haired and dark-eyed.
"Who the hell are you?" Skinner demanded.
"NSA," the taller man responded. "Can I reach in my coat for my badge?"
"Go ahead," Skinner answered.
The man did so, slowly, producing a badge which he extended to Skinner. Skinner 
took it, examined it closely, then signaled for Mulder and Scully to lower their 
guns.
"Agent Lock," Skinner said as the men put their hands down. "I didn't peg you 
NSA types for loveboat vacationers. What are you doing here?"
"First, who are you?" the man called Lock asked.
"Assistant Director Skinner of the FBI," Skinner replied, producing his own 
badge. "These are Agents Mulder and Scully."
Lock visibly relaxed. "Nice to meet you," he said. "This is my partner, Dan 
Whelk. Thanks for running down our terrorist, but--were you after him too?"
Skinner raised his eyebrows, now thoroughly confused. "Terrorist?" Mulder and 
Scully looked at each other in surprise.
"Yeah, Ahmad Yousseff, there." Lock gestured at Buller.
"I am not!" Buller cried, aghast. Krycek gave him a surprised look that might 
have been one of newfound respect.
"We...arrested him as Hadrian Buller," Skinner said slowly.
"Yeah, that's one of his aliases," Lock answered blithely. "Who's this other 
guy?"
Skinner straightened, determined to take charge of this increasingly maddening 
situation. "Agent Lock, I think we'd better discuss this outside. Can one of you 
stay here?"
"Sure," Lock answered. He looked at Whelk, who nodded.
Skinner started for the door. "Keep an eye on that," he said to Whelk, gesturing 
at the suitcase. "We found that with Buller or Yousseff or whatever his name 
is." 
"Yes, sir," Whelk acknowledged with a nod.
Skinner, Lock, Mulder and Scully filed out of the cabin and down the hallway 
toward the deck.
---------------------------------------------------
8:58 p.m.
"How did you find us?" Mulder asked. They were seated at a lonely lighted table 
on the lower deck. Spread across the table were papers which fluttered in the 
chill evening breeze. Skinner and Scully were perusing them carefully.
Lock nodded. "We knew Yousseff was on the ship, of course. When we heard from 
the captain that several passengers had witnessed a chase and heard a gunshot, 
we interviewed them and picked up a trail of rumors toward your cabin. Those 
doors are pretty thin--we heard some yelling."
"So you've been on the ship since this morning?"
"Yes."
"Looking for B--Yousseff?"
"Yes."
"Because he's a terrorist."
Lock seemed not to sense the incredulity in Agent Mulder's voice. "Yes," he 
repeated.
"Who steals people's blood?"
"I don't know anything about that, Agent Mulder," Lock replied. "Although I'm 
certainly interested in learning what charges the FBI has filed against him."
"Currently," Skinner said, looking up, "they include treason, assault against 
twenty women, kidnapping and assault on a federal officer, resisting arrest and 
fraud. I'll get back to you with more really soon."
"That's great," Lock said. "I'm looking forward to working together on this. I 
think between us we can get this guy on death row. But can I ask--who's the 
other man?"
"His name's Alex Krycek," Skinner answered.
Mulder thought this elicited a reaction from Lock, but he couldn't be sure.
"He's wanted for murder and treason, among other things," Skinner continued.
"Why is he here? Was he working with Yousseff?"
"Apparently not," Skinner replied.
Mulder leaned forward, interrupting. "All this evidence looks very impressive, 
Agent Lock," he said. "But if this is our guy, I find it hard to believe that 
he's engaged in both these pursuits, given the nature of the crimes we believe 
him connected to."
"Why is that, Agent Mulder?"
"Well." Mulder sat back, folded his arms, glanced at Scully for support. She 
didn't look up from her examination of Lock's evidence. "We suspect him of 
involvement in a conspiracy of the U.S. government. You're implying he's in 
league with Libyan terrorists, but he doesn't even look Arab to me. And if he's 
been doing what we believe he has, he wouldn't have had much time for 
bomb-building."
"Well," Lock answered. "He's not a bomb-builder. He's a parts salesman. He goes 
on these cruises selling components from disabled nuclear reactors in the former 
Soviet Union as potential pieces of small-scale nuclear weapons. But what, may I 
ask, do you believe he's been engaged in?"
Mulder leaned forward and spoke quite seriously. "I believe he's been collecting 
samples from people who've been abducted by the government and used as test 
subjects in a secret project. The federal officer he kidnapped is one such 
person, and in that case he attempted to frame her for the murder of one of his 
own buyers, hoping that if she were in jail she'd be less accessible to those 
who collect the data, that he would be the only supplier. I believe the 
experiment is ongoing, and that he sells the samples he collects as later data 
for those conducting the experiments. I suspect, however, that he is not selling 
the results to the people who originally carried out the abductions, but to 
others who are following the experiment."
Lock was staring at Mulder with wide-eyed disbelief. He looked at Skinner. "Is 
he serious?"
Skinner nodded soberly. 
Lock looked distinctly uncomfortable. "Well," he said. "Well. We can work all 
this out later. Let's just get Yousseff into custody. I'm sure my partner has 
already radioed our ship, which has been following the cruise vessel from a mile 
away."
"Great," Skinner responded. "You ready, Agent Scully?"
Scully looked up from the document she was reading with a frown on her face. 
"Wha--? Oh. Sure."
As they headed back for the cabin, Scully trailed behind, still browsing through 
the folder full of evidence against Yousseff/Buller. 
Upon reaching the cabin, Mulder put the key in the lock and turned it. He pushed 
the door open.
"Oh fuck," he cursed softly.
Krycek was still on the bed but his eyes were closed and his mouth gagged. 
Whelk, Buller and the suitcase were nowhere to be seen.
The four instantly went into action. Skinner gestured quickly at Mulder and 
Lock. "You two take the lower decks. Scully and I will take the upper ones. Meet 
back here in thirty minutes if you don't find them."
The two pairs ran in opposite directions.
---------------------------------------------------
9:41 p.m.
Skinner and Scully were the first back to the cabin, where Krycek was groggily 
coming around. They had seen no sign of Whelk or Yousseff/Buller. They had, 
however, run into the captain, who demanded to know what the hell was going on 
on his ship. The captain had then demanded to know why one of his lifeboats had 
been commandeered by a NSA agent. Skinner had tried not to let his shock show, 
assuring him that everything was under control and that they'd all disembark in 
the morning. He only hoped they would number seven and not five.
When Mulder returned, alone, Skinner had a sinking feeling that the number would 
be four.
"Lock ditched me!" Mulder cried, slamming a fist into the wall. 
Scully tilted her head and bit back the obvious comment. Instead, she announced 
her own suspicions. "I don't think that evidence was real. At least, not all of 
it. I didn't have time to look through it all before, but there was one part 
that bothered me. They accused him of transporting used cadmium rods in 
gold-shielded boxes. But a box of the necessary dimensions would weigh probably 
three-hundred pounds, and that's not something you can exactly transport 
unnoticed on a cruise ship."
Mulder started to interrupt, but Scully held up her hand to stop him. "And then 
there's also a slight problem in that cadmium rods are needed in reactors, but 
not at all in bombs."
Skinner frowned. "Surely they wouldn't have been so stupid."
"I think they were pressed for time," Mulder said, beginning to catch on to what 
Scully was saying. "They had to concoct a story quick, and so they thought to 
overwhelm us with volumes of evidence and hope we wouldn't have time to look too 
closely."
"But they were NSA!" Skinner cried.
Krycek's voice startled them all. "If you thingk that matterth, you're all 
thtupider than I give you credit for. But thoth men weren't en-eth-ay."
"What happened, Krycek?" Scully asked him.
"Untie me."
Scully frowned at him. 
"Jethuth fuck, I'm not goin' anywhere!" Krycek cried.
"Not now," she said firmly. "What happened when we left?"
"If I tell you, you gotta untie me."
"Fine." Scully ignored Mulder's look of protest. "What happened when we left?"
Krycek closed his eyes as if in pain. "Whelk told Buller to thut up, then he 
thumped me on the head. That'th it."
"I'm supposed to untie you for that?" 
"No, you're thuppothed to untie me becauth I know where they're going."
The three waited, both expectant and skeptical.
"They don't care about Buller," Krycek continued. "He'th nothingk. A pawn."
"Is that why they didn't care about you, Krycek?" Mulder asked menacingly.
"They didn't know who I wath," Krycek answered. "They're not the thame crowd 
you're uthually dealingk with. All they care about ith the buyer."
"Do you know who the buyer is?" Mulder persisted.
"No. But I know where Buller ith thuppothed to meet him."
"Then enlighten us," Skinner suggested.
Krycek gave a painful-looking grin that further distorted his swollen, bloody 
face. "I won't tell you," he said. "But I'll take you if you let me lead the 
way."
The three looked at each other, trying to read each other's reactions.
"Well," Skinner said finally. "We get into Havana in the morning. It's ten 
o'clock now. That's plenty of time to decide what to do. In the meantime, why 
don't you two go get something to eat, and I'll keep an eye on our friend here." 
He glared significantly at Krycek. "Who will be unlocked in the morning."
"We're sure they're not on the boat then, sir?" Mulder asked.
"I'm sure, Agent Mulder. The captain told us one of the lifeboats had been 
commandeered. And I think it's clear that those two 'agents' had another agenda 
from the start. I have a feeling that if we hadn't arrested Buller they would 
have followed him into Havana without jumping him, tried to follow him straight 
to the buyer. Or maybe they're in on it with him, and were rescuing him. I don't 
know yet. Either way, there's nothing we can do now. Come back in an hour or so 
so I can go eat."
As the pair exited the room, Skinner settled himself on the floor with his back 
to the wall. How had they all been so stupid? It had all happened too fast, 
there'd been too much confusion. Four different agendas, three sets of lies. And 
then there were the vials.
He'd been watching Scully closely since she had examined the suitcase, and 
though he'd seen no evidence of any reaction to the personal nature of its 
contents, he suspected she had seen everything. He had suggested the pair take 
advantage of the respite for reasons more pressing than hunger.
---------------------------------------------------
10:34 p.m.
Scully wasn't hungry. 
She waited for Mulder out by the railing of the upper deck, looking out over the 
darkened sea. How many nights had her father spent looking out over this same 
scene, on how many different seas? 
Her father had been here, perhaps in this very same place, during the Cuban 
missle crisis. Could one say one was in the "same" place when water constantly 
moved beneath--when the "place" was in constant flux? Or was "place" defined by 
the intersection of longitude and latitude--by stars and electromagnetic fields?
She knew, of course, that the latter was what mattered (after all, air moves on 
land, air is just a more entropic liquid, and you'd never say your home was a 
different place because the air molecules had changed). But there was something 
visceral about the water's flux, something that made it feel less steady, more 
changing.
Water molecules beneath her now had been in every sea, every ocean. In the sky, 
in the ground, in the bodies of plants and animals.
She found the vast blackness oddly comforting. Here was something so 
tremendously larger than she, or Mulder, or any aliens or shadow men in suits. 
The sea had no regard for her or her struggles at all--it saw nothing of her, 
demanded nothing from her, commented on nothing about her. Were she to leap into 
it now, it would engulf her indifferently, swallowing her wholly without malice 
or love.
But she'd have to get to a lower deck if she wanted to try that. She smiled 
grimly.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Mulder approaching, still dressed in that 
godawful Hawaiian shirt which could draw anyone's peripheral vision, even in the 
dark. She didn't turn as he leaned up against the railing beside her, held out a 
paper plate piled with tacky hors'doevres.
She wrinkled her nose and shook her head slightly. Mulder shrugged and stooped 
to put the plate on the deck beside them. He leaned over the rail, following her 
gaze out to sea.
There was a long, comfortable silence between them.
"Scully?" he said finally.
She could tell from his reluctant tone that he was not thinking of the sea, 
though she'd hoped he was. "Mmmm?" 
"There were vials with your name on them in there, weren't there?" He hadn't 
gotten to look through Buller's case, had only seen the single vial she'd handed 
him.
"Yes," she answered evenly.
He released the breath he'd been holding. "How many?" he asked, not really 
wanting to know.
"Three. One for blood serum, one for throat culture, one for a cervical 
culture." Her voice was crisp and factual. Distant.
"Oh, Scully," Mulder breathed.
She didn't look at him, still staring out over the ocean. Behind them, the music 
from the dance floor still blared, punctuated occasionally by a snatch of 
conversation from a couple passing behind them. Couples who were enjoying a 
cruise vacation. Couples who had no idea what their world was really like.
Once, Dana might have been among them in their ignorance, but the chance for 
such lightness of heart was long gone, and no purpose was served in mourning 
over it. It struck her as a peculiar irony, though, that the knowledge she had 
sought and found during her time with the X-Files had given her no power over 
what she learned. There were times when she felt her measured, honorable quest 
for the truth had only proved how incapable she was of influencing its outcome. 
I never believed that ignorance was bliss, but I was wrong in thinking that 
knowledge is power, she thought, but she could not bring herself to say that to 
Mulder. She didn't want him to doubt her conviction.
Scully wanted to say something, though.
"They're never going to stop," she said finally, her voice still carefully even. 
"They're always going to be able to get to me."
Mulder knew nothing to say, so he just put his hand over hers and waited quietly 
for her to continue.
"It doesn't matter whether I'm being drugged, poked and prodded, or I'm being 
led to some bridge in the middle of the night, or I'm finding out I have a 
daughter, or I'm suffering from cancer. It's all the same fucking thing."
She drew a long breath.
"It's one thing to get shot, Mulder, or even to lose someone you love. Even 
though you're a victim then, even though you're forced to react instead of act, 
it's different. At least then you are still a person, still a--a subject. Me, 
I've become an object. A body, over which I so often have no control, a body 
which others use or abuse and will eventually discard."
Although her voice never wavered, Mulder knew how shaken she must be to have 
admitted to such sentiments. He was not surprised--he had long ago guessed she 
must be feeling this, but he never expected her to tell him. His instinctive 
reaction was to comfort her, to take her into his arms and reassure them both 
that she was solid and alive. But he knew with absolute certainty that this 
would be a very wrong thing to do. She would see it (incorrectly) as pity, and 
you only pitied the helpless. And her helplessness was what she was protesting.
So he merely regarded their clasped hands sadly. 
"What are you thinking?" she asked him finally.
"I'm not," he admitted. "I'm--it's just...it makes me feel so..." He balled his 
free hand into a fist and glanced away.
She looked at him with genuine curiosity. "Angry?" she prompted.
She wasn't interested in his anger. She hoped he understood that: his anger 
risked making her into an object--a beloved pet or child but an object 
nonetheless. Others came and hurt his pet, and that made him angry; this was not 
what she needed.
But she didn't think he actually felt that way. He walked a dangerous line 
between caring and protective, and at times she was certain he'd moved too far 
to the side of protective, but mostly he stayed where she needed him to be.
He brought his eyes up to hers, studying them closely. "Yes, I'm angry. Of 
course I'm angry. As you should be."
She nodded. She was.
"No one should have this power," he continued, recovering his vocabulary. "This 
flies in the face of everything I believe is right. These men need to be 
stopped, and yes, they make me very angry. But that's not all I feel about it, 
and that's not about you."
She turned back to the ocean, gazing out over its vast, uncaring darkness.
"I know that you feel you've been...reduced. Like you've been made into 
something powerless." He paused, letting that sink in. 
"But Scully, I've watched you through every step of it, and I have never once 
seen you 'reduced' to anything. I can't imagine anything more horrible than the 
loss of volition you've been subjected to. But you've stood up to it with 
unbelievable strength, held onto yourself with incredible tenacity. I've never 
seen your integrity compromised or your strength of purpose falter."
She was looking at him now, and even in the dim light he could see the tears 
glistening in her eyes.
He chose his next words carefully. "Scully, I'm not telling you this because I 
think you need to hear it; I don't. I don't think you need validation from me or 
anyone." 
Scully could not admit to him that a small part of her did.
He leaned in closer to her to watch the small lines on her face react to his 
words. "I'm telling you this because I need you to know that I trust you. I am 
confident that even though they can violate your control over your own body, you 
will never become their object. You will never lose yourself that way, you never 
have. And I am..."--his voice broke a little--"so very glad for that, because 
without your beacon I might have crashed against the rocks and lost myself a 
hundred times over, to anger or grief over things which didn't even come close 
to victimizing me the way you've been violated."
He took a breath. "I believe in you, Scully," he told her seriously. "I am 
strong because you are."
He finished, studying her face, which was now moist with tears. His own eyes 
were threatening to overflow as well.
"You didn't have to say that," she said finally, softly. 
"Why not?" he asked, trying to laugh. "Because you already knew it or because we 
have to deal with this awkward silence now?"
She smiled brokenly. "It's not awkward," she assured him. 
She looked back out to the ocean again, and her brow furrowed briefly, as if she 
were thinking. Then she turned back to him.
"Mulder," she began. "You probably already know this, too, but I guess I should 
say--"
He cut her off, holding up a finger. "It's okay, Scully," he told her. "I know."
She leaned into him gratefully, and he knew now the danger in touching her had 
passed. He stepped behind her and circled her waist with his arms, pulling her 
close. He rested his chin on the top of her head as she folded her arms over 
his, and they stared together across the deceptively infinite waters.
They stood like that for a long moment, forgetting the vials and the shadows who 
wanted them, forgetting the man who lay bound in a cabin waiting, not far away. 
Hearing only each other's breaths and that of the sea, which thankfully did not 
know their names.
But they couldn't forget for long. "We're going to find them," Mulder told her 
finally. He brought his hand up to cup her cheek, turning her head back to look 
at him. "We're going to stop them."
Scully turned her face to press a small kiss into his palm. "I know we will, 
Mulder," she answered fervently. "I know that." 
---------------------------------------------------
Havana, Cuba
Wednesday
9:14 a.m.
They arrived in Havana the next morning and successfully maneuvered Krycek off 
the boat, to the great relief of the captain, who personally escorted them from 
the ship. 
Krycek was still cuffed, real wrist to prosthetic wrist, hands in front so he 
could easily be led. They had draped a light jacket over his hands to cover the 
cuffs. 
"Almost like old times, huh, Mulder?" Krycek had sneered.
Mulder had bravely resisted the urge to sucker punch the man, but had Scully and 
Skinner not been present, the temptation would have been too great. He suspected 
Krycek knew that too, and the knowledge grated on him.
There were a few tense moments at the Cuban customs gate, but ultimately they 
must have appeared innocent enough--their passports were deemed sufficient 
identification and no one made them pass through a metal detector.
"Gee," Mulder noted to Scully. "If I'd known it were this easy, I'd've been 
running drugs ages ago. Much better money than the bureau."
"Don't talk like that around here," she said sharply. "Anyway, you may need your 
money. You realize I'm still on bail, right?"
"Oh, that's right. And you just left the country, didn't you? Well, Skinner's 
still looking after you." He smirked at her.
She hurried to catch up to Skinner and Krycek, who had passed through customs 
separately.
They emerged from the port onto a bustling Cuban street. Scully instantly knew 
she was in a Communist country--the silence from the absent street vendors who 
usually frequented tourist ports of entry was deafening.
"Where now, Krycek?" she heard Skinner say roughly.
"We gotta go to a town just outside of Candilaria. It's about forty miles west 
of here." The swelling on his mouth and nose had gone down, thanks to ice packs 
Scully had insisted on providing the previous night. "We'll need to get a car."
"Can you rent a car in Cuba?" Scully wondered.
"You can rent a car anywhere," Mulder answered. He stepped into the street and 
flagged down a taxi. A few minutes and forty dollars later, they were tightly 
packed into the beat-up grey sedan, headed west for Candilaria.
---------------------------------------------------
11:21 a.m.
Krycek's and Scully's high schoolish Spanish managed to get them to the tavern 
Krycek described, on the outskirts of Candilaria. 
The four stood outside the establishment--a small adobe building with low, broad 
windows. It stood empty in the steamy afternoon sun. The cab behind them turned 
its engine over slowly, hinting.
"How do you know this is the place?" Skinner demanded of their captive.
"This is where Buller was told to come," Krycek insisted stubbornly. "I've told 
you where to be, what more do you want?"
Skinner nodded with satisfaction. "I think that's the best we're gonna get," he 
said to the two agents. "Which is why I'm taking Krycek back to Havana and 
getting on the first plane back to the states."
"What?!" Krycek cried angrily. "That wasn't in the deal!"
"There was no deal, Krycek," Skinner reminded him forcefully. "You had little 
choice but to tell us what you knew, and you only did that because you hoped 
we'd bring you here and you'd have a chance to escape and get your hands on 
whatever Buller is carrying anyway. No dice."
Krycek's bruised and scarred face twisted with rage. "You still need me," he 
hissed tightly. "I haven't told you everything. This is where they meet, but the 
deal is done elsewhere."
"We're professionals," Scully reminded him sardonically. "We can follow people."
"You think it's that simple?" Krycek sneered. "If the buyers are who I think 
they are, you're gonna have a damn hard time trailing them."
"Why is that?" Mulder asked, his voice surprisingly calm. "Who do you think they 
are?"
Krycek glared defiantly at Mulder, stubbornly silent.
The cab driver stuck his hand pointedly out the window.
Skinner rolled his eyes in exasperation, then started to walk away, signaling 
Mulder and Scully to follow with a jerk of his head. The trio moved quickly 
about five yards away from Krycek, who still stood with a jacket draped over his 
cuffed hands, waiting.
"Look," Skinner said to them. "What do you think we should do here?"
"Sir, I can understand if you feel you need to get back to Washington," Scully 
began. "And I think we should take the first opportunity we get to incarcerate 
Krycek. We've learned from past mistakes." She glared sideways at the man, who 
stared back at them menacingly.
"Past mistakes I made?" Mulder asked rhetorically. "I agree with Scully, sir, we 
should get him back onto U.S. soil and charge him. But Buller is the evidence we 
need to exonerate Scully. You've helped us a lot--if you want to go back to D.C. 
I certainly understand, but I'm staying here."
"If I go back, Scully has to come with me," Skinner said. "I'm legally 
responsible for her and we're breaking the law as it is." He put up a hand as 
Mulder started to protest. "I'm not concerned about legalities, Agent Mulder, 
just about proving her innocence. That's going to be considerably more difficult 
to prove if it's found out she's here, particularly if you fail to get the 
evidence we need. Agent Scully?"
Scully's eyes slid pointedly to Mulder. She didn't move.
Skinner sighed, put his hands on his hips, defeated. "All right. Do you buy what 
he's saying now and do you think you two can handle Buller, if he shows up?"
"We'll handle it," Mulder said confidently.
Skinner looked deliberately at Scully. "All right then. It's your life."
"Thank you, sir," she said to him, and there was not a trace of sarcasm in her 
voice. "I know what you've risked for this."
She didn't know the half of it, of course, but neither man was going to tell her 
that.
"All right then," Skinner repeated. "I don't think I want to know what's going 
to happen next, but I do want Krycek in custody. Let's--"
A screech of tires interrupted him, and all three instantly drew their guns and 
whirled.
Krycek was in the car. The driver had been shoved over to the passenger side, 
and Krycek was gunning the accelerator.
Mulder fired first, hit the trunk.
"The driver!" Scully screamed at him as she fired. "Be careful!"
But Krycek was speeding away from them directly perpendicular to their position, 
prohibiting a clear shot to the tires.
As Mulder and Skinner fired rapidly, Scully dashed to the side, trying to get a 
bead on the tires. But the car was already too far away, and suddenly the trio 
was standing alone, a cloud of dust where the car had been.
Several faces appeared in doorways; a woman screamed.
"Damn it!" Mulder cursed. He threw his gun to the ground and kicked angrily at a 
rock. "God damn it!"
Scully replaced her gun, looked desperately around for a vehicle. That's when 
she spotted the motorcycle, leaning against the side of a nearby building. She 
raced for it.
Skinner was there first. He whipped out a pocketknife and straddled the bike, 
leaned down to pry at the ignition.
"Sir--" Scully began.
"Get out of the way, Scully," Skinner ordered harshly as the motor sprang into 
life. 
"But sir!--"
He cut her off with a glare of demonic determination. "No. I'm gonna get that 
bastard once and for all."
The fierceness in his voice made Scully step back, and suddenly Walter Skinner's 
stolen motorcycle was speeding off after the trail of dust left by Alex Krycek's 
stolen car.
Scully turned incredulously toward Mulder, who was running toward her. 
"He--Skinner--did you--?"
Mulder stopped before her, his gaze of shock and wonder mirroring hers. He 
nodded slowly, answering her unphraseable question. Yes, Walter Skinner had just 
hotwired a motorcycle and disappeared down the road.
Before either could recover from this unexpected new image of their boss, angry 
Spanish words stole their attention. They turned to see a very large, hairy, 
bearded man advancing on them with a knife. "¡Hijos de su puta madre!" he 
shouted angrily.
"Sir--?" Mulder started. He didn't understand the man, but he could guess at the 
meaning.
"Mulder, I think it's his bike," Scully said quickly.
"Oh shit," was the most intelligent response Mulder could come up with. 
---------------------------------------------------
5:37 p.m.
Five hours, a pair of shoes, and two thousand dollars later, Mulder and Scully 
were seated in a quiet corner of the tavern, which was now serving supper. 
Mulder's elbows were propped on the table, his head in his hands. Scully sat 
beside him, too nervous to sit with her back to the door, straight as an arrow 
and wide-eyed.
"I can't believe you gave away my shoes," she said morosely.
"Oh, will you forget about the damn shoes!" Mulder muttered. "It was either that 
or sell you into white slavery."
"I don't understand why this is all about me," she stated. "I don't understand 
why they wouldn't have taken your shoes."
"He obviously just wanted to impress his girlfriend. It's not like you're 
barefoot or anything. " Mulder was still speaking into his hands, refusing to 
look around the room.
Scully stretched out one leg and eyed her small foot skeptically. It was now 
clothed in a thong sandal. "Close enough," she muttered.
"I don't understand how you can be so worried about your damn shoes when it was 
my two thousand dollars," Mulder continued, almost under his breath.
"And I still don't understand why you were carrying that kind of cash!"
He finally looked up at her. The scratches on his face made him look miserable 
and he knew it. "Hey," he said lightly. "It was peanuts next to your bail money. 
Which I suppose I'm going to lose now."
"Thanks for your support," she answered sardonically. "I still don't understand 
where all this money is coming from. What'd you do--rob a bank while I wasn't 
looking?"
"Right. I just squeezed that into my schedule between my last mad dash after a 
quasi-human genetic mutant cannibal and my most recent encounter with an alien 
with a zipper. Kinda had to cut back on my sleep, you know, but--"
"Mulder." She cut him off firmly. "We need to stop. Just...stop."
He sighed and returned his head to his hands.
"We've been acting too fast," Scully continued. "We've been getting stupid. It's 
time to retrace our steps, figure out where we've been and where we want to be, 
because we certainly have no idea where we are."
He let out a long-winded sigh, leaned his chair back against the wall. Took a 
long, relaxing sip of the cerveza he'd purchased, but Scully had declined.
"I'm worried about Skinner," Scully stated. "Don't you think he would've been 
back by now?"
"I don't know," Mulder replied. "Maybe he caught Krycek and is on a plane to the 
states right now. Maybe not. But I don't see what we can do."
"I really wish you hadn't given him my shoes, Mulder."
Mulder slammed his fist down on the table with a frustrated force that surprised 
even him. "Jesus, Scully!" he cried, ignoring the stares he elicited from other 
patrons. "Will you shut up about the fucking shoes?"
She stared at him incredulously for a long moment, then rounded on him. "No, 
Mulder, I will not shut up about the shoes! They were my shoes. Mine."
It was suddenly quite clear to Mulder that this had nothing whatsoever to do 
with shoes. 
"A few days ago," she continued, "I woke up naked in bed with a dead man who I'd 
never seen before in my life, and with my partner standing there gaping at me. 
Then I was chasing obscure leads around the city, which was fine, up to the 
point when I got arrested and put in jail, only to be bailed out by my boss and 
my inexplicably wealthy partner, who by then was on some cruise ship chasing 
after the slimiest man in the universe. But it turned out that's not who we were 
chasing--that's just who happened to be along for the ride. Right about then I 
learn that my bodily fluids are being sold on an international black market and 
suddenly two NSA agents turn out to not be NSA agents and spring their terrorist 
who probably isn't a terrorist and then I'm in the middle of Cuba, for 
chrissake, where the man we captured gives us the slip and then our boss, who's 
so straight-laced he probably has trouble tying bows on his shoelaces, is 
hotwiring a motorcycle and going off in pursuit like some Hell's angel! And then 
a large hairy man with a knife is threatening your life and you pay him off only 
to get us both thrown into a Cuban prison--my second prison in a week, mind 
you--but hey! we're in Cuba--who knew all it took was a little badge-waving and 
a little bribery to get out of jail? Of course, this being a communist country, 
it's only natural that the bribery would involve my Nikes, and my partner, 
without consultation, would bravely offer them--"
"Scully!" Mulder cut her off, leaning away. He seized his head in both hands. 
"Will you please stop bitching! It's giving me a headache."
She stared at him, astounded, mouth open. She held this position for at least 
ten seconds before she burst out laughing.
A moment later Mulder joined her. The pair fell forward onto the table, shaking 
with laughter.
When they had calmed enough to speak clearly, Scully put her hand deliberately 
on Mulder's arm. "Okay. Okay," she said. "I'm okay now."
"I'm glad," Mulder told her, amusement still dancing in his eyes.
"So," Scully said, exhaling deeply. "We need to stop and think about this. Slow 
down and work this through."
"I'm all ears."
"Okay. Here're the problems as I see them. Krycek knows something. The real 
merchandise is not my blood, but that other canister. Which contains either some 
technical equipment or a resistant strain--of what, we don't know, but that's 
obviously what Krycek's after. Unless he's lying to us, which he probably is."
"I don't think he was lying then," Mulder said thoughtfully.
"Mulder, Krycek lives by one rule: if you see a back, stab it. He's been trying 
to trip us up from the start."
Mulder looked uncertain but didn't dispute her, so she continued.
"Now, Buller usually deals in liquid capital of a most literal kind. Obviously 
whoever is abducting people is conducting experiments on them, and they want 
ongoing data, so they collect samples from abductees. There may be others who 
know the experiments are occurring, and hope to steal the project data by buying 
from people like Buller."
"And Buller has friends--the NSA agents."
"Or enemies," Scully corrected. "We don't know if they took him because they 
wanted the canister and the vials or because they didn't want us to have it."
"If they wanted the goods they would have just killed or left Buller."
"Probably, which is why I don't think Krycek is lying when he says the buyer is 
what matters. At first, I assumed the buyers must be somehow connected to 
Castro--you know, the Communists want a piece of this. But now I think it's 
bigger than that; the Cuban government isn't a real threat." 
"That depends on what's in the canister, doesn't it?" 
Scully frowned, but Mulder rushed ahead. "No, Scully, it fits. Cuba's been doing 
the same thing the U.S. has done for fifty years--rule by fear. Create a huge 
specter of doom to loom over the people, and they will accept an unchecked 
military-industrial complex as an all-powerful ruling authority as necessity. 
Whether the specter is the U.S.S.R. or the U.S. makes no difference. Perhaps 
Fidel has decided to follow the U.S. example one step further and create his own 
abduction program, building genetically engineered quasi-human biological 
weapons. It's the new kind of arms race."
"You got all that from Kritschgau, didn't you," Scully stated. It was not a 
question. "But if you were right, Buller would have been swamped by Cuban 
officials as soon as he stepped off the boat. Why all the secrecy, in their own 
country? Besides, that still doesn't explain the faux NSA agents, who probably 
released Buller and plan to follow him to the rendevouz with the buyers."
"Which may or may not be here," Mulder supplied, gesturing around the smoky 
tavern.
"Right. Either way, though--whether the buyers are Communists or something 
darker--Buller is a pawn. He's not the missing link."
"The link to your unpleasant morning a few days back?"
"No," Scully said firmly, and locked Mulder's eyes with her own. "The link to 
Samantha."
Mulder sat back and his eyes went unfocused. He was nodding. "Yes. Samantha. We 
can't forget 'she' started this whole thing. I think it's clear she was lying 
about Krycek, or someone was lying to her. Krycek didn't approach her--probably 
no one did, which implies...."
"--which implies that it was a set-up," Scully finished. She studied her partner 
carefully, knowing how sensitive this subject could become. The only mood she 
could discern, however, was the familiar Spooky one. Mulder was thinking.
"Someone wanted you to find me first, Mulder," she continued, doing her own 
thinking aloud. "They gave us a clue they knew we would follow--hard enough to 
seem obscure, but easy enough that they could be sure we'd take the bait and 
follow the trail. They wanted us on that ship, and now they want us here. They 
may have tipped off Krycek as well. Someone has been pulling the strings for all 
of us."
Mulder nodded in curt agreement. There was a long silence. 
"Do you think the puppetmaster is connected to the NSA agents?" Scully asked.
"I don't know," Mulder answered. "But here's what I think."
Scully leaned forward, listening intently.
"In the past, we've seen Samantha lookalikes connected with two different 
parties: when you were in the hospital, 'she' was with cigarette-smoking-man and 
when I went to Alaska, 'she' was part of some resistance against his agenda. We 
need to know which side this 'Samantha' was on. Because Buller's buyers are on 
the opposing side."
Scully thought about that. It made sense. This was clearly all about the 
merchandise.
"So, 'Samantha' wants us here to stop the exchange. Why not just call you up and 
say, 'hey, there's a deal going down in Cuba?'"
"Because we've grown a lot over the years. We know enough now and are 
established enough to call in the calvary," Mulder replied. "And something else: 
listen, I don't think Buller is responsible for your Unpleasant Morning." He 
smiled grimly at the euphemism. "Why would he do that? I originally thought that 
he was just stupid and was trying to get you in jail so he was the only one with 
your data. But if that were true, he could have just killed you. I think he 
drugged you, collected the data, and left. Then someone else came along and 
dragged you to Hollandaise's house, where Hollandaise was already dead. After 
all, Buller would have had nothing to gain by killing Hollandaise and framing 
you. Hollandaise had been buying from Buller, and compromising an FBI agent that 
way is extremely risky. Particularly if it's you--you have friends in high 
places who respect you and would testify as to how absurd it is that you 
would've slept with and killed a diplomat. Besides, Buller doesn't have the 
power or knowledge to have constructed that whole Emily business. That was done 
by someone who knows you."
"So you think someone tried to frame Buller for framing me?"
"Right. You were an indirect but convenient target--they were trying to shut 
Buller down. Which makes me think he was selling data to those who didn't 
perform the abductions originally, and has been for some time. So the people 
responsible for the original abductions--"
"--were responsible for Hollandaise's murder," Scully finished. "Okay. But back 
to the original question: was Samantha with the people responsible for the 
original abductions?"
"Yes," Mulder replied. "They wanted us to take Buller out of the game. And maybe 
also to stop the trade, because, again, the Samantha who called me is on the 
opposite side of the buyers, Communists or otherwise."
Scully pondered this silently. "So you believe we're being used," she said 
finally.
"Yes! Like so much of the rest of this garbage, Scully--they build a chute down 
a hill, then give us a nudge, and we're so predictable we go sliding right down, 
see exactly what they want us to see, do exactly what they want us to do!"
"There's still something missing," Scully said slowly. "The NSA agents. Maybe 
there are more than two parties."
"Yes. The NSA agents were a third party, I'm almost sure of it."
Scully nodded.
"You're not putting up much of a fight, Scully," Mulder said finally. He 
actually sounded disappointed.
"You're not making unfounded leaps implicating aliens," she countered. She 
sounded equally disappointed.
"Do you see any reason why I should?"
Scully thought about that for a long moment. "Actually, Mulder...maybe I do." 
She met his puzzled glance with a smile, then forged ahead. "Four agendas. One: 
Krycek--he's obviously in this for himself. Two: those who worked with 
Cancerman, who want Buller removed cleanly--i.e., by us. They called you and put 
me in bed with a dead man, but made sure I'd be free to do thier dirty work with 
you. Three: someone very interested in abductees--could this have something to 
do with the faceless men I saw on the bridge? Krycek told you of an alien 
rebellion--this could be related. Four: the NSA agents--I...I'm stumped here."
She paused and pursed her lips. "The only thing we can say with confidence, 
though, Mulder, is that we were manipulated into being here. Someone wants us to 
do something."
"If that's true," Mulder said, locking her eyes with a serious gaze, "then we 
had better be careful not to do it."
She bit her lower lip and looked away, frowning in consternation. "I don't know 
how we can do that, Mulder," she said finally. "We're missing too many facts 
right now."
Mulder nodded, studying her profile. Abruptly and totally non sequitur, he 
reached out and touched her shoulder. "I'm sorry about your shoes," he said 
quietly. "I know they were yours. I made a mistake."
Of course, he wasn't talking about the shoes. He knew, all too well, that too 
many people had been taking things from her without permission lately.
Scully looked at him, and the side of her mouth quirked up in a half-smile as 
she covered his hand briefly with her own. "You only had to ask," she said.
"I know," he replied fervently, glad that even if they understood nothing else, 
they at least understood one another.
But this moment of peace did not last long. Scully abruptly drew away from him, 
and Mulder noticed her hand drop automatically to the gun hidden at her back. He 
whipped his head around to follow her gaze, saw what she had seen.
Hadrian Buller had just entered the tavern, and he was carrying a bulky brown 
knapsack.
---------------------------------------------------
12:32 p.m.
Skinner cursed himself for the five hundred and eighty-sixth time in the last 
twenty-four hours. How had he been so stupid? You don't handcuff a one-armed man 
to his prosthesis! All he has to do is jerk his artificial limb off.
More importantly, you don't turn your back on said handcuffed one-armed man, 
even for a second.
Just like you don't trust NSA agents who come two alone to bust a terrorist on a 
public, crowd-filled cruise ship. Idiot!
Mulder and Scully had warped his mind. Working with them was like playing 
ringmaster in a circus without knowing which act came up next. Would there be 
lions? The magician sawing the lady in half? Or perhaps a few monsters from the 
sideshow?
And these acts jumped the ringmaster as frequently as not.
Skinner twisted his wrist, gunning the motorbike into full speed again. He had 
lost Krycek an hour ago, when the man had pushed the cab driver out of the car. 
Skinner, out of a sense of duty, had stopped to make sure the man was all right, 
and he seemed to be, other than his understandable anger and terror. Skinner 
tried and failed to communicate that he'd see that the car was replaced.
The poor driver had cursed him in Spanish, but had finally accepted a ride to 
the nearest town, where Skinner left him.
But now--no Krycek.
Skinner considered. Should he go to the officials now? The clear answer was 
no--this would become an international incident big enough to bring them all 
down without any help at all from the shadows who had once surrounded Cancerman. 
American law officers tracking a suspect on Cuban soil without permission? And 
of course, there was the problem of Scully, who was not supposed to have left 
the country.
But what else could he do? Krycek would have ditched the car by now. Hell, 
Krycek was probably halfway to Guatemala by now.
Skinner glided easily through the dusty streets of this nameless town, noting 
with unease the many uniformed men meandering around. There had been no 
turnoffs: Krycek would have passed through here. But which way would he have 
gone?
Then Skinner had his first stroke of luck in the last three days.
He spotted Alex Krycek walking along the gutter of the street, past the shabby 
storefronts.
He almost gunned the bike, planning to whip out his gun and badge and make the 
arrest. But then he remembered the uniformed Castro-men, who were everywhere, 
and he opted for a safer plan.
He parked the bike in an alleyway and followed on foot. Quietly.
---------------------------------------------------
6:13 p.m.
Buller headed straight for the bar, leaned over the counter. Scully sank back 
against the wall, squeezing Mulder into the corner. 
"You gonna kiss me again?" Mulder asked in a low, suggestive voice. There was no 
way Buller could have heard them over the tavern conversation, but if he looked 
their way, he'd definitely see them. And he had the air of an anxious man.
Scully snorted. "I didn't kiss you before, remember?" She started to rise. "We'd 
better get outside while his back is turned."
Mulder began to stand with her, but at that moment Buller glanced nervously 
around the room, and the agents dropped quickly back down and looked away.
Buller had not noticed them, however, and after exchanging a few quick, urgent 
words with the bartender, he slid an envelope across the bar and scuttled out of 
the tavern.
"That was fast!" Scully observed.
"The bartender tipped him off," Mulder said confidently. "The buyers wouldn't 
have met here--they just left a message."
He stood up, pushing past Scully. A moment later, she followed.
They leaned across the bar, squeezed between two men who appraised Mulder with 
narrowed eyes. One whistled at Scully and shouted what sounded like a 
proposition in Spanish.
"¡Vete a la chingada!" Scully muttered back. Finally, that phrase her friends 
had giggled guiltily over on the playground in San Diego had come in handy. The 
man laughed at her, but turned aside to leave her alone.
The bartender approached them, a look of suspicion on his face.
"¿Que cosa quieres?" he asked gruffly, looking annoyed.
"Habla inglés?" Mulder asked him. When the man shook his head roughly, Mulder 
turned hopefully to Scully.
She pursed her lips and sighed. She'd had a little experience with real-life 
Spanish while growing up in California, but the stakes had never been quite this 
high.
"Señor," she began, hoping her accent was comprehensible. "Nosotros 
querer...hablar con él." We need to talk to that man. She gestured toward the 
door. "Por favor. ¿A donde fué?" Please--where did he go?
The man cocked his head at her. "No sé de que hablas."
Scully turned to Mulder. "He says he doesn't know what we're talking about."
Mulder grimaced. "Let's see if we can jog his memory." He reached into his back 
pocket and once again extracted his wallet. He pulled out a twenty dollar bill, 
put it on the counter. 
The other patrons watched the scene with mild interest.
The bartender raised his eyebrows sceptically at the bill. "Ah, ya sé de quien 
estás hablando. Pero no recuerdo a donde fué."
Scully struggled with the translation. "He knows what we're talking about, but 
he doesn't remember where he went," she stated.
Mulder shook his head and sighed. "My travel agent didn't tell me about all 
these hidden costs," he complained, producing a hundred-dollar bill from his 
wallet.
"Mulder, I'm starting to think your wallet is an X-File itself," Scully said, 
watching with surprise.
The bartender snatched up the bill quickly, leaned across the counter to whisper 
harshly to Scully. "Esta mañana, una mujer dejo un mensaje para él. Me pidió que 
le dijera que la busque en la vieja fabrica de pinturas, que está fuera de la 
ciudad."
In an instant, the bartender had scurried away, involving himself in an animate 
conversation with several patrons, who were casting suspicious looks their way. 
Thankfully, they had not yet seen any uniformed men in this tavern.
"What'd he say?" Mulder asked in a low voice.
"I--I don't know," Scully stumbled. "Something about a factory, a pinturas 
factory, in town or maybe outside of town, but I don't know what pinturas means. 
And I think he said a woman was here earlier today, told him to pass on the 
message."
"A woman?"
"I'm pretty sure."
Mulder bit his lip in frustration, looked around the room as if willing a 
Spanish-English dictionary to magically appear.
"Pinturas, pinturas," Scully muttered, as if through repitition the meaning 
might become clear.
The man who had propositioned her earlier grabbed her arm, and she shrugged him 
off violently, irritated. "¡Vete a la chingada!" she told him again. It had 
worked before.
"I'm just trying to help you, lady," the man told her. His accent was thick, but 
his English flawless.
She whirled on him, astonished.
"You speak English?"
He shrugged and grinned. "Believe it or not, we're not ignorant and uneducated."
"I never thought you were," Scully swore quickly, aware of Mulder standing 
closely behind her, listening.
"Okay, then. He"--their new friend pointed at the bartender--"was talking about 
the old paint factory, outside of town. It was closed two years ago and moved to 
Havana."
"Where is it?" Scully asked.
The man grinned, held out his hand to Mulder. Mulder gave an exasperated sigh, 
produced another twenty.
The man pocketed it and leaned forward to Scully. "Five kilometers west, on 60. 
There's a sign, but the name has been papered over. Turn left by the sign and 
walk toward the trees."
Scully nodded. "Thank you, sir." She turned and ushered Mulder out of the 
tavern.
"Five kilometers!" Mulder cried when they were outside. "How're we going to get 
there?"
Scully looked up at the darkening sky, lips pursed. "Well," she said finally, 
"you got any money left in that bottomless wallet of yours?"
---------------------------------------------------
4:47 p.m.
Krycek had gone into a low adobe building three hours ago, and Skinner was 
starting to worry that the bastard had somehow ducked out the back without him 
seeing. He was squatting around the corner of the building, hoping that from 
this position he could monitor both the front and back. He'd tried to see into 
the windows, but to no avail. It looked like a private home, but there was no 
apparent activity inside.
Skinner raised one side of his body, then the other, trying to relieve the 
tingling in his muscles without fully standing. He was unwilling to give up, not 
yet. That bastard had made a fool of him too many times before.
Suddenly, a canvas-covered jeep pulled up outside the house. An unrecognizable 
man got out of the driver's side and went inside. Skinner watched with interest, 
and was considering a quiet approach to the nearest window, but abruptly the 
door opened again and Krycek came out, strode around to the driver's side.
Skinner acted quickly, instinctively. He made a beeline for the back of the 
jeep, and as the engine turned over, hauled himself into the back. The jeep 
pulled away; Krycek had not seen him.
He crouched there, fumbling for his gun. Leaning up to peer out the back, he saw 
the streets of this unnamed town retreating quickly. Good. As soon as they were 
far enough away....
The minutes ticked by with unbearable slowness. Skinner clung tightly to the 
floor, contemplating all the things he would do to Krycek in the time between 
their exodus from Cuba and his formal arrest in the U.S. 
Where was he going, though? Who had tipped him off, and who had provided the 
jeep? It occurred to him that the answers to these questions might be more 
important than Krycek's immediate arrest.
So Skinner waited, silent.
---------------------------------------------------
6:52 p.m.
The man who drove Mulder and Scully out to the paint factory let them off at the 
side of the road beside the sign their benefactor had described. They had 
flagged him down on the Candilaria street after a dozen other cars had passed 
them by with suspicious glances. It had cost another ten dollars, but that was 
pocket change compared to the rest of this venture.
The sun had surrendered and dusk was in full swing now. Looking up, Scully could 
already make out Venus on the horizon, over the low, scrubby treeline. The 
retreating car was the only sound she could hear, and for a moment she stood 
there, taking in the pleasant evening warmth and the orange-purple sky.
A niggling pinch on the side of her neck startled her out of her brief reverie, 
and she slapped at the insect, wrinkling her nose in irritation. She glanced to 
her side to find Mulder, his hands in his pockets, gazing up at the sky with 
what she recognized as forlorn nostalgia.
He felt her eyes on him, spoke before she could question him. "It reminds me of 
the August sunsets on Quonochontaug," he told her without looking at her. "You 
know, the dog days of summer, when it's been so hot all day that you eat nothing 
but popsicles and there's always the taste of sweat on your upper lip. But then 
the sun sinks down and the ocean breeze rolls in, and everything becomes 
suddenly earthy and mysterious. We used to catch lightening bugs and put them in 
peanut butter jars, then sleep with the jar in our bedrooms that night."
Scully knew, of course, that 'we' referred to him and Samantha. She regarded him 
sympathetically for a moment. "You punched holes in the lid, right?"
"Of course," Mulder answered with a snort. "Otherwise you wake up in the morning 
and they're all dead. Sam made that mistake once. She was only, I don't know, 
five, maybe. She felt so bad, she wouldn't catch them again all that summer, and 
got mad at me when I did."
Scully smiled faintly. "I thought you hated bugs, Mulder," she said, slapping at 
another mosquito.
"Oh, I do," he assured her. "I'm not being inconsistent. Remember, I told you 
before that a praying mantis should not exist on the same planet, could not have 
come from the same primordial soup, as I? I feel that way about lightening bugs 
too, but somehow it's different. They seem otherworldly in a simple, beautiful 
way, not a threatening one."
Scully thought about that for a long moment. "You know," she said finally, 
"firefly luciferase has been used by molecular biologists as a luminescent 
marker to study gene regulation in many other species. Scientists have 
transplanted the gene into all kinds of bacteria and even higher animal cells, 
because it's remarkably easy to accurately quantitate light and thus enzyme 
activity. It's an elegant, simple system, and the micrographs I've seen of those 
hybrid cells are really quite beautiful, as beautiful as anything nature 
intended."
Mulder flashed her a grateful smile.
She returned it warmly, then turned down the dirt road toward the factory, 
barely visible in the rapidly darkening evening. "Come on, Mulder," she said, 
walking away. "We've got work to do." 
Mulder followed her down the dusty road.
The abandoned factory stood stark and lonely in the center of a gravel parking 
lot, which was equally empty. Rimming the parking lot was a line of dense 
jungle--palm trees and dripping vines. 
There was no one in sight. The only sounds were the crunching of gravel under 
their feet and the shrill humming of insects. As they neared the building, 
Mulder noted a beat-up blue sedan parked near the door. A tingling started in 
his toes and raced up through his body, raising hairs on the back of his neck. 
He felt certain they were close, and he jogged quickly up to close the distance 
between himself and Scully, not wanting to be caught unawares and separated.
Scully had the eerie sensation that someone was watching them. She peered 
nervously at the rapidly blackening forest, which, at a hundred yards' distance, 
yielded nothing. Nonetheless, she drew her gun, feeling more secure with its 
familiar weight in her palm. She noticed that Mulder, walking on her left side, 
had done the same.
But a sniper from the jungle could take them out in a second. This was not a 
good position. She hurried toward the factory.
They reached the large double doors without incident; they were propped open. In 
unspoken agreement, Mulder took up a position on the doorframe, gun held in both 
hands, while Scully stood on the other side, a matching statue.
In the fading light she saw Mulder nod--once, twice, thrice. And then he was 
through the door. She followed him, turning her weapon from left to right as he 
turned his from right to left.
At first examination, the enormous factory floor at appeared empty. Fortunately, 
its occupant did not wish them harm.
"Please help me...." came a soft whisper. Mulder and Scully both whirled to the 
right, guns aimed at the dark corner from which the sound had come.
Scully rapidly approached the voice while Mulder covered the door.
"Who are you?" she hissed, aware that he had probably chosen to whisper for a 
reason.
"Hadrian Buller," came the frantic, almost tearful response.
Scully blinked, glanced back at Mulder, who shrugged and gestured for her to 
continue. She closed the distance between them, to find Hadrian Buller was 
indeed crouched in the corner in the dark. Beside him was the suitcase.
"Please..." he whispered, his eyes pleading with hers. "They're following 
me...they're here, I know it...they'll never let me go...."
"Who's here?" Scully demanded in a low voice, not allowing her gun to waver.
"Them." Buller shuddered. "The men who took me. They aren't men...."
He looked up at her pathetically. "Please, ma'am. I have to get out of here. I 
know they're here..."
Mulder was beside her now. "What do they want?" he hissed.
Buller pressed himself further into the corner at the rancor in Mulder's voice. 
"Oh god," he whimpered. "You're them, aren't you? What have I 
done.....please...I didn't know who the buyer was, I never would have..."
Mulder glanced at Scully, who gestured for him to continue.
"Who do you think we are, Buller?" Mulder insisted, crouching down beside the 
much-reduced criminal.
With obvious effort, Buller turned his eyes to Mulder's, trembling. "I haven't 
given it to them yet," he whispered. "You can have it. Here." He shoved the case 
toward Mulder. It fell on its side with an echoing crash.
Buller jumped.
"Buller, I don't know who you think I am, but you're wrong," Mulder whispered 
testily, passing the case behind him to Scully, who still held a gun on the man. 
"Now, who's following you and why?"
Buller stared dumbly at Mulder, fear in his eyes. Finally, he appeared to decide 
he had no choice but to believe Mulder. "If you're really with the FBI, arrest 
me," he pleaded. "Just get me out of here....they're following me...."
Mulder gripped the man roughly by the shoulders, thrust his face inches away 
from Buller's nose. "Who's following you?"
"The...the...men with many faces...." Buller answered, trembling. "The men who 
took me on the boat."
Mulder glanced back at Scully, who had drawn a deep breath at this new 
information. They'd both had the same thought. Shapeshifters. 
"What happened after they took you away, Buller?" Mulder pressed.
"I...I...they took me to Havana. But I escaped. I thought I was clever but now I 
know they just let me go. I saw them on the road...they followed me here...and I 
saw their faces change. I'm not crazy--I swear it, it's like they were different 
men! Please...you have to get me out of here."
"Do you know who they are?"
"I don't know, I just sell the goods!" Buller cried softly, nearly choking on 
the last words.
"Who buys them?"
Buller now seemed desperate to please. "I'll tell you everything, just please, 
get me out of here!"
"Tell us now and we'll protect you, I promise," Mulder insisted. He could barely 
make out the man's features in the dim light from the doorway.
Buller's breathing quickened. "Okay. Okay. I sell fluids. You figured that out. 
I don't know why people want them--I get a list of names and I go get the goods, 
that's all. The namer gets a cut...but I don't know who he is. He gives me the 
buyer's names as well. Respected men, all over the world...they want this stuff. 
I don't know what it's for--I just get the goods!"
"We don't need to know what it's for," Scully hissed. "We need to know who's 
buying today."
"I don't know. I never know. I only know to meet the buyer here. But it must be 
someone important, because these men are after me, but they're only using me to 
lead them to the buyer. They'll kill me...."
"What about the larger canister?" Mulder asked.
"I told you everything I know. It's parts, that's all they told me. I picked it 
up in Russia. The buyer wants it--bad. It's more than I've ever made off any 
deal."
"Did you kill Bernard Hollandaise and frame Agent Scully?" Mulder asked through 
gritted teeth. As long as Buller was being so cooperative....
"No! I've never killed anybody. I'm a doctor--at least, I used to be. I drugged 
her, but not with anything that would hurt her. I told you--I just get the 
goods. I didn't even know he was dead until you told me!"
Mulder studied the older man's eyes, nodding slowly. He was telling the truth. 
"Okay. Okay, Buller, we'll get you out of here. Where are you supposed to make 
the exchange?"
"Mulder...." Scully hissed, suspecting what was on his mind.
"Here...I don't know any more than that," Buller replied.
"Stand up," Mulder ordered. When Buller didn't obey immediately, Mulder hauled 
him to his feet. "Take off your clothes."
"I don't think this is a good idea, Mulder," Scully whispered fiercely. "We have 
a confession, we have the evidence--there's no need to risk your life."
"Scully, if Krycek was telling the truth when he told me about the prisoner, 
about colonization and the rebellion against it....this could be our chance to 
prove it!"
"An hour ago you were saying it was Castro! Krycek is a liar, Mulder. He's a 
killer."
Mulder was already stripping off his shirt. A moment later, understanding, 
Buller did the same, hastily unbuttoning his pants.
"This is the missing link, Scully." Mulder undressed rapidly, talking all the 
while in an excited whisper. "The colonists are here--either they're the buyers 
or they're following Buller. And the rebels are whoever the colonists are not. 
Buller here is just a middle man."
He began donning Buller's discarded clothing, which fit loosely.
"Then who was the woman who called you, and who murdered Hollandaise and set me 
up?"
"It's just like we said, Scully, Cancerman's old cronies. They're working with 
the colonists. Which makes me think the buyers are the rebels. This has all been 
an elaborate set-up, staged to trap the rebels."
"So you think the canister's just a diversion? You think Buller was an unwitting 
plant?"
"Oh no, I think the canister's real. Real what, I don't know. Whoever matched up 
the goods and the buyers is real. But both the colonists and the shadow 
men--they're trying to kill two birds with one stone. Bait the buyer in order to 
trap him, and shut Buller down at the same time. But we won't be their stone."
"I thought you didn't believe in aliens, Mulder," Scully noted wryly.
"I don't believe anything right now," he replied with a humorless grin. "Of 
course, the people I'm calling 'colonists' could just be the hybrid biological 
weapons you've been talking about for years. And the 'rebels'--well, I don't 
know who they are."
"But they're the same people with a penchant for setting people on fire, Mulder, 
which is why this is a very bad idea."
Mulder had finished dressing, reached out to squeeze her arm. "Take Buller here 
someplace safe," he told her.
"While you walk into what you yourself admit is a trap?"
Mulder nodded soberly at her. "Come on, Scully," he insisted. "This is our 
chance."
She met his eyes and swallowed hesitantly, then finally nodded her agreement. 
"I'll handcuff him out by the trees," she whispered. "And reenter around back. 
If they saw us come in, they may think we gave up."
He seemed to consider arguing with her, but from the determination on her face 
he knew it would be useless. Instead, he squeezed her arm again, acquiescing. 
"Be careful," he whispered. "Please."
She cocked her head and met his eyes. "You too," she whispered back.
She broke away and gripped Buller's arm, leading him back out the door.
Alone, Mulder lifted the case and strode forward into the darkness. Even his 
soft-soled tennis shoes seemed to echo in the enormous chamber.
He was unsure where he was going, and he was certain that the ruse wouldn't fool 
anyone for long. Nonetheless, it wasn't Buller they wanted--it was the buyer. 
And the buyer wanted the merchandise, which Mulder had.
Mulder moved to the right, aiming for a stairway which apparently led to the 
empty offices above the factory floor, which was strewn with fallen rafters and 
other debris. If there was to be a confrontation, he wanted it to be in a 
smaller, more defendable space.
He climbed the stairs, surveying the factory floor layout as he walked. It was 
mostly empty; apparently all the machinery had been moved to Havana. But there 
were still two large tubs, each about 40 feet across and 40 feet high, in the 
center of the floor. Long grid-iron catwalks stretched across them, radiating 
out from the landings of the stairway he was climbing. 
As he neared the top, the light became brighter--windows along the ceiling let 
the moonlight penetrate. Still, Mulder was nervous. Shadows loomed everywhere, 
and the only sounds he could hear were those of his own footsteps and his own 
breaths.
He tried the door at the top of the stairs: it opened easily. He slid inside, 
shut it behind him. The door opened on a large room divided by brick walls into 
small, chest-high cubicles. A sniper's paradise.
Mulder ducked down behind one of the walls and made his way along it slowly, 
listening carefully for anyone or anything alive. He edged around the first 
corner, checked the cubicle, then moved quickly to the next wall, his Sig cocked 
and ready.
His heart was pounding so hard in his chest that at first he almost didn't hear 
the voice. Almost.
"Do you have what we asked for?"
A low voice, a quiet voice. A woman's voice.
"Stand up," the woman said. "I won't hurt you."
This was it. This was the buyer. Jesus--he'd never have guessed this....
Slowly, Mulder peeked over the wall, then rose to his feet, the suitcase close 
in hand. She stood just twenty feet away, on the other side of another cubicle. 
Even in the waning light he recognized her. 
Samantha.
---------------------------------------------------
7:32 p.m.
Scully had left the subdued, terrified Buller chained to a tree at the edge of 
the parking lot, then quickly dashed back toward the building. Skirting its 
sides, careful to stay in its shadow, she scanned the parking lot and trees for 
intruders. 
A dark shape skittered out of the shadows in front of her and she jumped, almost 
fired, but caught herself as she realized it was only a rat.
Easy, Dana, she cautioned herself. Don't get trigger-happy now.
There were no side doors in this wall, at least a hundred yards long. When she 
reached the back of the building, she peered cautiously around the edge.
An open-canvas jeep was parked about ten feet away.
Scully approached the vehicle cautiously, her weapon ready. She could see no one 
inside it. 
She lay her hand on the hood--it was warm.
Damn! Buller had been right--Mulder wasn't alone in there. She cursed herself 
for not insisting they scout around the whole building before entering.
That only made her own entry all the more urgent.
Another double door stood open on this side of the building, and she ducked 
inside quietly.
She found herself in a long, dimly lit hallway, with glass-paned doors on either 
side. It appeared that it might have once housed laboratories. Briefly, Scully 
wondered what kind of research one performed on paint, but she didn't have time 
to consider for long.
She saw a dark shadow dart down a side hallway to the left near the end of the 
corridor.
Realizing that she was at the disadvantage, backlit by the door behind her, she 
moved quickly, sliding along the left wall. He might not have seen her; she 
still might have the advantage of surprise.
She reached the hallway where the figure had turned, and she followed it 
carefully. For the first time, she was grateful for the sandals which had 
replaced her Nikes--they were absolutely silent as she moved.
Now the only light emitted from a window at the end of the hallway--light was on 
her side now.
A figure abruptly leapt in front of the window, eclipsed it briefly, aiming to 
run into a room across the hall.
"Stop!" Scully cried, drawing a level bead on the space just ahead of the 
window.
Amazingly enough, the figure did. And turned toward her, hands shooting up into 
the air. 
"Scully!" cried Walter Skinner.
Scully released a breath she didn't know she'd been holding, dashed forward to 
Skinner's side. Only then did the horrible thought cross her mind--what if it 
wasn't Skinner?
She raised her gun again, pointing it levelly at his chest.
"Scully, what are you doing?" Skinner hissed. "It's me."
"If it is, then I'm sorry," she answered evenly. "But you need to prove it to 
me."
"What are you talking about?"
"I've seen men who aren't who they seem to be," said Scully. "If you're not one 
of them, tell me something they wouldn't know."
Skinner frowned at her, confused, but she seemed utterly serious and she was 
pointing a gun at him. He thought quickly. "The old woman. Vietnam, Agent 
Scully," he said sternly. "You and Mulder are the only ones who know about her."
Scully lowered the gun and closed her eyes with relief for a brief moment.
"How did you get here?" she asked.
"I followed Krycek. Someone told him to come here--I don't know who."
"Krycek's in here somewhere?"
Skinner nodded. "I had to wait until he'd gone inside to get out of the jeep. 
I'd been hiding in the back. I don't know where he's gone. What are you doing 
here?"
"Mulder's in here too," she said quickly. "He's got the merchandise--this is 
where Buller was supposed to meet the buyer. We have to find them."
Skinner nodded and led the way down the next hallway.
For at least ten minutes, they navigated the dimly lit halls, checking each room 
and always listening for voices. Every room was empty but for the machine pieces 
too old to move and too heavy to steal, coated in dust.
Finally, the hallway terminated in the large factory floor, behind an enormous 
paint vat. Single-file, they skirted it carefully, emerging onto the open floor 
between the two vats. Scully looked up.
There was a staircase on either side, leading up to what probably once served as 
office space. Over the vats hung a network of catwalks, terminating on the 
staircase landings.
Both Skinner and Scully saw him at the same time, and his silhouette on the 
staircase against the dirty, multi-paned window was unmistakable. 
Alex Krycek.
Scully grabbed Skinner's shoulder and spun him around to see. Skinner's jaw 
worked angrily as he recognized the man. He raised his gun, preparing to fire.
---------------------------------------------------
7:36 p.m.
"I don't understand," Mulder stumbled, unable to come up with anything else to 
say.
Samantha regarded him sympathetically across the honeycombed chambers. "I wasn't 
expecting you, Fox. I expected Hadrian Buller. This is very unfortunate."
"You're not her," Mulder croaked, struggling with the debate over whether to 
point his weapon at her. "You can't be her."
"No," she sighed, holding out a hand, palm up, as if to placate him. "I'm not. I 
told you that last time we met."
"When you told me that smoking sonofabitch was your father?" Mulder cried, his 
voice strained.
"I never did, Fox," she replied calmly. "You know there are many of us. They use 
us. But I am not being used."
She began to approach him, her hand still raised. "You remember me, Fox. I met 
you three years ago. You tried to help us."
Mulder nodded slowly. "The abortion clinic," he said. "You told me you were 
making hybrids. That the man--the hunter--wanted to kill you for diluting your 
race."
"That's right," Samantha told him, smiling. She was very close now, extended her 
hand to him.
He jerked back. "You lied to me! You used me!"
She smiled sadly. "It was part of the truth, Fox. A part you could understand. 
And I assure you, your best interest is in our best interest as well."
"My only interest is the truth," he hissed. "Explain it to me."
"There isn't time," she said, abruptly stern. "Give me the case, Fox."
Mulder rudely jerked the case away, slammed it up onto the wall beside him and 
popped it open. He slid his hand under the false bottom and withdrew a handful 
of vials, which he pocketed. Then he fumbled around for the canister--clasped 
his hand around it.
He held it up. "This is what you want, isn't it?"
She nodded, her eyes fixed suddenly on the container.
"What's inside?" Mulder demanded.
She didn't answer. 
"What's inside?" he insisted.
"A very powerful thing," she said finally. "More powerful than you can imagine."
"Is it a part of some spacecraft?" Mulder cried. 
Her face was expressionless. Mulder lowered his voice, leaned toward her. "Is it 
a resistant strain?" he whispered hoarsely.
For a moment--a fraction of a moment--surprise flickered across her face, and 
Mulder knew it was true.
But before he could claim this small victory, there was the loud _bang_ of a 
door closing, coming from across the room. Samantha spun around, a look of 
terror on her face, then leapt at Mulder, grabbing for the canister.
He held on tightly, trying to determine whose side was whose. He would not be 
manipulated! "Give it to me, Fox, please!" she cried.
The man who had entered the room was crossing it silently, with a measured pace. 
Mulder dared not fire on him, recalling the consequences of such rash action in 
the past. As the man neared them, his features became apparent as those of Agent 
Lock.
Lock reached into his breast pocket and produced a small, steel cylinder. Mulder 
heard a sickeningly familiar sizzling click as the stiletto was revealed.
"No!" he screamed. Still clutching the canister, one arm around Samantha's 
waist, he turned and ran for the door.
Lock was close behind them.
---------------------------------------------------
"No!" Mulder screamed.
On the floor below, Scully heard him, whirled around to pinpoint the source of 
his voice. Skinner, his gun just aimed at Krycek, shouted "Stop!"
Krycek registered their presence, started running up the stairs.
Chaos descended on the factory.
Skinner fired at Krycek and missed. Krycek returned the fire and got off two 
shots--one dropped Skinner to the ground.
Scully, torn between her partner's scream and her boss' cry of pain, fell to her 
knees to check Skinner's injury. He'd been hit in the right thigh, and was 
groaning in pain. 
Quickly deciding that the wound would not be fatal, she reached under Skinner's 
armpits and dragged him backward under the staircase, hoping it would provide 
sufficient cover in the next few minutes. He rolled his head back against her 
knees, unprotesting.
Scully dashed around the second paint vat and up the stairs opposite Krycek.
She spotted Mulder at the top of the stairs, emerging from a doorway. He had a 
woman with him, was half-dragging her down the stairs. "Scully!" he shouted when 
he saw her. "Run!"
She didn't, of course. 
Another figure emerged from behind Mulder--she recognized Agent Lock. 
"Don't shoot him, Scully!" Mulder cried as he neared her. She realized the woman 
was--Samantha?
Before he reached her, he turned on the landing, dragging Samantha with him out 
onto the catwalk suspended over the first vat. Lock came barreling after, and 
before Scully's very eyes his features shifted, melting into those of the bounty 
hunter who had haunted her dreams.
Mulder stopped above the edge of the vat and fumbled quickly in his pocket, 
produced a Zippo lighter. He flipped it on and tossed it below.
A second later, there was a blazing explosion of light as the paint residue in 
the vat caught fire. An inferno burned beneath the catwalk, and over this 
inferno Mulder held the canister. At arm's length behind him, he held Samantha.
Scully dove in the way of the bounty hunter, who had turned toward the catwalk, 
but he shoved her violently out of the way, knocking her to the ground.
She righted herself quickly, but it was too late. The bounty hunter was already 
advancing across the catwalk.
"I'll drop it!" Mulder screamed.
"I don't care," the bounty hunter said evenly. "Who do you think it was stolen 
from in the first place? I only want her."
He was standing over the blazing flames now, the heat licking his feet.
Suddenly, he was seized from behind by Scully, who leapt onto his back and dug 
her heels viciously into his sides.
"Scully, no!" Mulder cried, horrified. It would be so easy for him to cast her 
off into the flames--
But as he roared and reached back to disengage her, she wrenched the stiletto 
from his hand and plunged it solidly into the back of his neck.
Samantha took advantage of Mulder's distraction to grab the canister from him 
and dash toward the other landing.
The bounty hunter sagged against the handrail, and Scully fell backward onto the 
grating, grabbing the handrail just in time to avoid falling into the flames.
The bounty hunter fell against the railing and his own weight carried him over 
the edge, silver steel lined by boiling green on his neck as he fell.
Mulder raced to Scully's side, helped her to her feet. "Are you okay, Scully?"
She looked up at him, gripping his arms firmly--then her eyes focused on 
something behind him and he whirled.
Krycek was advancing onto the catwalk from the opposite landing. Samantha had 
seen him, and had chosen a perpendicular catwalk, racing over toward the other 
vat. The canister was clutched tight in her hand.
"Where's Whelk?" Scully asked him, snapping his attention back to her.
Mulder had forgotten about Lock's 'partner.' Was he a shape-shifter too?
A sudden deafening _bang_ distracted everyone. Scully looked down--the fire had 
traveled back along the vat's feeder pipe and presumably into the tanks which 
added ingredients, and may have even still contained aldehyde fumes. One of the 
tanks had exploded, and the fire was now spreading through the debris on the 
factory floor.
"Skinner!" Scully cried, racing for the stairs.
Mulder dashed toward the other perpendicular catwalk, opposite Krycek. The 
catwalks lay like a tic-tac-toe grid, with the two major axes suspended over the 
vats and connected by the intersecting planks he and Krycek now faced each other 
on.
He turned onto the catwalk over the second vat: Samantha was now sandwiched 
between Krycek and himself. She looked wildly from right to left, a cornered 
animal.
"Give me the canister!" Krycek demanded, advancing on her.
"Come here, Samantha," Mulder said tightly, holding out his hand.
She peered over the edge, judging how far the fall was. She could make it, but 
she would only end up trapped inside the vat.
There was a sickening creak and the catwalk swayed. Mulder jerked his head 
around to see how these things were suspended--saw with horror that the catwalk 
was actually constructed in two modular pieces, both hanging by rusty chains. He 
was on one piece; Krycek and Samantha were on the other. 
And then he saw Whelk. Presumably, anyway. The man had the face of another 
bounty hunter, but Mulder could fill in the blanks.
The hunter was racing across the catwalk toward Krycek from behind. "Krycek!" 
Mulder shouted, and Krycek instinctively turned, stepping into the 
shape-shifter's way. With barely a show of effort, the hunter heaved Krycek 
aside, tipping him over the handrail.
Mulder watched helplessly as Krycek tumbled over into the vat, screaming as he 
fell.
Down below, Skinner watched groggily. Small fires had broken out all around him 
now, and the pain in his leg was close to unbearable. He always thought he 
remembered how much a bullet hurt, until he got shot again.
He saw Krycek's fall, saw the dimly familiar woman starting to run from the 
strange man. Then Mulder--at least he thought it was Mulder...it was so hard to 
tell from below--starting to run toward the woman, who was about twenty feet 
away from him.
He knew the strange man. With the curious clarity of memory brought on by 
stress, Skinner identified him--the man who had held Agent Scully at gunpoint on 
a bridge three years ago.
Back of the neck.
Skinner was no sharpshooter. But under pressure he had a damn good aim.
He raised his gun, fired.
He hit his target, but the stiletto had already penetrated Samantha's neck. Both 
Samantha and the second bounty hunter fell to the floor of the catwalk, and 
that's when the chain that held it snapped.
But Skinner did not see that, because Scully's face was quite suddenly swimming 
before his eyes. "We have to get you out of here, sir," she said urgently, and 
then her arms were around him, helping him to stand. He sagged against her.
Meanwhile, Mulder stood helplessly on his side of the catwalk, watching as 
Samantha died again before his eyes. As the chain snapped, the catwalk tilted 
down and to the right, still suspended, but poorly so. Both bodies slid off and 
into the vat below. Mulder had not seen the source of the shot that killed the 
bounty hunter; he only hoped the thing was truly dead.
But as she'd died, Samantha had released the canister, and it had rolled along 
the catwalk to rest precariously on the narrow metal lip that lined the 
catwalk's long edge. Mulder dropped to his knees at the end of his own plank and 
stretched out his arm.
He could almost reach it!
The factory was lit with blazing light now, and the whole thing might explode 
any minute. The fire was all around the floor beneath him, but he couldn't think 
about that now. He had to reach the canister.
Then a voice from below startled him.
"Mulder!"
Krycek! He'd forgotten about the man. He peered down into the vat. Krycek stood 
some twenty-five feet below on the vat's floor, which was raised above that of 
the factory floor, reaching up his arms. Beside him were the two bodies. 
"Mulder!" he cried, panicked. "You have to help me! Don't let me die here!"
Mulder thought frantically, looking down first at his greatest enemy, then 
raising his eyes to the canister, balanced so precariously just out of reach. 
Then to the flames so quickly engulfing the place.
Krycek deserved to die. Mulder would've killed him at least once before. If 
Mulder let him die now, no one would ever know, and Bill Mulder would at last be 
avenged.
Mulder looked again to the canister, which might contain a most significant 
answer.
"You can't let me burn!" Krycek screamed up at him.
No one would ever know.
Except Scully.
He would have to tell her. And even if he didn't, she would know--she would see 
the guilt in his eyes.
What would she do?
He knew the answer, of course, and so he leapt to his feet, retraced his path 
down the catwalk, as Krycek screamed in protest below him.
Near the stairway landing he found what he needed--a fallen, rusted length of 
chain. He picked it up, dashed back to the catwalk's edge. Krycek saw him from 
below, understood his intent.
Mulder threw the chain down, holding his end firmly. He felt Krycek tug on it 
and started to pull--a one-armed man couldn't very well climb hand over hand.
Fuck--that man was heavy!
He wrapped his legs around a cross-post of the railing for a more solid hold, 
leaned back and strained with all his might.
The smoke was choking his throat and clouding his vision now. The veins stood 
out on his neck as he hauled on the chain, bright flames causing red shadows to 
dance on his face. He groaned with the exertion.
Breathing was becoming difficult, and black spots were beginning to spin before 
his eyes. Still, he pulled. Through slitted vision he could still see the 
canister, precariously tipped on the opposite catwalk, beckoning to him just 
beyond his reach. As he watched, the catwalk swayed, and the canister dropped. 
Gone.
He risked a glance over the edge, saw that Krycek was within three feet of the 
platform on which he sat, pulling. Almost there.
He gave a final heave, and in the same moment lost consciousness, as the carbon 
monoxide overrode his faculties.
Alex Krycek looped his prosthesis desperately around the catwalk's railing and 
with his good hand he hauled himself up onto the platform beside Mulder, 
heaving.
He righted himself and crawled breathlessly over toward Mulder, who lay 
unconscious, stretched out along the steel grating. He narrowed his eyes, patted 
the older man on the cheek. "You always were a stupid fool," he muttered. He 
stood up, brushed off his pants.
---------------------------------------------------
7:58 p.m.
Scully sagged with the weight of the much larger man who leaned on her, but 
managed to skirt around the fires and hobble out of the warehouse. She supported 
him with her arms and her hip, nudging and pulling him away. He started to sink 
to the ground as soon as they were out of the building and into the cool night 
air, but she stooped over him, hauling him back up.
"We can't stop here, sir," she told him firmly. "Further away."
Skinner groaned, didn't look at her.
"Come on," she said. She slipped one hand under his armpit and pulled with all 
her strength. Walter Skinner gritted his teeth and stood with her, and they 
continued their slow, jerky pace away from the burning building.
She gently lowered him to the ground when they were a hundred yards clear, at 
the edge of the parking lot. He sank gratefully down, clutching at his thigh in 
pain.
Scully went to work.
She peeled off his pants with expert speed, trying her hardest to be gentle, and 
peered closely at the wound through the dim firelight and moonlight.
Thank god: the bullet had pierced only muscle. He did not appear to be bleeding 
profusely, and although the bullet was still embedded in the tissue, it had done 
no permanent damage. Probably hurt like hell, though.
Skinner watched her with a clenched jaw, propped up on his elbows.
Scully leaned toward him, put a warm hand on his shoulder. "Lie down, sir," she 
admonished. "Don't watch."
"I was a...a soldier before...I came to the FBI," he reminded her, through heavy 
breaths.
She studied his determined face for a moment, then nodded briskly and gave his 
shoulder a firm squeeze.
She tore off a length of his trouser leg, used it to wipe the wound clear of 
blood. The bullet would have to be extracted, but not here. With a few rips and 
tears, Skinner's trousers became bandages.
Just as she was finishing her methodical wrapping, the world collapsed.
Just like that. For an instant, nothing existed but the deafening thunder of an 
unmistakably uncontrolled explosion. The pressure and the heat slammed into 
Scully like a freight train, and she instinctively fell forward over Skinner, 
who had fallen back onto the ground, shielding his eyes.
Just as quickly, it was over, and they both turned to see flames licking the air 
where once a building had stood.
Mulder! Scully didn't know if she'd screamed it aloud, but it didn't matter, 
because no voice could have screamed as loudly as her mind did.
She scanned the debris, which had fallen short of the building, but hadn't even 
gotten to her feet when she made out a figure, coming toward her.
She shielded her eyes against the light and heat, trying to discern the figure's 
outline.
He was carrying something.
Closer and closer he came, struggling to stand under his burden. She knew she 
should draw her gun, knew she should leap to her feet and take a stance, for 
there had been several men in that building. But all her mind could wrap itself 
around was the image of Mulder's charred and blackened carcass.
It wasn't until he was within five yards of her that she made out the features 
of Alex Krycek. But what was he carrying?
Instinctively, she whipped out her Sig, holding it cautiously at her side.
He dropped his burden carelessly to the ground, and she realized for the first 
time that it was a body. A limp body. Mulder's body.
Dana Scully had never waited until the last minute to study. She had been an 
excellent student, because she'd learned early on to study all throughout the 
course, so she knew the material solidly. When finals week approached and her 
friends were cramming, Scully had kept up the same pace she'd had throughout the 
semester: measured and even. She'd always aced the exam. Dana Scully was nothing 
if not prepared.
Ever since that chill New Mexico evening, the first time he'd died, Scully had 
been preparing herself for this moment, which had somehow come to seem 
inevitable to her. She'd been doing it almost subconsciously, because it seemed 
uncomfortably like betrayal, to contemplate the death of one whose life she was 
in so many ways responsible for. But Dana was a realist, and until her cancer, 
she had known with fearful certainty that someday Mulder's eyes, which had for 
years spoken to her more truthfully than words ever could of the most powerful 
love, anger, grief and redemption that she had ever known, would one day regard 
her with silence. In this single way, her cancer had lifted a burden from her; 
it was oddly puzzling to realize that _she_ might die first--somehow that hadn't 
fit the story.
But when together they had assured her survival, she once again began steeling 
herself against this moment. 
Nothing could have prepared her.
Staring at the limp form on the ground and the blurry silhouette outlined in 
flames behind him that was Alex Krycek, Scully felt no tears rising in her 
throat. Instead, she felt a burning insatiable incredibly fierce rage.
In an instant, her gun was aimed directly at Krycek. That he should be the one 
to do this deed! It infuriated her. He was nothing, a fool, a pawn. He did not 
have the right to give Mulder's death justice. She clutched the Sig in two 
fists, every nerve singing with the need for perfection of aim. Where should she 
shoot him first?
How surprising that he came closer to her!
"Get that gun off me, you bitch," he called, quite casually. "I saved his 
goddamn life."
She stared at him, and her trigger finger twitched.
"See for yourself," Krycek told her, stepping aside and gesturing at the limp 
body.
Scully's heart was thumping in her throat. Krycek? Saved Mulder? He's lying, she 
told herself. He's lying and he'll run when you check.
Nonetheless, she had to know. She crept forward on her knees, moving between 
Krycek and Mulder. She kept her gun steadily aimed at the one-armed man, who 
watched her disdainfully.
She reached Mulder's side, and though she dropped one hand from her gun she did 
not even look at him. She was afraid she might lose control if she did. And of 
course, she wasn't even going to glance away from Krycek.
She lowered her hand onto her partner's body and determined that she was 
touching his thigh. She ran her hand smoothly up his leg and over his waist, 
along his side to his shoulder, then fumbled for his neck, still watching Krycek 
fiercely.
Her practiced fingers slid to his carotid artery.
And detected a pulse, quick but steady and strong.
Krycek no longer mattered. She turned to Mulder and bent double over his head, 
resting her face above his mouth. She felt a warm expulsion of air on her cheek 
and sighed with relief.
She heard retreating footsteps, and jerked her head back up, swiveling her gun 
to point at Krycek's back. "Stop!" she called.
He stopped, lifted his hands slowly and turned. The flames illuminated his face, 
which sported a look of supreme irritation.
The two stared at each other for a long moment, each daring the other to move. 
Finally, Scully found her voice and spoke. "Why?" she croaked roughly.
He regarded her stonily. "Just tell him we're even," he answered.
She considered that, then nodded slowly. There was another long pause.
"Look," Krycek finally said. "Are you gonna shoot me or what? Because if you're 
not gonna shoot me, I'd like to get out of here."
Scully blinked at him, her hand still on Mulder's neck. She glanced over at 
Skinner, who was leaning up on one elbow, transfixed by all that had transpired.
She lowered the gun.
Krycek turned and strode quickly off toward the tree line. 
Scully released the breath she'd been holding and turned back to Mulder, who was 
just starting to cough. She wrapped her arms around his torso and helped him to 
sit, pounding his back with one hand and cradling his head with the other.
---------------------------------------------------
Thursday
1:02 a.m.
Skinner had been dozing in and out of sleep for most of the flight, but the 
pressure changes of their descent had woken him more fully.
He sat sideways against a window, his injured leg propped up on the legrest of 
the adjacent seat, which was empty. Directly across from him, Buller was 
sleeping. Across the aisle and one row behind, he noticed Scully and Mulder were 
no longer seated side by side; instead, Scully was slumped against the window 
and Mulder curled on his side across the three seats, his head pillowed in her 
lap. Her arm lay loosely across his chest.
Not for the first time, Skinner wondered if they were lovers. Honestly, it 
didn't matter much to him--he just didn't want to know so that he wouldn't be 
expected to do something about it. Whatever they had between them, it worked, no 
matter what the FBI policies had to say about it.
It worked most of the time, anyway.
They had come away with one captive--Buller, a little evidence--the tubes Mulder 
had had the wits to pocket, and a pair of crutches for Skinner. There had been 
little to do for his injury: Skinner had visited a hospital that had at first 
turned him away because of his nationality, but after Mulder threw around a 
little more money, they'd provided a room and some drugs. Scully had patched him 
up and doped him up, and they'd headed for the Havana airport as quickly as 
possible.
Of course, Buller couldn't be arrested here--the FBI had no legal jurisdiction 
in Cuba. They'd brought him along on the sparsely-populated flight, discreetly 
handcuffed, of course, but charging him would be difficult. They would try to 
allege that they'd found the evidence on the boat, and omit the story of how 
they followed Krycek into a communist country and blew up a paint factory there, 
but this omission of course eroded a huge part of their explanation for 
Hollandaise's death.
Not that they had much of an explanation anyway. 
Skinner imagined the hell of the upcoming weeks, as Scully's trial proceeded. 
Perhaps the shadow forces had finally succeeded in putting the X-Files out of 
commission.
Skinner had done all he could to prevent it. And in the end, it had come to 
nothing. They were getting away with it.
He glanced again at Scully and Mulder, exhausted and oblivious to his fatalistic 
train of thought. Mulder shifted slightly, and Scully readjusted the angle of 
her arm, accomidating him. Skinner felt a faint pang of jealousy, that they 
should be so peaceful.
Let them have their peace now, though, he thought. Because the coming weeks 
certainly won't allow it.
---------------------------------------------------
Seattle, Washington
Friday
11:51 p.m.
A favor. That's what they'd called it. They'd said they were calling in a favor.
Dale Tassert called it murder.
At least they hadn't made him do it. He probably couldn't have brought himself 
to fire the gun, and they had probably known that. They could make him do almost 
anything, but not that.
He'd drugged the woman, though. Brought her back to his house, stripped her 
naked, and left her lying on his couch. Then they'd brought the man in.
God, he didn't want to do this. He wanted out, he'd said stubbornly, then 
pleadingly. Please, let me out. I can't, I can't....in my house.
But they could make him do this. They had enough files on him to fill a 
warehouse. Bank fraud. Tax collection schemes. Extortion. Embezzlement.
Dale Tassert was a very wealthy man thanks to his 'friends.' They protected him, 
protected his ex-wife and daughter, and they never asked for anything in return. 
He wasn't stupid--he'd known something like this would come along eventually. 
They'd need a job done, and they'd come asking for a 'favor.' Just a little 
favor.
"I'm sure Amy will appreciate it," the voice on the phone had told him. These 
men never had names. "She'd like to know her daddy repays his debts."
He'd recognized the veiled threat, and yelled in anger, then begged in fear. But 
they'd won, in the end.
They'd told him where to find the woman; he didn't even know her name. When he 
stared at her naked form on his couch, he'd felt no arousal, only self-loathing.
And then they'd brought the man in. 
He was bound and gagged, his eyes full of terror. They'd dragged him up the 
stairs to Dale's bedroom, and Dale started to follow, but one of the thugs 
stopped him, a hand on his chest. "You know what to do," he said in a low voice. 
"You were asleep and you heard a noise. You keep a gun in your nightstand. You 
saw him coming for you, and--bang! That's it. You've never seen him before, and 
you've never seen her."
"Who is he?" Dale asked.
The man's fist slammed into Dale's gut, and he bent over, gasping.
"You've never seen him before," the man repeated. "You don't know."
He jerked Dale upright again, leaned into his face and hissed, "But keep in 
mind--he's someone who didn't do what he was told."
The sudden crack! of a gunshot from upstairs told them the deed was done.
---------------------------------------------------
Annapolis
Saturday
8:13 p.m.
Scully looked out through her peephole and, recognizing her partner, unlocked 
the door. He entered, looking disheveled and tired. In his hand was a brown 
folder.
"Mulder," she said, only mildly surprised. "What's up?"
He shrugged out of his jacket and ambled over to her couch, sank into it 
comfortably.
"Your case has been closed," he announced. "I wanted to tell you in person."
Scully's brow furrowed in confusion. "What? Why didn't they call me?" 
"I'm sure they'll have your lawyer do it soon. I had an insider at the D.C. 
office with orders to call me if anything came up, so told me as soon as they 
found out."
"Found out what?"
He handed her the folder.
She flipped through its contents, frowning. "This is a police report from 
Seattle."
"They staged another set-up, Scully. Set 'em up, set 'em down."
She skimmed the file, noting the relevant facts. A wealthy, well-respected local 
man named Dale Tassert claimed to have been wakened by an intruder in his 
bedroom, who he shot and killed. The man he shot--one Guy Redwood--had 
apparently been planning to kill Tassert and frame a young woman, who was found 
naked and drugged with ethanimide, for the theft. He had arrived in Seattle on a 
plane from D.C. two days earlier. The two cases might not have been connected 
had Redwood not been caught--he was wanted in several states for charges of 
murder and suspected of being a hired assassin.
"I see..." Scully murmured, sinking onto the couch beside Mulder. "A frame 
around a frame around a frame. But what about Couvier?"
"The secretary? Turns out she'd only been working for Hollandaise for two weeks. 
Background check would have revealed that in a few days anyway. She's gone now, 
back to France, according to her landlord."
Scully closed her eyes and collapsed backward onto the couch. "Damn them," she 
whispered fiercely.
Mulder studied her face with concern. "Hey," he said, and rubbed her forearm 
affectionately. "You're supposed to be happy."
Her eyes snapped open, locking his, and she raised one eyebrow. "Happy? Happy 
that they 'let me off the hook?' That just means they still think I'm useful. 
That they've got something else planned for me."
Mulder lowered his head, unable to think of a response. Finally, he murmured, 
"We didn't do what they expected this time, Scully. I'm sure of it. We're 
learning--Kritschgau was just the beginning. We can turn their rules back on 
them."
Scully smiled weakly at him, wanting to believe him. She was unwilling to admit 
how difficult that was, just now, when he was so reluctant to believe himself. 
So instead she leaned into him a little, taking comfort from this small tangible 
thing. "Mulder?" she asked softly. 
He slid his arm about her shoulders, imagining what she might be feeling now. 
"What," he prompted gently.
But she surprised him. "Where did you get all that money?"
He blinked. Ever enigmatic, his Scully. "Where...? Oh. My dad. I've got nothing 
else to spend it on, right? Except these suits...."
"I'd always wondered about that," she said, content for a brief moment to 
contemplate something other than agendas.
---------------------------------------------------
End.
Did that make any sense at all? =) 
Started: 03/15/98
Finished: 04/28/98
---------------------------------------------------
Grandpa, what's the moral of the story?
Well, son, that's obvious. Everybody's a hero.
That's stupid, Grandpa. I like it better when everybody dies! HAHAHAHAHA!
Well, son, maybe next time. Maybe next time.

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