I park my car about six blocks away, near an auto body shop. No need 
to chance having someone remember that my car was a some- times 
visitor to that old warehouse.

I can smell the tang of burning wood and scorched metal on the air and 
see the gray-white clouds of smoke and steam rising over rooftops, 
wafting toward the iron gray autumn skies. The rain had stopped much 
earlier, but the icy temperatures had ensured that the sidewalks were 
still slick.

Except closer to the warehouse. I can feel the change in temperature 
almost as soon as I turn the corner. The heat from the fire has kept 
that street from icing up. I can hear the roar of the two remaining 
fire trucks as the fire fighters keep steady streams of water flying 
at troublesome hot spots.

The excitement seems to have dulled. Most everything seems to be under 
control now, and there are a few knots of spectators and media people 
on the lookout for the next sound-bite. And I see the men that they 
are waiting for: the officials that will have to give them that 
precious two seconds of audio.

I smirk as I imagine the predictable statements:

"No Comment At This Time"

"It's Too Early To Tell"

"Our Investigation Is On-Going"

Platitudes-R-Us. Film At Eleven.

I make my way through the small crowd to huddle closer to the official 
types that the media are favoring with their attention. No one seems 
to notice as I become one of them.

I can see Chief of Police Komisky talking with two of his detectives, 
Garrison and Delaney. I recognize them only because this is largely 
their turf, and they turn up every now and then, poking around for 
gang information,but never really making any headway. At least with 
regard to our little group.

My eyes are drawn to the imposing stranger in the midst of their 
gathering. He is a well built man with a military bearing, balding, 
and with glasses that are not able to hide the fierce intensity in his 
brown eyes. He has an FBI badge clipped to his coat, but I am not 
quite close enough to read the name. I sense, however, that he is not 
a local fibbi. Maybe this one is from Mulder's tribe.

Two more suits with FBI badges. From the way they are cringing and 
scowling before Mr. Intense, I would guess that these dudes are from 
the local bureau. They are all bristling. I almost expect them to 
unzip and start spraying to mark out territory. 

Wouldn't do any good, guys. 

Looks like the Big Dog wins.

And I can hear the rumble of the Big Dog's voice as he accepts a bag 
of something from one of the local agents. It looks like what must be 
the charred remains of a wallet. He looks grim. I have to get closer 
to hear this exchange.

"...of what we found inside," one of the agents is talking hastily. 
"It's Agent Mulder's wallet. And even though the body is burnt pretty 
badly, the local coroner is fairly sure this is your man."

"Has Agent Scully had a chance to see the remains?" The out-of- town 
hot shot is talking, but he is looking at what is left of Mulder's 
wallet, moving it absently in his hand. 

He's mentioned Agent Scully! Then Omar's rumor of her death was 
greatly exaggerated. 

Why am I not surprised?

The other two agents and the cops exchange exasperated glances and 
shuffle nervously for a moment before answering. "Uhh... well, yes, 
actually she has, sir, but frankly, she has pretty much dismissed our 
opinions and assistance out of hand..."

Mr. Intense's deep voice rolls right over the local agent who spoke 
up: "If Agent Scully's report of the difficulties that she and Agent 
Mulder encountered with the local field office in this case is true, 
and I have no reason to doubt her word, then I would expect her to 
dismiss *anything* you have to say."

Ouch! I sure would hate to be on the receiving end of that glare of 
his.

"Now, look here, Skinner!," the other agent pipes up angrily. He must 
share rank with this guy, but he still seems a little nervous  about 
trying to bring him up short. A fibbi turf war! What fun! My money's 
on Mr. Intense. "Agent Jordan, here, tells me that Agent Mulder had 
gone off on some half-cocked theory about mind controllers and..."

"Am I incorrect in thinking that the reason Agents Mulder and Scully 
were called up here in the first place was precisely *because* of 
Agent Mulder's half-cocked theories coupled with the amazing 
conviction rate of the X Files team?" That came out as a low, even 
rumble, but Mr. Intense might as well have pulled an Uzi on them for 
all the cowering that was going on.

The local cops were looking intrigued with all the official federal 
tension in the air. The other two feds were looking chastised and 
disgusted, respectively. The younger, chubbier of the two local agents 
saw fit to offer his two cents: "I was at the academy at the same time 
as  ol' 'Spooky' Mulder. So, when he and his girl partner showed up on 
our doorstep, I expected some of this damn nonsense..."

"I wasn't aware, Agent Jordan, that it was your job as an employee of 
this agency to pass judgment on fellow agents while criminals are -- 
literally -- getting away with murder on the streets." This time the 
D.C. fibbi's voice is loud and clear. He moves within inches of the 
other agent's face. "And if I find any reason to believe that your 
attitude toward this team has assisted in the death of one of my 
agents, I will have you -- and your superiors -- twisting on a thin 
wire in front of a Board of Inquiry."

Agent Jordan stands silently for a moment, his face all red and his 
fists clenching and unclenching. Then he turns and walks briskly away. 
The other agent, Jordan's superior, stays to offer a final handshake 
to his comrade. The handshake is ignored, and for a long moment the 
two feds just stare at each other. Finally, the local fibbi turns on 
his heel and leaves as well.

Hold on! What's this?

I glimpse a flash of bright red hair moving among the forest of dark 
uniforms, suits and trenchcoats. Then I see her face. In the dim 
grayness of an November morning in Pittsburgh, she stands out like a 
beacon. A slash of white bandage shows just a bit at her right temple, 
and I'm able to see a small cast on her left wrist, souvenirs of her 
earlier encounter with the Brothers Duron.

So! Hello, Special Agent Dana Scully!

I allow myself to be absolutely entranced as I watch her move toward 
the FBI man I had noticed earlier. She is beautiful. A pale, freckled 
face graced by a full, sensuous mouth, a small aristocratic nose and 
two jewel-like blue eyes. How did Mulder ever get any work 
accomplished with this angel as his partner?

She stops, planting herself firmly in front of Mr. Intense. Her face 
looks grim, yet determined. I can hear her as she has to raise her 
voice to be heard over the noise of the fire trucks.

"Sir. That's not Mulder. The skeleton is largely calcined, but there 
is evidence of acid etching at the dental work and on the skull. 
Someone was trying too hard to delay identification of this body."

He looks down at her with some surprise and pulls the plastic evidence 
bag up in front of her face. I can see the remains of Mulder's wallet. 
"The local coroner called it, Scully. They found his wallet, portions 
of shoe soles, scraps of fabric, part of his holster..."

Her voice is louder now, more insistent. "As I said, sir, someone has 
tried very hard to put us off the track here. And I don't think 
they've been careful enough with the evidence!"

Her bossman sighs. "Agent Scully -- Dana -- I know this is hard for 
you. But preliminary evidence would seem to indicate..."

She answers with some force, despite the fact that the fierce looking 
guy seems to be her superior.

"Sir! I'd like to request permission to do the autopsy, sir..."

The FBI boss replies with a firm shake of his head, "Absolutely not, 
Agent Scully. You know I can't allow you to..."

The little red head is really getting fired up now. I can see the 
tension in her small frame, hear it in her voice.

"I am a fully qualified forensics doctor..."

Wow. I *am* impressed. A medical fibbi. Beauty *and* brains!

"Agent Scully! Since when do I need to be reminded about your 
qualifications? " The Federal Bossman's voice rises sharply and then 
drops just as suddenly as he takes her by the shoulders. 

"Scully. Please. Just take some time to think about this. You haven't 
slept for over twenty four hours. And I've..." He drops his hands away 
from her shoulders. "I told you I've come up here to escort you back 
to DC. The field office here in Pittsburgh is willing to continue..."

"Continue what? How could they have a clue about what we were onto? 
The local bureau was of little or no help when we were called in on 
this investigation a week ago! Mulder and I had to pull teeth for 
every scrap of info we got! And with every scrap we got came a fresh 
round of ridicule and abuse! And now...and now... this!"

She waves toward the smoking building. There are several EMT's near 
the building working with fire fighters to get a black body bag into 
their ambulance. She turns back to her boss, pleading with her eyes 
while several of the other men in the group look around uncomfortably, 
afraid of her tirade.

"I repeat: Someone has gone through a lot of trouble to mess up that 
body, sir! THAT IS NOT MULDER! And the sooner that is determined, the 
sooner we can find out where he is and who is responsible for this!"

The man is pressing his lips into such a tight line that they seem to 
disappear from his face. He is looking at his female agent as if 
weighing several answers for her. I move a bit closer to see his 
badge.

Assistant Director Walter Skinner. Well, hello, dude! What brings a 
tight ass bureaucrat like yourself to our fair city? Come to join the 
fox hunt? He must have come up from Washington DC to retrieve Mulder's 
partner after the agent's disappearance. An unusual display of 
concern. There must be something special about her, or perhaps, about 
both of them.

Agent Dana Scully is immovable. She looks cast in stone: a lovely, yet 
intimidating, sculpture. And Skinner looks resigned, as if he's seen 
this posture before. He runs his hand over the top of his bare head, 
in what has to be one of the world's most useless gestures.

"All right, Scully, all right. Run whatever tests it takes. Are you 
sure you'll be okay with this? I mean, if the body turns out to be..."

She doesn't allow him to finish that thought. "I'm going to order 
tissue typing, a full raft of DNA tests. And I'd like them done at the 
Washington labs, please. These tests take long enough. If I use our 
resources, I think I can save some time." She turns her ice-blue eyes 
on Chief Komisky. "I'd appreciate it if my work here has your stamp of 
approval, Chief. It will go along way toward speeding up this 
identification process and making sure no one is left with his or her 
nose out of joint."

Komisky looks open-mouthed from her to Skinner. Skinner's face is 
unreadable, but those dark eyes look expectant. Komisky nods 
congenially at last. "Sure. Of course, Agent Scully. I'll talk to all 
the offices involved and see to ..."

"Thank you." Wow! She just cuts him off and turns back to her boss, 
leaving Komisky with his mouth still hanging, open and useless. 

I am loving this!

"Sir? Could you do the same with the local bureau? Mulder and I have 
already trod on enough toes there." Her tone with Skinner is much more 
respectful. Skinner gives her a dismissive nod of his head as if he's 
used to running interference for the Mulder/Scully team.

The lovely red head is already moving away from him, half running 
toward the ambulance. Damn. I hadn't expected them to be this quick 
about questioning the identity of the corpse.

Then again, I hadn't expected Special Agent Dana Scully.

I sigh. At least it is still pretty likely that the tests she orders 
will take time, and they are not likely to let the press know their 
suspicions at this point.

I am not too threatened by this quicker pace, though. My involvement 
would be pretty hard to pinpoint, no matter what they come up with. So 
far, Jimmy Botina is the one person they are looking for. And if, by 
the time they catch up with the bastard, Carol-Lee and I have made our 
little pact, I'll really be home free.

However, now I am aware of another potential problem. Just past the 
ambulance, I can see a tow truck pulling the blackened, bent remains 
of the old van out of what is left of the building. I am not the only 
one watching it. I can hear Assistant Director Skinner's voice again: 
 "Chief Komisky, may I speak to you about that van?"

We should have just sunk it in the Allegheny. It is sure to become a 
liability.

Our ramrod-spined police chief quickly and respectfully turns his 
attention to Skinner, motioning his two lap-dog detectives forward. I 
fade back a little into the crowd and come around on the other side of 
a nice, new CSU van. I've never had occasion to meet these guys, but 
that doesn't mean they wouldn't recognize me as one of the 
neighborhood regulars. Better to stay out of their line of sight. 
Better safe than sorry. I turn my back to them, but stay near enough 
to catch parts of the conversation.

"...when Agent Scully reported she fired upon the van?" Skinner's 
voice is deep and insistent. He is looking at Detective Garrison as he 
is speaking.

I see the back of Garrison's head as he nods, and I lose his response 
in the roar of the fire trucks' pumps as he gestures in the direction 
of the charred van. I chance turning back toward them in order to hear 
the conversation a bit more clearly.

"...the same van. The plate's gone from it, of course, but our boys in 
this district think they recognize it. A couple of them recall 
stopping its driver for the broken headlight and messed up bumper. 
There must be outstanding tickets on the books. It may only take a few 
cross references on the traffic computers."

Chief Komisky barks, seeing his opportunity to act officious in front 
of the Federal Big Dog. "Then get on it! Now! Find out who it belonged 
to and bring him in!"

Oh-oh. Gator. I don't know where he's gone to ground, but if they 
unearth him...

I should tell Jimmy about this complication. If loose lips sink ships, 
then Gator could be a goddamn fleet of destroyers.

Garrison and Delaney snap to attention like good little soldiers and 
head off to their car. Chief Komisky takes the fed's arm in an overly 
confident gesture that says: "I'm in charge here. Can't you see what a 
good job I'm doing?"

But the Head Fed is not really impressed. He slips easily out of 
Komisky's grasp to turn and scan the crowd. His dark eyes settle on me 
-- and don't move on. For one hot/cold moment, I watch his eyes narrow 
on me, but I'm already slipping into character before the instinct to 
run takes hold of me.

I step up to Assistant Director Walter Skinner and boldly proffer my 
hand in a friendly shake. I smile broadly. "Good morning, sir. I'm 
Eddie Betts from the Pittsburgh Patriot Weekly. I'm also on the board 
of the Economic Revitalization Committee for this business district, 
and I gotta tell you, we're kind of worried about what's going down 
here. Do you have any further inform..."

Skinner is already turning away, dismissing me without a word. Chief 
Komisky, ever vigilant to a potential political ally, is much more 
attentive. He rushes forward to shake my hand as Skinner walks away. 
"Nice to meet you, Mr. Betts. You can tell your readers that we're 
fully dedicated to a speedy resolution to the problems that are being 
uncovered here. And you can tell your committee that your city PD is 
making this warehouse district a safe harbor for reinvestment."

Blah. Blah. Blah. See you at the polls, mister.

I stuff my hands in my pockets as I walk slowly back to my car, 
congratulating myself on a fine performance. What a bunch of idiots.

As I turn the corner, I glance back to see if I can catch one more 
glimpse of Agent Mulder's shapely partner. The red hair is like a 
signal flag. It is easy to spot her next to the ambulance. She is 
staring fixedly at the ground while her boss is leaning over her, 
talking, looking intense again.

In that instance, watching them, I have a cold feeling that I'll be 
seeing more of these two. Fine. Scully's easy on the eyes. I just have 
to make sure that if and when I encounter them, it'll be on my terms.

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

Dante's Steakhouse is gloomy and dark, as it always is, ignoring the 
usual rules and constraints of daytime versus nighttime. A perfect 
meeting place for discussions that should never be considered in the 
full glare of sunlight.

Gloomy assignations in perpetual gloom. 

And the food ain't half bad, either.

I see Carol-Lee making her way toward where I am sitting. Carol- Lee 
looks all of twelve years old. She is outfitted in childish denim 
overalls with a dull flannel plaid shirt underneath. An over-large 
peacoat. Mismatched socks. Hi-top sneakers. 

I wince and look around to see if anyone is watching. She might be 30 
years old, but in this light, it must look as if I'm courting jail- 
bait.

She looks appropriately shy and nervous as she slides into the booth 
across from me. I realize that in the three years that I have worked 
for Jimmy Botina, this is really the first time I've seen her without 
her brother hovering nearby. That thought makes me nervous, and I 
automatically sweep my eyes around the restaurant.

Just checking.

"Hi, Carol-Lee. Uh -- nice outfit. So. Where's Jimmy? I was afraid he 
wouldn't let you come."

A quick smile and then she pops two fingers into her mouth and 
extracts a wad of pink gum. With lowered eyes, she answers me as she 
neatly rolls the gum into a paper napkin.

"Uhm...Jimmy's gone to get rid of his car. He says he's got to get 
something less... less con..." She pauses, perplexed in her search for 
the right word.

"Less conspicuous?" I offer.

Yeah. Sure. Jimmy Botina driving something less conspicuous than his 
Bentley. I laugh inwardly at my mental picture of him in his European 
suits, driving some dusty old Ford pickup.

Carol-Lee smiles again. "Yeah. That's the word he used." She plays 
absent-mindedly with the rolled paper napkin, just as our waitress 
slouches up to our booth. "I told him I was sick and didn't want to 
go. I told him I would stay in the hotel room."

I can see this scrawny, prematurely-aged hag is looking us over, 
evaluating us. I didn't want to give her too much time to think, so I 
order quickly.

"Two Philly steak and cheese sandwiches and a coffee and a vanilla 
shake."

The waitress is scribbling the order down lazily and then repeats it 
to me as if she were giving a graveside recital: "Two Philly steak and 
cheese sandwiches. A coffee. And a strawberry shake. To go. It won't 
take long."

I gape at the woman's back as she turns on her heel and heads to the 
kitchen. The stupid bitch! That's not what I said!

But I catch the look on Carol-Lee's face. She is smiling at me, coyly.

"Did you do that, Carol-Lee? Did you change my order?"

She nods, no longer smiling. "Uh-huh. You're not mad are you, Joey? I 
just suddenly felt like having strawberry. I didn't think you'd mind. 
Jimmy hates when I do that. He gets real mad, so I never do it around 
him." She looks as if she's going to cry.

"Hey, look, forget it. I guess I just misunderstood," I offer gently. 
She is smiling again and looking around the restaurant like a kid on a 
grand holiday.

It isn't until I'm standing at the register, paying for a take-out 
order of two Philly steak and cheese sandwiches, coffee and a 
strawberry shake that I remember: I *hate* Philly steak and cheese 
sandwiches!

But I follow Carol-Lee out of Dante's Steakhouse, two heavy deli bags 
in my hands, and head for my car, not saying a word.

Weird.

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

My ring of keys rattles noisily as I toss it onto the kitchen table. 
Carol-Lee is antsy, anxious to see her government-issued playmate. She 
has been flitting from room to room, looking for him. I sigh and start 
to take the food out of the deli bags.

"Carol-Lee. He's down there." I wave toward the basement door. I lean 
over to get the skeleton key and the flashlight. Carol-Lee looks at me 
for a moment as if not understanding, then she frowns. 

Oh-oh. Did I make a mistake? Have I not been nice to her foxy fed?

"Look," I explain hastily as I unlock the door. "I had no choice. He 
freaked on me last night, when we were at the warehouse. I wasn't sure 
what he'd be capable of, so I had to find some place I could keep him 
locked up."

Carol-Lee is already past me and down the steps. As I follow, I can 
already hear her sliding the bolt away from the coal room door.

When I come into the room with the flashlight, she already has his 
head in her lap, running her fingers through his dirty hair, trying to 
see his face. I sit down heavily in one of the bucket seats, the one 
nearest to the passenger bench.

Carol-Lee does not look happy. When she brings her big, dark eyes up 
to glare at me, my stomach does a quick flip-flop.

"He's very sick now, Joey. And he's cold. He shouldn't be down here." 
Her voice is low and steady, warning me that I had better say 
something in my defense, and I had better say it fast.

"Carol-Lee. Please. It was after three when I got home. I didn't know 
what else to do with..."

NO EXCUSES!

That thought echoes in my skull as if I was standing in front of a 
loudspeaker. Right. No excuses. Maybe I can make up for my bad 
hospitality to my unwanted guest.

I run my hand through my hair nervously. "All right. All right. Now 
that you're here, I can help you with him. He can... Uh -- I can get 
him upstairs to the shower. Maybe get him cleaned up. See what we can 
do for him, you know? There just wasn't time to do that last night, 
Carol-Lee."

NO EXCUSES!

I wince, as much from the force of that thought as the sound of my own 
voice, whiny and defensive. I feel a spark of anger but suppress it. 
If this alliance with Carol-Lee is going to work out, I'll have to 
calm down and learn some more about her.

I lean over the fed and unlock his handcuffs. As I untangle him from 
my sleeping bag, he moans and stirs. His eyes flutter open, but remain 
unfocused, still glassy with fever. As I pull him up to a sitting 
position, he makes more of an effort to be aware of what is going on.

I take hold of the front of Mickey's leather jacket and hoist the man 
in it to his feet. He's as wobbly on his long legs as a newborn colt. 
And he smells of vomit and dried blood and sweat.

Carol-Lee is watching me like a hawk, so I'm extra careful with my 
handling of Extra Special Agent Mulder. As I guide him toward the door 
and help him up the steps, I marvel once again at how I could have 
possibly gotten myself involved in this idiocy.

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

I set the water temperature in the shower as Carol-Lee fusses with the 
fed's clothes. He is beyond caring about modesty and has given himself 
over willingly to her attentions. Good. I'm not feeling too altruistic 
towards him right now. He's taken over my bathroom, my bedroom, my 
apartment, my life! This whole scheme had better have a big payoff, I 
think as I sit on the edge of my couch, angrily flipping through the 
channels on my television.

"Joey..." Carol-Lee is looking at me strangely.

I must have been day-dreaming again. She is standing in the doorway of 
my bedroom with an armful of dirty clothes. I note that her face looks 
a little flushed and I smirk inwardly, thinking that the sight of a 
mature, naked male must be a bit daunting to her.

No Ken doll. I'm sure Fox Mulder is anatomically correct.



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

"He'll need help."

Great. Fine. I brush past her, not really caring if she notices that 
I'm a bit pissed off.

Agent Mulder is not looking well. With clothing peeled away, he looks 
much frailer than I expected him to be in such a short period of time. 
Fever has burned this fragility into him. The bruises on his ribs look 
angrier than last night, and his chest is heaving with the effort of 
breathing.

I'm careful enough with him when Carol-Lee is looking on, but as soon 
as I close the bathroom door behind us and I am out of Carol- Lee's 
sight, irritation floods back into my brain. A thousandfold.

I push him toward the shower.

"You're on your own, pal. Get in. Get clean. Get out. Can you handle 
that?"

He is acting like he's going to be sick again, so I raise a finger in 
warning at him. "And don't puke anywhere!" He just nods his head and 
disappears into the mist of the shower.

Still angry, I fumble through my drug collection looking for some 
chemical nirvana that will remove me, mentally, from this situation. I 
note, with some alarm, that my supply will need some restocking soon. 
No problem. With the considerable share of cash I received from Jimmy 
last night, my inventory will be up in no time. 

And -- I smirk with this thought -- I also have Mickey's donation.

Well, he wasn't going to need it now, was he?

I pop a couple of capsules into my mouth, swallowing them dry. I pull 
myself up onto the cabinet top, sitting next to the sink. I can keep 
an eye on my charge from here, Carol-Lee, I think smugly. At least 
he's staying upright.

I don't know how much time went by before I hear the water shut off. 
He doesn't come out right away, and I can hear his labored breathing 
again. I sigh, grab a towel and toss it in to him.

He emerges from the shower, shivering and clutching the towel around 
his hips. I don't think the shower was a refreshing experience for 
him, but he does look better, cleaner. I can still see the fever in 
his eyes as he lifts them to look at me.

"I... need to lay... sit down," he rasps. "I feel dizzy."

I grab his arm to steady him. "Well, you're too tall to pass out in 
here, pal. Let's just keep moving."

When I pull him into the bedroom, I notice Carol-Lee already has the 
covers pulled back on my bed. 

MY BED? Son of a bitch! This just about tears it!

"Carol-Lee! That's MY bed!" I roar so loudly that even Special 
Aggravation Mulder shies away from me while I am gripping his arm. I 
must be squeezing too hard, because he is whimpering and squirming in 
my grasp.

I suddenly feel an electric shock bite at my hand and, with a yelp, I 
release the fed.

Dammit! That smarts!

As I rub my still-tingling hand where Carol-Lee had touched it, I look 
directly into her eyes. They are fierce again. 

Did she do that ?

She is clearly angry with me, but she turns her attention to her FBI 
agent almost immediately. Ignoring my earlier protest, she motions to 
my bed, silently commanding him to lay down. He glances fearfully at 
me but obeys her.

Smart man.

I can't blame him. In fact, maybe I should probably be grateful that 
she's so fascinated with him. If she'd had more time and the 
inclination to concentrate on me, I'd probably be drooling all over 
myself in some dark corner. Fox Mulder is a pretty good shield to hide 
behind. So, for not the first time today, I remind myself to behave.

Maybe my drugs are finally start to kick in. Maybe it's more of 
Carol-Lee's specialized mind games. At any rate, I decide to make an 
effort at graciousness.

"Look, princess, I'm sorry. I'm just not used to all this, okay? How 
about...uh... how about shaving him? I'll bet he'd like that."

She looks infinitely more pleased with me. And she has that eager 
little kid look back on her face. It's like a sign post; things will 
be better now. We can all be friends again.

Well, maybe not the fibbi.

Right now, he's extremely disinterested in the interactions between me 
and Carol-Lee. The comfort and warmth of my bed seem to be lulling him 
back to sleep. That and the ravages of fever are pulling him away from 
us, his only escape from this very odd prison.

I go back into my bathroom to gather up shaving gel, a new razor, a 
warm wet washcloth and towel for Carol-Lee. And for the next twenty 
minutes, I find myself in the laughable position of teaching Carol-Lee 
the intricacies of shaving the landscape of the male face, with a 
kidnapped, unconscious FBI agent as our practice dummy.

Done. Carol-Lee stands back to admire her work. I give her an 
encouraging thumbs-up sign. Mulder is clean shaven, with no 
unnecessary loss of blood. 

Too bad he's not awake to survey the job himself. Lying there, in the 
soft bedroom light, he looks positively angelic, his face all shadows 
and handsome, classic angles.

Carol-Lee has found a comb -- mine, of course -- and is smoothing out 
the tangle of dark hair on his head. I hear her suck in her breath as 
she exposes the gash behind his left ear. She looks up to me, 
wide-eyed.

"Joey, can we fix this?"

I shrug and spread my hands in a helpless gesture. "He needs a lot of 
'fixing', Carol-Lee. I think your sweet brother has fractured some of 
his ribs; they should be taped up. And he's got a fever. That usually 
means something else is going wrong."

"Take me to the drug store, Joey. We can get the stuff there, can't 
we?"

Not unless we kidnap a doctor, too, I think grimly. But to Carol- Lee, 
I smile gently, "Sure. Come on. We can at least pick up some bandages 
and maybe a bottle of aspirin for his headache and fever."

Carol-Lee heads eagerly for the door. I look back at our sleeping 
captive. Maybe he *looks* angelic, but...

I pull his handcuffs from my back pocket and secure his right wrist to 
one of the polished brass bed poles in my headboard, ignoring the 
glare of Carol-Lee as she casts it at me from the doorway.

I don't care. Let me feel as if I've got some control over this 
nightmare, okay?

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

Well, that was two of the strangest hours I have been through in my 
thirty-seven years on this planet.

What I expected to be a simple shopping trip to the local drugstore 
became a bold, daylight heist commandeered by my gum-chewing, 
sneaker-wearing, innocent-looking companion. And it was all executed 
with plenty of on-lookers!

Even as I stand here in my kitchen, looking through the shopping bags 
of prescription drugs, first aid items, and some oddball sundries, I 
am still shaking my head in disbelief.

I was there. I was part of it. I have the booty. And I still can't 
believe it happened. I still can't believe we walked out of there as 
if we had been on a regular shopping trip.

I run my hands through my hair.

Nervous habit.

And I'm feeling very, very nervous. <Hmmm. Didn't you pick up a drug 
for that, Joey?> The voice in my head was laughing, but the feeling in 
my gut was not amusing me.

For the third time since we arrived back at the apartment, I head into 
the living room to peer out my front bay window, searching up and down 
the street for cops.

We *can't* have gotten away with this!

As I head back to the kitchen, Carol-Lee's voice stops me at the 
bedroom doorway. My federal guest is still sleeping. Carol-Lee has 
pulled a chair to the bedside and is just sitting there watching him. 

She doesn't even look up as she talks to me in her quiet, calm little 
girl voice. "Joey, stop pacing. No one is coming. When are you going 
to help me fix him?"

I can only stand there, chewing my lip. She turns her eyes to me for a 
moment, expectantly. Her question needs answering.

"Just give me a few minutes, Carol-Lee. I have to sort through what we 
picked up today. As long as he's quiet, we don't need to bother him."

"But I have to get back to the hotel before Jimmy gets in town, Joey!" 
Her voice is insistent. And nervous. Of course. She still fears Jimmy.

"Sure, Carol-Lee. I'll be ready for him in a minute" I walk back to my 
kitchen to start sorting through our hi-jacked merchandise for 
bandages, tape, topgrade narcotics, and the antibiotics recommended by 
our friendly and unusually cooperative pharmacist.

Unbelievable! I just have to replay the whole preposterous scene in my 
mind again:

Carol-Lee and I had driven a mere six blocks to get to the tiny aged 
business district in my neighborhood. A bar, a mom-and-pop grocery 
store, a resale shop, a beauty salon frequented by the blue- rinse 
crowd, and the small drugstore are the long-time anchors in the little 
area. Other businesses seemed to come and go around them.

The big franchise types are another mile away, closer to the bridge 
and freeway traffic.

I'd shopped in this little drug store for the occasional hang-over 
relief medicine, but I wouldn't consider myself a regular patron. Most 
of its customers were elderly types, people from the neighborhood, too 
poor to retire to Florida and too stubborn to move to the 'burbs. I 
recognized no one, and no one recognized me.

I had been worried that my curious-looking companion might attract 
some stares, but people seemed to move around us in the store as if we 
were invisible. As I had wandered over to collect some first aid 
items, I saw Carol-Lee standing, with an enthralled look on her face, 
gawking at row after row of bright lipsticks, nail polishes, make-up. 
Regular girl stuff.

I had paused to watch her for a moment and had wondered exactly what 
her life with brother Jimmy was like. Was he a skinflint, an abusive 
tyrant? Did he deprive her of all the normal things in life? Had she 
ever seen a movie? Did she ever own a puppy or a kitten? Did she ever 
wonder what it would be like to be a mom? Have a baby? Love someone? 
Have sex with someone?

What was this fixation with Fox Mulder? And why, after knowing her for 
three years, did Carol-Lee suddenly turn to me for help in this weird 
play of hers? Was there a hidden agenda here? Was I so blinded with my 
own ambition that I couldn't see the greater plan? A plan that 
Carol-Lee -- not me -- had designed?

That would hardly be possible. She can't have the IQ of a second 
grader, but there was still a feeling in the back of my mind that I 
didn't know the whole story of Carol-Lee. And my lack of knowledge in 
that area was fast becoming a liability.

I had forced myself back to the matters at hand. I came up behind 
Carol-Lee, leaned over her shoulder and picked a pale coral shade of 
lipstick out for her. When I handed it to her, she looked back at me 
with surprise and wonder.

"Get it, princess. It would be a pretty color on you."

I remember being surprised to see her blush a little. She shook her 
head.

"Jimmy would get really mad."

"Carol-Lee. You're a thirty year old woman! Hell, if you want to get 
some of this stuff to -- you know -- play with, you can leave it at my 
place. Jimmy doesn't have to know until you are ready to tell him 
you're old enough to have a mind of your own!"

Carol-Lee had giggled and looked over at the array of make-up again.

"Okay, Joey," she had laughed. "I will!" She took a few more items, 
carefully selected, with glances back for my approval. Satisfied with 
her selections, she put them in the shopping basket I had already 
started to fill.

"Come on, Carol-Lee. I've got some questions to ask the pharmacist 
about the care and feeding of your FBI agent."

She had followed me to the back where an old gentleman with more than 
a passing resemblance to Captain Kangaroo was patiently labeling a 
bottle of prescription medicine for a much older woman who stood 
waiting at the register. Behind him was a wall of bottles, cartons and 
jars, the tools and toys of his trade.

We had waited until the little old lady made her purchase and gotten 
her instructions from the good Captain. As she shuffled off, he had 
turned his bright, friendly smile to us. "Well, hello, folks. What can 
I do for you?"

Carol-Lee had fixed him with a curious gaze, I noticed, but I swear, 
up to that moment, I had never really noticed anything else that was 
odd -- except for how cooperative he was.

I explained about 'my injured friend', about his sore ribs, his fast 
breathing, his high fever. Captain Kangaroo the Pharmacist frowned and 
knitted his fuzzy gray eyebrows together as he listened.

"Well, son," he said. "It sounds like your friend could be in a bad 
way. He should probably get himself to a hospital, or at the very 
least, a doctor. Sounds like a case of pneumonia! He'll need looking 
after. And a course of strong antibiotics."

"Well, would you carry those kinds of drugs here?," I asked. I had 
expected him to start getting wary at this point, but he still chatted 
on companionably.

"Sure I do, son, but you can only get them by prescription. And those 
pneumonia bugs can be a fussy lot. Depending on what strain it is, one 
antibiotic may be more effective than another. If your friend doesn't 
get to a hospital or doctor for tests, there's no way to tell..." He 
paused just then to gaze at Carol-Lee who was beside me, chewing gum 
and twirling a lock of her short hair.

And that's when things got weirder.

The good Captain suddenly turned to survey his wall of medicines and 
just as suddenly turned back to me with a big smile on his face. "Tell 
you what -- I'll just put together a few courses of drugs for him. 
Take them home with you." He cheerily stepped up to his pharmaceutical 
desk and began filling bottles.

I watched him open-mouthed for a moment. Then I glanced over at 
Carol-Lee. Her expression had not changed. If anything, she looked 
disinterested in this whole transaction. She had already begun to play 
with her new make-up, picking tubes of lipstick out of our basket and 
popping them open to wonder anew at the colors.

I looked again at the oh-so-helpful pharmacist. He acted as if this 
was nothing out of the ordinary. Who wouldn't send a customer out the 
door with a variety of prescription drugs for a make-believe patient?

I looked around the rest of the store, feeling a bit nervous. Several 
customers were browsing, well within earshot of our strange 
conversation, but no one seemed to notice us. I turned back to my 
new-found pharmacist friend.

Whoa! The pills that were being counted out looked rather big. I 
ruefully remembered that Mulder had a pretty delicate stomach.

"Uh... Sir? Those pills are kind of... I mean, my friend hasn't been 
able to keep much on his stomach, so..."

Captain Kangaroo looked at me with genuine concern. "Oh dear, of 
course. He's quite ill, isn't he? Here. I have that in a liquid form, 
too. Be sure to follow the instructions I have typed here." He busied 
himself with fussing over his labels. " And make sure to get some 
Pedialyte. Over there, third shelf down. It's normally used for 
babies, but I recommend it for any of my customers who are having 
problems with dehydration. Some of our sports drinks might be good 
too. They're up front."

I shrugged and went to gather the recommended items. When I returned, 
he had already accumulated a number of prescriptions for us. I leaned 
back and scratched my chin. I remember thinking: if it was this easy, 
could I possibly...?

"Say there -- you know, my friend's been in a lot of pain, too. Do you 
have something in your narcotics cabinet that might help?"

Before I had finished my sentence, he was unlocking his safe and 
laying his small but impressive store of federally regulated drugs 
before me with a great big 'help-yourself' smile. You'd have thought 
this was MacDonald's.

I smiled back, took a few vials, some bottles, and when I looked up, 
he was still smiling as if I was doing him the biggest favor in the 
world.

This was too much! I rattled off a wish list of my personal favorites, 
and my new buddy gleefully complied. I tried not to be too bug- eyed 
as the Captain filled two shopping bags with our selections and handed 
them to us -- free of charge!

Then he had turned like a sleep walker and went to sit down at his 
desk, sort of staring off in space, looking as if he suspected he 
should be doing something important just then, but darned if he could 
remember what it was.

Gosh. And I hadn't even thanked him.

It was my instinctive feeling that we should have run out, right then 
and there. But Carol-Lee lagged behind, casually perusing the comic 
books and magazines. I think I was shaking in my shorts, but I forced 
myself to wait for her, forced myself to be calm.

I had felt another surge of panic when I saw a customer approach the 
pharmacist. However, he just simply seemed to snap out of his little 
trance and came forward to the counter to get the man's written 
prescription.

I had watched, ready to bolt, as the pharmacist looked at his shelves 
with some puzzlement, actually scratching the back of his head. He 
turned to his customer, and I heard him lament: "I could have sworn my 
stock was all up. I seem to be missing a lot of..."

I hadn't waited for the rest of the conversation. I urged Carol-Lee 
out the door, and we left without incident, without being noticed by 
anyone, and with an arm load of drugs.

Then Carol-Lee had insisted on repeating her little feats of shopping 
magic at the grocery store and at a nearby Army Navy surplus where she 
gathered some T-shirts, sweats, fatigues, underwear, socks and 
sweaters for her G.I. Fox doll. I helped her out with some of the 
sizes, but since I didn't have a clue about his shoe size, shoes were 
not among his pilfered presents.

By the time we had headed home, I had developed a splitting tension 
headache and a stiff neck from looking over my shoulder for cops and 
store managers or *anyone* who might see what we were doing. But 
nothing happened.

No one had given us a second glance!

I began to understand how Jimmy could feel invisible. I began to 
understand why he felt invulnerable. No wonder Jimmy Botina was never 
hassled by the law! He had Carol-Lee as his specialized 'cloaking' 
device!

All the way home, I let my mind wander over the possibilities of a 
power like Carol-Lee's, while she examined and re-examined her new 
purchases. 

No, I can't really call them "purchases". 

"Acquisitions" might be a more accurate term.

Now, standing in my kitchen, surveying all this stuff, I find myself 
distancing from what happened. I'm struggling to understand how she 
does this, but maybe there is no understanding to be had.

It's not like I can run to the library and get a reference book on 
this Carol-Lee thing. It's not like this has been studied and written 
up, has it? Who else knew besides Jimmy Botina and his merry band of 
thugs?

Then, I remember. I know who else knows about Carol-Lee and her 
unusual abilities.

<He knows about me!>

Fox Mulder had it figured out.

He and his pretty partner. And like stepping on a rattler in the 
middle of a snake hunt, he was now a victim of the very thing he had 
been looking for.

But he *had known* about her! It was Carol-Lee they were looking for, 
not Jimmy Botina! And now, the man who could tell me what I am up 
against here is laying, helpless, in my bed!

I am not able to enjoy that gruesome moment of irony because Carol-Lee 
is standing in the kitchen doorway, her favorite fed just behind her. 
He is leaning weakly against the door jamb, one long, thin arm wrapped 
protectively over his sore ribs.

She's gotten him half-dressed anyway. The navy blue sweatpants hang on 
his hips, just a bit too large for his present condition.

Carol-Lee guides him to the kitchen table, and pushing aside a number 
of bags and bottles, motions to him to sit on top of it.

"Joey, can you fix up his ribs? And may I warm some food up for him?"

Agent Mulder doesn't look like he cares about food right now. He's 
still hung over with exhaustion, but he's on Carol-Lee's schedule, not 
his own. Tough luck, fella, Carol-Lee wants to play house *now*.

"Sure. The pots and pans are in the drawer under the oven."

I turn to my houseguest. "Well, pal, I guess Carol-Lee has declared me 
your doctor. You'll need to sit up real straight for me. I don't think 
this will take long, but it's gonna hurt like hell."

He just closes his eyes and swallows hard as he tries to pull himself 
straighter. I play doctor for about fifteen minutes, being more 
careful than I am inclined to be with him because I can feel Carol- 
Lee's eyes on me.

"All done, pal. It might not be as great a job as your pretty Doctor 
Scully could do for you, but then she'd probably..."

Carol-Lee's look freezes me in mid-sentence.

Damn. I said that name.

Mulder is looking at me, too, searching my face. The pain I see in his 
eyes in that instant comes from a deeper place than his physical 
discomfort. Then, as if a veil is dropped over him, his eyes lose that 
brief fire and he looks away, not replying to me, not asking questions 
of me. I can feel, rather than see, Carol-Lee relax.

Thankfully, she ignores my indiscreet remark. She must have tamed her 
agent's troubled mind again. How does she *do* that? Don't think about 
it, Joey, old man. Just be grateful she gave you a reprieve.

Mulder seems a bit more comfortable with his ribs taped. I extend a 
hand to him to help him down from the table. Carol-Lee has cleared all 
our merchandise away to the cupboards and is setting a bowl of 
steaming broth down. She makes another quick motion at him, and he 
moves quietly forward to sit in the chair she has pulled out for him.

She isn't going to let him feed himself. Just as well. He's shaking 
like a leaf again.

As she spoon feeds him, I pull out the super antibiotic that Captain 
Kangaroo the Pharmacist had told me was a "wide-spectrum" bug killer. 
I pour out two fingers of it in one of my shot glasses and set it in 
front of Carol-Lee.

"Better get him started on it now." But I curse under my breath, 
because I know I'm going to have to be the nurse who is going to be 
dosing him again at midnight and six a.m.

She gets him to swallow the nasty stuff. He makes a sudden gagging 
sound and just as quickly looks up at me. I shake a finger at him. He 
swallows again, remembering my warning. He turns his head away from 
Carol-Lee's offer of more broth. He's had enough.

Carol-Lee sighs and drops the spoon back into the bowl. Then she leans 
forward impulsively and gives him a light, chaste kiss on his cheek. 
Brushing back his dark hair from his forehead, she kisses him again 
and stands up.

"I had better go, Joey. I could be late."

"Sure, princess. I'll drive you back to the hotel."

She looks genuinely alarmed. "Oh, no! Jimmy might see, and I'd be in 
worse trouble! *Both* of us would be in trouble! Can you go out and 
get me a cab?"

I nod, a bit disgruntled. Yeah. Right. So what's the big deal with 
Jimmy? Why doesn't she just turn him into a human cauliflower? Well, 
there will be no answering that question now.

She nods and turns her attentions back to her new project. He still 
needs her help to get back to bed.



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

Is it possible to *feel* a color?

The thought makes me giggle into my half-full tumbler of twelve year 
old scotch. Feeling 'blue'? In a 'black' mood? Seeing 'red'? 

I giggle some more.

I can certainly *feel* the red that I know must be rimming my baby- 
blues right now. It's the red feeling that comes from just a tad too 
much of this scotch and the couple of Darvon that I helped myself to.

"That was kinda stooooopid, Joey."

I startle myself with my own voice. It sounds so alien in my quiet 
apartment, like there's actually something alive here. I snort at that 
thought, startling myself again.

Feelin' kinda lonely. 

What color is 'lonely', do you suppose?

Maybe I should go check out the workin' girls tonight. Maybe a redhead 
-- a redhead like her. 

Naaahh. 

Not likely to find a medical-degreed, government badge-toting beauty 
walkin' the streets, lookin' to turn a few tricks for...

Ah, well, shitty weather anyway. Just take another hit of scotch, 
Joey.

Sitting here in the dark of my living room. Television flickering. 
ESPN on, sound off. The snap, crackle and pop of icy rain against my 
bay windows with a low chorus of wind singing back up.

Yeah...  I think it's possible to feel colors. But only the dark ones. 
I cannot attest to the feel of the 'bright' ones, having never, ever, 
in my life, felt one.

What's that? Who in the hell...?

Oh. I almost forgot. I still have company.

I can hear him now, the faint echo of his desperate whispering coming 
from down the hallway.

"Who...?," he is gasping. "Who is it? Who is that?" Then silence. Then 
something like a sob. "No... No! Not me...No... It's not 
me...god-oh-god. That's not me!"

Then silence.

And then he starts up again.

I roll my head back into the soft leather of my couch, feeling just a 
little nauseous as the drugs and alcohol slosh my brain around in my 
skull. My thoughts turn to him, as I lay here and listen to his pained 
mantra.

"It's not me... not me."

I wonder what color he's feeling? Wonder what colors make up the 
landscapes of his nightmares? Wonder if he was allowed to keep his own 
nightmares or if he's acting out one of the pre-packaged visions that 
Carol-Lee might have planted in his gray matter?

I can't say whether it's the drink, the drugs, or just the need to not 
feel lonely right now. Maybe the need to not feel like the dark 
coldness outside is really just me inside. Or maybe the need to not 
feel at all.

But I determine that I'm going to go check on my houseguest.

Getting up on my feet is another matter. Ooops! The ol' internal 
gyroscope just ain't what it used to be. I giggle again and head for 
the bedroom. Funny. I don't remember there being such a tilt to this 
floor before.

I feel my way clumsily through the familiar dark of my own room. 
Feeling the side of the bed, I sit down a bit too heavily. 

Not your usual graceful self tonight, Joey.

I grope around for the bedside lamp and manage to turn it on at the 
same time that I catch it before it crashes on the floor.

Ooops. Nice save, Joey.

The soft light reveals Agent Mulder to be awake, staring at me wide- 
eyed. I must have really jolted him with my theatrical entrance. 

Sorry, dude.

"Hey, pal." I greet him with a grin and a salute with the tumbler of 
scotch which I am still, by some miracle, carrying. "Sounded like you 
were talking in your sleep. Have a nightmare?"

He tears his eyes away from me and searches the shadows of the room as 
if he expects something to come jumping out at him. Then he turns his 
gaze back to me. His face has a fine sheen of sweat on it. 

Probably the cold sweat prompted by terrors of the night. 

It's not as if his fever has broken; his skin still feels hot and dry 
when I touch his arm.

He runs his free hand through his hair and shuts his eyes for a 
moment.

"Yes." That soft voice, just above a whisper. "A bad... dream? Maybe a 
dream is all it was." And then his breathing gets ragged and noisy 
again, as if he'd been holding his breath until just now.

I take another hit of scotch and watch him through slitted eyelids as 
I wait for the liquor to burn its way down and spread out over my 
lungs like a blanket.

He's a handsome fellow.

Probably not the type to go play with the working girls. Probably 
doesn't have to. And then, too, he's had Dana Scully to look at every 
day. Dana Scully to talk to every day. Dana Scully to laugh with. Dana 
Scully to...

My eyes narrow at my vision of Mulder's partner.

And Mulder with his partner.

Another thing to envy about him.

I lean over him, swaying a bit drunkenly. His eyes pop open, looking 
alarmed. I smile in what I hope looks like a friendly manner. By the 
expression on his face, however, I must be looking very feral indeed.

Well... Dammit! Maybe I am feeling a bit feral after all.

I pause, studying his face. His goddamn handsome face.

In this light, his hair is ebony, a soft frame for all those 
not-quite- precise angles and shadows. And his eyes, of course. The 
kind that make women go crazy when they're soft and freeze men in 
their tracks when they're hard. Changeable. Just like their 
green-brown color. And fringed with long, dark lashes. A slight cleft 
to his chin and surprisingly full lips.

Those lips. Open just enough to see the glitter of pearly, straight 
teeth beneath. Good breeding or good dental insurance, I wonder as I 
touch those soft, pale lips and feel gently for the sharp, hard edges 
of those oh-so-white teeth.

I must be making him nervous. He licks those lips cautiously and pulls 
his lower lip in protectively. Turns his head slowly away from me. 
Hides his face in the shadows. I can sense his confusion and unease.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk," I whisper. "Don't be so anti-social." It is easy 
enough to bring his face back into the light with my finger under his 
chin. He does not resist because he's scared, and he's not sure what 
I'm up to.

Hell. *I* don't know what I'm up to.

For one drunken moment, this whole scene strikes me as so funny that I 
can only laugh. Laugh so hard that I have to hang my head between my 
knees. I mean, he looks so scared! What the hell is he thinking?

This is rich. This is too much. Sooooo funny.

Why isn't he joining in on the joke? Loosen up, Foxy!

And then, just as suddenly, nothing's funny.

I go from tickled pink to white-hot rage in less time than it takes to 
swallow another hit of scotch. I look down at him again. This is the 
guy that's getting Carol-Lee's attention. This is the guy that gets 
Dana Scully's attention.

And this is the guy who had all the answers. The guy with the big 
brain who figured it all out. 

The Real Smart Guy. 

Except...

I have to smirk at him.

He doesn't look so smart now, chained up in my bed, not sure who he 
is, where he is, or whether he's even graduated Sandbox 101 in 
kindergarten, much less some Ivy League College and the fibbi school.

I dip my finger into my fine scotch and brush it over those fine lips. 
He tries to turn away from me again, and again, I have to move his 
head back. Not so gently this time.

"Please. Don't."

He's begging me? 

What for?

I'm starting to feel amused again. I'm starting to feel good again. I 
brush those exquisite lips with the scotch one more time.

"Shut up, pal. Taste it. I always get the best. Now, c'mon. I'm 
watchin'."

I see that pink tongue sweep over those lips once more. And, maybe he 
smiles at me, or maybe that's a grimace. Like I care about the 
difference.

This boy's gonna drink with me -- one way or t'other.

I lift the tumbler to his mouth and wink at him.

And watch those lips.

He knows what I want him to do. He takes a swallow, but he's a bit too 
hesitant. I have to encourage him so I spill a bit more into his mouth 
than he may have been expecting.

I smile with mock solicitousness at his sudden fit of coughing and 
gagging.Take a swallow of scotch for myself. Wait patiently for his 
coughing fit to calm down.

He's gonna have to get a lot better at this, and "practice makes 
perfect".

I press the tumbler to his mouth again. He starts to struggle but 
gives it up as soon as he makes eye contact with me.

That's better. That's right. Drink with me, boy.

And now, again. 'Atta boy. One more time. Good!

His head lolls back. He's struggling to keep those eyes focused, but 
he must be feeling that fire in his lungs by now. I can see the racing 
beat of his heart fluttering the thin skin in the hollow of his neck. 
I place my finger over that fluttering skin, enjoying the feel of his 
quick, pounding heartbeat. He's scared.

And I'm the one who is scaring him.

Such a power. Such a seductive feeling. Warped. Delicious.

I frown as I pass my hand softly over his chest, past the bandages, 
onto the firm, warm hollow of his belly. I tug gently at the line of 
fine hair that starts at his navel. I run my finger along the waist of 
his sweatpants.

He's trembling.

"No. Please. Don't." His voice is so faint, so tortured. 

He shouldn't have wasted the breath.

I freeze when I see the look in his eyes. Reminds me of something. I'm 
not really paying attention to him any more, anyway. 

'Cause suddenly, I'm remembering...

The memory is nagging at me. One of my own nightmares. Someone I 
hadn't thought about for years --

Me.

That other me. The guy I used to be.

Feeling much like my roommate here must be feeling. A time -- years 
ago --when the quivering that I am sensing now beneath my exploring 
hand was from my own body. The insult. The hurt. And the rage that I 
was never able to be free of even when I stood over my attacker, 
watching him struggle to breathe his last breath around the kitchen 
knife I had plunged into his chest after he had finished with me.

It was a life-defining moment.

In that instant, I made the big leap from "bright, rebellious young 
student" to "soul-less murderer" of one of Northwestern University's 
most respected professors emeritus.

Who would want to hear how betrayed I felt? Who cared about how 
trapped I felt? Who was going see how scared I felt? Who knew that he 
stripped away my life just minutes before I took his? In front of his 
television. In front of the flickering electronic image of Ronald 
Reagan placing one hand on a bible and raising one hand in the air, 
and pledging his oath to serve.

It's still one of Chicago's most famous unsolved murder mysteries. 

And it made my life, or lack of one, another long unsolved mystery, 
too. Poor boy from Chicago's Infamous South Side turns from academic 
mind to criminal mind. Poor boy from South Side abandons Northwestern 
scholarship to escape scholarship in the Joliet State Pen.

The proverbial sobering thought.

I pull my hand away from Mulder's body as if I had just realized it 
was resting on a hot coal. He closes his eyes as if relieved, but I 
can see he's still shaking.

I stand up, feeling dead sober but still not too steady on my feet. I 
avoid looking at him any more and mumble, "Midnight... 's time for 
your bug-killer...b'right back."

I barely remember getting to the kitchen, pouring his shot glass of 
medicine and putting it on the bedside table before staggering to the 
bathroom to offer up my stomach contents to the toilet. For what seems 
like hours, I stand fully clothed in my own shower, with icy water 
pounding on my head and cry for my loss.

Cry for the loss of myself.

And Fox Mulder and me? Well, maybe we're in the same leaky boat.

But -- this, too, shall pass. And -- I know I'll be back to Joey 
Gauthier tomorrow. When Fox Mulder comes around, he still won't have a 
clue about who Fox Mulder is, will he?

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

In that half-step from drunken unconsciousness to sickened 
wakefulness, I am having trouble figuring out what that annoying noise 
is. 

Half ring, half buzz. Half ring, half buzz. Again and again.

Damn!

I groan. It's the outside door buzzer, an antique remnant of the days 
when people really cared about opening their doors to company. Loud 
enough to wake the dead. Loud enough to wake me. I turn and shoulder 
into my couch and pull a pillow over my head which feels twice its 
usual size.

Half ring, half buzz. Half ring, half buzz.

Christ! Can there be a more annoying sound in the universe?

I throw the pillow off, striking the face of the aquarium and 
startling the fish into a frenzy. My head hurts so much when I get to 
my feet that I'm sure I'm going to puke again.

Half ring, half buzz.

I'm going to kill whoever is out there leaning on that button.

I throw open my apartment door and lean into the hallway to see if I 
can make out the identity of the shadowed form in front of the frosted 
glass of the lobby door. I should have checked this out from the 
safety of my bay windows, I think ruefully. 

There is something familiar about the stance of the stooped, skinny 
body.

Omar, the more talkative idiot-half of the Brothers Duron. What the 
hell does he want? What the hell time is it? I see him reach for that 
goddamn buzzer again.

"All right! All right! I'm coming, already!"

He cranks the doorbell one more time anyway and for one second I 
entertain the fantasy of crashing through that frosted glass to grab 
him by that scrawny neck of his.

I run my hand through my hair instead. Even my hair hurts! I start 
toward the door, but step back to shut my apartment door as I remember 
that I'm still playing host to a federal agent against his will. 
Whatever was left of his will, that is.

I am *not* prepared for the icy blast of air that hits me when I open 
the lobby door. I lean in the doorway, making it clear with my body 
language that I will not be inviting this clown in for coffee and 
small talk.

"Jesus! You look like shit, Joey!" Omar's weasley face was all lit up 
with amusement. I'm not feeling amused, though.

"You'd better have a good reason for this house call," I growl. I can 
see his brother, Fernando, sitting in a car across the street, 
nervously scanning the area. 

Something's up.

"Maybe, just maybe, if you got a phone like normal people, Joey, we 
wouldn't have to drive all the way over here and disturb your beauty 
sleep," he growls back. He's getting very cheeky. When I level a look 
at him, he decides to get a bit more respectful in his tone. "Jimmy 
wants to see ya. Wants ya to come now. We'll drive to..."

Nope. I'm smarter than that.

"I'll come, but not with you two morons. I've got to clean up. Get 
dressed."

"We'll wait."

"Forget it! Give me the address, and tell him I'll be there as soon as 
I can."

Omar begins to look a little nervous. This is a deviation from the 
plan. He doesn't handle deviations too well. Deviations require 
thought processes, decision making -- chaos for his already chaotic 
mind. He looks at me for a long moment, but I know he's almost as 
scared of me as he is of Jimmy. Finally he shrugs and sighs, digging 
into his jacket pocket. He pulls out a wadded scrap of paper and hands 
it to me.

The address of a motel on the north side of the Allegheny. About a 
half hour's drive from here.

I shake my head in disgust. I am really not up for this little den 
meeting of ours. "What's so all-fired important this time? Jimmy's 
shipment of Italian leathers get lost?"

"Very funny, Joey! I'm sure Jimmy will appreciate the joke." Omar 
sneers. "Just get your ass to that address in forty-five minutes." He 
turns to head down my front steps.

"You still haven't told me why this meeting is important enough..."

Omar turns his head back to me as he reaches the sidewalk. "Gator was 
picked up this morning by the cops. Jimmy's afraid he's gonna talk, so 
he has a little job for you."

A job for ME? 

"Just tell him I'll be there when I get there!" I yell angrily after 
him. I slam the door so hard that the glass rattles in the frame. And 
the sound rattles in my head. Ow! That was stupid. Very, very stupid.

I notice it's well after 9 a.m. Nurse Joey is at least three hours 
late with Patient Mulder's medicine. Damn! This day is only ten 
minutes old, and already it sucks! If I get a chance today, I'm going 
to have to talk to Carol-Lee about this cock-eyed arrangement.

I don't even bother looking into the bedroom as I pass by on my way to 
the kitchen. If the ring-buzz didn't wake him, then he's dead. I think 
sullenly: More power to him; "dead" seems like an enviable state to me 
right now.

Okay. Two fingers of bug-killer. A glassful of that baby stuff -- 
Pedialyte? And I'll get him to swallow some Darvon. That should knock 
him out for the time I'm gone.

When I enter the bedroom with "breakfast", the fibbi is already 
propped up against the back of the bed. His eyes follow me warily. 
Apparently, I didn't get him drunk enough last night to forget our 
little encounter.

I don't give a damn. Let him be wary.

I watch him down the antibiotic. His eyes never leave me. I notice he 
finished what I left him last night, too. I snicker as I pick up the 
empty shot glass. Guess he's feeling a bit more motivated to get 
stronger.

I must have really scared him last night.

I wave the glass full of the baby drink at him and step closer to set 
it on the nightstand with the Darvon capsules. "I'm going to take my 
shower and get dressed. When I come out here, you'd better have 
finished this and taken these pills. Understand, pal?"

He shifts uncomfortably in the bed, moves away from me and nods. 

I just smile and chuck him under the chin. He's making me feel better 
again. I'm getting a sense of my own power back again.

"When I'm done, I'll let you out of those cuffs so you can get into 
the bathroom."

I smile down at him. I'm such a nice guy.

Besides, if Carol-Lee smells that stale liquor all over him, I might 
have some fast explaining to do.

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

I can see the sign for the seedy motel that is Jimmy's temporary 
hiding place. I am going to be late by an hour. Fine. I don't like 
adhering to his "come-when-I-call" schedules anyway.

And Special Houseguest Fox Mulder slowed me down a bit, too. 

At  least, by the time I was ready to head out the door, he appeared 
to be asleep again.

I can see Fernando Duron, leaning back on the fake brick facade of the 
motel, one leg up, braced against the wall. As I pull into the parking 
space next to his car, he motions silently with his thumb at the door 
beside him. He can't speak; he's too busy trying to cough and smoke 
his cigarette at the same time. 

What a talent.

I try the door. Locked, of course. So, I am forced to knock to gain 
entry. God, I hate these games. I am fed up to my eye teeth with this 
whole charade.

Carol-Lee's little girl face peers out from the partly open door. She 
smiles sweetly when she sees me. Now I remember why I'm doing this. I 
am going to take Jimmy Botina's place. I am going to sit where Jimmy 
Botina sits.

Well, right now, he's not sitting well, so to speak.

As I walk in, Jimmy's the first person I notice. He's crouched in a 
sitting position on the edge of one of the two beds, nervously chewing 
his nails and watching the television. Omar is sitting at a small 
table, playing solitaire with a new deck of cards. Always cockier 
toward me when Jimmy's around, he throws me a scornful glance and then 
pointedly ignores me.

Jimmy doesn't even acknowledge me at first. His leg is bouncing as if 
it's hard-wired to  a vibrator. He doesn't look good. Gone are the 
expensive suits. Gone is his European shine.

And this surprises me. Jimmy Botina is fast becoming unraveled. I have 
never seen him like this.

I look at Carol-Lee. She seems unaware of all the tension in this 
room. She just shrugs and bounces back onto the other bed where she 
resumes looking at the comic section of the newspaper.

The newspaper.

I look nervously over at Jimmy as I pick it up. I can clearly see the 
picture of FBI Agent Fox Mulder at the bottom of the front page. I 
scan the accompanying article while Jimmy is still zoning out on the 
boob tube news.

Relief washes over me. According to the article, the remains from the 
warehouse are still assumed -- "by authorities" -- to be the missing 
agent. It's only a matter of time though, I tell myself as I remember 
the determined look that I saw on FBI Agent Dana Scully's face 
yesterday.

At any rate, there is nothing in the news that will give Jimmy a hint 
that Carol-Lee and I have acted out a little double-cross of our own 
within this criminal comedy of errors.

I clear my throat for attention. "So, Jimmy, Omar said you wanted to 
see me."

Silence. More chewing of the nails. More bouncing of the leg.

"Jimmy?"

He finally looks up at me like a sleep walker awakened.

"You have to do something for me, Joey. I have to stop this thing from 
getting any bigger -- any closer -- to me." He looks all hollow- eyed 
and desperate.

I shrug and sit next to him on the bed.

"Jimmy. You've got money. You've got 'friends'. Why don't you just get 
out of the country for awhile? You could do it easily with your 
connections."

He shot to his feet and began pacing. "No, I can't! Carol-Lee won't 
leave, and suddenly my wiseguy friends are treating me like some kind 
of pariah!" He was looking angry now.

I am a bit surprised at his complaining. A bit surprised that he says 
it  is Carol-Lee that is preventing him from leaving.

"I can't go on living like this! Bouncing from motel to motel!" He 
stops in front of me, his fists clenching and unclenching. "Did Omar 
tell you they picked up that stupid sonofabitch, Gator?"

I nod wearily.

"He's being held at the downtown precinct station. They'll be 
questioning him in an  hour, when his court-assigned lawyer shows up."

I look up into his red face. "And you are telling me this because...?"

"He's got to be stopped before he has a chance to open his goddamn 
mouth!"

Now it's my turn to jump to my feet. I am nose to nose with Jimmy. 
"Sure thing, Jimmy! I'll just walk right in to the cop shop at high 
noon and take down Gator for you! And then maybe I should hurtle 
myself through a third story window for you, too!"

Jimmy backs up a step or two. He's sure getting meeker these days.

"Of course not, Joey. That's not what I need you to do!" He lowers his 
voice and, with a quick glance at Carol-Lee and Omar, pulls me over to 
the far side of the room.

"I need you to take Carol-Lee there." He's looking uncomfortable, 
hoping I'll understand the import of my little task. "She...um...she 
knows what has to be done, but if I go, I'm sure to be recognized. She 
couldn't help me in a place like that... and... and I couldn't help 
her, either."

Huh? What was that supposed to mean? How does he help her?

He's clutching my shoulders like he's family or something. "I'm 
trusting you to get her in and out of there safely, Joey. You're the 
only one with brains enough to figure out all the right moves."

Yeah. Yeah. Butter me up, Jimbo.



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