Carol-Lee by WestShore Part 11 of 11 (see part 1 for disclaimers) * * * * * * * * * * * * * * "And who was it that burned up in his place, Joey?" Omar again, butting in. This time Jimmy silences him with a backhanded slap. Jimmy turns back to me, shoving Mulder toward me. Jimmy's glare is hot. He is rolling that switchblade in his hand, an impatient gesture. He wants answers. I swallow hard. I can only tell him what I know. How can my voice be so awfully quiet when inside I am screaming. "Carol-Lee was here last night when I fell asleep, Jimmy. She was in bed with..." I nod my head toward Mulder. "...him. She's the reason he's alive, Jimmy. I suppose she just got tired of playing with those stupid Barbie dolls you always gave her. She wanted to upgrade her toy collection..." Something like a roar escapes Jimmy's throat and he strikes out at me again. Godammit! I'm tired of the pain, the helplessness. Funny. Another thing Fox Mulder and I must have in common. It is useless to fight back as long as Jimmy has the switchblade and his two goons behind him. But I do push him away from me. His rage is bringing up the only color his face has had for days. And with that rage, Jimmy is hungry for blood. He turns on Mulder, grabbing his hair again, slamming him back to the floor and straddling him, the switch blade poised over the stricken agent's heart. "Jimmy! Don't...!" I propel myself forward, knocking him off Mulder, before the Duron Goons can pull me away. I wrestle in their grip. Suddenly, it is very important to me that Fox Mulder not suffer any more harm. Carol-Lee's pre-programming? Or has my self identification with this man suddenly grown into an obsession? "Jimmy! Jimmy! Leave him alone!" I am shouting at him around the efforts of the two idiots to silence me. Jimmy is crawling back toward Mulder with a death's head grin on his face. Mulder, who is laying trussed up and expectant, like a sacrificial lamb. I've got to stop this! "God damn you, Jimmy Botina! If you kill him, you kill us all! Carol-Lee doesn't want him harmed. She'll kill us all! She'll kill you, you stupid bastard...!" I can't see what, if any, effect my hysterical screams have on Jimmy. Omar and Fernando have started treating me to their peculiar brand of dirty street fighting, punching, kicking. By the time I feel the floor come up to greet me, I am in a world of hurt. Despite my rapidly swelling eye, despite the pain, I look anxiously toward the couch, looking for Mulder. He's still alive. He's still alive. God, he's still alive. That thought replays in my mind a hundred times. Jimmy is slumped next to him, hand laying limply on Mulder's bandaged chest, knife laying uselessly on the floor beside Mulder. And Special Agent Fox Mulder has his eyes closed as if the simple act of not looking at all of us loonies will some how transport him away from our midst. He is trembling. But then again, so am I. And so is Big Bad Jimmy Botina. The mere invocation of Carol-Lee's name, the mere threat of Carol-Lee's anger stopped him cold. That's why he worked so well with her for so long, I have to tell myself. He knows her power and he respects it. I know nothing. I would have lost this game anyway. The realization is growing inside me, becoming a bitter pill to swallow. I feel myself being pulled upright, to my feet. My right leg won't bear weight, keeps flopping under me, sending shooting pains into my hip and groin. Dammit! Must be broken. I'm sure that pleases the Weasel Brothers. Omar grins in my face as he holds me upright. "He has a coal cellar downstairs with a bolt on it, Jimmy." Fernando is talking, but pain is starting to affect my hearing, or rather my understanding. I feel sick to my stomach. "You want us to throw him down there 'til we find Carol-Lee?" Jimmy is rubbing his head wearily, gazing thoughtfully at his federal prisoner. He finally nods and points to Mulder. "And take this one, too. Lock them up. Then, I want to ride around the neighborhood. She has to be around here somewhere. Omar, you'll come with me. Fernando, you can wait here in case she comes back." Suddenly, I am aware of Fox Mulder at my side. I cling to him, trying to regain some footing. Although he can hardly walk himself, he patiently allows me to lean on him for support. Omar and Fernando push us forward toward the kitchen and the basement door. The struggle to get down the steps is almost comical were it not so painful. The Duron Dopes seem to get a perverse pleasure out of our struggle, though. I only feel relief when we are shoved into the dark cellar. I hear the old wood door slamming shut behind us, the bolt sliding into place. I have collapsed at the door. Mulder has made it a few feet deeper into the darkness. I can hear the labored breathing I have become so used to by now. I can also hear the squeak and snap of IV tubing being pulled at. I can't move. My thoughts turn away from my pain and to Dana Scully. Why isn't she in here? Did Carol-Lee spirit her away? Did she kill her ? Did they just decide to go out for early coffee and croissants to discuss their man-troubles like two long-lost girlfriends? What in the hell was going on? I can feel a long, warm arm push itself under my shoulders, lifting me to a sitting position. "Help me... get you... to the bench...*pal*." Mulder's soft voice at my ear. He's trying to help me! I can't help but smile when he calls me 'pal'. It's a gentle mocking. He's been paying more attention than I gave him credit for. We both freeze at the sound of a soft shuffling in the dark, near us. Suddenly, we are bathed in the glare of a light...my flashlight! And Dana Scully's heavensent voice, sardonic and weary: "Gentlemen...welcome." I can feel the tension leave me when I realize that she had wisely hid herself behind the van bench when she heard all the commotion upstairs. Fernando the Fool would never have thought to look behind the old seat for anyone. Good going, Dana, but where do we go from here? Mulder hasn't relaxed. He is still working on the Dana Scully puzzle in his brain. I'm sure Carol-Lee took several of the vital pieces to this puzzle and hid them well. I shift my weight on his good arm so that I can look him in the face. He is staring at Dana as she steps into the beam of light. "Hey, Pal...it's okay. Remember? She's on your side." I can feel him ease up a bit. She steps closer to him, reaches a hand out to touch his forehead. His eyes never leave her, studying, evaluating, trying to remember. She smiles wanly. "Well, I think your temperature has fallen a bit at least." She leans over to detach the last of the mangled IV. "I should have known, Mulder. Keeping an IV in you is like riding the space shuttle into orbit, clinging to the outside." She sighs, and he allows himself a shy smile. "I do feel better than I did yesterday," he offers. She nods wearily. "Yes, I'm sure you do. However, you need at least another day and a half of IV's and...oh, what's the use? I'm talking as if walking out the door and getting you to the hospital is an option here." She looks at me, reproachfully at first, and then she seems to realize that I am in less than prime condition. Bless her heart. She actually looks concerned. She gets under my other arm as she gives Mulder his orders. "Don't take all of his weight, Mulder. Let me do most of the pulling. Now. Over to the bench..." Is that me crying out? It might be. I only remember lightning-like bolts of brilliant colors every time my right leg is moved. I hear Mulder saying something: "...broken leg...beating..." Scully is propping my injured leg against the back of the van bench, stabilizing it with some of the old couch pillows, putting one pillow gently under my head. The only thing I need to complete this picture of bliss is my drugs, any drug. My thoughts darken. A whole bottle of pills, swallowed with an expensive scotch as a farewell gesture, would answer all my problems right now. I look around for my two federal cell-mates. Mulder is huddling up in one of the old bucket seats. Half-naked, he is probably having trouble trying to stay warm. Scully is struggling with the ancient sleeping bag. She tucks it securely around her partner and then returns to my side to cover me with the remainder of sheets and blankets that I had left for her. Surprise. Dana Scully sits by my side. She gently probes my body, reading the injuries. Sighs. Sits back up. "You've acquired a broken leg and a number of bruises, Joey. Payback is hell. Or is this more of that 'world without consequences' that you told me of earlier?" She's not being mean. But she is being mildly sarcastic. I laugh even though it makes my jaw hurt. "Oh, Doc Dana... You know, I could fall in love with you if it weren't for that devil tongue of yours..." I shake my finger at her. She smiles and squeezes my hand sympathetically. "Our fortunes do not seem to be improving, Mr. Gauthier," she says with worry in her voice. "Were those men members of your gang?" I nod. "Yep. The Big Jimmy B himself and his two ugly step-henchmen. They were looking for Carol-Lee. She's gone." I pick my head up to look at Mulder who is semi-alert for a change. "The last time I saw her, she was wound around you like gift wrapping, pal. Do you know where she went?" "No," he answers simply. "Well, this should prove very interesting... at least briefly... before we die." I laugh to myself again. The tables have turned all right...right on my head. For a long time, there is a heavy silence between us. We must seem a curious collection of toys for Carol-Lee: me, bewitched; Scully, bothered; and Mulder, bewildered. "I don't suppose it would do any good to ask you if there might be another way out of here?," Dana inquires. Her tone is resigned. But before I can answer, I hear Mulder's breathless, soft voice reply. "No...I...I've looked...already...a hundred times...it seems." Busy man. And I thought he had been asleep all that time. I smile to myself. Carol-Lee had said he was fighting her. Where has my head been? Mulder's been moving through this little drama like an animated ghost, not a stage prop. Given more time, maybe he could have changed the direction it has been going in. Then again...Fate may be the only director. As this play unfolds, and as I have time to consider my part, I realize that it's not about Carol-Lee, or Jimmy, or Mulder. It's all about me. Endgame. How am *I* going to conclude this absurdity? "So...we wait?" Dana Scully again. I can tell she is anxious to have a plan. She wants to fight back. She still wants to control the script, the outcome. I am still smiling like a mindless idiot. She must think I've gone mad. Ahhhh! The clarity of thinking that comes when one is perched on the brink of insanity. "We wait." I can tell she is frustrated. She doesn't know. She's not sure she believes. She still thinks there is some way to get past this Carol-Lee phenomenon. How many days ago...hell... how many *hours* ago was it that I believed I could still control this situation? So much has come undone. So much more has been revealed. And it all seems soooo funny now. "Joey?" A vision of Dana Scully before me, her image swimming, wavering. My eyes are full of tears. I'm crying?! Even as I hear myself laughing?! "Joey?" She is shaking me gently by my shoulder as if trying to snap me out of a trance. I can hear myself sobbing. Not laughing. Sobbing. She stops shaking my shoulder and just lets her hand rest there. A gesture of comfort. I have not earned it. I am lost. Mulder is lost. And she can only look out for one of us, only help one of us find his way back. So, go on, Ms. Scully... Only one of us *wants* to find his way back. It ain't me, babe. No, no, no...it ain't me you're lookin' for, babe... I struggle to pull it together. Hysteria is so unseemly, not my style. There won't be the time to explain to her...or him...how my life ended up like this. Yet, watching her near me, reminding me of the way I once thought my life would end up, I want to confess, tell her everything. Maybe I'm not 'soul-less'. Maybe my soul has just been wrapped up like a mummy, in moldy, stinking bandages, for a long, long time. And so, in the dim, tomb-like room, I unwrap my soul in front of Dana Scully. I tell her everything. My street-kid hopes, my college-boy ambitions. And then my rape followed by my rapist's murder, followed by more crimes - some against others, some against myself - my rationalizations, my choices, my pact with the devil... Dana Scully is listening. There is no judgment, no condemnation in those jewel-like eyes. Well, so, confession *is* good for the soul. But, having laid the jumbled script of my life out to her, I am also left with an empty feeling. I wasted my life. I have accomplished nothing. And across from me, watching me with his chameleon eyes, is Fox Mulder, the reminder of what I should have been, what I could have done. I am more curious than ever. Who is he really? Is he everything he seems? Educated? Passionate? Well adjusted? Am I right to be envious of him or have I lionized him as a way of looking at my own wreck of a life? "Dana?," I ask softly in the silence that follows my confession. She arches her eyebrows gently, waiting for my question. I nod my head at Mulder. "What about him? Who is he? Tell me about him." His mouth drops open slightly. He's surprised by my request, but his eyes fly eagerly to his partner's face. He is searching. He doesn't want to be lost. Can she help him? Can she tell him who he is? Can she undo Carol-Lee's damage? Dana takes a deep breath as she meets her partner's eyes. "Tell you about him?," she echoes softly. "The story of Fox Mulder is a long, complicated one." She smiles at him and continues, "He is a singular talent, a man unlike any one I have ever known." A pause. He looks a bit anxious now. "He was known as a kind of phenomenon at the Bureau. He has an other-worldly talent for nailing profiles on serial killers, psycho criminals, etc., helped enormously,I am sure, by the fact that he is a star graduate of Oxford's prestigious college of psychology. The FBI had recruited him before the ink was dry on his Ph.D. sheepskin." "*Doctor* Mulder?!" I grin at him. I was right. He is a shining star. He looks a little awestruck, himself, just now. Dana nods and continues, her smile saddening. "Well, along with his other- worldly talents, he has several other qualities that have endeared him to our superiors: single-mindedness, unorthodox methods, a damning disregard for authority...He can trip more triggers among the establishment than the Libyan Army." She sighs. "That's how we became partners. The powers-that-be at the FBI thought I could rein him in when he made it clear he was turning his back on the promotions and politics of the Bureau and began pursuing the... the X Files." "X files?! What are the X files?!" This I have never heard of! She turns to look to me. "You are an X file, Joey...or rather part of one. Carol-Lee and her supposed power. She's the subject of this particular, peculiar adventure we are now involved in. Agent Mulder has actively pursued cases that defy...um... rational explanations. I have been partnered with him for the past three years. Initially, I suppose I thought it was a 'baby-sitting' assignment. I was expected to make regular reports, make sure the rules were followed, try to keep Mulder's feet on the ground and head out of the..." She can't finish for a moment. She is drawing too close to some emotionally charged issue between them. Those chameleon eyes are dark now, staring at Dana. She continues talking to me but is looking at him. "The X Files Division has surprised us all. The things I have seen... our experiences...the things that have happened to us both..." Her face pales a bit and she can no longer look at Mulder. He looks frozen in place. Maybe I was wrong. Appearances can be deceiving. Good looks, good education, good job ...might not add up to a blissful existence after all. Could be that all those *good* things have been driven by a desperate force, desperate circumstances. Just like me, I think, but he had the sense to seek out the higher road. Sense or destiny? And the beautiful Dana Scully? What of her life? I can't tell, due to the heavy blanket of angst that has fallen over all of us, whether she truly wishes to be a part of this pairing with Mulder or if she is resigning herself to fate, like I am doing now. Or is there some other bond? Some other passion driving her, keeping her at Mulder's side. I remind myself that the cement for pair bonds is not always made of love alone. It can be made of a seemingly incongruous blend of many things: greed, pain, passion, lust, fear, loneliness, loss... She is wringing her hands as if trying to warm them. She will not meet my eyes, and she is outright avoiding his. I can hear the groan of ancient vinyl as Fox Mulder shifts his weight uncomfortably in the bucket seat across from me. He drops his head to the side, resting it against the back of the chair. He is staring off into a dark corner. He does not say whether he knows who he is now. Maybe he's trying to decide if he wants to know any more. I remember what Carol-Lee had said of him that first fateful night in the warehouse: <...too many memories... too scary...too sad> He is trembling again. Dana looks up and notices this, too. Without a word, she leaves my side and goes to him. She pulls the folds of my sleeping bag open and slips into it with him, holding him, trying to stop the shuddering that seems to have little to do with the cold in this basement. The tomb-like silence returns. I'm more aware of the grave-like smell of this place. I'm also aware of the silence upstairs, where Fernando waits and watches. While we wait and wonder. My eye is caught by a spider actively spinning her web in a corner of the room illuminated by the flashlight. I watch with fascination as she delicately pulls and weaves with her tiny, thin legs. She must spin the web to live. Maybe it's the same for Carol-Lee. Her web must be spun to entrap. She must feed on us. Where did she go? Why did she leave? She had been so strange last night, so different. Had she spun too complicated a web? Had she done herself in? Or maybe she and Jimmy have a deeper symbiotic relationship than she knew. He certainly seems to be suffering as much as she was after we came from the hospital. The hospital! I'd forgotten! Dana's mysterious note in Latin, the message the pharmacist puzzled over before Carol-Lee went berserk! I look quickly over at her. She has Mulder's head buried against her shoulder. She is brushing her fingertips through his dark hair, a comforting gesture, as much for herself as him, I suppose. Her eyes are open, but she is lost in thought. "Dana?" She turns those jewel eyes to me, focusing on me. "You left a message, didn't you?" I suppose my question sounds more hopeful than I honestly feel. "Back at the hospital?" She sighs, and she doesn't sound hopeful at all. "Yes. A note in Latin on the prescription form. I had hoped he would notice it...the pharmacist, I mean. I wrote it in Latin to disguise..." She looks a little embarrassed. "I mean, if Carol-Lee can really read other people's thoughts, I hoped that a message in Latin would confound her." Damn! What a woman! Even in these dire straits, I have to marvel at her. I'll bet she and Mulder made a helluva team. "I expected that the note would have been found by now, though," she is saying. "If they found the pharmacist's body and followed standard investigation procedures, they would have reviewed his last prescription orders for clues. My note said we were in danger and to notify our AD, Skinner, and gave your address here." "How'd you get my address?" She smiles. "Joey. Really. There were several pieces of mail addressed to 'occupant' in your kitchen. I *am* an FBI agent, you know." I laugh and rub my sore jaw. "Oh yes, Doc Dana. I could fall in love..." "Well, save your love," she sniffs. "They should have been here by now. And the early morning wake-up call from your fellow gang members has turned this into a race against time. If Jimmy Botina finds Carol-Lee and gets back here first..." She doesn't finish her sentence. She doesn't need to. She pulls Mulder closer to her, a gesture that didn't escape my notice. In that same moment, I hear the creak of wood and glass that is peculiar to the opening sound of my lobby door upstairs. Dana hears it, too. Even Fox Mulder lifts his head and uselessly stares at the old floorboards overhead as if he could see through them, somehow divining who is at my front door and what their intent is. Dana and I lock eyes for a brief second before she reaches over and switches off the flashlight. The image of her face is burned onto my retina in the darkness, a literal bright light in the blackness. And we listen. The apartment door creaks open and I hear footfalls, soft ones, small ones... Carol-Lee! I hear the scrape of a chair on the linoleum in the kitchen. Fernando getting up. Probably in the kitchen studying the remains of the drug supply. I hope he helped himself to a lot. A whole lot. "Who's there? Jimmy? Omar?" I can hear his muffled calls. I can hear him head into the hallway. For a moment, there is silence and I envision the recognition on Fernando's face. It's not just Carol-Lee he recognizes, I think as I hear him shout her name, it's the danger he sees. I hear his gun discharge three times, but I hear only one of the bullets drill into the floor just as I hear his agonized scream and the thud of his body, falling almost directly overhead. So long, Fernando. Can't say it's been nice to know ya... I can hear those soft footfalls again. Wandering. Back to the living room. To the bedroom. To the kitchen. Back to the bedroom. And then it is quiet for a long time. I think I hear the creak of bed springs. More silence. And then slow, shuffling, unsteady steps toward the kitchen, toward the door to the basement. I can see light from the kitchen, spilling down the steps into the tomb that is my basement. I can see fingers of that light poke through the chinks and cracks in the door of our prison. Creaking of stairs and the groan of the railing as if someone is leaning on it for support. The fingers of light in our prison dance as the shadow of the wraith beyond the door moves slowly forward. The slide of the bolt is a tortured sound, prolonged as if the person moving it is not strong enough to pull it. Carol-Lee. Even though she is backlit by the light from the stairs, I can tell she has changed again. Her stance is stooped, uneven, as if she's physically folding up on herself. Her choppy hair is spiked out in all directions, a fashion of madness. I can see that her clothes are torn, as if she had been running through briar patches. In downtown Pittsburgh? No way. I'm glad I can't see her face clearly. I'm glad for the shadows. I don't have to see that visage to know what it is like. The soft, little-girl innocence will be gone. The sexy, but short-lived, womanliness will be gone. There will only be a rictus of insanity and, at the moment, that will scare me more than if she holds a knife to my heart. With that thought comes the sudden knowledge that this is what had terrified Mulder. This is what forms the prison in his head: the vision of unspeakable madness. The aloneness of the insane. He saw himself. Wrapped in a straight-jacket. Endlessly weaving and pacing. From corner to corner of a stark white room. A room padded to keep harm away, well after the most harm had been done. No wonder. No wonder he was frightened. Scared. Mr. X Files is being held by the thing that scares him the most: a senseless end. A living death. In those breathless seconds as I watch Carol-Lee, or rather, what is left of Carol-Lee and I understand Mulder's imprisonment, I come to understand something else. He doesn't deserve it. That prison is mine. I want it. A senseless end makes sense for my life, not his. Let me have that prison, Mulder. You can have your X Files. Your partner. Your big brain. Take it all back and let me have what I want most: off the planet. Away from the world as I know it. Carol-Lee is frozen in the doorway, staring at Fox Mulder. Glaring at Dana Scully. Ignoring me. She lifts her hand to gesture silently at her G.I. Fox doll. She soundlessly commands him to come to her. I watch anxiously. There is no way to know how this will play out. I see Mulder grimace and turn his face away from her. A defiance. I still don't need to see her face to know how she is taking his resistance. I can *feel* the fury building in her. She moves forward enough to reach for my flashlight. She turns it on, illuminating our latest prison. The light also illuminates her. Dana and I suck in our breath almost simultaneously. I was right about her face. But what the darkness had really hidden, however, were the two ominous red stains growing on her abdomen. Fernando's heavy metal greeting to Carol-Lee: two bullets low on the stomach, painful, fatal. Carol-Lee seems oblivious to the wounds. Insanity does have its perks, I suppose. She is too focused on her errant agent. She is too enraged with his insolent behavior. She is too obsessed with him. When she turns her hateful glare on Dana Scully, I become alarmed. This will be no simple cat fight. Dana has her arms around Carol-Lee's stolen property. Carol-Lee will simply dispatch the bothersome bitch. When Carol-Lee moves threateningly toward Dana, Fox Mulder becomes animated, the wildcat I've seen before. He draws himself in front of his partner protectively, daring Carol-Lee with his dark eyes. In this light, in this room, they look coal black, hard. As usual, he and Carol-Lee don't have to speak to communicate. She's getting the message loud and clear. Overhead, I hear the front door swing open again. Two sets of footsteps. They stop at the point in my hallway where Fernando must have fallen. They move on toward the basement door, one more quickly than the other. Their descent down the steps does not faze Carol-Lee. She means to have her prize; all else be damned. Sweat is beading up on Mulder's forehead, but he is not trembling. He is unbending, rigid with ferocity. He is protecting Dana, even though he must know what this act of defiance will cost him. Mulder. Mulder. Mulder. I sigh inwardly. Dana was right. This may all come down to a race against time. And time moves into the lead position as Omar Duron bursts in on our cozy little group. He is twisted with grief and rage. I'm sure the sight of his brother, dead on the floor in a pool of his own blood and brains, has fueled this mania. He grabs for Carol-Lee just as Carol-Lee reaches for Mulder. Her shriek is one of surprise and pain. Omar's shriek is the tolling of death, coming just fractions of a second after I see the silvery glitter of Jimmy Botina's switchblade, sinking between his shoulder blades, stabbing him in the back, finding its way to his heart, loosening his grip on Carol-Lee, loosening his grip on life. Carol-Lee is in Jimmy's arms. Her breathing is becoming ragged. This whole scene is unfolding in an unreal way. I struggle to sit up. I must have some role here. I must! Jimmy's eyes are full of tears as he looks at the tiny person he is holding. "Carol-Lee? Carol-Lee?" That's all he can say. Over and over. He eases her down to the bench, next to me. Never even looks at me. But I can see his face change. I can see the hate turn him inside out and I see his hand tighten on the switchblade again. Ohchrist! "Look out, Mulder!," I yell, praying there is time enough for both of them to get out of the way of this murderous animal. Jimmy turns, screaming at the top of his lungs. "This is your work, you bastard! This is your fault! You started this!" I feel so helpless. I cannot move. But I see that Mulder has shoved his partner loose from the tangle of the sleeping bag, out of immediate harm's way. And in the moment he took to do that, he may have sacrificed himself. Jimmy's knife blade seems to explode in the air as he arcs it down toward Special Pal Fox Mulder, who is hobbled by my sleeping bag, unable to move out of the way of that flashing metal. Another explosion. My terrified mind tries to make sense of this noise. Knives don't make explosive sounds... Jimmy is standing stock still. Mulder is still crouched beneath him, expecting death from that knife blade for the second time today. Where did the explosions come from? The echo of them seems to still be reverberating in my head as I look toward the door. The gun is still smoking in his hands. Mr. Intense. The Federal Bossman. The Big Dog. He stands there, looking like a recruitment poster. Stance correct. Steely eyes not moving off his target. Jaw set as if it were cast in iron. Waiting. FBI Assistant Director Walter Skinner is waiting. And there are other trained guns just behind him, waiting. Waiting for the corpse that Jimmy Botina already is to drop the knife from its lifeless hand and to drop itself to the floor, where it will do no more harm. The corpse finally complies. Walter Skinner relaxes, but just a bit. There are still criminal elements in this room, he knows. He runs an evaluating glance over me and Carol-Lee. She's dying. He can see that. Maybe he can tell I'm dead, too, passed over a long time ago. His two special Special Agents are re-uniting in a brief reassuring hug. I can see Fox Mulder's handsome face. It is lit up with something new, something I haven't seen in him in our brief time together. I think he's got himself back. I think he's going to be okay. His eyes meet mine, looking over his partner's shoulder. And suddenly, those chameleon eyes go wide, as if frightened by something they see, as if they are warning me. I can see him stiffen. I can see Dana Scully start to turn in response to his signal. And, at that same moment, I feel the half-dead, already cold fingers of Carol-Lee moving over my head. She is smiling at me, her mouth all bloody, a ghastly parody of her new discovery: lipstick. "Bye, Joey. This is for you." Her last words. And I can feel the electric tingle... ************************************* Marymont Psychiatric Facility Marymont, Pennsylvania Mid-December "Thank you for coming back, Doctor Scully." Doctor Helen Ames voice was full of gratitude and relief as she watched Special Agent Dana Scully lean over the dimly lit desk in the corner of the room to sign some papers. Doctor Ames stole a moment to glance over at the woman's partner again. Special Agent Fox Mulder. she mused to herself as she watched him. He was leaning against the glass of the two way mirror, intent in his observation of that strange patient on the other side. He hadn't moved from his observation post since she came in the room with these forms for Doctor Scully to sign. "Is that the last copy of the statements that I need to sign, Doctor Ames?" Dana Scully's voice wrenched her away from her thoughts. She picked up the papers and slid them carefully into a manila envelope. "Yes, thank you, once again. By making this special trip up here, you've helped expedite things for Joey." Doctor Ames smiled at Scully and added, "I'm sure Mr. Gauthier would be grateful for the efforts you've made on his behalf. I mean, if he was capable." Scully cringed inwardly at the irony of the woman's statement. "Yes, I'm sure he would be...if he were capable." Scully stood and smoothed out her gray business suit. Doctor Ames turned to leave, sending one more appreciative glance at the male agent on the other side of the room. He was oblivious to her presence, as oblivious as the fellow on the other side of the mirror that Agent Mulder was gazing through. Strange, Ames thought, just as she felt a staying hand on her arm. It was Agent Scully again. "Doctor Ames," she said in a curious, half-whisper, as if talking louder might agitate her mesmerized partner by the mirror. "What is Joey's latest prognosis?" Ames' face became immediately sympathetic. Whomever this patient was to these two agents, he certainly is an important concern of theirs. She laid a hand over Scully's and shook her head. Following Scully's example, she kept her voice low. "His case is stumping the experts. MRI's. EEG's. Toxicology tests. Chem screens. Nothing shows up. There is no apparent reason for him to be like this. Or to remaining this state. The prognosis is: there is no prognosis. That's why we want to move him to the university hospital." She noticed the look on Scully's face and added softly, "He'll be well cared for, Doctor Scully. You needn't worry." Scully tilted her head to the side a bit, like a self-conscious shrug. "Thanks. I know. I know he will." She waited for Ames to leave and added after her, "But I don't think he cares." She turned to her partner and watched him for a moment. He was leaning heavily against the observation glass. He seemed to be barely breathing. It had been six weeks of slow recovery for Fox Mulder. Mending bone. Mending bruised tissue. Regaining strength. Regaining memories. Scully had remained at his side through the worst of it, helping him cope with the worst of the memories. Helping him own them again. And at last, he had gently pushed her away, kept her at arm's length while he sorted through the entire experience. At first, Scully wondered if letting him make this trip with her was a good idea. He argued long and hard with her, throwing all sorts of psycho-babble tech terms at her: He needed closure; he needed to see the reality of what had seemed like a dream to him; he needed to experience; he needed to see Joey Gauthier again. So, he had come along, making the long, tedious trip by car in near total silence, which made Scully doubt that she had done the right thing. And he had been silent through all of the meetings with Joey's doctors. And he had been silent as the social services team and the psyche team explained their theories and strategies of treatment. And he had been silent as they were shown all the brochures and sunshine-up-your-skirt reviews of the new facility they wanted to send Joey to. And he had been silent as Dana had given her final statement, her own take on the strange case of Mr. Joey Gauthier. And he was silent now, staring into the room on the other side of the mirrored glass. Scully could see he was staring at a vision of unspeakable madness, at the aloneness of the insane. He stared at Joey Gauthier. Wrapped in a straight- jacket. Endlessly weaving and pacing. From corner to corner of a stark white room. A room padded to keep harm away, well after the most harm had been done. Scully put a hand on her partner's arm. He looked over at her. "Mulder? Are you okay?" The usual question. He smiled for the first time in days. There was deep relief in his eyes. "Yeah, Scully. I'm okay." His voice was husky with emotion. He looked back at Joey Gauthier. "So long, pal," he whispered. He shoved himself away from the glass and turned toward the door. He draped an arm companionably over his partner's shoulder, effectively steering her out of the room. And as he held the door open for her, he looked down at her and smiled again. "I'm glad to see it's not me, Scully...It's not me." The door shut on the room with a near silent click. Joey Gauthier never stopped his weaving, his pacing. Corner to corner. He was a happy, happy man. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * FINIS