Indian Series by Cadillac Red Disclaimer: The characters of Fox Mulder, Dana Scully and Walter Skinner, et al belong to 1013 Productions and I and will make no money from their use. Spoilers: Some references to X-files mythology episodes. Setting: Late in the third season. Immediately follows my story "One Little Indian." And it’s still not a part of the Danville Universe. Rating: PG. Discipline, no slash. Title: Trail of Tears Author: Cadillac Red Author’s note: The Trail of Tears refers to the route the Cherokee Indians took when the US Government forcibly relocated them from their homes in the Southeastern states to reservations in the West. I wanted to continue the Native American imagery and it seemed an appropriate title for this story. Summary: Mulder runs off once again, and Skinner follows him, determined to teach the younger agent that promises have no time limits. Chapter 2 Trail of Tears Office of the X-Files Washington, D.C. Thursday morning "Come in," Special Agent Dana Scully called. Someone had knocked on the half-closed door and it opened to her response. She was taken aback to see Assistant Director Walter Skinner standing in the door frame. "Sir! What can I do for you?" "I just heard Agent Mulder has taken a couple of days of vacation," he said. He pushed both hands into the pockets of his trousers and looked directly at her. "Do you know where he went?" Scully hesitated a moment before answering. The fact was she didn’t know where he’d gone. He’d surprised her when he called last night and said he was going to take the next couple of days off. They’d returned from their trip to Maine last Friday, along with the AD, and Mulder had been acting strangely ever since. He’d asked for permission to investigate something Scully thought sounded completely bogus and then gotten angry when his request was denied. And stomped off in an eyebrow-raising imitation of a spoiled brat. Privately Scully thought his calling in a couple of vacation days immediately thereafter was tantamount to thumbing his nose at Skinner. But she wasn’t going to betray that to their boss. "I don’t know," she answered truthfully, avoiding anything but the bare facts. "I have to admit it came out of the blue. He . . . usually has to be threatened into taking vacation—" "I know, Agent Scully," Skinner cut her off. "I’m the one who threatens him, remember?" She smiled tentatively, not completely certain he was joking. "He said he’d call but . . . he hasn’t yet. Of course, he only left this morning." Skinner nodded and his eyes roamed around the room, cataloguing things. "Did he take any . . . files with him?" he finally asked, getting to the point. "Files?" Scully answered, confused. "Not that I know of. He said he was taking a couple of days off . . . to ‘clear his head.’ That’s all." Skinner looked at her again and the agent felt as though he was looking straight through her. Then he smiled slightly. "Think a couple of days is enough to get that job done, Scully?" She laughed at the unexpected note of humor from her boss. "Well, if not, I believe Agent Mulder has the biggest vacation bank in the Bureau, sir." **************************************************************** Office of the X-Files Thursday evening Assistant Director Walter Skinner let himself into the office using his master key. He turned on the light and took a long look around the place. He’d waited until he knew Scully left the building before returning here. He wasn’t certain about much when it came to Special Agent Fox Mulder. But his gut told him the younger man had not jetted off to some Caribbean island for a couple of days of sun and fun. Mulder and Skinner had finally spoken about their shared history the week before, something they’d managed to avoid doing in the three years they’d worked together. At first Skinner thought it had been a good thing. Mulder seemed more relaxed and ‘normal’ the day they flew back from Maine than he ever had. The AD had been pleased and hopeful that the younger agent had turned a corner in his relationship with Skinner. And his sense of belonging in the world. But by Monday afternoon when Skinner met with the X-Files team about their next case, the old Mulder had returned with a vengeance. Sarcastic. Rebellious. Confrontational and just plain annoying in his insistence that things were being kept from him. The AD had been surprised and a little perturbed at the sudden, intense change. Yesterday Skinner had refused to sign a 302 Mulder submitted asking for permission to investigate ‘lights in the sky’ in Puerto Rico and the younger agent had stormed off angrily. The AD gathered from the Hoover building’s rumor mill that the smart money was on Mulder having flown off to investigate anyway but . . . Skinner’s gut told him something else. He went over to Mulder’s desk. He turned on the desk lamp and began sifting through a pile of files but he didn’t find the one he was looking for. He opened the middle desk drawer next and there, sitting on top of a bunch of receipts and business cards was the file. The one about a possible UFO sighting in Puerto Rico. Skinner leafed through it and saw all the documentation, spare and unconvincing as it was, was right there. He doubted Mulder would go off to investigate anything without a file. Skinner had watched the younger agent work for years and knew it wasn’t in his nature. Mulder continually sifted evidence, waiting for some additional nugget to surface or take on new meaning, a fact or a detail that suddenly cast the entire case in a new light. He dropped the file back in the drawer and shut it slowly. His eyes came to rest on the file cabinet and something in the back of the AD’s mind pushed its way forward. He strode over to the cabinet and pulled out the top drawer. Then he thumbed through the files looking for the one he needed to see. As he suspected, it was gone. The X-File on "Samantha A. Mulder" had been opened by her brother a number of years earlier. It was not among the other files at this moment though. And that was all Skinner needed to know. ********************************************************************* Somewhere in Maine Friday afternoon Walter Skinner pulled up to the gates outside the abandoned federal facility he hadn’t seen in many years. The "No Trespassing" signs that had been new the last time he’d been there were now tinged with rust and faded. But their message was still clear. The gates were once padlocked but someone had cut the chain open. Recently. Skinner eased the SUV he’d rented through the gates and drove around to the front of the main building. Fox Mulder’s car was parked there, just as he’d suspected it would be. The AD killed the engine and coasted to a stop beside the sedan. Then he got out and headed into the building. Mulder was exactly where Skinner had expected to find him, in the sleeping room where they’d found the initials carved in the walls so many years ago. Only the walls had been hastily plastered over and painted a long time before, immediately after their discovery, he suspected. The evidence of that cover-up had been left behind, paint cans and brushes and trays where scattered all over one end of the room. A thick layer of dust covered them all now and it was clear they hadn’t been touched in a very long time. Nor had this facility been used. The younger agent was painstakingly removing plaster with sandpaper, trying to get at whatever was underneath it. Skinner watched him work, head bent down, thoroughly absorbed in his work. After about a minute, the AD cleared his throat. Mulder’s head popped up and he automatically reached for his gun. Then he saw who was standing in the doorway. "Oh, Christ!" he blurted, coming to a standing position. "You—you scared the shit out of me!" "Really? That’s one of the risks of working without backup, I guess. Alone in the woods. No one knowing where you are. Or where to look if you don’t return." Skinner hadn’t moved a muscle as he spoke but his gaze bored deeply into the now angry young man. "Well you certainly didn’t have any trouble finding me," he retorted sarcastically. "Obviously I have to do a better job of covering my tracks the next time I. . . ." His voice trailed off as he thought better of what he’d been planning to say. He swallowed hard. "How did you find me, anyway?" "That 302 request yesterday was so full of holes it leaked, Agent Mulder," Skinner replied. "And your . . . behavior this week had already gotten my attention." His eyes roamed around the room. "It seemed likely you’d want to know . . . whatever there was to find out here." Mulder grimaced. "Which isn’t much. They must have come in right after . . . right after we were here. And covered everything up." "Yes," Skinner murmured thoughtfully, nodding. "I don’t think you’ll turn much up." "What made you . . . come?" Mulder asked him suddenly. "I just requested a couple of vacation days. I’d have been back on Monday or Tuesday." Skinner turned to look at him, his eyes betraying nothing. "Well, if you had requested vacation. . . and actually gone on VACATION! . . . I wouldn’t have a problem with that. But you chose to put up a smokescreen and go investigate a case, ALONE, WITHOUT BACKUP OR AUTHORIZATION, instead of being honest with me. After spending the week acting like a spoiled child." His glinty eyes bore a hole into Mulder’s skull. "And I believe I told you what I’d do if you ever ran off alone and without permission again," he said evenly. Mulder furrowed his brow. "When. . . ?" Then his prodigious memory kicked in and he recalled vividly the conversation to which the AD was referring. "Are you fucking kidding? That was—that was twenty-five years ago! And I was just a kid!" "Be that as it may, I’m certain I put no time limits on that promise," Skinner replied. "And now that I know you remember, I think it’s time to honor that agreement." Mulder backed up into the wall. "What agreement? I never agreed—" he blurted out, coming to a stop when his entire body hit the wall, hard. "You’re joking, right? This is just . . . this is just supposed to teach me some kind of lesson, right? Well, okay. I get it. I’ll be a good boy from now on. . . ." Skinner’s eyes lit with amusement. "Well, that was easy," he said agreeably. "I’m glad you get it, Agent Mulder. So now the paddling you’re gonna get will just be about me making good on a promise." Mulder’s stomach lurched and his eyes scanned the room rapidly, searching for an escape route. But the only one was blocked by Skinner. The windows on the other side of the room had bars on them so they offered no hope. He quickly decided that negotiation was his only option. "Okay," he said soothingly, just the way he might talk to a suspect whose mental health was in question. "Let’s not lose our heads, right? I know I was a little out of line earlier this week. I . . . guess I came off like a—like a sullen adolescent now that I think about it. And I’m sorry, I really am. Let’s just put it behind us and I’ll do better, I prom—" Skinner had reached down and picked up a wooden paint stirrer that was sitting on top of a paint can. It had not been used so it was just raw wood. He slapped it against the palm of his hand and seemed to consider the sting. Then he looked over at the young agent. The words ‘shaking in his boots’ rolled around in the Assistant Director’s mind and he pressed his lips together to keep from smiling at the sight. Instead, he fixed the other man with a practiced stare. "This could be easy. . . . Or this could be hard, Agent. Your choice." Mulder swallowed down a ball of fear that was sitting in his throat. "Easy for who?" he asked tremulously. "Good point," Skinner agreed, crooking his finger and motioning for the young man to come toward him. "Let’s get this over with, Agent." Mulder spent another few seconds rapidly scanning the room once again, including the ceiling this time, desperately trying to identify any possible escape route. He fought a mental battle with his own pride that nearly swayed him from complying until he noticed the AD, standing not eight feet from him, tapping that damn paint stirrer on his own thigh. In a way that suddenly convinced Mulder the only way out of this, the only possible way to keep his dignity here was to just go along. Maybe Skinner would back off, turn this into an object lesson after all. Maybe this was just meant to throw a scare into him. <’Now you know what’ll really happen if you ever run off like this again. . . .’> "Agent Mulder. . . ," Skinner interrupted his thought process, enunciating his name slowly and carefully, in a way that grabbed him by the throat and pulled the younger man toward the AD despite his fear and instinctive rebelliousness. When Mulder was standing beside him, Skinner gave him one last somewhat pleased look. "Good decision, Mulder," he said quietly. Mulder’s heart leapt and he knew he’d been right. This threat was meant to bring him to heel not-- "Hey!" he blurted as he was suddenly pulled forward. Skinner had deftly bent him forward and now had a strong left arm across his back, holding him in place. The paint stirrer smacked the seat of his jeans smartly. "OWW!" he yelled indignantly. Skinner smiled and continued his assault. It occurred to him that Mulder’s faded, well-worn jeans provided a minimal amount of protection so he increased the intensity of the whacks he was delivering. "Yeah, it’s supposed to hurt," he sympathized. "That’s why they call it punishment. . . ." "Okay, okay, OKAY!" Mulder screamed. "I get the message. STOP!" Skinner shook his head and continued to spank the perfectly presented bottom. "I don’t think so, Agent. I think I promised you a blistered butt . . . and that’s exactly what you’re going to get!" "NO! You don’t have to-- I mean, I understand. I—I OUCHH! I learned my lesson, I promise!" He attempted to squirm away from the continued punishment but the AD had the advantage of position and strength. Try as he might, he couldn’t break the other man’s hold. Above him, the Assistant Director was remembering the 13-year-old boy he’d spanked almost twenty-five years before. That kid had begun promising the world as soon as he’d received a couple of swats. It amused Skinner to think that Mulder, for all his experience and years of maturity, hadn’t changed all that much. "I want to make sure this lesson is well and truly learned, Agent Mulder," he said crisply. "I—I learned my lesson! I swear!" the younger agent asserted loudly, his arm wildly trying to reach back to protect his burning bottom. The left arm was tightly held between his body and the AD’s and the free one couldn’t quite reach around the other man’s arm, which was firmly clamped at his waist. "Pleeeasse! I swear-- OWW!" Skinner had lost count of the number of smacks he’d delivered by now but the actual count was not important. What he was waiting for was the change in Mulder’s responses that would tell him he’d reached the point where it mattered. Where the walls would come down and the lesson would get through. The little paint stirrer was not heavy but Skinner knew from personal experience it carried a serious sting when applied over and over. In another minute his ear picked up a change in tone and content as the first, wracking sob escaped Mulder’s lips. It was followed by another, and another until the younger man was weeping and had given up fighting the AD. Skinner knew they were heading for home now. "I don’t ever (SMACK) ever (SMACK) EVER (SMACK) want to have to deal with you running off like this again, Agent Mulder," he said, adding another whack. "I—NO! I promise you won’t!" the young agent wailed miserably. "Because it worries Scully. (SMACK) And it worries me (SMACK) when we don’t know where you are. (SMACK) Or what you’re up to." "I—I kn-know. I’m s-sorry!" "And the disrespect and downright orneriness you displayed earlier this week. NEVER DO THAT AGAIN!" "I won’t! I WON’T!" Mulder responded instantly. His voice was muffled by tears and the congestion that came from crying hard. His wails would wake the dead, Skinner thought extraneously. He smile, realizing that Agent Mulder had maneuvered himself into the one situation where Skinner could carry out his earlier threat. "And one more thing, Agent," Skinner added. "I expect (SMACK) to know (SMACK) when you’re investigating a case. (SMACK) That’s my job, I’m your boss!" "YES, SIR! I KNOW THAT, SIR! I—I PROMISE TO KEEP YOU INFORMED!" The AD exhaled forcefully and released his hold on the younger man. Mulder stood up instantly, his hands reflexively moving back to rub his stinging posterior. Tears covered his face and ran down his cheeks and his nose was running. He turned his head into his own shoulder, attempting to wipe the tears with his T-shirt while continuing to rub his rear end. Skinner chuckled, then bit down on his lower lip, not wanting to further offend the younger man. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to Mulder. "Here," he instructed him. "Blow your nose. I’ll check to see if there’s any running water—" Mulder took the hanky and began wiping his face, taking the opportunity to hide behind the small white cloth. "No—no running w-water. I ch-checked—" "No problem," Skinner responded. "I’ve got bottled water in the car." He strode out, giving Mulder a few minutes to regain some composure. Then he returned, with a bandana soaked with water and a bottle. He handed the bandana to the other man and watched him mop his face once again. Then he gave him the water bottle and instructed him to drink. The younger man complied without hesitation. The Assistant Director gave him another moment to calm down, then he began to speak in a low, insistent voice. "Mulder, I’m sorry I had to do that. But . . . I can’t help thinking you’ve been asking for it all week." Mulder’s eyes snapped up to meet Skinner’s momentarily, and he looked surprised and embarrassed. Then he dropped his gaze to the floor in front of him. He didn’t move, not wanting to betray anything to the other man. Skinner recognized his reaction. It was like Mulder to try to retreat back into himself, to hide whatever he was feeling. "But even if I’m wrong, I’m not sorry I did it. You deserved it – and probably more, considering all the years of inexplicable behavior and bad attitude I’ve put up with!" Mulder colored slightly but he only shrugged in response. Skinner sighed quietly. "And anyway, I still . . . care about you, Fox. I told you I always would." He waited for some softening in the other man’s stance, some sign that he was opening up to what the AD was saying. But the younger agent just nodded slightly, still staring at the floor. Skinner thought he probably needed a hug, needed some further demonstration of what the Assistant Director was telling him but his body language said something different. "Well, let’s go, Agent," he said finally. "I rented some camping and fishing gear before I left Bangor to drive up here. I thought we could do some fly-fishing before we head home." Mulder’s head snapped up once again and this time he spoke. "Fly-fishing? I don’t . . . fish, sir," he said, a note of sarcasm creeping in at the mere mention of such a boring and frankly sorry excuse for a sport. "Well, it’s high time you learned then, Mulder," Skinner said as he turned and headed for the door. "It’s a great way to unwind. And . . ." he paused for effect. "It’s a sport you can do standing up!" Mulder blushed and glared at the AD’s retreating back. "Very funny," he said softly, making sure he wouldn’t be heard. He took one more look around the room, and silently admitted there was no evidence here that would help him find Samantha. Anything useful had been covered over, or contaminated, many years before. Skinner had been right about that. "Mulder!" the other man called back from somewhere near the front of the building. "Coming!" he replied, breaking into a jog and heading out without another glance back. He knew in his heart that Samantha had been here, had been held here. But he was no closer to proving it or finding out where she was now. Or if she was even alive. And no one but him even cared. ********************************************************************** The next day In the woods of Maine Skinner and Mulder stood knee-deep in the cold water of a trout stream. The water rushed around them but a warm Spring sun shone down on them from overhead. Skinner had been surprised and pleased by how quickly Mulder picked up the wrist action of fly-fishing, once he’d stopped protesting that it was ‘an old man’s sport’ and accepted that the AD was not letting him go home alone. "We’ll go back on Sunday night," Skinner told him definitively. "Together." Now it was almost dinner time and the older man reeled in his line and headed for shore. They’d caught enough trout for a great dinner. And he’d brought along some fixings for a decent camp supper. Not to mention a six pack of beer that had been chilling in the stream since this morning. Skinner loved being outdoors. He felt more at home there than anywhere in the rest of his world. Mulder on the other hand did not really get into the zen of fishing. Nor was he enjoying the myriad distractions of the woods very much. They’d barely gotten the camping gear set up before they both collapsed into sleeping bags the night before. And Mulder had fallen into a deep sleep almost immediately. Since this morning, though, he’d had a litany of complaints. "How big do mosquitoes get anyway?" he’d asked before breakfast was even done. "There must be some kind of nuclear waste near here that they’ve been feeding on." He smacked his own forearm loudly, then picked up the mosquito and tried to show it to Skinner. "Don’t hold that over my breakfast, Mulder," the AD told him, pulling his plate away. "And I’ve seen plenty of my own, thank you." The younger agent caught on to the fly-fishing routine quickly, but he hadn’t lost the opportunity to take a shot at the AD. "So, what’s next? Is there an advanced fly-fishing technique?" "No. Advanced fly-fishing is when you can do it . . . quietly," Skinner told him evenly. "Oh. Well. Must have taken years to hone your technique," Mulder responded. Skinner merely smiled at him . . . silently. Now Mulder was busy counting the fish in their respective bins. "I beat you," he exulted when he finished. "I caught two more than you." Skinner nodded, but couldn’t help grinning. There were moments in his working relationship with Special Agent Mulder when Skinner could only see the fourteen year old he’d been when they first met. This was one of them. He didn’t bother to remind Mulder about the number of small trout he’d thrown back throughout the day. He finished cleaning the fish they’d eat for dinner and then began preparing their pan. He worked expeditiously and sent Mulder down to the stream to get them both a beer to keep him occupied. The younger agent paused on the way to watch a doe and her offspring in the distance. It stopped him short, seeing them, and he found memories of the summer he’d spent nearby at Camp Passamaquoddy suddenly running through is head. He and the other boys had often seen deer and other animals in the woods on their hikes with Skinner. Mulder was struck suddenly by how much he’d enjoyed that experience, and . . . the time he spent with the young counselor. In some ways, he looked back on the weeks he’d spent there as being among the best of his childhood, certainly the best he could recall once Samantha had disappeared. He’d been trying to hold off these memories all day, talking and complaining, and focusing on every single thing in the here and now that he could. But now, despite his best efforts, everything he’d been trying not to remember came crashing back into his mind, like a tidal wave after the sea wall had been broken through. Tears burned the back of his eyes and he leaned against a tree and fought hard to repress it all. "Mulder!" Skinner called from behind him in the woods. "Shake a leg, will ya? I could use a beer. And supper’s just about ready." Mulder shook off his memories and pushed down the emotions that went along with them. He grabbed two beer bottles and jogged back to the camp. They ate a satisfying meal as night fell and the stars began to twinkle above them. Skinner was surprised and curious at how quiet Mulder had grown. They cleaned up quickly, then settled back to relax before turning in. The fire was still burning and the AD pulled a bag of marshmallows out of his supply bag. He found a couple of twigs to toast them on and loaded them up, handing one to Mulder. The younger man stared at it incredulously for a moment, then he smiled wistfully and took it. "Been a long time since . . . I haven’t had toasted marshmallows in twenty-five years." "I don’t think I have either but . . . I figured, what the hell? If you’re gonna camp, you might as well go all the way," Skinner replied. They sat there in silence again for a few minutes, only the night sounds of the woods in the background. Skinner found himself wondering about the silence from Mulder. It was decidedly different from the way he’d been all day. He was about to ask, when the younger man suddenly spoke. "Who won the swimming competition?" he asked, out of the blue. Skinner was confused by the question. He was about to ask what Mulder was talking about when he spoke again. "Not Thomas, I hope," he added emphatically. Now Skinner understood what he was talking about. The swimming competition on Games Day at Camp Passamaquoddy. It was a couple of days after Mulder’s father pulled him out of the camp. Fox had been training for that competition for a couple of weeks, working hard and outswimming the rest of the boys regularly. The threat of missing it, because he’d been grounded again by the camp’s director, was what had driven the boy to run away that night so long ago. The AD realized with a start that he couldn’t recall anything about what had happened on Games Day, certainly not who had won the swimming competition. "No, not Thomas," he lied, knowing it must be important to Mulder if he had brought it up now. And there was no harm in making up something that would make him feel better. "That other kid won. I forget his name." "Bobby?" Mulder queried, trying to look nonchalant and failing miserably. Skinner had to work to keep from smiling. It seemed Mulder remembered a lot of details that had slipped the older man’s mind. There was a Bobby in their cabin. "Yeah. That’s it," he said, nodding. "As long as it wasn’t Thomas," Mulder replied, popping a toasted marshmallow into his mouth contentedly. "It wasn’t," Skinner assured him, not at all bothered by the little white lie he might be telling. It might also be true. He couldn’t remember enough to know if it was a lie. Another few minutes passed without another word. It had grown dark, the fire was waning, and Skinner was about to suggest they turn in. But Mulder spoke again, this time so quietly the AD might have missed it if he wasn’t listening carefully. "You really wrote? After I left . . . ?" "Yeah. I’d say about a dozen times. It was an address on Vine Street, I remember. In Chilmark." "Yeah, that’s where we were living then," Mulder whispered. "I can’t believe . . . my Dad kept the letters from me." "I guess I can’t either. But I’m glad I know now. I thought . . . I just thought you were mad at me and that’s why you didn’t answer. That’s why I wrote so many times, over a couple of years. I figured you’d get over it. The last time was right after I got out of the Academy." Mulder looked at him, puzzled. "You wrote me about joining the Bureau?" Skinner nodded. "I thought you’d get a kick out of it. Being we’d met those agents together." Mulder stared at him, chewing on his lower lip as he began to put all the pieces together. "When I decided to join the Bureau, my Dad went crazy. He expected me to follow him into the State Department. I don’t know why. He’d never expressed much interest in me one way or the other before. . . ." "We had a huge fight," he finally continued. "He didn’t speak to me for years after that. Actually, we barely spoke at all until . . . until right before he died. And then he didn’t get too far before . . ." His voice trailed off into nothing as he considered the ramifications of it all. "Maybe he was jealous of you. That must be why he didn’t let me see the letters. And then when I joined the FBI too, that must have really stuck in his craw." "But . . . why would he be jealous . . . of me?" Skinner asked, puzzled. "Well, I . . . I may have said a few things when I got home. After the sedatives wore off. I was . . . kind of pissed about him taking me away like that. I didn’t think it made any impact on him, though. Until now. . . ." "I think it’s understandable that you were angry," Skinner said quietly. And he knew from personal experience that Mulder, as a kid, was a force to be reckoned with. Just as he was as an adult. He didn’t envy Bill Mulder having to deal with his son’s hostility. "I was just starting to feel like—like I fit in somewhere," Mulder whispered, his voice beginning to break. "Like somebody cared . . . ." "You were a hard kid—" "I know!" Mulder responded, too quickly. "I know. My parents . . . everyone told me that . . . over the years. I was ‘a hard kid to like.’ ‘A hard kid to love’." "You didn’t let me finish," the AD said, laying a solid hand on his shoulder. "I was about to say you were a hard kid not to care about. . . ." Mulder’s eyes filled with tears that came out of some depth of feeling he’d long ignored. And wanted to ignore. He snorted, trying to minimize the effect the AD’s words had on him. "Even if I am a major pain in the ass?" "Well. . . . You are," the AD agreed affectionately. "But I’m more than happy to return the favor . . ." Mulder laughed despite himself. "Yeah. You sure are," he replied ruefully. Then he sighed as the reality of it all sank in. "Well, I guess that’s all behind us now, though, huh?" He turned to the AD and gave him a hopeful look. Skinner couldn’t help smiling at Mulder’s attempt, even if it was futile. "I guess your behavior in the future will be the deciding vote on that, Mulder." The younger agent blinked, as the implications of that statement sank in. He nodded unconsciously, frantically assessing the likelihood of his modus operandi changing enough to avoid further discipline from this man such as he’d received the day before. It occurred to him he could just put his foot down and refuse. He was an adult after all and Skinner couldn’t force him. But . . . that would mean cutting off one of the two people in the world who really seemed to care about him. And that was not something he would willingly contemplate. He swallowed convulsively as he realized what the AD probably already knew. He’d live with the conditions Skinner had hinted at, because it meant someone did care. Enough to pull him back from the edge of disaster when he needed it. And Mulder knew he often walked on that edge, daring fate to knock him off. He nodded again. It was still a tentative action but the AD recognized it was consent from his wayward agent. For a brief moment, the fourteen year old emerged again, and Skinner caught his breath as he watched the man-child before him come to terms with what would be a sea change in their relationship. There’d be no turning back now. He leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head, and began to stare up at the inky black sky. The AD felt the weight of this responsibility descend upon him but it didn’t feel like a burden, for some reason. It felt like a chance to make a real difference to a young man he’d felt connected to for more than half his life. An easy silence enveloped them, each man lost in his own thoughts. Until Mulder spoke again suddenly. "It’s infuriating how they’re still able to keep things secret, though," he said, shifting conversational gears yet again. "I mean, every time I get close to an answer about my sister, or even the answer to one question, I find someone’s a step ahead of me. Or two or three." "What do you mean?" Skinner asked, wondering where the younger man was going. "Well, you’d think there’d be an X-File on that dead girl we found," Mulder responded, his exasperation apparent. "I mean, think about it. She was missing for almost twenty years before we found her. Yet she’d only aged a couple of years. That’s an unexplained case if there ever was one! But there’s nothing in the X-Files! Because ‘they’ must have covered it up!" Skinner stood up suddenly and walked over to the SUV he’d rented on this trip. He opened the back door and pulled out something. Mulder squinted to see what it was. It appeared to be his briefcase. He took something out and returned to the camp fire. Taking a seat, he handed what was in his hands to Mulder. It was a case file. Mulder looked at him, curious as to what he’d been given. "It’s the file," Skinner replied to his unspoken question. "The two agents we met, Holloway and Williams, they created a case file. And it was eventually classified as unexplained after their investigation turned up nothing more concrete. I looked them up and spoke to them about it, after I was on the job a few years." "So where’d this file come from?" Mulder asked. "When I was Supervisory Agent in charge of the Buffalo office, I got promoted to Section Chief. And transferred to Texas. But my replacement was delayed getting to Buffalo so I had some time on my hands. I always remembered this case. . . . The body we found. And the . . . initials on the wall. It haunted me. I had some time to kill so I took a team over to Maine for a few days. It was about eight years after we found her. When we got here, we found the place had been plastered over years earlier. And painted. And hastily abandoned again. We tried to get down to the initials but it wasn’t possible. Still, we collected lots of trace evidence, mostly in other parts of the building. And in the other buildings in the complex." "We reran the autopsy results," he continued. "Checked the initials we’d found against some new missing persons databases that hadn’t been available back in the 70’s. We . . . concluded the girl’s body had been frozen, stored in a deep freeze for a lot of years after her death. Given the evidence we had, we closed the case. Which is why it wasn’t in the X-Files. But . . . there was nobody on that team with your vision. Nobody who’d seen the kinds of things you’ve seen. I think you ought to look at it, all the evidence is fully documented. You may find something we missed." Tears were running down Mulder’s face and he was staring at the file in his hand. "You . . . reopened the case? Why?" Skinner considered the question for a moment. "I always remembered that girl we found. It was my first . . . experience with a murder victim. It stayed with me. But even more, the initials on the wall bothered me. The possibility that others had been held. Might even still be alive somewhere. And . . . I guess your story about your sister always bothered me. You were so convinced those were her initials on that wall, too. I—It didn’t make sense but . . . I thought if I could help find out what really happened here, it might lead to an answer about your sister." Mulder’s face was wet in the dying firelight. "All these years, I thought. . . I thought you thought my search for my sister was an emotional overreaction. And pointless. But . . . you were searching for her even before I was." "Well, I thought I’d hit a dead end at the time," Skinner replied, his voice edged with self-recrimination. "So I closed the case. But you—you see things the rest of us don’t Mulder. That’s why I brought it along. I think you should read it and then, if there’s more you think we can do here, we’ll pull a team together and finish the job. The right way." The younger agent swallowed hard and he tried to get a grip on his roiling emotions before speaking again. It didn’t work. His voice cracked as he tried to talk. "I—Thank you, s-sir," he finally managed to squeak out, then he clamped down on his lower lip hard to keep from sobbing. "You’re welcome, Agent," Skinner replied softly. "I don’t know where it’ll lead us but . . . I promise I’ll be there with you all the way. A half-sob, half-laugh escaped from Mulder, despite his best efforts to hold it back. "And God knows, you always make good on your promises, don’t you, sir?" Skinner smiled in the darkness beside him. "However long it takes, Agent." THE END