ECLIPSE OF THE HEART - PART 1

Boston:  June 20, 1996  11:21 pm

"Sorry, we're not home right now, but if you'll leave your name 
and number, and the date and time you called, we'll get back to 
you."

The message was curiously bland for Morgan Grayson, and 
Mulder grimaced, stretching out on the hotel bed.  "Morgan, it's 
Mulder.  Call me.  I'm still in Massachusetts."

The phone made a funny sound.

"I'm here," Morgan said, sounding breathless.  "We were outside, 
sorry."

"Hi, it's me," he said, feeling oddly shy now.

There was a brief silence.  "Are you home?"

"Not yet--didn't you hear the message?"  He grinned in the dark, 
the TV providing the only illumination.

"No, I was breathing too hard."  She sounded amused.  "From 
running, before you ask."

He grinned again, then sobered.  "How are you?"

Another brief silence.  "Odd," she said, sounding a little somber.  
"Whatever I have, I think I killed it when I killed Wilson."

"Don't start on that," he said mildly.  "Has it occurred to you that 
what you do is an extreme form of empathy?  Maybe you're just 
temporarily shorted out."

She sighed.  "I know.  Rationally, I know I'm not being punished, 
it's probably shock or something, but it's strange.  God, 
ambivalence is a terrible thing.  I miss it, but it's a tremendous 
relief.  I actually spent the afternoon with Aarin at the mall, getting 
him some summer clothes.  A month ago, I would have been gone 
in an hour with a killer headache.  I guess that's an improvement."

He tried to imagine constantly feeling the press of external 
emotions and could not.  "So, you're doing all right, other than 
that."

"Yes," she agreed, sounding amused again.  "I am, actually."

He smiled.  "Can I see you when I get back?"

"I'd like that," she finally said, after another odd silence.  "When is 
that?"

"A few more days," he said and sighed.  "Tying up loose ends from 
both Cronin and Wilson, not to mention having to talk to Bergman 
about why we didn't have a meeting with him."

"Ouch.  What did Walter say?"

"Walter?"  He arched his eyebrows in the dark.  "On a first name 
basis, huh?"

"Hey, he and his wife had dinner here last night with the whole 
crew."  Her voice held laughter.  "I think he was a little 
disconcerted that it was a normal meal.  I like him, Mulder, I know 
you two don't always get along."

He smiled in the dark.  "How do you know that?"

"He told me."  She snickered.  "I'll bet the two of you drive each 
other nuts, Mulder.  He told me some stories.  And here I thought 
you were this incredibly logical, rational fellow."

"I am logical," he defended himself, "I just like stretching the 
boundaries of what we consider logical."

"So I gathered."  There was another silence.  "I have to admit, I 
miss bickering with you."

That made him smile again.  They had bickered a lot, he supposed.  
"Well, we could bicker over the phone."

"About what?" 

"Alien abduction."

"I thought we exhausted that," she said, laughter in her voice 
again.

"Nope."  He sighed and settled against the pillows.  "I never told 
you why I believe."

She was silent again for a moment.  "No, you didn't."  Her voice 
went very soft.

"My sister," he said and fought the urge to close down.  "When I 
was twelve, she was abducted.  I haven't seen her since.  I went to 
somebody a few years ago, went through some regression 
hypnosis, and what I remembered was--suggestive."

There was another long silence.  "You said I told you something 
about your sister," she said, her voice softer yet.  "What was it?"

"I said I thought you had.  I'm still not sure."  He abruptly changed 
his mind.  "I'd rather talk about it when I get back, if that's okay."

"Sure."  Morgan sighed into the phone.  "Couple more days, huh?"

"Couple more days," he agreed, and abruptly missed her, almost 
painfully.  "I'll store up some good debating topics, okay?"

"I'll sharpen my skills," she laughed.

"All of `em."  He grinned in the dark at her laughter.  "See you 
soon, okay."

"Soon," she agreed and the phone clicked.

Hanging up the headset, he smiled in the dark.

*****************************************************
Washington DC: June 21

"I want Stoddard's report."  The man speaking was tanned and fit 
and dressed in the casual elegance of the very rich, holding a glass 
of white wine to his lips over lunch in one of the more exclusive 
restaurants of the Washington DC area.  "And I want to talk to 
Stoddard."

The smoking man reached into his jacket for his cigarettes, his 
thoughts moving rapidly as he sought obstacles to put in Averill 
Preston's path.  "It won't be as easy as it seems, I'm afraid.  Fox 
Mulder has become involved with her.  And what Mulder values--"

"Becomes a liability to him."  Preston sipped at the wine and 
smiled, no less urbanely, though his tone had gotten sharper.

"Of course.  That goes without saying.  But when he's on crusade, 
he becomes a liability to us.  We returned his partner to him to 
keep him from becoming more of an irritant than he already was."  
He shook out a cigarette and stopped at Averill's gesture. 

"No smoking," Averill told him, almost kindly.  "But we're nearly 
finished.  Agent Mulder, despite his reputation, has nothing.  He 
has nothing on what happened to his partner, on what happened to 
his sister and, I feel certain, will get no further with regard to what 
happens to Morgan Grayson."

Preston, the smoking man thought, was a prig.  But he was a 
ruthless prig, and prone to acting without proper sanction from the 
proper authority.  

In times past, he himself had been called upon to rein Preston in; 
since the debacle of the MJ tape, he had lost face with the 
committee.  And it might very well be that Preston was getting 
ready for a power play to eliminate his old colleague and superior.  

Sliding the cigarette back into the pack, he smiled and put it back 
into his inside pocket.  "You've been paying too much attention to 
old files, Averill.  The genetics project was a failure.  Grayson's 
older brother is dead, and her younger brother is institutionalized."

Averill's expression was bland.  "Ah, but look at her now, affiliated 
with the FBI's gadfly, Fox Mulder.  You don't think he doubts any 
of her abilities, do you?"

"Why not, we did."  He leaned back, his fingertips itching to 
retrieve the cigarette.

"And that was a mistake on our part," Averill told him genially.  "I 
think she was a frightened child--but she's no longer a child and I 
think she's using what she's always had.  Only she's well past 
puberty and I suspect what she's got is much stronger than those 
fools in the project ever knew."

Something tickled the back of the smoking man's mind; Averill 
knew something.  Averill was privy to something--he wondered if 
it was something that had been sanctioned, or one of Averill's 
private projects.  

"The project isn't quite dead," he said mildly and smiled when 
Averill's eyes narrowed.  "And Morgan Grayson isn't the only 
survivor."  It wasn't a shot in the dark, he knew certain facts very 
well.  He just didn't know what Averill was up to.

"No, it isn't."  Averill's smile grew broader.  "You're more clever 
than I thought, old friend."  He emphasized the latter words and 
leaned back in his chair.  "I had no idea that you were so well 
informed."

Smiling in return, the smoking man promised himself he would be.  
"But what good will Grayson do you?" he risked asking.  "She's 
clearly very covert about her abilities, and I agree, what we've seen 
or suspected is only the tip of the iceberg."

Chuckling, Averill nodded.  "But waste not, want not, my 
grandmother used to say.  A good old fashioned American 
proverb, don't you think?  And we certainly spent enough time and 
money on her, didn't we?  I want to know what she's got.  Time 
enough later to worry about bringing her in.  And frankly, Mulder's 
no worry at all.  You just have to know how to handle him."

None of which sounded good.  Nodding, the smoking man rose 
and pushed his chair in.  "I'll set up the meeting with Stoddard," he 
told Averill calmly, "And forward you his report.  I think you'll find 
it both illuminating and disappointing."

"I doubt it."  Averill's smile widened further, predatorily.  "I really 
do."

A nod of dismissal--to him!--and Averill returned to the papers he 
had been reading when the smoking man had joined him.

Only a fool allowed ego to interfere with his work--but he was, 
nonetheless, going to find out what Averill was up to.  And if it 
was unsanctioned, he was going to share that knowledge with 
certain key members of the committee.

Holding his smile in place, the smoking man made his way through 
the restaurant to the front door before reaching back inside his 
jacket and retrieving the cigarette.

*****************************************************
Washington DC:   June 23

The first thing Mulder did after returning to Washington DC was 
to see the Lone Gunmen and ask them to search for Amanda 
Fortenberry.  

The second was to call Morgan Grayson.

They met at an Ethiopian restaurant Morgan knew and liked.  At 
first, he was afraid that the discomfort he'd felt on seeing her in 
Massachusetts would make itself known, but it seemed they were 
both past that.

They weren't entirely past shyness, it seemed; she gave him a 
diffident smile, as though she wasn't quite sure how to greet him.  
It almost triggered the same in him, but he moved forward and 
gave her a hug, which dispelled the awkwardness.

"You look great," he told her softly, and it was true, even if there 
were still fading purple marks on her neck where Wilson had tried 
to strangle her.

"So you do."  Morgan bit her lip.  "Boy, this feels weird, Mulder."

He laughed at that.  "Get used to it, Grayson."

She grinned and linked her arm with his as they went into the 
restaurant.

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

Later, after trying a wide variety of exotic fare that he actually 
enjoyed, they talked about the cases in Massachusetts.

"They were twins, it turned out," he told her, rolling his eyes.

"Ah, the old missing twin gambit." Morgan's smile was almost 
sardonic.

"Not quite the usual, seems Mom and Dad split when they were 
about four, bitter, bitter divorce.  Mom took Chad and Dad took 
Joe.  Neither of them would have come close to winning Parent of 
the Year, and only small town blindness probably kept either of 
them from being visited by SRS.  Mom and Chad lived with 
Grandma,
diagnosed as paranoid schizophrenic."  

Mulder shrugged.  "Mom and Grandma died in a fire now 
considered suspicious when Chad was thirteen.  And Dad died a 
year or so later.  Both ended up in foster homes, but Joe was a 
little too far off the rails, they sent him to the state hospital when 
he was sixteen.   Nobody seemed to know they were brothers 
except the two of them, but the state hospital has noted that Joe 
had a regular visitor, some young man who claimed they were 
brothers."

Her smile vanished.  "Wilson."

"Yup.  He took his foster family's name, graduated from high 
school, did some community college, joined the Shrewsbury 
force."

"How did Joe get released?"  Morgan toyed with her glass of 
honey wine.

"He was functional, or close to it.  Budget cuts, somebody said 
he'd stopped hearing voices.  Everybody's stumbling over 
themselves trying to pass the buck on this one."

Morgan was silent for awhile, then sighed.  "Take two normal, 
healthy babies, twist and warp for about fourteen years, and voila--
two killers."

"It's not that simple," he said softly.  "You know that."

She sighed.  "I do.  Why do some kids in environments like that 
come out stronger, come out more compassionate?"

"God knows."  Reached across the table, he trapped the fingers 
that traced the bottom of the goblet.  "I certainly don't."

She sighed again and looked at him, clearly pushing it away from 
her mind.  "So, how is Gene?"

"Convinced you walk on water."  But it didn't bother him anymore; 
it was obvious it bothered her, from the shift in her expression.  
"Hey, that was a joke."

Her eyes narrowed.  "No more St. Morgan shit?"

"Cross my heart."  He grinned.  "I've seen you naked, remember?"

Her eyes glinted.  "Ah, we're even, then.

Laughing softly, he rubbed her palm with his thumb.  "So--I wasn't 
sure you'd want to see me again?"

That startled her; she regarded him, wide-eyed.  "Whyever not?"

"I yelled at you an awful lot up there."

Morgan's mouth twitched.  "I yelled back."

He grinned again.  "Yeah."  Then, more soberly, he tried to sort 
out what he wanted to say.  "Morgan, I don't know where this is 
going, but I'd really like to--"

Unmistakable panic stared back at him from her face.  "Fox," she 
interrupted him, "Don't analyze, please.  Just--just let be, okay?"  
Be what, he wondered, a little bemused.  "We're friends," she 
added, her expression still apprehensive.  "Aren't we?"

"Of course."  Eyeing her, ke kept his tone easy, though he was 
more than a little puzzled.

"That's all that matters, then," she told him, her eyes entreating.

After a moment, he nodded, still confused.  "Okay."  She looked 
relieved, more than anything else, which bothered him a little.  
"Want some dessert?"

Morgan grinned.  "Not unless you want to see me explode here in 
public," she told him, "Let's take a walk, it's a lovely evening."

"Sounds good to me."  He studied her face, still wondering.  "Not 
too far, I was hoping to find another means of working off the 
calories tonight."

Her eyebrows rose wickedly, and one corner of her mouth lifted.  
"Oh, by all means, Mulder," she agreed, laughter making her voice 
lilt upward.  "I always approve of a healthy exercise program."  
The glint in her eyes made his pulse speed a little, even as he began 
to laugh.


In the end, it was probably a toss up who burned more calories.  
Mulder was discovering that Morgan was very direct sexually:  
playful, explorative, and lacking even the slightest trace of coyness.  
As he detested coyness, it was an approach to sex calculated to 
drive him crazy, except that it wasn't calculated, it was just 
Morgan.  

He was also discovering that it was the emotional side of Morgan 
that was under lock and key, so well defended as to make *him* 
appear to be far more emotionally adventurous and open than he 
was.

At one point, he tried to talk about his feelings for her, and was 
swiftly diverted by being bitten on the chin and several other 
unsubtle actions that made him forget was he had been saying.  
Waking at five to find himself alone in bed with a note on the 
pillow, he was conscious of annoyance.

	"M.

	Sorry, had to go, didn't have the heart to wake you.

	M.

	PS:  Dinner tonight?"

Wryly reflecting that he wouldn't mind just a *little* sentiment now 
and again, he nevertheless found himself looking forward to the 
evening again.

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

Home again, Morgan checked on Aarin before seeking her own 
bed, and slipped gratefully into sleep.

....She is in the desert, Arizona or New Mexico, she thinks, and it 
is moonlight night, the stars like a scattering of gems on the black 
velvet of the night sky.

At first, she is content to simply gaze up, letting the harsh beauty 
of the desert calm her soul, but soon notices a fire a short distance 
away, a human shape silhouetted against the firelight.

She walks over there and finds a man, sharp-featured, his hair a 
dusty brown tangle, dark eyes gazing at her dispassionately as she 
approaches.

"Daughter," he says, and gestures for her to sit.

She does, unquestioningly acquiescent in the strange fashion of 
dreams.  The stranger takes out a bone flute and begins to play.  
The sound carries, eery and haunting in the night, and she lets her 
spirit soar and dive with the notes, feeling something she cannot 
quite define or understand.

When the music stops, it takes her a time to come back to herself; 
she discovers that he is watching her with a sardonic grin.  "You 
fear too much, daughter," he says lightly and takes up a stick, 
using it to draw a figure on the ground between them.

There is no denying, she knows and sighs, her eyes following the 
movement of the stick as the figure takes shape:  a large domed 
head, large almond shaped eyes, tilted up at the outer corners.

"Once, in the long ago, before humans existed, we came."  The 
dark eyes flash upward at her.  "The world was harsh, we adapted.  
Some of us adapted.  We looked like this, then."

Fascinated, she recognizes the features so often reported by those 
who claim to have been abducted:  oversized head, infantile body, 
delicate elongated hands and fingers.  Between one breath and 
another it takes on three dimensions and lies between them on the 
ground, regarding them both with an unblinking, liquid gaze.

"You know the truth, daughter, you know in your heart, but you 
keep silent.  Out of fear."  The stranger raises his eyebrows and she 
notices that they are bushy enough that they appear as one.  The 
tips of his ears are faintly pointed and can be seen through the 
untidy, thick brown hair, a delicate tuft of hair on the very tip of 
each.  "Why do you fear?"

The figure on the ground lies motionless, never blinking, never 
giving any indication that it sees them.

Why indeed, she thinks, a little ashamed.  Because people would 
think her mad, those who do not think so already.  Because even 
her friends would doubt her.  he doesn't believe in alien abduction, 
but she does believe in other things, things that have been of this 
world long enough, surely, to be naturalized, but no less 
inexplicable.

"Who are you?" she asks, drawing her feet back, not wanting the 
figure on the ground to take notice of her.

He gives her another sardonic smile.  "You must face your fears, 
daughter," he says, ignoring her question, "All of them.  Or this," 
he jabs the stick into the figure and it disperses into a scattering of 
sparks from the fire.  "Will destroy you.  With the help of 
confederates among your people.  Be canny like the fox," he adds 
and leans forward to tap her forehead with a calloused finger.  "Be 
brave.  Be tricky, like Coyote."

His smile fills her vision, so close is he.  And suddenly, that is all 
she can see, as his smile grows and he begins to dim, like the 
Cheshire Cat.  "Come and see me in the desert, daughter.  I will 
teach you how to laugh at the stars.  But remember what I have 
said.  There is war in heaven--"  The smile hangs there, lit by the 
fire, and then winks out......

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

Alexandria:  June 24, 9:00 pm

Morgan was troubled, Mulder sensed, but was unsure whether or 
not he should broach the subject.  He'd worked later than he'd 
intended, and called her at 8:00 to ask her to come over.

She brought Cantonese and Monty Python, which were both 
welcome, if only so he could counter some of the stranger 
exchanges she shared with Scully in front of him, but her laughter 
seemed perfunctory.  Finally, he turned off the movie and tilted her 
chin up to look into her eyes. 

"Hey," he asked, "Are you in there?  What's wrong?"

She sighed.  "Nothing.  I'm not good company tonight, am I?  I 
had a strange dream this morning, it's been hanging on all day." 

"Nightmare?"  He put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her 
closer to him, savoring the warmth.   "No?  Then what could be 
hanging on?"

"It was just--weird, that's all."  Her mouth quirked and she 
laughed.  "Boy, that sounds odd coming from me, doesn't it?  
When aren't my dreams weird?"

He smiled faintly.  "Can't say, lady, mine are generally about the 
same.  What was it about?"

"I think it was about Coyote."  She grinned at his expression.  
"Told you it was weird.  But he was warning me about something.  
It's faded over the course of the day, but I'd swear--and don't say a 
word, Mulder--he was warning me about little grey men."

He couldn't help it, he laughed.  

Scowling, she whacked him with one of his own couch pillows and 
that set him off again; it ended with him having to defend himself 
from a pillow attack and capturing her beneath him in the kind of 
victory he wanted.  

Kissing led to touching and touching led back to the floor because 
she refused to be cramped on the couch, and all of that led to her 
mood shifting again, back to playful, affectionate and wholly 
untouchable, except for her flesh.

It might have reassured him at other times.  

He wasn't sure it did, now.

"So what do you think Coyote was trying to tell you," he asked, 
back on the couch again, King Arthur's knights fleeing the killer 
rabbit.

She slanted him a grin, sitting crosslegged beside him, wearing the 
shirt he'd lost in the tussle.  "Probably to watch out for little grey 
men."  Leaning close, she kissed the tip of his nose.  "Or maybe 
FBI types who believe in little grey men," she teased.  "Although 
he did tell me to be canny, like the fox.  Hard to say.  I tend to 
range between the horridly prescient dreams and the normally 
muddled, where all the day's events get recycled."

"Why do you think it's bothering you," he asked, studying her 
features.

"Oh, that's easy," she laughed, but he sensed that it wasn't easy at 
all, at least not to speak about; her eyes drifted back to the 
television.  "It's this completely zany theory I've had on the 
underside of my mind since I wrote about abduction.  I've been 
about a quarter convinced that there's someone out there, and 
they've been out there a long time.  We've known them as dryads, 
satyrs, nymphs, godlings, the Faery Folk, angels and demons, but 
they're all one."  

Her gaze came back to him and she made a gesture, as if to dismiss 
her own words.  "You remember, I told you I believed that forty 
percent of abductees had experienced something genuinely 
inexplicable."

He leaned back, considering it.  "For how long."

"Coyote said long ago, before humans existed."  Her voice was 
very soft.

"Before we walked upright, before civilization began."

He felt something chill touch the nape of his neck.  "Long time," he 
said softly.  "It's an interesting theory."

She looked at him again and gently poked him in the ribs.  "It's an 
out there theory," she laughed, making light of it.  "But it's mine 
own, what can I say?  I keep plugging things in as they come 
along, trying to make all the pieces fit, but I haven't quite gotten 
there."

"It's no more out there than most of mine," he told her drily.  "So 
either we're the only ones still thinking, or it's folie a deux now."

Her expression went abruptly unreadable.  "Folie a deux," she 
repeated and then grinned, relieving him.  "Scary thought.  Think 
how much more dangerous we are when thinking together.  Good 
thing we have practical folk like Geoff and Dana around."

That touched him on a delicate spot, one he hadn't even noticed 
until now.  "So what's with Geoff and Scully?"

Her mouth twitched and she shrugged.  "What's with *us*, 
Mulder?  Same thing, I'd guess.  Only more so.  Geoff's smitten, 
but I don't know about Dana."

He nodded, wondering exactly how to interpret that; was she 
troubled by it?  He'd gathered that her relationship with Geoff was 
close.  On the other hand, was he troubled by it?  No and no, and 
his hurt feelings had been quelled when Scully had talked a little 
about seeing Geoff over dinner after Morgan had left
Massachusetts.  

Probably better not to try and interpret, particularly if he was using 
his experiences with other women as the yardstick.  Morgan was, 
as he had noted before, an original.  Still...."You ever have 
anything going on with Geoff?"

Another unreadable look came his way.  "Once.  A long time ago.  
We made the mistake of trying to be lovers instead of friends.  
Came too damned close to getting married, I guess, until I had a 
sudden attack of sanity and said no.  We're better friends now, I 
think, though that's usually not true."

For a long moment, he considered that.  "What about Sharon?  
How's she fit into the group?"

Her mouth curved again and he saw the small dimple at the corner 
that so rarely showed.  "You mean who squirms the most in the 
middle?  Shame on you, we're friends, that's all, though I can't 
discount the possibility that Sharon might have wished otherwise."  
She laughed softly at his expression.  "Darn the luck, I just couldn't 
make the switch."

"A fact for which I'm immensely grateful," he told her drily and 
reached for her again, needing to make physical contact.

"Are you," she asked wickedly, "And just how grateful are you, 
Agent Mulder.  Perhaps you could prove your gratitude?"

"Insatiable," he sighed, addressing the ceiling.  "Just my luck."  
And caught his breath a moment later.

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

Driving home much later, Morgan found herself uneasy again.  

Coyote, she thought, shaking her head fractionally.  She was 
moderately ignorant of Native American lore; she needed to mend 
that.  All she remember of Coyote was that he was a trickster, a 
figure neither purely malevolent or benevolent. 

And why he should appear in her dreams, when she had always 
worked with European archetypes, was another question.

She had always detested those who so easily "borrowed" Native 
American icons and myths, seeing it as just another form of 
exploitation of the indigenous peoples; that was her own 
judgement and one she strove not to allow to color her dealings 
with such folk, reckoning it as her own peculiar bias.  Now she 
found herself wondering if she had allowed that bias to blind her to 
such a degree that she had failed to learn what she should have 
learned.

Respect, she had always held; perhaps it was time to increase her 
knowledge.

As she pulled into the driveway, the lights flickered on a pale 
shadowy shape near the back of the drive, near the garage.  Feeling 
a prickle of fear, she turned off the engine, letting her eyes adjust 
to the dark.   There was no more movement, but she slipped out of 
the car and took a few steps toward the back of the house, 
curiosity overriding fear and sense, her innersense tingling as if it 
were a limb asleep.

For a brief second, she thought she saw something, something that 
made her skin break out in gooseflesh, something childlike, its head 
oversized, pale-skinned, eyes as dark as the night.

"Morgan?"  Sharon's voice, coming from the back door, made her 
start, made her turn her head briefly, taking her eyes away from the 
shape for no more than the space of a few breaths; glancing back, 
she saw it was gone.

Chilled, she stared at the empty space for a long moment.

"Get in here, girl, before the boogeyman snatches you up," Sharon 
laughed a little.

The boogeyman, she thought and shivered before turning to go in.


Washington DC:  July 1, 12:15 pm

Walter Skinner was both furious and intrigued.  

He'd awakened at the usual time, showered and shaved and 
performed all the usual ablutions, all while taking care not to wake 
his sleeping wife.  Once in the kitchen, he had made himself coffee, 
picked the paper up from the porch, and sat down at the kitchen 
table to read it, only then discovering an envelope there, his name 
written in bold, almost archaic calligraphy.

It hadn't been there the night before.

The implications infuriated and frightened him; the contents of the 
envelope intrigued him.  Detailing his actions in the aftermath of 
the MJ files affair, the letter suggested that he'd been watched, 
investigated and that he might benefit from connection to an 
association more benevolent than the consortium.

If he was interested, he should select a certain cafe for lunch and 
he would be joined by someone who might or might not offer him 
an invitation.  Cloak and dagger bullshit, he thought, his immediate 
reaction to toss the letter and ignore the suggestion.  But just a few 
months previous, they had tried to ruin him, had tried to kill his 
wife to better accomplish it.  They had entered his home, despite 
the state-of-the-art security system.  

Maybe, he thought grimly, it was time for *this* leapord to change 
his spots, time for him to enter the game wholeheartedly.  

Or at the very least, he finally decided, to consider his hand.


The cafe was just another anonymous place, the table he'd been 
instructed to take toward the back, near the kitchen.  At the 
appointed time, a man appeared at the table and sat down across 
from him, a well dressed, well manicured man, craggy features and 
greying hair and beard reminding him of some actor that Sharon 
had once liked.

"Mr. Skinner," his companion said softly, "Good of you to join 
me."

Skinner eyed him warily; the voice bore the faintest trace of an 
accent, which meant very little in the long run, but which 
nevertheless made him wonder which government this man might 
represent.  "Just out of curiosity, how did you get into my house."

The man smiled faintly.  "As to the particulars, I'm afraid I can't 
enlighten you, I didn't make the delivery.  However, it was thought 
that the method chosen would demonstrate our good will.  
Certainly, if we'd meant to harm either of you, neither of you 
would be breathing now."

Skinner considered that, not liking it, but recognizing the truth.  
"All right, what do you want from me?"

The waiter appeared then, and explanation was foregone in favor 
of ordering.

Skinner noticed that the accent disappeared as the man spoke to 
the waiter, leaving a generic, Middle American accent that did 
nothing to make him more comfortable.

"We have observed your recent, shall we say, difficulties with 
certain representatives of the consortium."  The man's eyes rested 
on him: peculiar eyes, one brown, one blue; both emotionless.

Consortium, Skinner thought, tasting the word in his mind.  
"And?"

The man shrugged.  "And we thought to offer you both protection 
and a more active, more powerful role in countering their influence 
in your office.  The behavior of your cigarette smoking colleague 
has been rather over impulsive of late, his masters aren't wholly 
pleased."

He found he devoutly hoped that was true, even as he doubted 
everything this man was saying to him.  "And I'm to replace him?  
Is that it?  You want to groom me for his slot?"  The still small 
voice in side him was telling him it was sense, it was sanity, but it 
was still bullshit.

That startled his companion.  "We have nothing to do with who 
replaces him, Mr. Skinner."  He narrowed his eyes.  "Although the 
notion has its attractions, I'm not sure that we're presently in a 
position to present them with a ringer, I believe you call it here."

The knot in his stomach loosened.  "Who are you?  You're slinging 
words around rather carelessly aren't you?"

"Call me Mr. Jones," his companion said, smiling again.  "And 
those I represent?  Well, they prefer to be known as the Illuminati, 
I'm afraid.  Rather ironic, but many of our members are prone to 
such humorous allusions."

Humorous, Skinner thought, and smiled rather humorlessly.  "The 
Illuminati," he repeated.

Mr. Jones nodded.  "The enlightened ones, as it were.  Should you 
accept our offer of membership, I think you gain protection for 
yourself and your lovely wife, more power in your own domain, 
and a greater role to play in developments we foresee."

"That's what I gain," Skinner challenged.  "What do you gain from 
me?"

The man's smile thinned.  "Fox Mulder's work must continue.  
With a much stronger official presence backing him, it should be 
possible to protect some of the discoveries he's made.  We need 
that protection from you.  Much of what we've needed has been 
co-opted or destroyed by representatives of the consortium."

Skinner examined the man's face again; the waiter arrived 
suddenly, bringing their food, giving him time to think before 
responding.  

This was about Mulder, he thought, incredulous--no, it was about 
the things that Mulder dug up, the MJ tapes, the whole bloody 
Roswell mess.  Who were these people, these Illuminati?  And if 
they had power--"Why don't your people simply reveal the truth?  
Go public, turn over what you have to the media?"  His voice was 
harsh, mistrustful; he didn't care.  "Why use Mulder?  What 
importance does he have to you?" 

Mr. Jones assessed him with those eerily mismatched eyes.  "First, 
Mulder is in a unique position.  His father was disciplined and 
forced to forfeit one of his children.  Any discoveries made public 
by Agent Mulder are all the more powerful for the fact that his 
father was one of those who participated in the original coverup, in 
the original series of crimes, that he is the sole surviving child of 
one of the conspirators.  Second, despite the fact that we have 
agents in the consortium, and they--doubtless-have agents in our 
organization, much of the documentation we require eludes us.  
Mulder has a gift for ferreting out things long thought successfully 
buried or even lost, perhaps the result of the genetic manipulation 
performed on him in utero."

Rocked, Skinner went very still, his expression bland enough to 
hide what he was thinking.  Was Mulder's genius the result of 
genetic experimentation?  Were Mulder's unique abilities the result 
of some tampering?  God, he didn't want to ask about that, wanted 
to think about it even less. 

"Third, to reveal the information in question would require 
revealing ourselves.  Quite frankly, we prefer the shadows, there is 
more room for manuevering there."  Jones smiled again, thinly.  
"And lastly, Mulder himself is of importance to our organization.  
We have records indicating that both the Mulder children were 
genetically, shall we say, improved as a result of their father's 
unique role, and we have yet to determine the extent of that 
manipulation.  We're very interested in him, Mr. Skinner, but we 
would rather have him alive than dead. Call it scruples, call it 
pragmatism, whatever you will.  Dead, Fox Mulder is useless to 
us."

So much interest in one tormented man, Skinner thought, feeling 
the urge to just get up and walk away, to walk away from this 
devil's brew of conspiracy.  "You aren't American."

Jones smiled again, his eyes glinting slightly.  "British, actually.  
But many of our most powerful members are Yanks, like you, Mr. 
Skinner.  Like the consortium, we are a multi-national 
organization.  I can, however, assure you that we will not request 
information that would compromise your national loyalties.  We 
ask very little, I think, in return for a great deal."

"The problem with dealing with the devil is the fine print at the 
bottom of the contract."  Skinner kept his voice uninflected.

Jones chuckled.,  "A metaphor out of place in this particular 
instance, I do assure you.  But even if it were apt, which do you 
choose?  The devil you know or the devil you don't know?"

"Generally, the devil I know," Skinner told him drily.  "Let's cut to 
the chase, what is it exactly that you want from me, aside from 
keeping Mulder's head out of a noose?"

"At present, nothing.  In future you may be asked to report on his 
activities and whereabouts."

More betrayal, thought Skinner, trusting the man less than ever.  
"To what purpose?"

The other man's gaze was intense.  "I can offer nothing but our 
assurances on this, Mr. Skinner.  To reveal what actions we've 
taken in the past would compromise us past sense and safety.  But 
be assured, at least one of our members has died in attempting to 
protect Fox Mulder."  

He leaned back in the chair again, casual and relaxed.  "I have also 
been asked to convey a word of caution regarding the good Dr. 
Grayson.  Her abilities have come to the attention of your cigarette 
smoking friend; he fears she is one of his flock gone rogue, and 
may very well take action to eliminate her.  Her gifts make her a 
very valuable asset to you and to our organization, but she has also 
entangled herself in an affair that will almost certainly lead to rash 
action on his part."

Morgan Grayson, Skinner thought, feeling chilled.  "Is she one of 
his flock?"

"She is not," said Jones and took a bite of his salad.  "She's as 
human as you or I--more so, I dare say, since she's never been a 
government employee.  She, like Agent Mulder, is somewhat 
different than she might have been without manipulation."

Human, Skinner thought and suppressed the urge to shudder at 
what the alternative might be.  "Is she one of yours?"

"Dr. Grayson is not aligned,"  Jones took another bite.  "If she 
were to describe herself, I suspect she would say she was 
attempting to act in harmony with the Tao.  She may suspect the 
existence of groups such as the consortium or the Illuminati--in 
fact, at this point, she may be fairly certain of it--but she has never 
been associated with either."

"Why should she be certain of it now?"  Skinner asked, the chill 
seeping through to his bones.

"As I said, she's entangled herself in a dangerous affair.  I am not at 
all certain that we have the necessary arrangements in place should 
she require protection.  It's helpful that Mulder has taken a 
personal interest in her."

This was the first he'd heard of that.  "How personal?"

Jones eyed him again, clearly amused.  "I believe they are, as the 
current parlance runs, involved intimately.  Rather unsentimental 
about it, the two of them, but quite intense nonetheless."

Skinner hated surprises.  On the other hand, Mulder's personal life 
was none of his business.  "You expect him to protect her?"

"I expect him to protect her long enough for other resources to 
take over."  Jones arched an eyebrow.  "He is notoriously 
protective of his friends, as I believe you yourself have reason to 
know."

He?  Mulder's friend?  That concept was more alien than all of 
Mulder's theories.  It was, however, inarguable that Mulder had 
stuck his neck out recently to keep him from being ruined.  
Confusion mixed with distrust ruined what little appetite he had.  
Rising, he reached for his wallet, only to have Jones raise a hand.

"Our treat, Mr. Skinner, though it's a pity you didn't eat anything."

"You've given me enough to chew on," Skinner told him ironically.  
"If I decide to accept, how to I contact you?"

Reaching into his jacket, Jones extracted a creamy vellum card 
with a telephone number printed on it.  "Nothing over dramatic, 
just a telephone call to this number.  Tell them you would like to 
leave a message to Mr. Bierce."  He grimaced.  "Some of our 
group are also fond of literary allusions.  The message should be 
simply that you accept the offer.  We'll contact you after that."

"And if I don't?"

Those mismatched eyes considered him.  "Mr. Skinner, to be 
honest, I doubt you have much choice."

****************************************************
Alexandria:  June 25th, 8:31 am

Checking her email after having ignored it since her return, 
Morgan frowned, seeing a message from a detective she'd known 
in San Francisco.  She hadn't logged in in weeks, not since the 
dreams had gotten bad and certainly not while working the Cronin 
case.

"Okay, Marc," she sighed and double-clicked on the message.

	"Morgan,

	Sorry, I've been out of touch, but I think I'm finally on to
	something.  I finally traced Amanda Fortenberry--there's
	another dead therapist in her wake, in Jackson, I'm going
	out there next week to talk to her, follow up on it.

	If I'm right about this, if there's something she doesn't 
	know she remembers, if there's something buried in her 
	memory worth killing for, I need you to help me dig it 
out.  	I'm going to get the bastards that killed Elizabeth, and it 
	ain't vengeance, 	babe, it's only justice.  Blind and half-
	lamed these days, but she still stands for something.

	Call me, okay?  I really need to talk to you on this.  Use 
my 	cell phone, Maria's a little antsy about having strange 
	women call, and you're certainly strange, babe.

	Marc"

Reaching for the telephone, she sighed, thinking of Marc's hopeless 
quest.  The cell phone number had been disconnected, which 
disquieted her oddly; after a few moments of hesitation, she rang 
his home number.

His fiancee, Maria, answered.

"Hello, my name is Morgan Grayson, I've worked with Marc 
before, back when I lived on the coast.  Could I speak to him?"  
She hoped that deflected any tendencies to jealousy.

There was a long, taut silence.  "You can't," the woman's voice 
said, sounding upset.  "I'm sorry, you can't."

That was a little too much, she thought, wondering what on earth 
Marc had told his fiancee about her.  "It's important, it's about a 
case."

"He's past worrying about cases," Maria told her bitterly, tears 
evident in her voice.  "He's dead."

Shock held her frozen in her chair.  Grief would come soon, she 
knew, numbly holding to the phone.  "How?" she whispered.

"A car accident."  The woman took in a shaking breath.  "I'm 
sorry, he's gone, I can't talk about this, I'm sorry."

The line went dead.  After a moment, Morgan had the wit to turn 
the phone off and set it down.

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

Sharon found Morgan, still sitting at her computer, staring blindly 
at the screen.  The stillness told her something was wrong; walking 
up behind, she read the message still on the screen and frowned.  

Marc Pedersen again.  Damn.

Putting her hands on Morgan's shoulders, she squeezed gently.  "I 
thought you were over all that, big sister."

Morgan took in a shaky breath.  "He's dead, Sharon.  He sent me 
this message and went to Jackson and now he's dead.  Like 
Elizabeth."

Sharon stared at the words on the screen, trying to make sense of 
it.  "When?"

"Last week."  Morgan shivered suddenly and put her hands to her 
face.  "He was onto something, Sharon, and they killed him."

Appalled, Sharon gave shook at her.  "Do you hear yourself?  They 
who?  Elizabeth took an overdose of pills, Morgan, she was like 
you, too empathic with her clients and she couldn't deal with it."  

Very real fear twisted her stomach in knots; she had not approved 
of Morgan's involvement in the case in Massachusetts, it had come 
too soon after Harcourt, and Morgan had not handled that nearly 
as well as outsiders might think.  

The last thing she needed, Sharon thought, a little angry, was 
further involvement in Marc's affairs, posthumous or not.  "Let it 
go."

"I spoke with Dave Johnson.  He says there's some talk that Marc's 
car was run off the road."  Morgan's voice was uninflected.  
"Maybe he was right, Sharon.  Maybe Elizabeth was murdered.  
And maybe he was."

Frustrated, Sharon sought for the words that would dissuade her, 
that would break the last link to Marc Pedersen.

Morgan's relationship with him had begun in helping Marc deal 
with his grief, and ended with him seeing her as a tool to be used 
to substantiate his theory about his fiancee's death.

Elizabeth Matthews had been a psychologist working at a public 
clinic; Marc had found her dead of an overdose and swore that 
Elizabeth would never have killed herself.  Morgan had talked to 
him then, having met him when she'd tried to find the Shafer boy 
after his disappearance, and that talking had turned into something 
more after a time.  

She hadn't liked it then and she didn't like it now; Marc Pedersen 
was a selfish bastard and the relationship had shown signs of 
spiralling into a self-destructive cycle when Morgan had abruptly 
ended it.  Sharon had been glad, relieved.  She'd known Marc too 
well, once, a long time ago, and knew first hand what he was like.  

And now, even dead, he reached out to stir up the pot, getting 
Morgan involved in this crusade that seemed to have no basis in 
fact.   "You aren't a cop, hon, and he had no business involving 
you in this."  She tried to keep her voice pitched low, 
nonconfrontational.  Geoff was going to have a fit; he'd detested 
Marc with a passion, and it wasn't about the relationship he and 
Morgan had once tried to take beyond friendship.

"I'm going out there," Morgan said softly and rose, shaking her off 
to move to the closet.

"Don't you have a date tonight with the FBI?"  Sharon arched an 
eyebrow, trying not to snap, trying not to set Morgan off into an 
attack of obstinacy.

Morgan paused, looking distracted.   "Oh, God, I've got to get 
hold of him."  She glanced at Sharon, really seeing her.  "Sharon, I 
won't be gone long."

Sharon stuffed her anger down, hiding it behind an ironic smile.  
"And what are you going to do out there?"

"I'm going to Jackson," Morgan told her, her tone reasonable,  
"And talk to Amanda Fortenberry."

That was too much.  "If you really believe that Marc was 
murdered, don't you think that's unwise?"  Her facade cracked; her 
tone was harsh and angry and Morgan's expression changed.

"I have to do this," she said softly.  "I hunt monsters, Sharon, 
remember?  I'm the Hunter.  If Amanda Fortenberry is the monster, 
I have to know, I have to deal with it."

"If all of Amanda's Fortenberry's shrinks are past tense, Morgan, 
how do you think you're going to fare?  I read those damned 
reports, there's nothing in them to indicate murder!"

Morgan's eyes were steady.  "Sometimes coincidence *is* just 
coincidence, Sharon.  But this--this is too contrived.  And you 
know it, even if you won't admit it."

This was going nowhere, Sharon admitted to herself; once her 
temper took over, there was no use trying to reason with Morgan.  
Morgan got calmer and she got madder and nobody won.

She hoped Geoff had better luck.


Alexandria:  June 30, 8:00 pm

The knock on Mulder's door came just as he was about to leave.  
Opening it, he found Morgan, much to his surprise, standing on his 
doorstep, her expression apologetic.  

"Hi,  I was just getting ready to come over--what's the matter?"

"I'm going to have to take a rain check, Mulder."   Her expression 
was apologetic.  "I've got to leave tonight for San Francisco, I'm 
taking a flight out in a few hours.  You're a hard man to reach, you 
know that?"

The depth of his disappointment surprised him.  "Yeah--what's 
going on in San Francisco?  A case?"

"Kind of."  She managed a weary smile.  "Can I come in anyway?"

"Oh, sure, sorry."  Stepping back, he let her in and closed the door, 
feeling a little sorry for himself.  

He'd been looking forward to this; they'd been seeing each other 
pretty regularly since his return from Massachusetts.  Despite her 
careful resistance to categorizing the relationship, or discussing 
feelings, he sensed that they were growing closer.  Looking down 
at her, impulse struck and he pulled her gently against him, just 
giving her a comfortable hug.

"Mmm."  She sighed against him.  "That's nice."

That made him smile and he tilted her face up to kiss her.  When he 
released her, she gazed at him, eyes  a little unfocused.  "You're 
alarming good at that," she muttered and put both arms around his 
waist.  "I'm really sorry about this, this thing just came up 
suddenly."

"Hey, happens to me all the time.  I'm gonna have to store up some 
points on this one for the next time I've got to fly out at an hour's 
notice."  It always amazed him how small she was, maybe a few 
inches taller than Scully at most.  She had, he thought, smiling into 
her hair, a tall personality in a short frame.  "So what is it?"

"A friend of mine was killed in a car accident about a week ago.  It 
looks now like it may not have been an accident, I need to go out 
and check some things." 

Her voice was soft, burdened with grief and something else he 
couldn't identify.

His internal alarms began to sound and he tilted her chin back up.  
"Are you sure that's a good idea?  So soon after Cronin and 
Wilson?"

Her gaze sharpened.  "Yes, Agent I'm-still-wearing-bandages 
Mulder, I'm sure it's a good idea."

He flushed.  "Hey, Skinner asked me to take that case, I was 
supernumerary anyway with you up there."

That made her mouth quirk.  "The hell," she told him mildly.  
"Don't sell yourself short, Mulder, or I'll kick you in the shins."

He grinned.  "That's about as high as you can reach," he jibed, but 
there was no sting in it.  "You on your way home?"

"Nope, on my way to the airport."  She leaned closer, as if needing 
the comfort; he gave it gladly.

"What time does your flight leave?" he murmured.

"Eleven."

Eleven?  He glanced at the clock on his VCR and began to laugh.  
"Morgan, it's just 8:00 now."

Surprisingly, she blushed.  "Okay, I'm a little neurotic about 
missing flights, I admit it.  It'll take me thirty minutes to get there, 
another thirty by the time I get my bags checked in, I'm phobic 
about missing planes."

He was snickering.  "Morgan, that still leaves you with two hours."

"Well, they board you about fifteen minutes early sometimes," she 
protested, but blushed again.

It gave him an idea.  "How about I take you to the airport?  You 
can leave your car here, I can get it back to your house.  And you 
probably haven't eaten yet, have you?  No, I didn't think so."  He 
pulled her closer again, murmuring in her ear.  "I'll order some 
takeout, we can at least have dinner together, okay?"  He 
punctuated this with a kiss to the side of her throat.

"You're a wicked, wicked man," she sighed and shivered.  
"Promise to get me there by 10:00?"

He grinned.  "Cross my heart."

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

Things didn't get physical until they were in the middle of eating 
shrimp lo mein; for some reason, Mulder found Morgan's skill with 
chopsticks alarmingly attractive.  

Seated crosslegged on his couch, facing him, she gestured 
unselfconsciously, intent on arguing a point of metaphysical theory, 
the faint light from the westering sun shining through the loose 
summer dress she wore.  She always dressed to conceal herself, 
but he knew what lay under the light, gauzy fabric and it was 
definitely raising his blood pressure.   

Leaning forward, he gently took the chopsticks away from her.

"What?" she asked, puzzled.  

"You're making me crazy," he told her softly and kissed her.

"You're a maniac," she told him, but there was a wicked glint in 
her eye.  

"Uh huh," he agreed and began on the buttons on the front of the 
dress as he kissed her again.  

There wasn't much talk for a while--they both had the same 
weakness, it seemed, using their bodies to say what they could not, 
or at least he hoped that was true.

For a while, the shrimp lo mein was in danger, but he managed to 
shift it to the coffee table before any damage was done.  By that 
time, clothes were strewn on the back of the couch and he was 
kissing bare skin, entirely aroused and more than just slightly 
regretful that she was going to be leaving.

Her arms went around his neck as he entered her, the silky wetness 
drawing a gasp from him.  "God, Mulder."

"Fox," he breathed, and bent to kiss her throat, nibbling gently on 
spots he had discovered to be extraordinarily sensitive.

"Fox," she agreed, breathless, and pulled him in more deeply, 
making the argument absurd.

Moving together was like coming home, a sensation that might 
have frightened him if she were not so wary herself.  There was, he 
believed, no such thing as bad sex, but sex with strangers was 
sometimes awkward, sometimes mistimed, sometimes less than 
completely satisfying for reasons that had more to do with the fact 
that they were strangers than emotion.

It was as if they'd known each other for years, old lovers met again 
and coming back together wiser and stronger.  Aside from the 
wariness, at least--seeking out her responses seemed as natural as 
breathing, and she seemed to know his own as well as he did.  Only 
it was one helluva lot nicer to have someone else there to arouse 
them.

Making love to her was becoming addictive, he thought dimly 
some time later, as matters proceeded apace.  

His only consolation was that she seemed to becoming as addicted 
as he was.  Robert Palmer, eat your heart out--and Morgan arched 
up under him and cried out....

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

"Wow," Morgan breathed.  "You're an impetuous man, Mulder."

"Fox."  Mulder bit her chin gently to counterpoint it.

"Fox," she agreed and bit him back, not quite as gently.

"Ow," he complained and shifted his weight a little. 

"Stubborn man," she reproved and then kissed where she had 
bitten.

"That's the pot talking about the kettle," he told her wryly, and 
kissed the hollow of her throat.  "Wow is right."

Her hands soothed his shoulders, rubbing small circles just above 
his shoulder blade.  "I guess it's time to go buy new underwear."

Diverted, he moved, separating them, briefly regretting the leather 
surface beneath them.  "New underwear?"

"Trade secret."  Morgan giggled disarmingly.  "Start sleeping with 
someone new, you have to get new underwear."

Grinning he arched an eyebrow.  "Sleeping?"

She leaned up on her elbows, which was distracting, given his 
admiration of her breasts.  "You can still be turned into a toad, 
Mulder."

"Then you wouldn't need new underwear," he pointed out, still 
grinning.

"That remains to be discovered," she told him, "We never have 
discovered the whole truth about toads with big feet."

He rolled his eyes.  "I'm in terrible trouble, I've finally discovered a 
woman whose mind works more strangely than my own," he told 
her and bent to kiss her again, freezing when the sound of a knock 
on the door interrupted him.  "Shit."

"Mulder," a voice came through the wood faintly, "It's me, Scully."

"No way," he breathed and sat up.  "Shit, shit, shit."

Morgan regarded him, her eyes wide.  "Oh, dear.  Talk about in 
flagrante delicto--"

"Just a minute, Scully," he called and pulled Morgan up.  "My 
bedroom, please, I--"  He ran a hand through his hair.  "I just like 
keeping things private, Morgan, that's all."

She gave him another wide-eyed look and snatched after her 
clothing before vanishing behind his bedroom door.  He struggled 
back into his jeans, kicked his shorts under the couch and yanked 
his shirt on over his head.

"Mulder?"

"I'm coming," he called, and made it to the door, opening it only 
far enough to stand there, hopefully blocking her view.

Scully was dressed casually; she'd been home and changed.  "You 
left your cell phone in my car," she told him and handed it to him, 
eyes narrowing slightly.  "I'm sorry, were you asleep?"

He shook his head, unaccountably nervous.

"Your battery is dead, by the way," she told him,  "I tried to use it 
to make a call--mind if I use your phone, I'm running late."

"What about your cell phone?" he asked, wondering how much 
evidence was visible in the livingroom behind him.  

Scully rolled her eyes.  "I forgot mine at home, believe it or not, 
that's why I tried to use yours."  Her gaze became a little puzzled 
as he hesitated.  "Mulder, am I interrupting anything?"

"Um, no, sure you can use the phone."  He backed out of the 
doorway, feeling resigned to it.

She stepped in, heading for the phone; after a brief conversation, 
she hung up, regarded the livingroom with something resembling 
amusement and slanted him a look.  "Sorry, Mulder," she said 
mildly.

He followed her gaze.  Morgan had gotten her clothes, thankfully, 
but her shoes were sitting on the coffee table.  Not to mention the 
fact that he generally didn't require four pairs of chopsticks.  

Shrugging, he made light of it.  "Forget it," he sighed, wondering 
why he felt mild relief that she had, at least, not seen Morgan.  

He wasn't sure why it bothered him, except that they didn't usually 
share that kind of information with each other, and he wasn't 
entirely sure why that was true.  Maybe because they had walked a 
sword's edge about their own relationship for a long time, keeping 
the balance despite rumors to the contrary.

Scully nodded and turned toward the door again.  "Bye, Morgan," 
she called, just as she opened it, her gaze alight with mischief.

He closed his eyes, resigned more than embarrassed, now.  Scully 
was enjoying this too much, he wasn't about to let her see just how 
disconcerted he really was.

Morgan appeared in the doorway, looking amused and thankfully 
dressed again.  "Hey, Dana."  Her mouth quirked.

Scully's expression was brimful of laughter.  "He's a little paranoid, 
don't mind him."  She sobered briefly.  "Remember what I told 
you, no messing around out there.  If you get the faintest hint that 
your suspicions are right, you hand it over to the nearest law 
enforcement."

Morgan rolled her eyes.  "Sure, Mom, I promise, I'll call in the 
cavalry.  Give Aarin a hug and kiss for me, okay?"

Mulder looked from one to the other.  "I think you and I better 
talk more about this," he muttered, feeling faint unease.

"Good luck," Scully told him drily, "She's alarmingly like you, 
Mulder, when she gets her mind made up."  Flashing Morgan 
another look, she went out, closing the door behind her.

"Maybe you'd better tell me a little more."  Mulder turned to face 
Morgan, feeling his alarms sound again.  

He'd silenced them earlier, reckoning it as more of his damned 
inconvenient protective instinct, but now he wondered...

After a moment, she nodded, her expression mildly annoyed.  
"Okay, but I want to finish my shrimp."

The more Morgan told him, the louder his alarms sounded.  

Three dead therapists and one dead cop, all tied in with one 
patient, one client whose files were mysteriously bland.  "Are you 
crazy, Morgan, you aren't a cop!"

"Dave Johnson is."  Her jaw set stubbornly.  "He was Marc's 
partner.  And he thinks I can help him.  He's doesn't believe it was 
an accident."

"Help in what way?  He's a cop for God's sake."  A chill had taken 
up lodging in Mulder's gut; she had come very close to being 
murdered herself, and he hadn't been there, he hadn't helped her at 
all.  "You told me you couldn't sense anything anymore, Morgan, 
you said you were completely null."

"I'm still a psychologist," she said stubbornly.  "And I can talk to 
this mysterious woman."

Three dead therapists.  His stomach was in a knot.  "God, that's the 
way, her three therapists are already dead, put yourself next in 
line."

"I'm not going to debate this, Mulder.  Marc was a friend of mine, 
I'm not just going to sit on my hands and pretend it was a terrible 
accident."

Rising, he paced the room, trying to find the words to convince her 
that this was a dangerous mistake.  "Look, why don't I make some 
calls, have somebody from the San Francisco office look into it."

Her eyes narrowed.  "Mulder, I'm going, there's an end to it.  I 
don't want to fight with you right before I leave, okay?"

He didn't want to fight either.  But God knew he didn't want her to 
go to San Francisco.  

On the other hand, there wasn't a damned thing he could do to 
prevent it.  "I don't have a good feeling about this, Morgan," he 
said suddenly and turned back to face her.  "If anything seems out 
of the ordinary, dammit, call me.  This is what I do for a living."

For a moment, he thought temper would make her refuse.  But her 
expression softened as she studied him.  "I will, I promise."  Her 
eyes moved to the clock.  "Hey, we need to get going, Mulder.  
You promised to get me to the airport by ten."

He glanced at the clock and saw it was 9:25.  "Yeah."  He felt that 
chill stir again.  "I will, against my better judgement.  I really don't 
have a good feeling about this."

Rising, she came to put her arms around his waist.  "It will be 
fine," she told him, holding his gaze.  "I'm not stupid, you know 
that.  I may be a little crazy, and occasionally reckless, but not 
stupid.  If Marc was murdered, this is some weird conspiracy.  I 
don't do conspiracy, Mulder, just monsters, and I'm not sure I do 
monsters anymore anyway."

He held her tightly.  The damned woman was more of a lunatic 
than he was, he thought glumly; she still had fading bruises on her 
neck from Wilson and she was leaping out into the dark again.  
Pressing his lips against her forehead, he muttered, "Be careful, 
dammit.  Or I'll study up and turn *you* into a toad."

Her laughter was muffled in his shirt.  


Alexandria:  June 30, 9:30 pm

Scully arrived to find Aarin stubbornly refusing to go to bed, 
standing at the window in his pajamas, small face pressed against 
the glass.  It made her heart ache.

"He's waiting until Morgan comes home."  Geoff's tone was dry, a 
little resigned.  "Emily can't get him to bed."

Emily was sitting beside him, talking softly to him.

"Maybe he doesn't feel comfortable with her."  Scully looked at the 
small forlorn figure, thinking about what Geoff had told her, of 
what Morgan had told her about the little boy's life before Morgan 
had taken him in.

"No, he does--Em was with Morgan in San Francisco for a long 
while."  Geoff sighed.   "He's still a little leery of me when 
Morgan's gone, it works better if Sharon or Em work with him."

Scully thought about that and shivered.  Aarin, she had learned, 
instinctively distrusted male strangers, and was dubious even about 
men he knew well.  Small wonder, she thought.  "Well, I have 
nieces and nephews, let me give it a try." 

He glanced at her, amused.  "Agent Scully to the rescue.  Please 
do, it's breaking all our hearts to watch this.  I'd bet Morgan cried 
all the way to the airport."

She grinned.  "Not all the way--she stopped to see Mulder and he--
distracted her."

Geoff's eyebrows rose.  "Fox and Morgan?  I thought you told me 
they bickered constantly up there."

"They still do," Scully laughed.  "But I think it's an even match--
they're an awful lot alike, though, which worries me."

Geoff's mouth quirked.  "Morgan and Fox?  Not really.  
Superficially, I think.  Morgan has one foot in the otherworld, 
Dana, and Fox--well, I have the definite impression that he only 
considers the noncorporeal as something that must be proven 
scientifically."

She hadn't thought of it that way.  "Maybe."  Moving toward the 
window, she smiled at Emily and sat down on the footstool on 
Aarin's other side.  "Hi, Aarin.  Guess what?  I saw Mama and she 
said I should give you a hug for her while she's gone."

Aarin gave her a suspicious look, but tilted his head, as if listening.

"She said she was going to miss you horribly, but that she'd feel 
better if I came by and made sure you were getting all the hugs you 
needed."  It was a little too cute, but the small body turned toward 
her, the brown eyes wistful.  

Gathering him up, Scully whispered in his ears.  "And I told her I 
would, that I'd check every night to be sure.  Can I tuck you in bed 
like Mama does?"

After a long moment, he nodded, the small body relaxing against 
her.  

Smiling at Emily, Scully rose, listing him.  "I know some songs, 
too, so if you need me to sing to you to help you get to sleep, I 
can."  One arm went trustfully around her neck and her eyes stung 
abruptly.  "Okay, then, that's what I'll do."

Clearly amazed, Emily nodded at her in congratulations.  It made 
her grin again, and Geoff winked at her as she started up the stairs 
to Aarin's room.

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

Emerging from Aarin's room, Scully found Geoff waiting in the 
hall.  "I would imagine that you're hollow with hunger," he teased.  
"Is he asleep?"

She slanted him a grin.  "Dana Scully always gets her man.  Or 
child, in this instance."

"How alarming.  And delightful."  He leaned close and kissed her 
briefly.  "Come on, I've been waiting to take you to this place for 
weeks."

Scully grinned and let him take her arm.  "I've been waiting to go 
for weeks," she told him.  "Geoff, I know it's none of my business, 
but I don't feel easy about Morgan going out there."

His expression went somber.  "Neither do I.  Neither do any of us.  
But Morgan isn't prone to listen to reason, Dana.  And she 
certainly never listens to me, that's been proven time and again.  
I've learned to stand back and wait to patch her up."  A brief grin.  
"Not physically, mind, I think this is the first time she's been hurt at 
all.  But emotionally, psychically."  Shrugging, he put his arm 
around her waist.  "It used to be too painful, but friendly 
detachment works wonders."

She sighed.  "I have to wonder why this detective thinks she 
should come out.  He's the cop, for God's sake."

"Because they know Morgan."  His tone was grim.  "Not that any 
one of them will admit to knowing her, mind, that shatters their 
comfortable view of the universe.  But they know her.  And when 
a cop is killed--well, you know how that is."

She did.  "So, what kind of food am I to expect?"

He smiled again, pushing it behind him.  "Excellent food--I told 
you, it's a surprise, Dana, you can't give away a surprise or it 
doesn't work."

Laughing, she agreed.

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

Alexandria:  July 1, 7:25 pm EST

Mulder drove Morgan's car back to her house the following 
evening.  If he couldn't get a ride back, the Metro was available, he 
told himself, besides it was time he met all these people that Scully 
seemed to have come to know so well.

Sharon answered the door, her expression bemused.  "Mr. Fox 
Mulder," she said,sounding faintly surprised.  "Is there a problem?"

"No, I brought Morgan's car back," he told her and examined her.  
He'd forgotten just how tall she was, he thought and bit back a 
grin.  She was gorgeous, the color of coffee, sculpted cheekbones 
and dark, almond shaped eyes.  A warrior, Morgan had once called 
her, in one of their hospital conversations, and he could believe it.  
The kind of warrior he'd want at his back, if he didn't have Scully.  
"Can I beg a ride back to my apartment from somebody?"

Sharon's mouth quirked.  "Morgan's car," she said thoughtfully.  
"She's a secretive bitch, isn't she."

That startled him, but the laughter in her expression was apparent.  
"Um, well..."  Sharon's laughter was rich and contagious; he found 
himself grinning in spite of his determination not to.  "Yeah, we're 
both a lot like that."

"No secrets in this house, Mr. FBI.  Come on in, let me finish 
eating and we'll get you back home."

The house was an old one, an old mansion; no comparison to 
Harcourt House, which was reassuring.  The livingroom was a 
comfortable sprawl of furniture, books, magazines and toys; a very 
small darkhaired boy stood at the window, his face pressed to the 
glass, and Sharon paused, sighing.  "Aarin, honey, Mama won't be 
back tonight.  Remember, we have to cross all the days off on the 
calendar first."

The child gave her a woebegone look.

Mulder examined him, interested.  So this was Aarin, he thought.  

"Hi, Aarin," he said softly, remembering what Morgan had told 
him.  Strangers would be a threat to this child, after what he'd been 
through.  "I'm a friend of Mama's."

Aarin pointed out the window pitifully at the car, and Mulder felt a 
jolt of comprehension.  "You saw the car, didn't you?  I'm sorry, 
Aarin, I brought Mama's car back.  Maybe you can come to the 
airport with me when she gets back." 

Sharon looked askance at this, but was silent.

The little boy's face crumpled and he sank to the floor.  

Feeling as if he'd inadvertantly murdered someone, Mulder went in 
and sat down nearby.  "Hey, buddy, I'll bet you miss Mama a lot."  
Nice opening, he told himself drily, state the obvious.

Aarin gave him a wary look, one tear sliding down his cheek, and 
shifted, poised for flight.

"I miss Mama, too," Mulder told him.  It was true, oddly enough.  
"I didn't get much of a chance to see her once I got back from 
Massachusetts.  Mama was up in Massachusetts, too, did you 
know that?"

The child's head tilted; he studied Mulder's face and put his 
forefinger in his mouth, as if to comfort himself.  Mulder tried to 
remember himself at five, but only a few vague images came to 
him.  Whatever he'd endured, it had been easier than what this kid 
had gone through.  "I'll bet you missed her while she was up there.  
She missed you, too."  He knew that was true.  "She talked about 
you a lot."  That was not, however; Morgan was fiercely private 
about the child. 

Aarin's distress eased somewhat; he gave Mulder an alert, 
interested look.  

Racking his brain for what few details Scully had given him once 
he'd asked, Mulder sought for something to say that might back up 
his absurd claim.  "She told me that you liked the Narnia stories.  
When I was little like you, I used to like them, too.  I used to read 
them to my bear."

Aarin stood up and ran past him; he looked at Sharon ruefully.  
"Well, that was a success."

Her eyes were wide.  "You don't know--that *was* a success.  I 
get more and more impressed, Mr. FBI.  First the mama, then the 
child--you have the gift, no doubt about it."

Small feet pattered in the hallway and Aarin appeared again, 
carrying a book and a well-worn teddy bear of the old fashioned 
kind, like the Victorian bears.  As he approached Mulder, Sharon 
took in a hissing breath, clearly even more surprised.

The book was The Magician's Nephew, Mulder noted, a little 
astonished himself. 

Aarin pushed it at him, his dark eyes urgent, and climbed into the 
chair behind him.

"You want me to read to Bear?"  Mulder asked, bemusement 
creeping in.  

Well, no one had ever said he was bad with kids, but this, this 
surprised him.  There was a bookmark in the book and he opened 
it, glancing up to see that Bear was placed firmly beside Aarin in 
the chair.  "Okay, I can do that."

Sharon gaped at him briefly, then shrugged.  "Only one chapter a 
night.  I'm going to finish my food before it gets cold."

He gave her an alarmed look.  "Won't he be a little--ah, worried if 
you leave?"

"I'll bring my plate in."  Sharon's lips quivered.  "You aren't afraid 
of a little kid, are you, Mr. FBI?"

"Yes," he told her frankly and grinned when she went down the 
hall laughing.  

Slanting a look at Aarin, he saw the small expectant face and 
grinned again. "Okay, it looks like this is the place," he began and 
settled back into the familiar tale.

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

Emily, who was apparently Aarin's nanny, came looking for him 
before the chapter was finished.  Looking amazed, she hovered in 
the doorway until he was was done. 

Putting the bookmark back in place at the end of the chapter, 
Mulder eyed Aarin's sleepy face.  "I think somebody's looking for 
you, little guy."

Aarin turned his head and scowled.

Sharon chuckled.  "One chapter, Aarin, and time for bed.  Be good 
for Em, okay?"

Emily came and lifted Aarin, patting his back.  "That's good, you 
had your story."  She brushed the dark hair back from his forehead.  
"Em's going to trim your hair in the morning, baby, or we won't be 
able to see your eyes."

Aarin yawned and laid his head on her shoulder, Bear clutched 
firmly in his right arm.  Emily flashed Mulder an approving look 
and carried him off.

"That was a sight to see."  Sharon leaned back on the overstuffed 
couch, her expression quizzical.  "You've got the gift, Mulder, 
that's all I can say."

Abruptly, he was embarrassed.  "Yeah, just a fluke."

"I doubt that.  So, what's your take on Morgan's adventure?"  Her 
eyes narrowed slightly as she waited for his answer.

He debated briefly, but Sharon had been at the hospital, he could 
trust her.  "I don't like it," he told her bluntly.  "I think it's 
dangerous and I have a bad feeling in my gut."

"Me, too."  Sharon stretched out her legs.  "Dave Johnson's a good 
guy, but he's a little naive.  I used to work with him."

Sharon had been a police officer?  It seemed right, somehow, and 
Mulder stored that piece of information away.  "She promised to 
call me if things were out of the ordinary," he sighed.  "But what 
Morgan would consider out of the ordinary, I don't know."

Sharon laughed shortly.  "Good point.  I'm flying out there 
tomorrow.  House decision."

He raised an eyebrow.  "House decision?"

"Yup.  We're kind of a household, here."  Sharon's eyes glinted at 
him.  "Just one big family."

Something chilly touched his spine.  "Gathered around Morgan."

"Not exactly.  But she is the center of the house here."  Sharon 
eased back further.  "There's a whole network of people, Mr. FBI.  
Some of `em are a little paranoid, but they've got reason to be.  
Morgan--she sticks her neck out too often, she's too visible for 
their comfort.  But we're all a part of the same network."

Bemused, he considered this.  The entire country, it seemed, was 
full of these little cells, divided from the mainstream, hiding out 
from the eye of their own government.  It seemed to him that they 
could do better electing different people, then, and he said so.

Sharon laughed hard, sinking farther back into the cushions.  "No 
difference no matter who's elected, Mulder.  Same old machine 
keeps working.   I think Morgan has a rule, every election, she 
goes in and votes for the opposing party, whichever that is.  She 
says they're all worthless, but it keeps them from being completely 
corrupted.  No time to learn all the tricks."

"And I thought I was cynical," Mulder told her, his tone mild.

"Morgan's an idealist," Sharon retorted, her mouth quirking.  "But 
she's
practical, too."  She sat up suddenly.  "You ready for that ride 
now?"

"Sure, I've done my good deed for the day."

Her eyes glinted merrily.  "A regular Boy Scout, Mulder."

"Damned straight," he agreed and followed her out the front door.

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

Sharon drove him home in Morgan's car.  "I think she's right," she 
said, resuming their earlier discussion.  "I think Marc Pedersen was 
murdered.  But I don't think she needs to be out there.  Hard for 
her to be objective."

"Because he's a friend?  Yeah, I thought that, too."  Her amused 
glance made him feel entirely stupid.  "Oh, I see, more than a 
friend."

"For a while, anyway."  Sharon's eyes moved back to the road.  
"Started after his fiancee--died.  He was obsessed with proving it 
wasn't suicide, couldn't get anywhere.  Then, after a while, he kept 
on being obsessed and it kind of died.  But they stayed friends."

He was a little angry.  Morgan had been selective about what she'd 
told him.  "His fiancee?"

"Yeah, she was one of the three therapists."  Sharon slanted him 
another look.  "Whoops, she didn't tell you all that, I guess."

"No."  He was more than a little angry.  Didn't she trust him?  Or 
was it just that damned secretiveness that Sharon had mentioned?  
"She *is* a secretive bitch."

"Hey, take it easy."  Sharon held up one hand.  "She's just not used 
to having someone mundane to talk to, Mulder.  You're going to 
have to press her a little sometimes, she's used to being a 
chameleon, outside the house."  She slanted him another look.  "If 
you want to understand her, anyway." 

He'd thought he did.  Now, uncertainty made him irritable.  "None 
of my business," he said shortly and the rest of the ride was silent.


"Mulder, just wanted to check in and let you know we're still doing 
that search you requested.  Nothing yet.  Lots of items with that 
same name everywhere, but Byers is narrowing it down."

The message from Langley brought his other dilemma back home, 
driving Morgan from his thoughts.  There were fifty states.  And 
Fortenberry was an unusual name, how difficult could it be?  
Brooding, he threw himself down on the couch and clicked on the 
remote, moving idly through channels.

And what if it was Samantha?  Could he be content knowing that?  
And if he couldn't, did he have any right to disrupt her life now?  
Or endanger her, which was even more likely.  Maybe he was just 
being paranoid again, but it seemed that they would keep an eye on 
her, make sure that she couldn't betray them after all these years.  

Morgan's Delphic utterance had contained reference to dream 
memories of bright light, of pain, if this woman *was* Samantha, 
hypnotherapy could very easily unlock those memories and bring 
their fucking house of cards down on them.

Something tickled the back of his mind then, but it escaped him 
when he tried to narrow his focus.  

What, he wondered, troubled, but came up with nothing, not even 
a vagrant thought pattern.  Sighing, he turned back to the TV, 
lying on his side and listening to the news, an observer of the 
horrific things human beings did to each other.

*****************************************************
San Francisco:  July 2nd, 6:00 pm

What Dave Johnson had was very little.  However, meeting with 
Marc's fiancee, she was able to crack the encryption on his files 
and read what he'd discovered. 

Amanda Fortenberry was a curious case.  Diagnosed with PTSD, 
she suffered from depression and anxiety attacks that had briefly 
peaked four years before, driving her to a therapist, Henry 
Gunther.  Henry's case notes had been sparse, but Marc had found 
that oddly suspicious, since Amanda Fortenberry had volunteered 
to the police that he was using hypnosis to get at her early 
memories.

Which seemed odd, since Gunther had written in his early notes 
that he suspected her infertility was triggering both the depression 
and anxiety.

She had worked with Gunther for nearly three months before he 
was found dead--by Amanda Fortenberry--in the clinic at which he 
worked, shot in the head, supposedly the victim of a robbery.  
Motive?  The drugs the psychiatrists kept in the small pharmacy 
cabinet.  

The case was written off as unsolved.

Then came Marc's fiancee, Elizabeth Hastings.  She had been 
found dead of an overdose of barbituates, allegedly a suicide.  But 
Marc had doubted it, had spent the evening with Elizabeth before 
going on duty.  That, by itself, meant nothing.

But Elizabeth had spoken of a patient with deeply repressed 
memories; and Amanda Fortenberry had a file in Elizabeth's office.  
That alone had driven Marc for the next few years, driven to prove 
that Elizabeth had been murdered.

What he had discovered that was new was Amanda Fortenberry's 
whereabouts.  And the fact that a psychologist in Jackson had been 
killed in a hit and run incident just six months after she'd moved 
from San Francisco to Jackson, California.  A psychologist that she 
had been seeing.  

And, according to Marc's notes, the case file had little in it but a 
diagnosis and a few notes about Amanda's background.  

Abandoned as a child, she had been found wandering, dazed and 
incoherent, in Santa Rosa, California.  They had been unable to 
discover anything about her family, about her name, about her 
identity, although she was healthy enough, no signs of abuse.  But 
nobody ever stepped forward to claim the girl, whose age had been 
estimated to be somewhere between eleven and twelve.  

After a while, she had been placed in foster care with an older 
couple who had adored her, and who had eventually adopted her.  
Evidently no conflict there, or at least she insisted not, but she was 
plagued with nightmares.

Marc did not detail these.  Musing, Morgan noted the address, 
thanked Marc's fiancee, Alison, and left the apartment, her mind 
working overtime.

It was time to go to Jackson.

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

Morgan had just walked in the front door of the Decker's when 
Jess Decker, friend and host, poked his head out of the kitchen. 

"Back in the nick of time, we were about to send out search 
parties."  His grin took any sting out of it.  "Sharon's on the phone, 
talking to Carrie, she wants to talk to you, too."

Morgan sighed and set her bag down near the door.  "She's only 
going to yell at me," she muttered and followed him back into the 
kitchen.

There was a pot of red sauce on the stove, wonderfully redolent of 
basil and red wine.  Pausing to inhale the aroma, Morgan found 
herself wondering if part of her mood wasn't related to low blood 
sugar; maybe thinking that would keep her from losing her temper 
with Sharon.

Taking the phone, she held it to her ear anad braced herself.  "Hi."  

"Hi yourself."  Sharon sounded amused.  "Just wanted to let you 
know I'm going to be out there about 10:00 tomorrow morning.  If 
you're going to do this, you're not doing it alone, House decision."

Rolling her eyes at Carrie's grin, Morgan leaned a hip against the 
counter.  "I wasn't there for the vote," she said drily, but felt better 
at the thought of having Sharon with her.  "Okay, okay, I'll pick 
you up.  I want to drive out to Jackson tomorrow."

There was a brief silence. "I'll see you then.  Flight 2314, TWA, 
9:49."

Morgan nodded.  "God, what time are you leaving, then?  Oh dark 
thirty?"

"Something like that."  Sharon laughed.  "Aarin wants to hear your 
voice."

Morgan glanced at the clock.  It was seven, which meant it was ten 
there.  "Why is he still up?"

"Couldn't get the FBI over here to put him to sleep.  He's taken a 
real liking to both Dana and Mulder."  Sharon sounded amused, a 
little tart.  "Dana breezed in and won him over--he likes redheads, I 
guess."

"Mulder?"  Morgan considered that, bemused.

"Yeah, he read him his chapter and Aarin was entranced.  
Surprised all of us, I think Geoff was a little put out.  He's been 
patting himself on the back he was the only man Aarin ever 
trusted."  Sharon chuckled.  "Em's about to throw her hands up in 
disgust, she puts him to bed about four times a night, lately, before 
it sticks."

Guilt made her stomach hurt.  "Put him on," she told Sharon 
wearily.  He wouldn't answer her, but it might help him to hear her 
voice.

"Okay," she heard faintly, "Go, girl."

"Hi, sweetie," she said softly, "Mama's going to be home soon.  
You need to be good for Em, okay?  And go to bed so you aren't 
all worn out when Mama gets home.  We'll go to the movies, see 
the Hunchback like you wanted."  She paused, listening to him 
breathe.  It was so strange, talking to a silent child, knowing he 
was listening intently, but wouldn't or couldn't answer.  

"Sharon says you liked Fox, that he read you a story.  I'm glad, he's 
a friend of mine."  Another silence.  "Okay, you go to bed now, 
here's a kiss."  A little embarrassed, she made a kissing sound.  "Go 
to sleep, sweetie and I'll try to call tomorrow, all right?  Give the 
phone to Sharon."

Another long pause and Sharon came back on.  "He's all lit up," 
she laughed.  "Good job, Mom."

"See you tomorrow," Morgan told her, laughing a little herself, and 
hung up the phone.

*****************************************************
Jackson:  July 3rd,  7 pm

Amanda Fortenberry was a tall, striking woman with dark hair 
bound into a French braid.  Her husband was a tall, striking man 
with reddish blond hair and beard who made Morgan think of 
Vikings.  

Their son, a small imp with chestnut hair, toddled to the door when 
Morgan arrived and pressed his face against it.

"Don't do that, silly Willy," Amanda said from farther away and 
paused, her expression uncertain when she saw Morgan.

"I'm Morgan Grayson," Morgan told her, glad now that she'd 
called ahead. "I appreciate your seeing me."

Amanda glanced away briefly. "I'm not sure you should," she 
murmured.  "It seems like I'm bad luck for people."  She opened 
the screen door to let Morgan in, catching the baby around his 
belly to lift him up.  "Come on, Will-Will, Daddy's going to give 
you your bath."

Tyler Fortenberry came into the room, regarding Morgan dourly.  
"Dr. Grayson."  He nodded acknowledgement of her as Amanda 
passed the baby to him.

"Would you like some iced tea?"  Amanda's hands lifted, a gesture 
that had a kind of vulnerability to it, a kind of helplessness.

It might break the ice, might normalize the atmosphere.  "Yes, that 
would be very nice," she agreed and looked at the baby again as 
Amanda vanished into the kitchen.  "He's a beautiful boy," she told 
Tyler sincerely.  "How old is he?"

"Fourteen months."  Tyler frowned faintly.  "I know this is 
important, but please try not to upset her.  She's--she's had a hard 
time, and this isn't making it any easier."

"That's why I'm here, to see if it can be made easier."  Morgan held 
his gaze until he nodded, then watched him walk down the hall 
with the giggling baby.

Amanda reappeared with a tall glass of iced tea.  "I didn't ask, 
would you like sugar?"

Morgan accepted it.  "No, thank you--shall we just talk in here?  
This is a lovely house, Amanda."  She took a seat on the couch, 
setting her briefcase aside.

"Thank you."  Amanda sat in the old fashioned rocker, looking ill 
at ease.  "That detective, Detective Pedersen, he seemed to think I 
had something to do with Dr. Matthew's death."

Morgan nodded.  "Not that you were guilty of it," she added, not 
willing to reveal the truth at this point.  "But you have to admit, 
Amanda, it's an extraordinary coincidence that all three of your 
therapists have died." 

Amanda's head dropped; her hands knotted together, as if she 
wanted to wring them.  "I know," she whispered.  "It's like--I've 
thought that maybe I'm not supposed to understand why I'm like 
this, why I'm afraid."  She shivered and raised her eyes again.  
"What do you want to know?  I'll tell you everything I can, Dr. 
Grayson."

Morgan nodded, wishing now that she could use her innersense, 
that it hadn't gone stubbornly mute--or that she hadn't gone deaf to 
it.  "What I'd like to ask you about may be difficult, Amanda.  I can 
only assure you that I'm also a psychologist.  I'm not in clinical 
practice now, I've been doing a lot of forensic work, but I have 
clinical experience.  Was your doctor here working with hypnosis 
to help you remember your childhood?"

Amanda nodded.  "Yes," she whispered and did wring her hands.  
"He said we were really making progress, and I could tell we were, 
I've been remembering things, not just dreams, but little images, 
bits and pieces."  She gave Morgan a troubled look.  "I think I had 
a brother, I remember a boy, older than me.  And swimming in the 
ocean, making sand castles.  I still don't remember my real parents, 
though, I don't know why."

A chill feathered its way up Morgan's spine; abruptly, she realized 
that she wasn't null anymore--not completely.  And what she had 
just heard had implications far beyond murder.

Okay, her intuitive gift was still very much hers; choosing her 
words carefully, listening for that inner resonance which told her 
she was right, she spoke again.  "Amanda, would you be willing to 
let me hypnotize you?  I feel very certain that these deaths are 
somehow related to your memories."  Another chill walked up her 
spine, confirming her suspicion.

Amanda rose abruptly, walking to stand at the door and stare out 
into the early evening.  "I don't think that's very wise," she said 
faintly.  "Look what's happened to the others."

"The others weren't connected with the police," Morgan answered 
softly.  "And I have some friends in the FBI--I'm not all that easy 
to dispose of, Amanda, and believe me, there have been people 
who have tried."

Thus, that easily, that naively, did she open the gate to what 
followed.


Jul-4: Transcript,side 2:  Dr. M. Grayson - A. Fortenberry

Dr. G.:  How old are you?

A:         I'm eight years old.  We're at the summer house  

Dr. G:    What do you see?

A:         Um, I see my brother and my daddy.  Daddy's mad, he
            has the belt and he's hitting my brother with it.

Dr. G:   Move past that, all right?  Find a moment when Daddy 
isn't 	mad at Fox at the count of three.  One....two.....three.  
	What do you see now?

A:         We're in the livingroom, Mommy and Daddy went out to 
	play cards.  (Laughing) I got one of mine in, Fox is 
making 	a face.

(Pause on tape)

Dr. G:   What are you doing?

A:         We're playin' a game, Stratego.  No, Fox, I don't wanna 
	watch the Magician again.  It's stupid.

Dr. G:   Tell me what's happening.

A:         Fox has to watch his stupid old show, he changed the 
	channel back.  (Gasping) Oh, the lights went out.  Fox, I 
	don't like the dark.

Dr. G:   Amanda, I want you to move back, let yourself see it, but 
	stay back.  You're observing it, Amanda, not experiencing 
	it.

A:         (Gasping)  The lights went out.  The little girl is afraid of 
the
	dark, they both are.  The boy is going to get a flashlight, I 
	think.  Oh, it's so bright, where is that light coming from, 
	oh, what are those things?  Don't hurt Fox, no!  Fox, help 
	me!  (Sobbing)

Dr. G:   On the count of three, Amanda, go to your safe place and 
	close the door.  One....two....three.

A:	(Gasping) Okay, the door is closed.

Dr. G:   Now lock it.  Make sure you feel safe there.

A:         (Drowsy) I locked it, no one can get in.

(Pause on tape)

Dr. G:   Can you tell me what you saw, Amanda?

A:         The boogeyman came.  He poked the boy in the neck with
	something long and the boy fell down.  He picked the girl 
	up,she was screaming, but he poked her, too, and she 
	stopped.

Dr. G:   What did the boogeyman look like, Amanda?

A:         He was thin, with great big eyes.  And no clothes.  He was 
	very strong.

(Pause on tape)

Dr. G:	Do you remember what happened to the girl after that?

(Longer pause)

A:	Daddy's friend came to see her in the hospital.  He told 
her 	she had to go away.  She cried and they gave her shots, 
	lots of shots.  They hurt her and scared her and she went 
	away.  She's Amanda, now.

(Pause on tape)

Dr. G:	What was her name before that, Amanda?

A:	Samantha Ann Mulder.

(Side two ends) 	   

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

Jackson:  July 3, 6:00 pm

It was nearly six before Amanda felt recovered.  Sitting in the 
oversized chair with Ty beside her, she regarded Morgan with red 
rimmed eyes.  "They took my family away from me, they took my 
memory away from me!  How can they do that?"

Morgan warmed her hands around her cup.  "I don't know," she 
sighed, thinking of Mulder.  Her head ached badly, another bitch 
harpy of a headache, and she didn't have anything stronger than 
ibuprofen.  "Amanda, I don't know what to tell you, but this 
sounds like a conspiracy beyond anything I'd ever have believed 
now.  Be very careful.  It wouldn't surprise me at all to find that 
they were still keeping an eye on you.  No one goes to those 
lengths with a child unless they mean that child to stay 
`disappeared'."

"But I didn't."  Amanda's jaw set, and Morgan was hilariously 
reminded of Mulder again.  "They don't have the right."

"No, but they did it anyway."  Morgan looked at Tyler, whose 
expression was grim, who was clearly in agreement with her.  
"You don't want it to happen again, do you?"

Amanda's eyes fell.  "This isn't fair," she whispered, and a tear 
spilled over.  

"Life is frequently unfair," Morgan told her unhappily.  "Amanda, 
this has to be handled carefully.  Just don't--just don't rush into 
anything.  Tyler, how are those copies coming?"

"Third one is nearly finished dubbing."  He gave her a dubious 
look.  "What are you going to do with all these tapes?"

"I don't know yet.  I have some contacts who might be able to 
help.  The important thing is to bring this into the light of day, I 
think, to make it impossible for them to act covertly."  Morgan bit 
her lip and found that her stomach had tightened.  "I've got to do 
some checking.  But in the meantime, I hope they'll be a bit of 
insurance."

Tyler looked at her, his eyes wide.  "Insurance against what?"

She wished she knew, but something chilly kept brushing icy 
fingers down her spine.  "Further interference."

Amanda looked up at him.  "I want to see them.  I want to see my 
family." 

Morgan bit her lip.  "Give me some time, let me see what I can 
arrange.  Please, Amanda, you already have first hand knowledge 
of what they can do."

After what seemed a very long time, she nodded.

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

Sharon pulled up promptly at seven.  Morgan came out before she 
could get out of the car.

"You look anxious to get out of here," Sharon teased, but her 
smile faded at Morgan's expression.  "That bad?"

"Worse."  Morgan bit her lip again.  "We need to find a pay phone.  
And Sharon, do your damndest--if someone's watching her, it's 
likely they've had enough time to set up surveillance on us.  And 
I'm carrying all we have that can protect us."

"What are you talking about?" Sharon demanded, putting a hand 
over hers.  "Who's gonna surveille us?"

"I wish I knew."  Morgan told her faintly and looked in the 
rearview mirror, wondering if Mulder's paranoia was infecting her, 
or if there was reason to feel as if someone were watching them.  
"I need to get these tapes someplace safe."

Sharon gave her a long look.  "All right," she agreed, "We're going 
to drive east, Morgan, and we'll stop and send `em off overnight.  
Maybe to Mulder.  Is that safe enough for you?"

Considering it, Morgan nodded.  She didn't want him involved in 
this, God knew, but he was already involved just by virtue of his 
relationship to Amanda.  "She's going to get some blood tests done 
at Jess' office in Berkeley.  I've arranged for him to send me the 
results."

"DNA?"  Sharon turned onto the highway, increasing her speed 
with one eye on the speedometer, one on the review mirror.

"Long story," Morgan thought and swallowed hard, thinking of 
trying how to explain this all to Mulder.

The notion made her stomach upset and kept it that way until they 
reached Tahoe and the hotel.

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

Alexandria:  July 5, 1996 7:01 am

Mulder was brushing his teeth the fourth morning after Morgan's 
departure when it came to him; freezing with his toothbrush in his 
mouth, he connected the dots and came up with a picture that 
appalled him.  

Dead therapists in northern California, hypnotherapy, memories of 
an abductee.....There was a Jackson in northern California, he 
suddenly remembered and shivered.  

Spitting and rinsing, he considered the thought and swallowed 
hard.  It was why they'd originally called him Spooky, this 
disconcerting ability to link apparently unrelated facts and come up 
with a unified picture.  Only he really didn't like this one at all.

Going to the phone, he punched in the number rapidly, then waited 
impatiently for someone to answer.

It was Frohicke.  "Mulder, you're up early."  Frohicke's voice was 
groggy. 

"Yeah, I need you guys to focus on Jackson, California."

There was a silence.  "Okay." Frohicke sounded bemused.  "A little 
bird whisper in your ear, Mulder?"

"Yeah," he said bitterly, "You might say that.  Can you call me at 
the office?  I really need to know quickly."

"Sure thing.  It shouldn't take too long, as soon as I can get Byers 
to wake up."  Frohicke's voice lowered to a confidential tone.  
"How's the always lovely Dana Scully this morning?"

"Probably tired," he said impatiently.  "She's hot and heavy with 
my doctor, if you can believe it."

There was a mournful silence.  "Gee, Mulder, I wouldn't have 
minded if it was you," Frohicke told him, his tone pathetic.  "But a 
doctor?  A member of the medical establishment?"

"Frohicke." Mulder's tone became dangerous.  "Just have Byers 
call me as soon as he finds out, will you?"

A heavy sigh was audible.  "Sure, Mulder," Frohicke told him 
dolefully.  "First thing."

Disconnecting, he dialed Morgan's house and listened to the phone 
ring until the answering machine picked up.  Dammit, no one was 
answering--if she'd gone to Jackson, he was getting on a flight out 
immediately.

Which was lunacy, considering he didn't know if he could locate 
her to find out. 

God, Morgan, he thought and shivered again, thinking,  let me be 
wrong, let me be totally off base, let the Spook way out in orbit 
and off target.  Just this once, okay? 

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

Washington DC:  July 5, 11:32 am

Sharon called him before Byers did.  "Mulder, you over your 
temper, yet?" 

"Yeah, are you in California?"

"Nope, Nevada now."  Sharon's voice was somber.  "We may have 
a bit of trouble.  I'm calling you `cause Morgan wouldn't--she's 
powdering her nose."

That chill widened, spreading up and down his spine.  "What 
happened?" 

"Rather not say right now," Sharon's voice sounded muffled.  "But 
look for a package, okay?  It's Morgan's stuff, just keep it for her."

A shudder took him; he could sense Scully's gaze on him, a little 
puzzled, a little quizzical.  "Sharon, were you in Jackson?"

There was a brief silence.  "You're good, Mulder." Her tone was 
calm, interested.  "How'd you figure that out?"

Shit, shit, shit.  "Have you had any trouble yet?  Anyone taking an 
interest in your--travels?"

"Not that I know of, and I think I'd spot a tail." Sharon's tone was 
intense, concentrating on him.  "FBI, what do you know about 
this?"

He shuddered again.  "I don't know anything, but I'm afraid of a 
lot."  Worrying about Stoddard and Donovan was nothing 
compared to this.  "Just--get her on a plane somewhere, direct 
flight.  Call me after it takes off."

He could sense her thinking.  "Can do," she said shortly.  "So she's 
not seeing shadows, huh.  I'll call you as soon as the thing takes 
off, Mulder."

The phone disconnected with a click.  He sat and shook for a few 
minutes, thinking of Scully, thinking of the terror and guilt and 
grief he'd felt when she was gone.  

God--no, if there was a God, he was fucking crazy, a Destroyer 
who scythed through the people who fooled themselves there was 
a loving God who gave a fuck what happened to them.  

Putting his head in his hands, he thought hard.  Skinner couldn't 
fucking help, he was as much at risk as any of them.  And Scully--
his heart thudded painfully at the very thought.

"Mulder."  She was standing in front of his desk.  "Mulder, if I 
have to beat it out of you, I will--what's wrong?"

Oh, shit, he'd alarmed her.  Trying to arrange his face to ordinary 
irritation, he lifted his head and gazed at her, those damned eyes of 
her looking right through him into his brain.

"Your mother?" she guessed, then shook her head.  "Mulder, 
you're white to your lips, what's wrong."

Red-gold eyebrows knotted and he surveyed her as if from a 
distance.  "No, she's fine," he heard himself say.  "Scully, I can't tell 
you about this, I don't dare--"

Her fist appeared in front of his nose.  "We're partners, Mulder," 
she told him, deceptively sweet.  "Get over it and tell me."

Swallowing hard, he gathered the rags of his wits and tried to think 
clearly.  

"Not here," he whispered, "Not now."  And cursed the fact that 
he'd held the entire conversation on his office phone.  It could 
make you crazy, trying to outthink the bastards--the wonder was 
that he ever allowed himself to forget it.

Her expression softened.  "Lunch, then," she murmured.  "It's 
nearly time--"

His phone rang and he snatched at it.  

"Mulder, your informant was dead on.  Unlisted phone, but there 
are credit reports for a Tyler Fortenberry and his wife Amanda in 
Jackson, California."

Samantha, he thought and closed his eyes.  He had traded 
Samantha for Scully once, or believed he had for a time.  His chest 
hurt, trying to contain fear, grief and hope at the same time.  "My 
informant," he repeated huskily aloud.

"Yeah, and Mulder, there's definitely something weird here, those 
files are flagged.  Big Brother really is watching, and he's watching 
these folks."  

Byers' voice held a trace of jubilance.  "But we snuck past their 
watchdogs and got it."

"I owe you," he said with difficulty.  "Big time, guys.  And stay out 
of it now, I'll be in touch.  I don't want you guys taking any more 
chances."

"Mulder, we live for danger," Byers told him and hung up.

He looked up at Scully.  "Let's go," he told her hoarsely.

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