She was driving him crazy, he thought and shook his head.  He was acting 
like Scully on one of her worst no-nonsense-Mulder days.  "Tell me why 
you think so, then.  Convince me."

Morgan looked out the window; he thought he saw her mouth tremble.  "I 
don't know.  I just do, Mulder, don't press me, please."

He leaned over and touched her shoulder.  "Morgan, convince me, I'm 
willing to hear it, I'm willing to believe it."  She always felt so small when
he 
touched her, he thought, more fragile than anyone would believe.  Than he 
could believe.  Until he touched her, until he was holding her.  Until he saw 
tears in her eyes.  "But I'm not willing to let you go off on your own.  
Believe me, Scully would shoot me again if I did, and she might shoot you 
for doing it."  He lightened his voice deliberately, tried to make her smile, 
but it failed miserably.

"I know."  Her voice was soft, miserable.  "I can find him.  But I can't find 
him with them around, they poison me, Mulder, they're all about suspicion 
and something darker.  They scare me."

That finished it.  Real fear for her clenched his stomach; if she really was 
somehow linked to this bastard, it seemed possible that the link went two 
ways.

Doing something reprehensible that he knew he would regret, he took her 
purse off the table and opened it, fishing out the car keys.  "I'll keep 
these."  When she looked at him, he flinched at the expression on her 
face.  "Morgan, I'm sorry, but *you're* scaring me.  Do you think that 
bastard would stick at killing a woman just because he prefers boys?"

She stood up so quickly that papers flew off the table.  "Give me those 
keys."  Soft voice, deadly tone.

"Not now."  This was awful--but he'd feel a lot more awful if she turned up 
dead.  "Morgan, just sit down, let's talk about it--"

Instead, she snatched her purse back, her expression betrayed, and 
walked out of the room, leaving Scully to look after her for a moment.

He rose and went to the door, hearing Morgan's heels click rapidly.

"Okay, now what?"  Scully's brows drew together in annoyance.

"She wants to take off alone and try and find this sick fucker!"  He hit the 
door jamb with his fist, regretted it instantly as pain flared up from the 
impact.  "I took her keys away."

"Oh, Mulder."  Scully closed her eyes briefly and sighed, shaking her 
head.

He whirled on her, furious.  "What should I have done, Scully?  Other 
people always seem to know what *I* should do, nobody seems too shy 
about doing it for my own good!  Should I have let her go?"

Donovan and Stoddard were watching this intently.  He was aware of it and 
found he could care less.  Just another Spooky-goes-berserk story for the 
troops.

"Come on." Scully grabbed his shirt sleeve.  "Let's walk a minute."

As they left, sure enough, he heard Donovan mutter, "Spooky's goin' off the 
rails again."  

Scully heard it too, he saw her mouth tighten.

They walked down the hall together, and got to the door in time to see 
Morgan in a patrol car, just as the car pulled out of the parking lot.

"Goddammit, I know better than that."  He rested his forehead on the glass 
of the door.  "She doesn't want to work with Stoddard and Donovan 
anymore, she says Stoddard scares her."

Scully looked out the door, absently watching the cars pass.  "Maybe 
she's got a reason, Mulder.  I just don't know about those guys."

"I do.  They're watching us again for some reason."

"Yeah, that's what I thought.  But why?  No little grey men in this case."  
She turned to lean her hip against the wall, regarding him thoughtfully.  
"Whatever I might think, Mulder, whatever I'm comfortable with, she's been 
right a lot."

He turned.  "Yeah, I had this image of her, cool and collected, no sweat, 
no fear.  I even resented it, Scully.  But she *is* scared now, scared half 
out of her mind, I think.  And I don't know if it's this murdering fuck we're 
chasing or those two in there."  He kept his voice soft, pitched only loud 
enough for her to hear.

"What if," Scully began and then bit her lip, looking at him.  "What if 
they're not just watching us, but watching her?"

He didn't want to think about that.  "God, I hope not."  Casting his mind 
back, he couldn't remember Morgan doing anything more alarming than her 
jumps of intuition.  At least, he told himself, it wouldn't look like anything 
more than that.  If you didn't know already.  "Skinner's report read like a 
fairy tale--nothing paranormal in it at all."

Scully looked disturbed.  "Maybe they were watching her before.  If Gene 
Kelsey told Skinner, maybe he's told other people."

He found he couldn't believe that.  "He's too hardnosed to just shoot his 
mouth off to people he doesn't know."

"Mulder, maybe he knows someone he doesn't know is--questionable."  
Her mouth curved faintly.  "Look what you believed about me at first."

It was just plausible enough to make him feel real fear.  "Look, I'm going 
back to the hotel and talk to her.  But first, I'm going to have a closed door 
discussion with Kelsey.  Can you keep those two occupied with 
something?"

She nodded.  "There's plenty to do."

"Good."

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

Finding Kelsey was easy.  Explaining it was a little harder; he wasn't 
exactly a by the book agent, but baring intra-agency problems was still 
tough.

"Look," he said frankly, after Kelsey had closed his office door.  "I'm going 
to be really honest with you. Morgan has a problem with Donovan and 
Stoddard.  I can't go into it, but I need to keep them away from her."

"I'd noticed that."  Kelsey sounded thoughtful. "That Stoddard fella scares 
her for some reason.  You have any idea why?"

He looked at his hands.  "Yeah.  I don't know that it *is* justified, but I 
don't know that it isn't.  She's also got some notion of going hunting for this 
guy by herself."  He raised his eyes again and saw Kelsey look alarmed.  
"I, ah, think I temporarily convinced her not to."

"Mm."  Kelsey relaxed again.  "She's not a cop, Mulder.  I don't want her 
anywhere near that action."

"Yeah," Mulder agreed, feeling marginally better.  "But I'd feel a whole lot 
better if you could help me make sure.  She's a stubborn woman.  And she 
isn't a cop, she doesn't have a partner, I'm not sure she understands the 
concept."

Kelsey nodded.  "You want us to keep an eye on her."

Relief made him smile.  "Yeah, if you can.  And those two in there, for that 
matter.  I don't want to make waves, I've got enough people thinking I'm a 
couple of cards short of a deck, but I really have to give her feelings some 
credence."

Kelsey laughed softly.  "I can relate to that, FBI.  She's tough to explain to 
anybody without sounding like a complete fool.  Okay, enough said, I'll 
take care of it.  If she's not with the two of you, somebody keeps an eye 
on her."

"Thanks."  He smiled and rose.  "She's going to rip me apart if she finds 
out about this.  And I can't blame her.  I've had enough people doing things 
for my good, I'd do the same."

Kelsey was somber for a moment.  "Happens.  Sometimes folks don't 
think clearly enough for themselves.  Doesn't make it pretty, but it's 
understandable.  Don't worry, we'll handle it with kid gloves."

Feeling somewhat easier, he went back to the briefing room to pretend that 
the day was normal.

Morgan didn't answer her phone when they called about dinner, though the 
trooper had confirmed she'd been dropped off at the hotel.  Picking up 
take-out, Mulder drove her car back, knocking on her outer door without 
receiving an answer.

The take-out Chinese cooled to sludge while he waited; after a while, he 
dozed, listening for the sound of her door, and started awake when he 
heard it slam shut.

Rising quickly, he went to the connecting doors and tried the one on her 
side.  As he had expected, it was locked; he knocked.  

After a long wait, Morgan opened it; the television murmured behind her, 
and her computer was open on the table.  She wore another oversized shirt 
and shorts and sneakers, and the hair around her face was damp with 
sweat.  Her expression was appallingly impassive.  "Too much caffeine, 
Agent Mulder?"

He considered smiling and dismissed it as a bad idea, holding out the car 
keys instead.  "If I admit I was an asshole, will you at least explain this to 
me?  Beyond just making flat assertions about people you don't know?"

Her chin lifted slightly.  "Are you admitting you were an asshole?"

He nodded.  "Yeah, I *was* an asshole and I really am sorry for it."

Something shifted behind her eyes.  "All right, come in, we'll talk."  She 
moved aside and padded back to sit cross-legged at the foot of her bed, 
sneakers kicked off to lie on the floor, abandoned.

The chill in the air was palpable.  You really *are* an asshole, he told 
himself and sighed inwardly before following to sit in the chair across from 
her.  "So talk.  What is all this shit about Stoddard?  Where's that coming 
from?"

Impatience flickered in her eyes, but he was glad to see she looked 
steadier, calmer.  "Look at his eyes, Mulder.  And if that's not enough, 
watch him move.  Quantico didn't train that bird, trust me."

He kept his gaze steady.  "Are you reading him in some way?  I thought 
you told me you couldn't read people's thoughts."

"I can't." Her mouth thinned in frustration.  "But I can't explain how this 
works, Mulder, it's too diffuse.  I look at him and I see something, that's all 
I can tell you.  He's as dirty as anyone can be, and he's not FBI."

Leaning back, he considered it, images of Stoddard flashing in his mind 
like video scenes.  Stoddard moved like a spook--CIA or NSA--she was 
right about that.  "People do change agencies, Morgan," he said 
cautiously, but all his alarms began to go off.  

That fucker, cigarette hanging out of his mouth as he moved his pieces on 
the board, he thought darkly, wondering why now?

She shook her head, her hair looking like a deranged chrysanthemum.  
"No, it isn't that simple.  He's got a purpose here, but it's not related to
this 
case at all.  And he has a master.  Or mistress, I suppose, but it feels 
more male."

That was the kind of statement that would have once fascinated him.  

Now it made him crazy.  Pushing that down hard, he thought about it, 
thought about Donovan.  "What about Mike?"

Morgan's mouth twisted.  "He's just dirty.  He's a dogsbody, I think, just 
another spear carrier in the background.  But he's useful and he's venal.  
Stoddard, at least, has convictions, even if they feel like bad ones."

He tried to fit it with what he knew of Donovan and couldn't.  Still, she 
believed it, and he rather thought it might be unwise to disbelieve what she 
believed.  Question it, maybe, even doubt it, but never deny the 
possibilities.  

"Okay," he said slowly.  "I can't see that, but maybe I'm not seeing past 
the man I knew.  It's been a lot of years since then, people do change.  
What do you think they're here for, then?"

Her brows slanted downward.  "I don't know," she admitted and drew her 
knees up under her chin, wrapping her arms around them as if she were 
cold.  "There's just this sense of threat."  When her eyes met his, he saw 
the sudden hope there.  "Do you believe me?"

Did he?  He wasn't sure.  "Mostly."  And found himself shrugging 
apologetically.  "But I'm willing to seriously consider it as possible, 
Morgan, that's all I can do."

She was silent for a moment.  "I wish I knew what the threat was."  She 
sounded almost forlorn.  "You haven't pissed off the NSA lately, have you?"

That made him laugh shortly.  "Not for at least eight weeks, anyway.  I've 
been otherwise occupied."

She sighed and put her hands up to her head, one one each side, pressing 
at the temples.  "I still have a mother bitch of a headache."  Her eyes 
closed.  "Too much sitting at a computer, I guess."

He rose, then, and moved to sit behind her, his fingers deftly locating and 
loosening the knots in her neck.  "What *have* you been doing to yourself, 
you feel like a bag of rocks back here."

"I told you, hunching over a computer. Well, I went for a long walk when I 
got back to the hotel.  I should have done my forms instead."  Morgan 
leaned forward, resting her chin on her knees.  "Mulder, if the X-Files ever 
give out, you can take up a career in massage.  That's wonderful."

He laughed.  "Sit up straight, that's no good.  Yeah, like that.  God, you 
hold all your tension here, don't you."

"Where do you hold yours?" she asked tartly.  "Unless you suffer from 
chronic constipation, you probably do, too."

"Very funny."  He slid his hands under her shirt, counting vertebrae as he 
moved slowly up from her lower back.

"God, it's hard to stay mad at you," she sighed.

Amused, he looked at the back of her head.  "Ditto, it's damn hard to stay 
mad at you, too.  In fact, I gave up the attempt the first afternoon we were 
here."

"Yeah, I'm like a large, friendly dog."  She laughed a little, rolling her eyes.

"You haven't licked my face, yet," he teased, glad to have the air clear 
between them again.

"Be careful what you wish for."  Her mood, quick as thought, darkened 
again and he felt her muscles go tense again beneath his fingertips. "*I* 
wish we could get closer to this bastard."

He sighed.  "We are getting closer, Morgan, we're down to four names."

"And another murderer."  She shifted under his hands, sliding off the bed to 
move restlessly around the room, her body taut again.

He might have been an asshole earlier, he thought, worried again, but she 
was not behaving normally, not even for Morgan.  "We're getting closer," he 
repeated softly, "We're going to get him."

"We have to.  We're running out of time.  Todd Greene is running out of 
time."

"Morgan, we don't even know that he's still alive."

She looked at him, her brows slanting down again.  "He's alive.  I can feel 
him."

His heart thumped once, hard, but he focused in on her.  "Where is he, 
Morgan?  Where can you feel him?"  

And wondered if she was talking about the killer or Todd Greene.  I hunt 
monsters, she had said, sounding faintly regretful, not find missing people.

"I don't know!"  She stood, legs apart, and smacked a fist into the other 
palm.  "I don't know. I can feel him, he drives through the dark streets at 
night, cruising them, looking for more victims.  He's trying to keep the 
hunger from driving him, trying to keep from killing the boy too early, from 
killing him before the Moon comes again."  

Her hands moved aimlessly in the air and she paced, her voice thin and off 
key.  "He drives at night, feeling the darkness, all safe and warm around 
him.  He feels the nearness of his gods, the gods are hungry,. but not as 
hungry as he is."

Rising quickly, he moved to intercept her, tilting her chin up and staring 
into eyes that were swallowed up with blackness, hardly any iris showing.  
Trance, he thought and felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up: she's 
in trance, she doesn't even know I'm still here.

Indeed, with her face turned up to him, she kept speaking.  "He thinks he's 
feeding them with each sacrifice, he thinks he's bringing them back to this 
world, to this time, each blood offering bringing them that much closer to 
us.  He thinks about that, it keeps him from killing the boy, his hands itch 
to feel the warm skin parting underneath his touch, he's afraid if he stays 
too near to the boy, he'll ruin everything by taking him early."

Her skin felt hot to his touch, feverishly hot, burning....  "Morgan."  His 
teeth were clenched tight to keep them from chattering.  God, he was 
scared for her, she was like tempered steel in his hands, not human, not 
herself.  "Morgan, that's enough."

"He wants his gods, it's not just a game to him, it's real, they speak to 
him, he obeys them, and dreams of blood."  The words came faster and 
faster, scaring him, freezing him to the marrow of his bones.  

Had he done this?  Had he lost himself this far?  Was this why other 
agents he'd worked with on cases, years later, still would not speak to 
him, still would not meet his gaze on the rare occasions their paths 
crossed?  

"Morgan!" Took her shoulders and shook her, repelled by his own cruelty.  
"Morgan, dammit, snap out of it!"

She pulled free, backing away from him.  "It's real, to him," she insisted, 
but her pupils contracted slightly, her eyes seeing him at last.  "He hears 
them, the game is the key."

"This isn't in your profile."  He kept his tone sharp, snappish, praying to 
focus her on the here and now.

She stopped about arm's length away, staring at him.  "Fuck the profile," 
she told him harshly.  "He dreams about the Elder Gods, he's summoning 
them with blood, he's feeding them.  I can feel him, I can taste his mind, I 
can even hear him, why the fuck can't I find him?"

"Morgan," he whispered, through lips gone stiff and cold with fright.  

A mind is a terrible thing to waste, ran the nonsensical slogan through his 
mind and he fought to think past the fear and absurdity.  Was this how 
Scully had felt when he was hunting Patterson?  Was he this way?  
"Morgan, for God's sake, stop it.  Stop thinking about him."

Morgan's eyes were bright with tears, imploring him for help he didn't know 
how to give.  "I don't want to, Mulder.  I don't want to be in his head, but 
how else can we find him?  What else can we do to stop him?  But I'm 
scared, this time, I'm scared I won't find the way back.  My mind's all 
open, Harcourt blew the walls down, everything comes in and I'm not 
*here* anymore, I can't shut it out!"

He had been closer to truth than he knew, he thought, aghast.  Or was 
he?--with what he had seen her do, with what she had shown him before, 
maybe this wasn't madness, but disorientation.  He had to risk the latter, 
he decided, and stepped forward carefully.

Reaching down, she took hold of the hem of the oversized shirt.  "You can 
help me come back."  She stripped the shirt off, letting it fall at her side.   
Reached up between her breasts to unhook her bra and let it slide from her 
shoulders. "You can, Mulder, you know how."

His mouth was dry, but not with lust.  "No," he whispered, feeling a little 
crazy himself, standing before a pocket Venus, her eyes so dark he could 
drown in them.  "No."

Her shorts and panties followed the shirt; she stepped out of them.  "Yes," 
she told him, sounding calmer, saner.  "Yes, you can, Mulder, you know 
you can."

"Not while your head is full of this shit!"  It came out harshly, costing him 
something unimaginable to move beyond what he had felt for her to this 
terrible comprehension of what drove her.  

Suddenly furious, he took hold of her shoulders and pulled her against him, 
pressing his face against her hair.  "We're too fucking close, leave it alone 
and stay out of his mind, there's no need!  We're close, Morgan, we're 
going to get him soon, I promise you that's true."  His eyes burned with 
tears, for her, for himself, for Todd Greene.  "Let it go, come back, Morgan, 
come back to us, come back to me--"

She sagged in his arms, racking silent sobs that broke him into pieces, 
that made him ache with guilt and hurt for her.  Pulling her down to the bed 
with him, he cradled her against his chest, stroking her hair, repeating his 
promise over and over until she was quiet again, her tear-wet cheek 
pressed to his shirt.  

"I want this to be over," she whispered painfully.  "It's no good anymore, 
too much comes in, I can't do shut it out."

"We're almost there," he murmured, his fear for her fading as sense and 
sanity came back to her voice.  "I swear it, Morgan, we are.  Just a few 
names left.  Any day now, I'd bet on it."  One of her hands curled trustfully 
in his; they had both stopped backing away from that, he thought, and his 
eyes burned.

"I'm scared," she whispered, "I've never been scared like this.  All the walls 
are gone, it keeps flooding in and I can't shut it down, Mulder."

He rubbed the back of her neck, thinking hard, recalling things he had 
read.  "Rebuild them, Morgan.  You know enough to do that.  I can help 
you, I know the theory, if not the practice."  That got him a shaky smile, 
diffident and a little scared.  

Desire returned between one breath and another, he was suddenly aching 
for her, rock hard and swollen with need.  "It's going to be over soon," he 
said hoarsely and bent to kiss her mouth.  It was entirely selfish, but she 
was right, it brought her back all the way, out of tears and fear.  

It was hotter, wilder, and lasted a lot longer than the first time, at least for

a while--it changed when she straddled him, slowing down to a slow 
exploration of one another.  

He had felt Harcourt's mind sucking him dry once; now, he felt Morgan's 
pleasure as if it were his own, felt his blend with hers until he wasn't 
entirely sure what he felt and what she felt, so acute that he could hardly 
get his breath as he moved in and out of her.  

Moving above him, she bent to kiss him and he felt something else, 
something unexplainable, a sense that she was drinking him in and 
pouring her soul into him in return.  Each sensation was magnified a 
hundredfold, intensified, and he was aware of everything, the clasp of her 
flesh, the whorls of her fingertips where she touched him, the satiny 
texture of her skin, the scars that life and near-death had left, and the 
small flaws that life brings to everyone--she kissed each of his scars as if 
each kiss were a benediction.  

Leaning back against the pillows, he arched into her, feeling as if he were 
a participant in some ecstatic and obscure rite.  Her expression was taut 
with effort, blind with desire, and it sent him over the edge.  He took her cry 
in his mouth, stifling his own in her throat a moment later, sinking back on 
the bed with her body pulled tightly against him.

She sighed, warm breath against the hollow of his throat.  "Thank you."

From horror to this, he thought dimly and laughed.  "De nada," he 
managed and hugged her.  "If it doesn't offend you, I think I'll spare myself 
the steps and sleep here."

Her mouth curved against his skin, a smile unseen.  "I don't think there will 
be any dreams tonight, Mulder.  I think you're safe."

"Fox," he said firmly.

She raised her head, her hair tousled.  "Fox," she agreed, amused again.  
"If I call you Mulder when we're friends and Fox when we're fucking, what 
do I call you when I'm mad at you."

He sighed.  "I didn't know we were compartmentalizing me so neatly.  Call 
me whatever you want, whenever you want."

Her expression went diffident and vulnerable.  "What do you want to be 
called?"

Reaching up, he touched her cheek.  "I think I prefer Fox right now."

Her mouth twitched.  "You're almost as moody as me," she accused and 
bent to kiss his forehead before moving away, sighing a little as their 
bodies separated.  "We did it again."  One eyebrow lifted in his direction.

He blinked and then groaned in self-disgust.  "God, I practically grew up 
with safe sex, this is ridiculous."

Morgan began to giggle, stifling it with both hands.  "It is," she agreed, 
between little bursts, "But your expression is priceless."

Feeling foolish, he ran his hand through his hair.  "I even have some 
condoms in my room."

"Well, I should feel worse, but I'm allergic to latex.  The very reason why I 
live a moderately chaste life.  Aside from the fact that I have a little boy 
prone to wandering into my room at night with a nightmare."

He considered her.  "I'll have to buy a nightlight for his room."  Tacit 
admission to himself that he didn't consider this a short term thing.  
Whatever it was.

"Don't get overconfident," she warned, but her mouth curved anyway.  They 
looked at each other in silence for a moment.  "Thanks."

He smiled.  "For what?  Hey, that was completely selfish, it's a little 
difficult to hold onto a naked woman without having any reaction."

Her gaze was steady.  "For not--calling the men in white coats, I guess.  
For believing me."

He touched her face again, fingertips butterfly light.  "It wasn't that noble.  
Remember, I'm not only in charge of the X-Files, I saw you in Harcourt's 
house."

Her expression was--he didn't know how to interpret it.  "Then it is noble.  
Most people would have denied it to themselves.  You're unusual, Fox 
Mulder."

"At least," he agreed, his tone ironic.  "But so are you."

"Too true," she agreed, matching his tone and curled up beside him, 
suddenly, clearly exhausted.  "I'm so tired."

"Go to sleep."  He rolled onto his side.  "I'll keep the demons at bay for 
awhile, okay."

"You already have," she told him and closed her eyes.  She was asleep 
within a very short time, leaving him to his own dark thoughts.

The phone woke Scully; peering at the clock, she saw it was just past six.  
Fumbling the receiver to her ear, she said, "'Lo."

Mulder's voice sounded far away, never mind he was just two doors down.  
"I need to talk to you.  Mind if I come over?"

She sank back on the pillows, resigned, but made a pro forma protest.  
"Mulder, it's six am.  I haven't even gotten up, yet."

"Put on your robe, this is important."  The phone clicked.

"Mulder, you're a jerk," she told the dial tone and hung up, wearily pulling 
herself up against the pillows.  The least he could do was wait until she'd 
had some coffee.  

Although she had rather missed his habit of waking her up to tell her some 
wild theory.  "All right, up and at 'em," she told herself and scrubbed her 
face with her hands.

The knock at the door made her snatch after her robe and pull it on; Mulder 
stood in the hall in stocking feet, wearing a rumpled shirt and jeans; his 
hair stood up in spikes.  Standing aside to let him in, she frowned.  
"Mulder, did you get any sleep last night?"

He gave her a peculiar look, his face coloring a little.  "What?"

"You didn't stay up all night, did you?" she said, feeling as if she were 
talking to the deaf.

"Oh.  No, I slept about five or six hours."  He dismissed this subject and 
sat down on the desk chair.  "Listen, Scully, I talked to Morgan last night.  
She's really fixed on the idea that she can find this guy.  I was wondering if 
you could deal with Donovan and Stoddard again today, I'd like to get her 
out on the road, just see where it leads."

"Is that going to accomplish anything?" she asked and sat down on the 
bed.  "Or is it going to cause more stress for her?  I don't think she's 
coming apart, Mulder, but I think she could."

He looked away, his gaze distant.  "Yeah, I agree.  But I think it might 
actually lead somewhere.  Just a gut feeling, Scully, I don't have any proof.  
Except for the blood on the rug, whatever that means."  His mouth 
twitched once at her expression.  "And her profile is damned good, not to 
mention we've seen some of her," his mouth twitched briefly, "spookier 
abilities first hand.  I'd like to try it.  Truth is, I'd like to have you with
us, but I want Donovan and Stoddard kept busy doing something besides 
following us.  It occurred to me, in the wee small hours, that maybe our 
theory isn't completely crackpot, that maybe it really isn't me they're here 
to keep an eye on.  Maybe someone has taken an interest in Morgan."  

When he looked back at her, his gaze was shadowed.  "Maybe if I'd been 
thinking, I'd have considered this before yesterday, instead of jumping 
down her throat."

Scully shivered, made a faint sound in her throat, wishing he wasn't right.  
It had kept her awake a part of the night, that worry, and it hadn't run away 
under the influence of a decent night's sleep.

If Stoddard scared Morgan, who had shown only a little fear with Harcourt--
she didn't want to follow that thought to any logical conclusion.  It certainly 
suggested that at some level, Morgan hadn't seen Harcourt as a real threat 
to her survival, and that at some level she did see Stoddard that way.  "I'll 
need to give them some reason for your absence," she said thoughtfully.

"Yeah, tell 'em we're going back to Boston to meet with Bergman."  He 
rubbed his jaw and shrugged.  "If they're his and I'm seeing shadows, the 
worst thing that'll happen is they'll think we played hookey for reasons of 
our own."

"They'll think you played hookey and spent a day having wild sex," she 
said wryly, thinking of Donovan's sense of humor.

His shrug was too casual and her gaze sharpened.  

Are you sleeping with her, Mulder, she wanted to ask suddenly, but it was 
none of her business.  Or at least, it wasn't any more her business than 
her relationship with Geoff was his.  He and Morgan were both adults, both 
in their right minds, at least most of the time.  

It worried her a little nonetheless; he was always drawn by the 
inexplicable, and Morgan was, a good deal of the time, inexplicable, 
despite the normal daylight personality.  They were, in fact, a little too 
much alike; Mulder's obsession centered around his sister's abduction and 
aliens, Morgan's around victims and murderers.  

"Mulder," she said, choosing her words carefully, "You said something 
yesterday--you've worried me at times, too, as worried as you've been 
about Morgan.  I'm worried about her, too, but I'm also afraid of seeing you 
get too drawn into that darkness she sees."

"Believe it or not," he said, sounding as if he were mocking himself, "That 
isn't happening.  Not the way you think, Scully.  I think this is the first time

in my career I've managed to escape it."  He didn't sound as though it 
made him very happy.  "She's taking it all, Scully--maybe she's insulating 
me, I don't know.  But I owe her more than to let her slip under.  If this 
works, if we can track this guy down, it'll be over."

"This time."  She looked at him hard, willing him to remember that hunting 
monsters was what Morgan did.

"This time," he agreed, and his voice was very low.  "Maybe she won't have 
to do it anymore, Scully."

She found that doubtful, but kept her silence.  "Mulder, be careful."

That won her a smile, not much more than a quirk of his mouth, but it 
reached his eyes.  "I will, Scully.  You be careful, too.  I don't know that 
you want to be alone with those guys.  If I'm right.  Stay at the barracks, 
there's plenty of grunt work you can find for them, going over paperwork; 
get out the coroner's reports and go through them.  Donovan has a weak 
stomach."

Unwillingly, she smiled back.  "That might almost be worth it, Mulder.  
Okay, go on, I'll deal with it.  But keep in touch with me, don't leave your 
cellular behind."

"Not a chance."  He rose, looking down with amusement.  "I even charged 
the battery last night, Scully."

"Mulder Grows Up," she said drily and laughed at the look he gave her.  
"Regular reports, Mulder.  If I have to chase the two of you down, you'd 
better not be in a motel screwing your brains out."

He went scarlet.  "You've got to stop listening to Morgan, she's a bad 
influence on you."

She was still laughing at that when the door closed, but sobered, thinking 
again about Stoddard.  With a little encouragement, she could get 
Kelsey's help in keeping them busy.

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

Morgan woke to hear the shower in Mulder's room and rolled over, still too 
sleepy to consider getting up.  On the other hand, the thought of a shower 
was inviting, but she wasn't in the mood for conversation yet.  

Yawning, she threw the bedclothes back and sat up, ruefully considering 
matters.  "The trouble with the night before," she said aloud, "Is the 
morning after."  Using her othersense, she probed her mind, searching as 
if she were testing for a bad tooth.  

No, she was still sane and whole, her mind her own.  It hadn't felt like it 
last night.  If not for Mulder's fierceness in holding her here, she wondered 
if it still would have been her own.

She had to stop this, she thought, and got out of bed, stopping only to 
pick up her robe.  She had to accept the fact that she wasn't fit to do this 
kind of work, not yet, not so soon.  She couldn't even bear to be around 
large groups of people, what made her think that she could hunt a killer?

Pushing that aside, she showered, letting the hot water wash away the 
terrors of the night, cleansing her of the shadows, at least temporarily.  It 
was hard to face up to working today, but time was getting shorter.  And 
the murderer's control was getting more tenuous.  Todd Greene's life was 
at stake, she told herself harshly, and self-pity wasn't going to help him.

She was still thinking on that tack when she emerged to find Mulder, 
dressed in jeans and a casual shirt, sitting on her bed, rubbing his hair dry 
with a towel and watching cartoons.

"Good morning."  He eyed her uncertainly.  "You okay?"

"Tired," she sighed, and sat down next to him to lean on his shoulder.  
"Oh, Animaniacs, I love it.  Are you taking the day off?"

"Nope, I've got a plan."  He put his arm around her shoulders, shifting her.  
"We're going hunting, just the two of us.  I don't want Stoddard and 
Donovan around throwing you off your stride, so Scully's going to keep 
them busy."

She leaned back, studying his face.  "Explain that, please.  I don't think 
my brain's firing on all thrusters yet."

"Ah, coffee.  I had room service," he grinned and went into his room, 
emerging with a steaming cup.

She took it gratefully, looking at him over the rim of the cup as she sipped.  
"Very nice, you remembered the blue stuff."

He inclined his head in mock-graciousness.  "That's what they pay me 
for," he said cheerfully, "My powers of observation.  Okay, this is the plan.  
You and I are going to hunt up those last four names, going to the last 
known address, checking with neighbors, all the regular drill.  And if you 
feel anything, if you get any lead, we'll follow it."

It was an unexpected gift.  Her eyes stung and she looked into the cup to 
hide it.  "That's a good plan," she managed to say lightly.  "I guess I'd 
better get dressed, then."

"Yeah, as quick as you can."  His expression was apologetic. "I want to 
sneak out of here before Donovan and Stoddard troop into the dining room 
downstairs."

"Better and better," she said.  "I need to dry my hair a little, but it won't 
take long."

"We'll take your car.  I'm going to take the files we've got here down to the 
car.  You want the laptop?"

She nodded, getting up again.  "Give me fifteen minutes and we'll be out of 
here."

He grinned.  "I'll let you have twenty, and it's a deal."

She carried that grin back into the bathroom with her, feeling renewed 
hope.

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

After breakfast, and an explanation to Stoddard and Donovan that clearly 
displeased them, Scully made an excuse and went back to her room.  
Using her cell phone, she called the Bureau, and managed to impress 
enough urgency on Skinner's secretary that she was put through 
immediately.

"Skinner," his voice said.

She scowled at herself.  She was more worried than she wanted to admit if 
Skinner's voice made her feel better.  "Sir, it's Agent Scully."

There was a brief silence.  "Agent Scully, is there some problem up 
there?"  His tone had sharpened in instant response.

"I hope not, sir."  She swallowed.  "Are you familiar with any of the agents 
in Boston, sir?"

Another silence.  "Has Agent Mulder gotten into difficulties with some of 
the Boston agents, Scully?" he asked, sounding resigned. 

"No, sir, not at all.  Are you familiar with a Peter Stoddard?"

Yet another silence.  "I know a Peter Stoddard," he said flatly, not 
sounding as if he was glad to admit it.

"He and Agent Michael Donovan are assigned here, sir.  Agent Mulder 
thinks they might be here to observe Morgan Grayson."

His sigh was audible.  "Agent Mulder always has a theory, Agent Scully.  
But I suggest you work very carefully around Stoddard."

"Sir," she said, taking the chance.  "Is Stoddard one of ours."

Another silence.  They were beginning to grate on her nerves.  "No," he 
said flatly and disconnected.

Startled, she gazed at the phone as if it held answers.  Very careful 
indeed, she said silently to Skinner, you can believe it.

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

Morgan's hope had faded somewhat by noon.  They had found the last 
addresses of Mark Spencer and Thomas Nichols fairly quickly, only two 
townships distance apart.  However, it appeared that the records they had 
received had been incomplete.  

Mark Spencer had moved to Florida and gotten married; a few quick calls 
confirmed this.  Thomas Nichols had died three months earlier in a 
motorcycle accident.

"Well, unless he's still walking," Mulder said, dark humor shading his tone, 
"I don't think he's our man."  He looked at her, lifting one eyebrow.

"He's not," she told him wryly, well aware that they were both sure of 
Cronin, and they set off again.  

They found Matthew Baker two doors down from his old address, in Lowell.  
It was nearly two by now, and Morgan's stomach growled in complaint as 
they walked back to the car.  

"Lunch?" Mulder eyed her hopefully.

"Yeah," she sighed, feeling dispirited, then suddenly felt anger flare. "If I 
can pick up all this shit out of the ethers, why can't I get his fucking name 
and address!"

He looked at her for a long moment, his face still.  "Damned if I know.  It 
must be frustrating as hell."

She began to laugh.  "You said exactly the right thing, you jerk.  It would 
be really nice if you'd do something to really piss me off again and let me 
rage on."

He raised his eyebrows.  "Give me a minute--I'll think of something."

"No, don't."  She regarded him with affection.  "Let's find something to eat 
before I fall down."

"I'll second that," he agreed and slid behind the wheel again.

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

"They didn't go to see Bergman," Stoddard appeared suddenly, standing 
behind her at the desk Kelsey had loaned her.  "Where are they, Agent 
Scully?"

She gave him what she hoped was a puzzled look.  "As far as I know, they 
were going to Boston to check some things and meet with Bergman."

"And your partner didn't tell you where?"

Her mouth quirked.  "My partner is prone to doing things his own way," 
she told him drily, and there was enough truth in her voice that he nodded.

"If you hear from him, let me know," Stoddard said and smiled glacially.

She arched an eyebrow.  "I believe that Agent Mulder is technically the 
agent in charge, here.  Is there some problem?"

"No, not at all.  I just had some questions for him."

She kept her eyebrow up.  "I'll tell him."  After another moment, she turned 
back to her report.

After another long moment, during which time the skin on the back of her 
neck crawled, he left her alone again.

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

After lunch, Morgan insisted on driving again; their next destination was 
Wellington, an apartment building on South Barnes St.

South Barnes was definitely on the wrong side of the tracks.  The 
apartment building was nothing more than a faded Victorian mansion, cut 
up into separate apartments, seedy and down at heel.  The moment they 
pulled up to the curb, she felt it, a slow freezing of her blood, the throbbing 
malignant pulse, the tracery of ice up her spine that told her this was the 
starting place.  "This is it," she whispered, staring at the building.  "It *is*

Cronin."

Mulder gave her a sharp look, but said nothing, only opened the car door 
and got out, stretching long legs in apparent relief.

She followed him, sliding the strap of her purse over her shoulder.  "You'll 
have to do this," she said shakily, "I'm not going to be much help."

That got another sharp look; he reached back and took hold of her hand, 
painfully hard.  "Stay with me, Morgan.  No side trips into the great 
unknown."

"I'm trying," she said and was grateful for his fingers, almost too tightly 
closed around hers, binding her to the here and now.  "I suppose it would 
be unprofessional to walk in this way."

"We'll do it the same way we approached the others.  Casual, nothing 
official, just an inquiry.  If we need to swing some weight, I'll identify 
myself, but not until then."  His expression was very serious.  "So, no, if 
that's what we need to do to keep you focused, I'll hold your hand 'til hell 
freezes over."

"I don't think we'll need to go that long."  But it warmed her, nonetheless.  
"Lead on, MacDuff."

His expression shifted to pained.  "Please, not MacBeth."

"I knew you were a philistine, who doesn't like MacBeth?"

"Me."  But he slanted her a grin as they started up the walk.

"So where the fuck are they, Scully," Donovan put his hands on her desk, 
his expression truculent.

"I don't know," she said and met his gaze dead on.  "I thought they were 
going to Boston.  If I don't hear from them soon, I think we should start 
tracking them down.  Mulder's prone to going off alone, without backup, 
and Morgan Grayson isn't armed."  The worry in her voice was real, but not 
because Mulder hadn't contacted her.  She'd talked to him twice already; 
however, she was telling Donovan the truth.  She didn't know where they 
were.

Donovan's eyes narrowed.  "Are he and Grayson getting cozy now?"

She gave him a glance that had turned lesser men to ice.  "I'm sure I 
wouldn't know what you mean, Agent Donovan."

His eyes narrowed.  "You know, I always wondered about the two of you."

"Wonder no more," she said acidly, "We aren't involved personally."

His expression shifted; she almost thought he was embarrassed.  "I guess 
you hear that a lot."

"More times than you can count."  She gave him the patented Scully look.  
"And it hasn't gotten any funnier."

Malice glinted in his eyes.  "The Ice Queen and the Spookster.  Yeah, that 
would be unlikely."

Jerk, she thought and smiled sweetly.  "Did you have anything else you 
wanted to ask me?  I've got four more of these reports to do and I'd like to 
get them off today."

He straightened, waving magnanimously as he retreated.

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

In his office in Washington, Walter Skinner frowned, thinking of Scully's 
call.  He didn't like that.  He didn't like it even a little bit.  The Peter 
Stoddard he remembered was a spook, a man who had faced down a 
board of inquiry as a result of a joint action taken by the NSA and the FBI.  
There was some suspicion that he had acted improperly, or at least that 
was how the public description of his actions had gone.  

Privately, Skinner had suspected him of worse, of orchestrating a blood 
bath during a hostage crisis, but none of it had ever come to light.  
Stoddard evidently had some powerful contacts. 

The fact that Peter Stoddard had pushed Mulder's paranoia button was not 
surprising; Scully, however, was a different matter, and her unease had 
transmitted itself like a virus over the phone.  Picking up the handset 
again, he punched in the number of the Boston office and asked to talk to 
Ross Bergman. 

Bergman, while cautious, admitted to him that Stoddard had just 
transferred in just a day or so after--he checked his calendar--
Morgan Grayson had gone up to Massachusetts to work the 
case.  That raised his hackles; Bergman's ensuing admission 
that Stoddard had called him to inquire about some alleged 
meeting with Mulder and Morgan made him feel as paranoid as 
Mulder had ever been.  

After diplomatically suggesting that there was something hinky about 
Stoddard's antecedents, he thanked the AIC and hung up, brooding over 
what he had discovered and not at all certain what to do about it. 

Mulder might always have a theory, he grudgingly admitted to himself, but 
it didn't follow that Mulder was wrong; he'd seen too much to take that 
tack.  The question was, what to do about it?  And what in hell kind of 
interest did the NSA have in a woman with admittedly strange gifts?  If 
they were going after psychics, why not start by investigating the palm 
readers, the card readers, the purveyors of prophecies? 

He knew the answer to that, but would not allow himself to accept it. 

********************************************************************************
Mulder coaxed the manager into letting them see the small apartment 
where Joseph Cronin had lived for two years.

"They let him out of the state hospital and he came here," Morgan 
murmured, looking around the small, dank room.  It was an efficiency, the 
kitchenette nothing more than a counter on the side of the room, a tiny 
sink and a hot plate in opposite corners.  There was a tiny bathroom, a 
rust-stained sink, a filthy toilet, and narrow shower cubicle.  "That poor 
damn kid."

"Yeah."  Mulder's brooded a moment, looking at her, and he turned to the 
manager.  "So where did he go after he left here?  Any ideas?"  

The woman, an anorexic blonde who looked to be in her late fifties, 
shrugged.  "Don't know.  Wasn't my business.  He mighta said something 
about going to live closer to his brother, but I don't know anything about no 
brother."

"Brother," Morgan said, her gaze distant, unfocused.  Surreptitiously, he 
took her hand and squeezed hard, making her wince.  "Oh, yes," she said 
and shot him a scowl, "His brother."

They left as quickly as they could.  Out on the street again, Morgan 
handed him the keys, avoiding his gaze.  "I know you don't like this, but I 
have to go with it, Mulder.  Just, just keep talking to me, keep me 
anchored."

He didn't like it, he didn't like it at all.  "Have you got something you can 
follow, or is this more of the same shit, feeling his mind and drowning in 
it?"  His tone was savage, and he regretted it immediately when her gaze 
met his, startled.

"I think I can follow it," she said diffidently and waited for him to unlock the

passenger door.

"Fine."  He only wished it was.

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

It didn't get any better once they were on the road again.  She retreated 
from him, not physically, but she was gone nonetheless.  The only sign of 
life was the occasional flick of her eyes as she looked out the window at 
the road signs.  He drove in silence for more than thirty minutes before he 
remembered he was supposed to keep talking to her.

"You know," he began and cleared his throat.  "I went to school in 
England, Oxford, actually.  It was real culture shock at first."  She never 
looked at him.  He kept talking anyway, spinning out the tale of his early 
misadventures overseas until she sat straight up in the seat and pointed.

"Go east here," she said and he winced again.  Closer still to Chilmarc; if 
they got any closer, he was going to feel hellishly guilty for not calling his 
mother.  

After turning east, he took up his story again, embellishing just for the hell 
of it, just to keep talking, just to keep his voice in her ears.  They passed 
Drury without another word from her and he ran out of words.

Her face was like marble, pale and still.  He couldn't tell if she was 
breathing, but she was still sitting upright.  And they were getting closer to 
Chilmarc. 

"So," he said, a little desperately, "I thought we could try something new 
tonight.  Like sleeping in *my* bed for a change.  Did I mention that you 
have sensational breasts?"

She blinked.  "Stop the car."

He slanted her a startled look.  "Morgan, it was a joke."

"Stop the car."

He pulled over on the shoulder of the road, watching her narrowly.  "There's 
something here," she said softly and got out to stand in the grass.  
"There's something."

Mildly relieved--at least she was talking, that was more life than he'd seen 
in a while--he came to stand beside her.  It had rained here earlier, and the 
grass was wet; the wind was still up and from the north, carrying a 
coolness that made him consider snatching his jacket from the car.  
"What are you feeling?" he asked softly.  "Talk to me, Morgan."

She looked at him and he felt fresh fear.  In daylight, her pupils were 
swollen so that there was only the faintest rim of color around them.  
"Something," she said.

Sighing again, Mulder went to kneel beside her.  "Come on," he said 
gently, "You aren't getting anywhere and you're tired.  Let's try again later."

"Maybe."  Her voice was distant, distracted.  "There's something here, 
maybe it isn't even related, but there's something here."  Her head turned 
and she regarded him with pupils swollen to twice the normal size.  
"Something...."

Not drugs, he recognized, but trance, something that never failed to make 
the flesh creep on the back of his neck.  "Come on," he repeated, still 
gentle, and took her arm to lift her to her feet.  It always surprised him, 
how small she was, not so very much taller than Scully in her flat shoes; 
looking down at the top of her head, he felt that tenderness for her again.

She inhaled sharply.  "Oh, not now," she said irritably and looked up, but 
not at him.  Her eyes searched the overcast sky blindly.  "It's a big house," 
she said and took in a shaky breath.  "It's a big house, they have a fence 
to keep the dog in back.  It's on a hill, it's very old, and she loves it, it 
reminds her of something."

Her tone was eerie, distant and flat, and the hair on the back of his neck 
made a creditable attempt to stand up.  Still holding onto her arm, he 
wondered wildly what to do.  This hardly seemed healthy; she had gone 
chalk white, her skin was cold under his fingertips, and her eyes looked 
black, with only a rim of color around the pupil.

"She dreams sometimes, but she doesn't understand even when she 
remembers it.  The baby takes up too much of her time now, she has 
stopped thinking about the faces in her dreams.  She likes Jackson, even 
though she hadn't wanted to move to a small town, and she likes teaching 
in the school."  The words came faster and faster.  "They call her Amanda 
now, she doesn't know any other name, and Ty calls her Mandy when he's 
teasing her.  He made the crib himself, he's good with his hands, a good 
craftsman.  He likes Jackson, he feels like he's come home, but 
sometimes she remembers autumn, remembers walking to school with the 
boy she doesn't remember anymore, holding his hand and listening while 
he tells her about his magic tricks."

A chill took him, this one more determined; he had broken out in 
gooseflesh all over his body.  He wanted to run, howling at the top of his 
lungs.  No, he thought dimly, she had told him once she could only find 
monsters, she couldn't be saying what he thought she was saying.  She 
turned toward him and grasped his wrist painfully, her fingers closing like 
iron, the words coming faster and faster.....

"She doesn't remember, she was terribly frightened, and they hurt her with 
things.  But sometimes in dreams she remembers, remembers the white 
light, remembers screaming, remembers the boy crying out her name.  
Sometimes in dreams, she knows his name, but she can never remember 
when she wakes."  Her fingers dug into his wrist, harder, making him 
wince.  "Fortenberry," she says remotely.  "Her name is Amanda 
Fortenberry."

He hadn't been this scared since the night Sam was taken.  "Stop it," he 
said harshly, "Goddammit, Morgan, stop it!"  

Abruptly, she obeyed, her eyes rolling up in her head.  Before he could 
think sensibly, she fell on the grass at his feet, awkwardly, uncomfortably, 
no dramatic grace in this fall, no indeed.  

Remorseful, he gathered her up, holding her against his chest.  "I'm sorry," 
he whispered, and the words echoed in his brain:  Amanda Fortenberry, 
Jackson.  Jackson what?  Jackson, Mississippi?  California?  God help 
him, just at this moment, he wasn't sure he cared.  What was worse, 
losing Samantha, or finding her this way.

Morgan's pulse was fast and thready under his fingertip.  Her eyelids 
fluttered and she muttered something unintelligible.

"Hush," he said, suddenly, shockingly near tears.  "Come on, let's get you 
back."  Lifting her, he carried her to the car in a rush, slamming the 
passenger seat into the reclining position and snapping the seat belt 
around her.  Amanda.  Fortenberry.  Jackson.  The words still rang in his 
head.  If she was telling him about his sister, then how far could his 
memories be trusted?  If what he remembered could not be trusted, if his 
perceptions were fantasy.

Her eyelids fluttered.  "Fox," she sighed, still mostly out.  Slamming the 
door shut, he went around the car; he was shaking, he found, and had to 
take in several deep breaths before trusting himself behind the wheel.

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

Morgan was mortally embarrassed.  "Look," she said finally, after several 
miles of an awkward silence.  "I'm sorry.  I don't know what I said to you, 
but I'm sorry.  That--that usually doesn't happen."

"You don't remember?"  He slanted her a look and tried to smile, but she 
could see that it had shaken him.  "Always the unexpected."

"At least," she said and sat up, wincing against the predictable headache.  
"Where are we going."

"Back," he said, and she heard a tremor in his voice.  "But we're stopping 
to get something to eat and some coffee first."

Reaching across, she touched his hand.  "Are you all right?"  Fear 
brushed the nape of her neck.  "Fox, what did I say?"

He looked away from her.  "Nothing bad, I think you talked about my 
sister."

Horror congealed her blood.  "What did I tell you?"  It came out a whisper; 
he turned to look at her, his brows drawing together.

"Hey, it wasn't anything terrible.  It just--surprised me, that's all."

Weak with relief, she sank back in the seat.  "Thank God," she said and 
tried to smile.  "Helluva thing, when your body won't behave when you're in 
it."

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

In the diner, Mulder ordered two cups of coffee.  As an afterthought, 
remembering his more arcane reading, he also ordered Morgan a burger.  
Meat, he remembered grimly, was supposed to ground, supposed to 
lessen or weaken psychic ability.  

He hoped it was true.

Sliding into the booth across from her, he regarded her somberly.  "You 
feel okay?"

"Tired," she said, but her eyes were bright.  "I know where we're going 
now."

God help him, he wished he did.  

This had to be the most crackbrained notion he'd ever had, he thought and 
shook his head.  "We're going back to the Inn.  I just talked to Scully, she 
says Donovan just told her we never met with Bergman.  That means he 
might just come looking for us.  Or Stoddard might.  And the last thing I 
want them to know is what we've spent the day doing."

"We're only a few miles away," Morgan protested.  "Honestly, I'm fine, I 
wish you'd believe me."

"I do," he said wearily.  "All right, dammit, we'll go.  But first you're going
to 
have some coffee and eat something.  Morgan, you look like shit."

"Gee, thanks."  Her expression was amused.  "Don't mince words, Mulder, 
tell me what you really think."

Temper flared and died; after a heartbeat, he felt his mouth twitch and 
knew he wasn't going to be able to hide it.  "Okay, that was tactless.  Let 
me rephrase.  You're the color of chalk, you flat passed out on me, and 
you're still shivering in my jacket."

"It takes a lot of energy," she admitted and grinned at his expression.  "I 
guess Scully never told you about the Grayson radical diet, huh."

"Do I want to know this?  I don't think I want to know this."  But he gave 
her a resigned smile.

"Energy has to come from somewhere.  If I use up that much energy in a 
short time, I'm burning calories, more than if I ran five miles a day.  Or 
more."  She shuddered at that thought and he tried not to laugh.  "So, 
what happens when I do that?"

He eyed her closely.  "You lose weight."

"I prefer to think of it as mass," Morgan said and grinned again.  "It makes 
me feel thinner."

He shook his head.  "Okay, so that means my prescription is even more 
sensible.  You're going to eat, okay?  No arguing this one, or we go back 
to the Inn."  He felt guilty about that, having been on the receiving end of 
This-is-for-your-own-good too many times in his own life.

Morgan sighed.  "Okay," she said, sounding resigned.

Maybe she got it from Geoff and Sharon all the time, he thought and felt 
guiltier.

Morgan had balked at eating the whole burger, but had finally agreed to 
split it with him.  

There was color in her face again when they left the diner, and she was 
nearly normal when they got back in the car.  If it hadn't been for the fact 
that she gave him directions calmly to a place neither of them had seen, 
he might have trusted it.

Her directions guided them to a small, weathered, shabby farmhouse 
outside of Derby.  A battered barn sagged behind the house, though it was 
small enough to be considered an outbuilding of some kind.  The ruins of 
what might have been a chicken coop lay beyond that.  The grass in front 
of the house was uncut, waving gracefully in the wind.

"This is his place," she whispered, and she was chalky again.  "Can't you 
feel it?"

Mind blind, he thought bitterly, but didn't envy her.  "No," he said and 
reached across just too late to keep her from getting out of the car.  

"Dammit!"  Reaching for his gun, he got out, hurrying after her; she 
stopped on the porch, stopped dead and held her hands in front of the 
door.  Wondering at that, he stopped too, tucking his weapon out of sight.

She knocked, rapping sharply on the weathered wood.

"Morgan, what the hell are you doing?"  He came up on the porch after her.

She reached for the knob and he felt a surge of heat from her, as if her 
temperature had just jumped several degrees.  "What has to be done," she 
said remotely, and he recognized the voice of trance in the emptiness he 
heard.

He snatched at her shoulder, too late again--she was in the house, well 
into the front room.  There was a stained and sagging sofa, but nothing 
else, no sign of occupation.

"Morgan, dammit, we don't have a warrant, there's no one home."  He took 
a step in, suddenly furious with her, and she went down the hall in a flash 
of color, evading his grasp again.  His jacket came off her, though, and he 
swore again, following her.

She was standing at the door at the end of the hall; coming up behind her, 
he felt gooseflesh come up on his skin.  The walls had been painted black; 
bright murals had been painted in red, childish and primitive figures.  

All the creatures he remembered from Lovecraft's mythology made their 
appearance, as well as bloody corpses, dismembered and strewn across a 
nightmare landcape.

She named them all in a colorless voice.  "Cthulu, Tsathoggua, Shub-
Niggurath, Yog-Sothoth, Hastur, and Dagon.  The Elder Gods, the Great 
Ones." 

"Morgan, we're going to blow this, we've got to get out of here and call 
Kelsey.  We need a fucking warrant."  His voice was hushed; he turned her 
toward the front of the house and gave her a gentle nudge.  She walked 
like a sleepwalker to the end of the hall and turned, instead, into the 
kitchen.

Her head turned and he saw her eyes, wide, frightened, and utterly 
resolute.  "Can't you feel it, Mulder?  He's raised something here, 
something dangerous." 

Frightened for her, he reached out and she ran again, vanishing into the 
dimness of the kitchen.  "Dammit, Morgan," he snapped,  heard a 
wrenching, scraping sound, heard her feet pattering down stairs and ran.

The cellar door gaped, a entry to darkness.  A draft that reeked of rotting 
flesh and excrement made him gag.  "Morgan!"  Her gasp made him start 
down the stairs in a hurry, dark or no.  

"Mulder, be careful, he's got a knife!"  Her voice was frantic, breathless, 
and he drew his gun, heart pounding.  

It all happened in seconds, and took a nightmare eternity--a figure rushed 
up toward him and he leveled his gun, shouting what had been trained into 
him at Quantico.  Something bright flashed in the dimness of the stairs--he 
fired once, then again as the blade narrowly missed him.

A body tumbled down the stairs in a series of thumps.  "Morgan, dammit!"  
His voice cracked on an upward note.  "Where are you?"

Her voice was faint.  "I'm over here, I'm all right."

He doubted that.  The knife that had fallen at his feet had blood on it.  
Moving slowly down the stairs, he reached down, bending his knees, and 
checked for a pulse, finding none.  It had to be Cronin, he thought, looking 
down at the shattered face.  His second shot must have done it, nobody 
keeps coming with a bullet in the brain.  

His eyes had begun to adjust to the darkness, though the stench tested 
his gorge; he could see a pale huddled shape back in the shadows.  
Moving forward carefully, he blinked, trying to see more clearly; something 
tickled his face and he started, feeling foolish when he recognized it as the 
string to the light fixture.  

"Brace yourself," he said and turned the light on, squinting against the 
glare. 

What he saw in that light horrified him; a dog kennel, one of the steel 
ones, stood on dirt floor, housing a naked, skinny boy, a boy who huddled 
mindlessly in the back of the kennel, holding onto Morgan's hand.

"It's all right," Morgan murmured and shifted; he looked at her then, and 
swore again, seeing blood.  "I'm all right, it's just shallow, it glanced off my

ribs, I guess."

Bravado, he thought, seeing her mouth tremble.  Brushing that aside, he 
knelt and pulled her shirt up.  It was still nasty, but he was relieved to see 
that she was right.  She'd need nearly as many stitches as he had, after 
Harcourt, but the blade hadn't penetrated.  "If you ever do anything like that 
again," he said, clenching his jaw hard to still the tremors that wanted to 
come, "Scully's going to find your body in the trunk."

"I'm sorry," she whispered, "But I had to."

This could be pursued later, he thought and turned to the boy.  "Todd?  It's 
okay, it's all over."  

Todd, it was evident, didn't quite believe him.  He looked beyond Mulder, 
his eyes terrified, moaning in his throat. 

Mulder glanced behind him, felt his stomach turn over.  The corpse was 
trying to get up.  No pulse, he thought, momentarily paralyzed by shock--
goddammit, I'm not that stupid, he was dead! 

The light went out.  Morgan gasped and began to chant something, her 
voice no less colorless than it had been upstairs. 

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

She could feel it, feel the tainted power throbbing like a pulse in the 
darkness.  She was terrified and furious at once; unprepared, she had not 
sensed the truth of it until it had coalesced in the body of the puppet.   

Letting the fear pass through her, she pushed herself to her feet, moving to 
stand between Mulder and *it*, her mind seeking the Latin she had once 
learned as a bored child at morning Mass.  

The litany came to her lips, as if she'd said it every day for years, the 
words taking on power as she reached within and drew on the power; the 
earth she stood on was poisoned by blood and hate, there was no help 
there.  Raising her hands, she reached for the sky, pulling power from the 
sun and stars, letting it be channeled into the words she used, the 
meaning of which she wasn't sure she remembered.  But she remembered 
High Mass, remembered the sweet smoke rising from the censer, 
remembered the holy water being spattered as a blessing on those sitting 
beside the aisle of the church.  She was there for a long moment, once 
again that small girl standing near the end of the pew, watching with 
solemn eyes as the priest moved down, intoning the sacred words.  

She had felt the power then, known it for what it was, the purest power in 
the universe, whatever sins the Church itself might have borne.  Felt it and 
brought  that sacred space back into the stinking cellar darkness with her, 
the scent of beeswax still in her nostrils, the shivery feeling as if she'd 
touched the face of God; the cellar was lit with bluish white light, streaming 
from her hands, forming a barrier between the walking corpse and her--
protecting all three of them. 

A silent scream of rage shook the ground and she felt Mulder sway behind 
her, lose his balance.  The gun fell to the ground; the dark power fled, 
enraged and she bent to get it, lest the corpse still move, the light fading 
as if she'd lost virtue by picking it up. 

Cronin was still walking, incredibly; raising the gun, she aimed at what she 
sensed and fired, again and again until he fell backward, feeling the recoil 
in every muscle she owned, weeping for all of them as she did. 

Then, her ears ringing with the sound of shots, she turned in the dark and 
slumped to the ground. 

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

It took several tries to get the padlock off the kennel, to get the boy out of 
that hellish cellar.  Mulder found blankets in a closet upstairs, and a few 
towels that looked clean enough to use for pressure against Morgan's 
wound. 

"There's an ambulance on the way,:" he told her, looking up from tucking 
the folds of blankets around the nearly catatonic boy.  "And the rest of the 
calvary." 

She nodded absently, her attention on Todd.  "You're safe now," she 
murmured and wondered sorrowfully if he could hear her, if he could believe 
her.  The boy was filthy, his skin ripe with the smells of the cellar, 
decomposing flesh and human waste.  She wondered if it would help to 
clean him up, but reckoned he would just perceive it as another violation at 
this point. 

"It's true, Todd," Mulder said softly, gently lifting the boy's chin.  "I
promise 
you, you're going to go home.  He's dead, he can't hurt you anymore." 

Todd's eyes flickered, and a tear carved a clean line down the dirty face.  
"H-h-he h-had a kn-n-nife."  It was a whisper.  "H-h-he s-said h-he w-was 
going to c-cut m-m-m-my--"   A harsh racking cough interrupted this and 
Morgan risked touching the back of Todd's neck.  "He's feverish." 

"I don't doubt it."  Mulder's expression was dangerous.   "I'm surprised he's 
alive."  His hands gentle, despite the shadows in his eyes, he coaxed 
Todd to the corner of the sagging couch.  "We'll be out of here, soon, I 
promise." 

Morgan shivered, feeling chilled again.  Her clothes were too loose, and 
she had seen him notice it, seen the thoughts moving behind his mind.  He 
would withdraw again, she thought, a little sadly, but it was to be 
expected. 

"What happened down there?"  He finally looked at her.  "I'm not that inept, 
he was dead." 

She nodded, too weary to evade.  "He raised something, I don't know what.  
Maybe his own twisted energy, I don't know."  Her mouth quirked.  "It 
wasn't the Elder Gods, Mulder." 

He laughed shortly.  "No shit.  Well, this report should be a beauty, trying 
to explain why every round in my gun ended up in the suspect." 

That startled her, and worried her more than a little.  "My prints are on it,
I'll 
tell them I panicked."  Her mouth trembled.  "It isn't quite a lie." 

His eyes came back to her, warmer and more human.  Reaching out, he 
briefly closed a hand over her wrist.  "Yeah, well so did I.  I could swear 
that the ground shifted." 

"I think it did," she said, in a very small voice. 

"That should be easy to explain," he said, but there was just a trace of 
humor in his voice.  "An X file after all.  Skinner's going to have a stroke."  
Leaning up, he pressed his cheek against her hair for a moment.  "You 
think you can avoid bleeding to death for a moment.  I'm going back down 
there." 

Panic made her heart flutter.  "Just for a minute," she pleaded, feeling 
completely irrational. 

"Just for a minute," he agreed and left them, his footsteps moving quietly 
through the kitchen and down the stairs. 

Todd shivered again.  "Is he dead now?" 

"Yes," she said, extending her senses.  "He is.  He can't hurt or frighten 
you anymore, Todd." 

A slow tear trickled down the boy's face, making inroads on the dirt there.  
"I wanna go home." 

"Soon," she promised and listened for Mulder.  After several long minutes, 
she heard him; he appeared in the kitchen, looking sickened. 

He came to sit on his heels before the couch, his eyes avoiding hers.  
"We'll be out of here soon, Todd," he murmured and patted an 
unresponsive arm.  "I can promise you that.  How about we go wait in the 
car, get you out of this place." 

Todd's eyes came to life then; he nodded shakily. 

Mulder looked at her.  "Let me get him out of here first, okay?"  His eyes 
were apologetic. 

"I can walk," she said, unwilling to stay under this roof another moment.  
"Honestly, I can." 

He looked doubtful, but nodded.  He'd had to carry Todd upstairs, the boy's 
legs were so cramped after two weeks in that cage; reaching down, he 
lifted him again, nodding at her to move ahead.  She waited until he had 
gone out before shutting the door.   

Then, moved by an impulse she didn't understand, she marked the door 
with the sign of the cross before following him. 

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

The ambulance arrived as promised, accompanied by two State police 
troopers who listened to Mulder's terse explanations in stunned silence.  
When it pulled out again, Morgan and Todd were in it; Mulder stayed on 
the scene, waiting for forensics, waiting for Scully. 

Donovan and Stoddard arrived at the same time, limiting his chance for 
private conversation with his partner.  He resented that, needing to talk to 
her, needing to tell her what he couldn't say to the state troopers, what he 
couldn't say in front of Donovan and Stoddard; nevertheless, he managed 
to keep from snapping at the two, though he watched them with shadowed 
eyes, evading their questions about Morgan with half-truths and out and 
out lies. 

By the time he left to go to the hospital, the forensics team had already 
taken more evidence from the reeking floor of the cellar than they had 
expected to find, confirming Morgan's prediction that there were bodies yet 
undiscovered; three had been discovered so far, in the reeking earth of the 
cellar floor. 

Scully, blessedly, had brought fresh clothing for all of them, having 
persuaded the Inn's staff to let her in their rooms; he showered at the 
hospital, grateful beyond words to wash that stink from his skin and 
breathe untainted air again. 

Todd's parents arrived; they insisted on thanking him and Morgan tearfully; 
in return, Morgan spoke softly to them about getting Todd counseling, 
underneath the softness, lay steel enough that they agreed, looking a bit 
intimidated.  For what it was worth, he added his own advice. 

"He's going to need to talk about it," he told them, "Not now, not yet.  But 
he will eventually.  You have to be strong for him, you have to let him tell 
you." 

Mrs. Greene shuddered.   

Morgan was released after her wound was treated.  At four in the morning, 
Mulder  drove back to the Inn with Morgan and Scully, followed by Donovan 
and Stoddard in their car. 

"So, how did it go," he asked, looking in the rearview mirror; curled on the 
backseat, Morgan slept on, covered with his jacket.  He sensed, rather 
than saw, Scully glance at him. 

"Well," she said wearily, "It was rather anticlimactic compared to your day.  
I called Skinner.  He was pretty tight lipped, but I got the definite 
impression that Morgan was dead on about Stoddard.  And Stoddard was 
definitely a little upset that you couldn't be located." 

"Me or Morgan?" he wondered aloud. 

"Hard to say."  She leaned back against the headrest.  "You want to give 
me the real version?" 

"Yeah."  He swallowed, glanced back at Morgan again.  "I was a damned 
fool, Scully, if I ever come up with an idea like that again, shoot me." 

She was silent a moment.  "Mulder, it worked.  It's over.  Todd Greene is 
safe.  Doesn't that make it worth something?" 

"Yeah," he said again and sighed.  "It was an interesting day," he began 
and gradually, choosing his words carefully, he told her. 

When he had finished, she looked at him for a long moment.  "I know 
you're telling me the truth, Mulder, but I still have difficulty accepting it." 

"No kidding.  I was there, Scully, I'm the original believer, and I still can't 
take it in."  He swallowed again, thinking of Samantha, thinking of what 
Morgan had said.  "But there's still something I didn't tell you.  When she 
fainted, when she was babbling there at the side of the road--Scully, I think 
she was telling me about my sister." 

The silence that followed that statement was total.  After a moment, he 
heard a soft intake of breath and looked at her.  

"Mulder," Scully began, her tone compassionate, "Why do you think so?" 

He shivered, unable to control it.  "It's hard to explain.  Maybe I'm crazy, 
maybe I was reading into it--but, God, if she's right."  He bit his lip hard, 
thinking about it.  "If she's right, what does that say about my memories?  
If I can't believe myself anymore....." 

She put a hand out on his arm, squeezing gently.  "Mulder, you and I both 
know that repressed memory is a tricky thing.  You were just a child 
yourself, it's not that hard to trick children, you might have seen anything." 

He shivered again, muscles quivering under her hand.  "Or they could have 
planted those memories.  If they can take short term memory away, they 
could sure as hell plant something." 

"Yes," she agreed softly, leaving her hand where it was. 

Abruptly, he was achingly tired, wanting only to lay his head down and 
stop thinking.  "And if she's right, if I can find Samantha--Amanda 
Fortenberry, Jackson, but she didn't say which state.  And I wasn't 
thinking clearly enough to ask, assuming she could have answered me." 

"It's a starting place."  Scully's voice was soft.  "Are you going to check 
it?" 

Antic laughter bubbled up in him.  "Hell, yes, how can I not?  But, God, I'm 
scared of what it means, Scully."  That was an understatement; it 
undermined every foundation he'd built on since he'd joined the Bureau, 
since he'd uncovered the memories of Sam's abduction. 

Scully was silent for a time, the only sound the hiss of the wheels on the 
road.  "Mulder, even if it's her, it doesn't change anything.  We've seen too 
much, we've learned too much.  And whatever else I believe, I know that 
the men in the shadows are afraid of what we'll find, which means there is 
something to find." 

Tears blinded him for a heartbeat; blinking them away, he managed to 
slant a smile at her.  "Thanks." 

She lifted her hand from his harm and made a gesture, dismissing it.  
"Mulder, you know I don't always accept what you come up with.  But two 
months of my life vanished, and I don't remember it.  My sister's dead, I've 
seen the MJ files.  Whoever took your sister, there's still a mystery at the 
heart of it, and you aren't the only one who wants the truth." 

Taking his hand off the wheel, he reached for hers and squeezed it.  
"Thanks, partner," he said, keeping his voice light. 

"What are partners for?"  Her tone matched his. 

Feeling better, he looked in the rearview mirror to check on Morgan.  "Well, 
I'll have to apologize again, I yelled at her." 

"Heat of the moment," Scully said, sounding amused.  "I think she'll 
understand." 

He nodded, sinking into weary silence, hoping she was right.

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

Morgan woke when the car stopped; sitting up to stare blearily out the 
window; in the predawn greyness, the Inn looked surreal, almost 
monochrome. 

Mulder turned to look at her.  "We're here.  How are you doing?" 

Grimacing, she raked a hand through her hair.  "Punchy as hell." 

"We've got time for a few hours of sleep before we have to wrap up all the 
loose ends," he said wearily. 

"At least," Scully agreed and opened the car door. 

The dome light came on, making Morgan squint.  "Are you okay?" she 
asked Mulder tentatively. 

"Pretty much," he told her and got out of the car. 

Moving cautiously, Morgan followed, dragging the laptop with her.  Scully 
promptly took it, slanting her a smile.  "You look like you're about to fall 
down." 

Morgan sighed.  "I feel like I'm about to fall down," she told her and 
grimaced.  "Not that you haven't had as long a day.  Why do you still look 
fresh, and I look like I've been dragged through a hedge backwards?" 

"Not backwards," Mulder said, over the top of the car.  "Forwards, maybe." 

Scully laughed and started for the door.  "It's a skill they teach in 
Quantico." 

Morgan followed her, coming up beside Mulder, who put an arm over her 
shoulders briefly.  It was just a gentle reassurance, but it made her feel 
wobbly.  "I'm sorry," she told him again. 

"Forget it.  I'm sorry I screamed at you."  He smiled faintly.  "You keep 
scaring the hell out of me, Morgan." 

She nodded, still feeling contrite.  She had been driven, only distantly 
aware of him, sensing Todd's life below the house, feeling the danger.  
Without that energy now, it was hard even to walk to the elevator, and she 
leaned gratefully against the side until it stopped.  Her side throbbed, but 
not badly.  She expected it would hurt worse later and grimaced, thinking 
about it. 

"Come on," Mulder said, sounding a little punchy himself.  His hand found 
the small of her back and guided her down the hallway; it might have been 
annoying, but right now it just felt kind. 

Fumbling with the room key, she finally managed to get it into the door and 
open.  After the atmosphere of Cronin's cellar, the room seemed alien, 
neatly done up by the housekeeping staff.  

Scully laid the laptop on the desk and started back out.  Mulder, however, 
sat down on the bed and took off his shoes. 

Scully looked back at him and her expression was bemused.  "Good 
night," she said, evidently to the room at large. 

"Good night," Morgan said and followed Mulder's example, shedding things 
as she walked to the bed, too tired to care what anyone might think.  
Sliding between the cool sheets was the nicest sensation she 
remembered right now; Mulder sprawled on top of the bedspread beside 
her, lying on his back.  Reaching up, he managed to turn off the lamp, for 
which she silently blessed him. 

"Morgan," he whispered, his face a pale smudge in the dimness.  "Where 
is Chad Wilson?" 

Something shifted in the back of her mind.  "Tomorrow," she said drowsily.  
"We'll see him tomorrow." 

After a moment, he shifted, got off the bed; in a moment, she heard the 
chirp of his cell phone, heard him dialing numbers, heard him talking in a 
low urgent voice to someone.  Then, just as she roused herself to sit up, 
he came back. 

"Who was that?" she asked, too tired to argue, and hoping there was no 
cause to do so.

"Kelsey," he murmured and slid under the blankets with her.  "Go to 
sleep." 

Kelsey.  "Oh," she said, understanding at some level, but too tired to 
make sense of it.  "You, too." 

"I already am," he breathed, and put an arm around her waist.  

Thus comforted, she sank quickly and gratefully, only barely aware as his 
own breathing slowed behind her. 

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

Morgan woke to the sound of Mulder's shower, noticed that the connecting 
doors were open again, and went back to sleep.  The next time she woke, 
the room next door was silent, but the doors were still open.  The clock 
read 9:30 and sun leaked through the curtains, making her feel vaguely 
that she should get up.  

Instead, she went back to sleep again, rousing at last at 11:15. 

Yawning, she got out of bed and padded next door; Mulder wasn't back 
yet, she noted, and returned to her own room, laying out clothes and 
turning on the water for the shower.  When she turned, after checking the 
water temperature, shock tore a little shriek from her throat. 

Wilson stood in the bathroom door.  

"Hi, Dr. Grayson," he said, smiling.  "Heard about last night, just wanted to 
congratulate you." 

Mouth dry, Morgan swallowed.  "How did you get in?" 

He shrugged.  "Hey, these old hotels still run on those tumbler locks.  If 
they'd upgraded to those computer cards, I'd have had a problem." 

Her mind was racing, but with nowhere to go.  This wasn't something 
noncorporeal, she would have felt confident, safe, able to handle it...."What 
do you want?" 

"Joe Cronin was my brother," he said mildly.  "You killed him, you and that 
slick FBI fella." 

A sudden certainty came to her.  "You knew.  You knew what he was 
doing." 

Wilson shrugged again.  "Joey was stubborn.  He just wouldn't listen.  I 
tried to convince him to bury the bodies somewhere, not to dump them, 
but he was cracked about those gods of his, insisted that the bodies had 
to be dumped."  He blinked at her lazily.  "Don't mind me, Dr. Grayson, go 
ahead and take your shower." 

"Thanks, I'll wait."  Her tone was dry, calm, belying the fear that made her 
knees feel as if they'd turned to water. 

He shrugged again, amused at her, like a cat playing with its prey.  
"Whatever." 

Taking a chance, she reached in and turned the water off; she didn't want it 
drowning out sound when she screamed.  Reaching within, she silently 
whispered the words that could summon power, silently began to chant, 
forcing herself to let the fear pass through her, forcing herself to center. 

"That Joey," Wilson sighed, seemingly sorrowful.  "He just kept on 
following his own road, I guess.  But he was still my brother." 

Morgan remained silent, still focused within.  

It made him angry and he moved toward her, the light catching the blade 
he held in his hand.  It was small, small enough that surprise moved her 
back outward again.  "What do you plan on doing?" she asked, still 
detached, the fear flowing through her and away, leaving her calm. 

"You're gonna be so upset about all this that you kill yourself.  See, I've got 
a couple of buddies work out of Kelsey's office.  Word is that you're about 
half-cracked, that this case got to you real bad."  He smiled, showing his 
teeth.  "I figure, nobody's gonna be too surprised you whacked yourself." 

She opened her mouth and spoke, feeling nothing.  "That's funny, I don't 
feel at all suicidal." 

"That's the beauty of it.  You're gonna be dead and I get to have the fun." 

One hand closed around her arm and she flared to life, punching him hard 
in the belly, kneeing him in the groin; it gave her enough time to get free of 
the narrow confines of the bathroom, to reach the door to Mulder's room-- 

"Bitch!"  Strong fingers tangled in her hair, dragging her backward with a 
snap that hurt badly enough that her eyes streamed tears, that made the 
world go grey for a split second.  

She fought that, kicking and clawing with all the strength she had 
summoned, shrieking nonstop. 

It kept him busy trying to stop her mouth, to fend off her hands and twist 
sideways to keep her from hammering his groin again; the little blade 
flashed, cutting her palms, slashing across her bare thighs, but she 
hammered home a blow on his jaw. 

The knife fell, forgotten as his hands closed around her throat; he slammed 
her head against the floor and the world darkened again with the shock and 
pain. 

She almost gave in then, almost surrendered, but Aarin's image came to 
her, and Sharon's, Geoff's, Scully's and Mulder's--all those for whom she 
cared and the little boy who depended on her.  Surging back, she gouged 
at his eyes, but his arms were longer, she couldn't reach. 

There were crimson sparkles at the edge of her vision, now.  No, she 
thought, more strongly, and retreated into herself, reaching for the bright 
river that flowed in everyone, that she could access and others could not.  
Bright light flared in her inner eye; grasping Wilson's forearms, she flung 
herself free of her body and into his mind, along his nerves, into his flesh....


She knew how to kill a man with the power, it had been secret teaching for 
thousands of years, limited to those who could be trusted with it, only 
those who had evolved enough, who had purified their souls enough that 
they would never use it.  She had discovered part of the way by accident in 
her reading, and Harcourt's death had taught her the rest..... 

Reaching out with an insubstantial grasp, she closed it around his heart, 
squeezing hard. 

Carrying a paper sack containing coffee and a bagel, Mulder got into the 
elevator, still shadowed by the night's events.  Kelsey had trusted him, had 
gone after Wilson, only to find him gone, his apartment deserted.  Well, 
they'd find him, too; he just prayed it wasn't after more killing.  And it was 
impossible not to wonder how many other times Wilson had killed. 

The elevator door opened on the second floor; as he stepped out, he heard 
a sound like a stifled shriek and stiffened, reaching for his gun as the sack 
fell to the floor, forgotten.  It had sounded very near to his own room, 
Morgan's room--or Scully's. 

Running down the hall, he fumbled the room key out of his pocket and 
opened his door to hear a thumping sound; he burst through the 
connecting doors as another shriek came, this one hoarse and loud 
enough to wake the dead. 

Morgan shoved Wilson away from her, screaming again and again, eyes 
wide with mindless terror.  The scarlet imprint on her throat told its own 
tale; Wilson's eyes gazed sightlessly at him and he bent swiftly to find that 
Wilson was dead. 

When he looked up again, Morgan was against the wall, one bloody hand 
splayed out on the wallpaper; the screams stopped abruptly and she 
stared at him, still lost somewhere, not recognizing him.  The blood scared 
him; thinking of Scully, he went out Morgan's door and into the hall, 
pounding on the door until she opened it, wearing a bathrobe and with a 
towel wrapped around her head. 

The shower, he thought, weak with relief, she was in the shower. 

"Mulder," she said, frowning, "What's the matter?" 

"Come on," he said and swiftly returned to Morgan, who still sat in the 
same frozen position, backed up against the wall.  She whimpered when 
he moved closer, pushing herself further into the corner, eyes still 
senseless with fear. 

He stopped.  "Morgan," he said cautiously, "It's all right.  He's dead."  He'd 
said the same thing to Todd Greene the night before with as much effect.  
"Morgan," he said again, hearing the tremor in his voice.  "He's dead." 

She burst into tears.  "M-m-mulder?" 

Relief made him feel weak, nearly boneless.  "Yeah, it's me, Morgan.  Can 
I come closer?" 

She came instead, into his arms, shaking convulsively.  "I killed him," she 
sobbed, "I killed him." 

Scully was bent over the body, her expression perplexed.  "How?  There 
isn't a mark on him." 

He turned his head, stunned.  "What?" 

Scully met his gaze steadily.  "He's got a couple of bruises and some 
scratches, Mulder.  That's all." 

Morgan wept hysterically against his shirt front; he tightened his hold on 
her.  "But he's dead," he said stupidly.  "No burns?" 

Their eyes met again, thinking of other cases.  "No burns," Scully told him.  
"I'd better call this in." 

"Yeah," he said, his eyes resting on Wilson's face, twisted in pain.  What 
in God's name had she done to him?   

And, insisted a part of his mind, did it matter?  He had tried to kill her, it 
was self-defense.  Looking down at the top of her head, he felt real fear, 
fear for Morgan, run a chilly finger across the nape of his neck.  If they 
found out she could do this, he thought and shoved the thought away 
physically, too unnerved to follow it, letting himself go on automatic, letting 
himself murmur soothing nonsense to the woman he held.  But in a back 
corner of his mind, he prayed that he was wrong. 

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

"So, what killed him?"  Stoddard's voice startled Scully as she stripped off 
the surgical gloves.  Turning her head, she again felt that faint aura of 
threat and forced herself to shrug. 

"Heart attack, from the look of it."  That much was true.  The tissue 
damage was undeniable; however, Wilson had been a young man, his 
arteries nice and clean.   

"Convenient time for a heart attack," Stoddard said mildly. 

"Not really."  Scully arched an eyebrow.  "Convenient would have been 
before he got into her room."  They had taken Morgan to the emergency 
room of the small local hospital; the sutures on her side had been repaired 
and a few added to her palms.  She slept now, under the influence of 
sedatives, and Mulder kept vigil in her room. 

He was plainly afraid that Stoddard would show up there. 

Stoddard nodded absently.  "So, with all this tied up, you and Mulder are 
back to DC, I imagine?" 

"That's right."  She faked a pleasant smile.  "And you and Donovan are 
back to Boston, I suppose." 

His eyes met hers, chilly and somehow inhuman.  "I suppose."  Turning on 
his heel, he left the room. 
 
**************************************************************

Mulder rose when Morgan woke, near six.  "Hi," he said softly, leaning on 
the rail.  "You doing better?" 

She blinked at him, swallowing with a dry click.  "Thirsty," she said, her 
voice still hoarse. 

He held the water for her, too eerily reminded of his own recent hospital 
stay.   

Leaning back again, she eyed him sleepily.  "My throat hurts."  

"He nearly killed you, Morgan."  He lowered the rail and sat down.  
"Sharon's on her way up to help you get home.  Some friend with a private 
plane?"  He arched an eyebrow, inviting explanation. 

"Ray Palmer," she said, surprising him. 

Ray Palmer was the notoriously reclusive owner of a software company; he 
stayed out of the public eye almost obsessively, but it was rumored that 
he was involved in more than one quixotic cause.  "Ray Palmer," he 
repeated.  "I *am* impressed." 

She didn't smile.  "I killed Wilson," she whispered. 

"Yeah, you keep saying that."  He cupped a hand to her cheek.  "But 
Scully swears it was a heart attack." 

Her mouth trembled.  "I did that.  I shouldn't even know how, but I did--and 
now it's all gone, I'm null, completely flat." 

This meant nothing to him, but the tone of self-loathing did.  "Morgan," he 
said strongly, "Goddammit, he was trying to kill you.  Aren't you allowed to 
protect your own life?" 

Her gaze focused.  "Yes.  But it's not that simple, Mulder." 

"I don't give a damn about esoteric doctrine, Morgan.  You're alive, that's all 
that counts for me.  And a man who raped and murdered a sixteen year 
old girl and God knows how many others is dead."  He scowled at her, 
willing her to listen. 

"I know."  Her eyes were too bright.  "But I paid the price for what I did, 
Mulder.  I'm completely null, don't you understand.  It's all gone."  Her 
mouth trembled again.  "I can't tell if I'm happy or terrified about it." 

Comprehension came in a jolt of surprise.  "You mean," he began and 
closed his mouth abruptly.  After a moment.  "I'm sorry.  But it was driving 
you too hard, Morgan."  Bending, he kissed her forehead and drew back, 
wishing there was something to do that would comfort her.  "Just don't, for 
God's sake, punish yourself over this." 

She was silent for a long time, looking at him.  "I'll try not to," she finally 
whispered.  "I want to go home." 

He tangled his fingers with hers.  "Soon, Morgan.  Very soon." 

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

Three hours later, he and Scully stood at a small local airfield, watching as 
Sharon Jackson helped Morgan into the private jet. 

"Nice work if you can get it," Scully muttered and flashed him a grin.  
"We're in the wrong business, Mulder." 

"Yeah, but Scully, it's so much more interesting."  He raised a hand to 
wave, having said his goodbyes earlier.  And it wasn't goodbye, really; 
more like au revoir.  Until I see you again, he thought, feeling a little 
shaken.  "Although I could use a nice tame crop circle hoax right about 
now." 

Scully's laughter was soft.  "I'll see what I can do, Mulder." 

Looking down at her, he smiled, reached out for her hand and squeezed it 
briefly.  "I count on that," he said. 

Together, they walked back to the car.  Time enough when they got back 
to Washington to pursue the other questions, he thought,grateful for her 
presence.

And find other answers. 

Finis