Chapter 4

      Jake swayed even though he gripped the yellow building's
rusted railing with all his strength. Twilight had crept over
the city while Mulder had been inside, but it had been a warm
day for March, one of those harbingers of spring, and the
sidewalks were still crowded with the prowling intercity
dwellers. Set free by the warmth of the sun during the day, they
had no desire now that night had fallen to return to their
winter haunts. 

      Jake had been liberated as well, but felt no joy at his
release. Instead he found himself trembling uncontrollably,
barely able to stand. Four days of utter silence, four days of
pain and all-encompassing fear, four days of being beaten again
and again and again with Pete screaming in his ears that he was
not who he knew he was, four days of not even knowing why he was
being tortured. None of that had prepared him for this, not for
this seething mass of poor, mostly unwashed, definitely jostling
humanity. The noise beat relentlessly into his skull. The blast
from a dozen Boom boxes, the hard laughing, the jeering voices
confused him, twisting his thoughts into unrecognizable shapes.

      He found the street jive which was raised to a painful
volume all around him terrifying, intimidating. Though from a
different culture, it was still too much like Pete and
Lawrence's. He was an alien amidst this ocean of colors, wading
through foreign seas where everyone knew their place but him.
Despite the extra double layer of clothes the FBI agent had
given him, he felt exposed and vulnerable.

      "Get away," Agent Mulder had told him looking dirty and a
little desperate at the end. "When you get outside leave the
area as fast as you can." But Mulder had forgotten the time.
That at this just-after-dusk time it was not so easy just to get
away. Jake grasped the handle of the cane, leaned on it
frantically for balance and forced his trembling legs to descend
the last steps. He raised his head, frantically searching for
something, anything to guide him. Having one eye blocked was
disrupting his perspective as well as his balance, yet between
two building far to his right he saw the gleaming pinnacle of
the Washington Monument more than a mile distant.
 
      That way. Civilization.

      How he had managed to stagger through the corridors of the
basement and then up the narrow, steep stairs with Lawrence
breathing like a bellows behind him, Jake would never totally
remember. It was all part of a dark haze. He had forced his legs
faster than they wanted to take him but then he had had the
walls on either side of the passage to dig his fingertips into
for balance. He had pulled himself up the stairway hand over
hand using the bannister as much as he had used his feet.

      After extracting his 'janitor' from the innards of the
furnace prison, Lawrence had been mercifully reticent asking
only if his 'cousin' had spoken. Threat was veiled but clear
enough if the answer had not been to his liking. Jake just shook
his head. 

      "Not surprised, he's really been out of it these last
couple of days," Lawrence commented with false nonchalance as
they began to climb the steep stairs, a task that had looked
like Everest to Jake. "Maybe he needs a little company. Yeah,
now that things smell a bit better down there maybe I'll just
pay my 'cousin' a little visit later. Just to be neighborly."

      The sick sound of that statement had cut through Jake's
exhaustion sparking a small surge of panicked energy. It
reminded Jake too much of how Lawrence had looked at him,
especially at the beginning before the pain of the beatings had
blotted out all thought.

      Having conquered the last cellar step, Jake had only been
able to stand, weaving and indecisive. Behind him Lawrence had
laughed at the vet's disorientation, putting it down to the
utterly disagreeable job he had just performed that would have
scrambled anyone's brains. As the big man extended the bottle of
vodka, Jake had at first just stood there, staring stupidly
until he remembered what Mulder had told him about the expected
payment for the job. Lawrence had laughed even louder as Jake
dragged himself unsteadily towards the front door. 

      "Hey, Sergeant! D'you forget your little planned visit to
the ladies? Maybe you don't have the stomach for it any more,
maybe you think they wouldn't be so friendly considering how
much you stink!." And Lawrence had howled.  

      
      That was before, this was now, out on the street and Jake
was convinced that Lawrence was following. Jake could almost
feel the con's hot breath on the back of his neck. Gracelessly,
he turned stumbling backwards for a few steps anxiously
searching the crowd, but Lawrence wasn't there. Only the echo of
his laugh. Jake had forced his legs to carry him off the steps.
He had crossed the street with the crowd too dazed to make sense
of the cross walk icons and now the yellow building was a block
behind him. Too close still. Off balance, still moving backwards
he bumped into a group of teenage girls in tight skirts who were
trying to act sophisticated beyond their years. Their laughter
was shrill, the gold of their necklaces and huge dangling ear
rings glowed in the night against their dark skins. They
shrieked recoiling as the filthy street loon blundered into
their midst. Their voices changed, disgust switching to anger,
became harsh and snappish.

      He spun forward again away from their group trying to move
more quickly, but they were going the same way as he and seeing
his confusion continued to jeer, their mocking cat calls
following him, driving him onward faster. Their ridicule, their
insults fueled his disorientation. A darkness opened to his
right. An alley. All Jake knew was that there were no people
there. No lights. A place to hide. He slid into it along the
wall of a building at its corner. The crowd of girls moved on,
their last few taunts already beginning to fade as they bemoaned
the loss of their game.

      Jake crawled along the wall, past dumpsters and pools of
substances that smelled even worse than he, but moved on,
escaping the people. Finally he sank to his knees in a pool of
grey shadow, where the noises of the city and its people was but
a distant throb. There he could listen to his heart pounding,
there he could feel the heat from within burning his eyes, there
he sought, mostly in vain, to pull together again the edges of
his sanity. Like an old scratched LP only tiny chunks of his
thoughts were clear and these repeated endlessly, visions of
interminable blackness, a lonesome dripping, abandonment. No
wonder none of this made sense. He had been delivered from hell
but to what? To this eternal night, these wet echoes, this
aloneness.

      From far down the alley came the sounds of laughing voices,
young male voices. Horseplay, slaps, hoots, the tinkle of glass,
their running, dancing footsteps all echoing as if inside a huge
bell. Jake froze. They were coming nearer moving along the alley
towards the party atmosphere on the farther street. A chilling
sweat trickling down his back, Jake forced his legs to bear his
weight and reeled in the direction of a blacker shadow but the
cane slipped on the greasy, foul ground. He fell into a stack of
rotting cardboard boxes left out too long in the rain. They had
that smell. His fall made a sound was like thunder in the quiet
street.

      "What we got here, man?" a young voice shouted with gleeful
menace.

      The footsteps scampered, came even closer and Jake found
himself suddenly blinking like a stunned animal in the glare of
a pen light fixed at his eyes. The small beam flickered away to
scan his clothes. The rain coat had fallen open revealing the
camouflage fabric of shirt and slacks.

      "Look lads, we got ourselves a 'nam cat!" one of the group
snickered. Slowly Jake's eyes were beginning to adjust. There
were six of them, slender and strong as young trees with
shining, feral eyes and skin that would have done a rainbow
proud.

      "Hey, GI Joe, you got a joint?"

      "Yeah, you guys always got joints. Spent four years just
sucking the air."

      One of them grabbed him held him up, not minding that
standing straight Jake was taller than any of them. "Hey, bud,
we're talkin' to you. We want to know if you got a stash of
grass, ya know?"

      Jake's mind went blank. His lack of response irritated the
punk who held him who hurled him backwards into the brick wall
of the building. Pain exploded at the back of Jake's head. He
didn't remember his legs giving out but they must have for the
largest of the punks had to come forward and haul him upright
again by his coat. 

      "We asked you a question," the fuzz-faced street thug
grunted. Jake only sank bonelessly to the ground, the world
spinning, his stomach heaving on empty air as the teen abruptly
released him just to watch him fall. 

      In the darkness above where Jake knew the boy's faces must
be, they were jeering, their laughter without mirth, but he
could only focus unsteadily on the legs of their torn and well-
worn jeans and that only from the knees down. "Well, we'll just
have to take a look for ourselves, hey, guys?"

      Two must have stood look out. Four pairs of hands began
swiftly and expertly to snatch at Jake's clothes turning out his
pockets, searching even in the top of his socks. Immediately
they found the Smirnoff's leading to whoops and cat calls of
joy. Then they found the twenty dollar bill. 

      Mulder's twenty. 

      A blaze of comprehension streaked through Jake's besieged
mind. All that he was honor bound to do suddenly returned with
agonizing clarity just as the means to accomplish it slipped
into another's pocket. Too slowly Jake made a grab for it but
his reactions were far too slow, his strength like water. The
boys laughed as they batted his hands away. 

      "Not a bad haul from this little piggy," one of the boys
said as they backed away from their downed victim, backed away
but not far enough, still within kicking distance, and at least
the feet of some moved restlessly. Too much energy, too little
to do. 

      "Oh, leave the drunk be," one of the elder boys said seeing
no sport and off he swaggered but not before three of the
younger ones lingered, seeing an opportunity for some practice,
relishing the solid, thudding sound, the flinch and grunt from
the man at their feet as a kick connected well. At least the
teens wore athletic shoes and not Lawrence's boots and they
didn't have his malice or experience at finding the most tender
spots but did well enough.

      A sharp, booming snap burst into the near silence, the
sound of a heavy stick bounding off the edge of a nearly empty
dumpster. The group jumped and spun at once, crouching on their
haunches like wolves. A harsh and ancient voice called out
sharply, "Children, what DO you think yer doin' there?" 

      There was a hasty scramble as young bodies stepped away
from where their victim lay twitching and moaning softly as he
curled around his injured stomach. The postures of his
assailants relaxed, softened, never returning to the tenseness
of their attack mode. 

      The eldest stepped forward with a swagger. "Hey, Mama!"

      "Don't ya Mama, me. Yer own Mamas would be ashamed. What
brave boys you are, six against one," the old woman's voice
grated with sarcasm. "You've got what you want and had your fun
now be off with you."

      With uneasy good humor they howled to each other across the
alley, added a few more dents to a few more trash cans, and
tossed their long locks disdainfully at the small, bent figure
of the old woman who stood staring after them. But they left. 

      At their leaving quiet descended upon the narrow, dark
alley like a cloak. A warm cloak of blessed silence. 

      Jake was aware of little of it, only that he hurt, that
more was torn and bruised inside. As soon as the feet had
stopped coming at him out of the dark, he had crawled off into
the blackest shadow he could find. There he huddled, his aching
back against the crumbling brick of one of the buildings. His
arms clasped about his knees, he waited for the new pains to
ebb. With dread he heard and tried to block out the sounds on
the busy sidewalk a block away, all those people with their hard
hands and cruel voices. A siren cried streets and streets away.
He knew he was on the edge of delirium when he almost laughed at
the sound. Even if he could find a cop, he couldn't picture
himself going up to one, not looking like this. The very idea
was ludicrous. Would they believe him? Would he if a bum on the
street told him this story.

      Despair washed over him, drowning out the hysteria. What
was he going to do? All the money he had was gone, Mulder's
money, the money that would have paid for the taxi to take him
out of here. He had lost even the bottle of liquor which was the
only thing of value he had to barter with. His head fell forward
unto his knees.

      And he hurt, he hurt so bad... It hurt to breathe, it hurt
to think, at the moment it hurt to live.
 
      A voice spoke near him. Jake jerked, startled, which sent
too many pains stabbing into that burning space just under his
ribs and through his limbs. Eyes stared into his, ancient, dark
eyes. There was an odor of mothballs and mildew strong enough to
overpower even his own stink. A wrinkled hand wiped his tear-
streaked face with a dirty scrap of what must have once been a
woman's slip. Jake had not realized until that moment that he
had been crying.

      "Hey, pretty boy," came the old voice. It was the voice he
vaguely remembered from before, the voice that sent his
tormentors away. She sat a little outside the densest shadow,
just far enough so he could see that the voice came with a face
as wrinkled as an old walnut. It shone benignly from beneath a
ring of cloud-white hair. "Don't cry, don't cry. Can't be as bad
as that."

      Jake opened his mouth but nothing came out. The old bag
lady patted his shoulder and settled down next to him, hugging
his side. "It'll be okay. It'll be fine. Mama Rosa is here, and
she'll stay right here with you will you feel better."

      "I've got to..."

      "Shhhh... quiet... sleep...."

      A voice. Too weak certainly to be his. "No, I've got to
go... help...."

      "Shhhh... Now you stay right here and keep Mama Rosa's old
bones warm for a while, you hear?"

      Her arm was strong for such an old woman. Her strength
insisted that he lie down with his head on her lap. "Can't..."
he whispered. She stroked his matted hair. "Tired... so
tired...." he muttered. He wanted to say other things, but what
exactly was lost in his body's cries for rest. Besides he felt
safe, for the first time in longer than he could remember. Safe. 


                             ********

      Mulder jerked awake from his half doze, something had
touched his hair. Probably it had been just a stray breeze from
down the narrow shaft above his head, but the ache in his finger
brought up other possibilities all centered around images of red
and hungry eyes. Taut he raised his head, alert and listening
but heard no sound at all, much less the brush and scurry of
small rodent feet. The hour must be very late for even the
distant vibration from the street was gone as was the
intermittent sound of dripping water which only seemed to begin
after one of the toilets above was flushed.

      Time passed, stretched out like a physical thing, black and
silent and interminable. Mulder waited, his left arm aching from
its awkward position, his body shivering from the damp cold that
radiated from the metal of the dead furnace's iron walls.
Contemplation of the universe, his soul, the NBA stats, his
chances of getting out of this alive, passed and were gone.
Bored, Mulder allowed his head to drop slowly back against the
wall at his back. His distaste for the rats was real but so was
his exhaustion. There had been little sleep since Scully had
appeared with that first photo of Jake and the strength sleep
would give him he may need later. Under the circumstances he
wasn't going to be able to take either Lawrence or Pete by
surprise anyway.

      Mulder didn't know when consciousness slipped into dream.
Sleep wove itself into his thoughts slowly like a gentle dancing
breeze. A warm one. Blessed warmth. The discomfort in his arm
and shoulder also seemed to drift away with the gentle breeze.
It stirred his hair again but this time he did not wake, did not
want to. This was better than his cold prison. 

      A touch on his cheek, gentle, soft, hesitant...  

      Mulder stiffened, waited. He could have sworn... Another
touch, bolder, a finger, a woman's on his cheekbone trailing
whisper light down his cheek and along his jaw. 

      Mulder smiled ever so slightly in expectation. This had the
makings of a good one. Certainly the previews were auspicious.
He dared not move. 

      It's all this talk about the threat to your maleness, his
educated brain tried to tell him.

      Beat it! was Mulder's response. The last thing he wanted to
do was psychoanalyze why this was happening now. After all, like
a furtive wild animal which he wanted to lure closer to take the
treat from his hand, he didn't want to scare it away. The breeze
blew upon his face, stronger this time, with more presence,
sending a pleasant tingle over his body. 

      This was nice. 

      Lips touched his gently smiling ones, warm and soft, dream-
like. His heart picked up its rhythm. He felt warmer already. 

      This was very nice.

      More than one finger brushed against his closed eyelids,
smoothing his lashes as they lay upon his cheeks. The finger
moved on tracing the curves in his lips and jawbone, eyebrows
and cheeks. Two hands now, fingers combing through his hair, a
breath upon his upturned face smelling of musk and flowers and
woman. Kisses, soft as butterfly wings over his face, down over
his chin, along his throat. Teeth pressed down daintily upon his
ear lobe, tasting, first one than the other, unhurried. A stream
of warm air brushed against his ear, the sensation shimmering
all the way to his toes though it concentrated about half way
down, igniting a small fire of exquisite pleasure.

      Small, eager hands, astonishingly shy moved under his
shirt, soft, loving hands. A tongue licked the skin of his
chest, teeth closed in, just teasing, not nearly hard enough to
break the skin. He did not move. He welcomed her with pleasant
thoughts, with grateful little sighs. As if taking that as
encouragement she became bolder still, moving over his body,
licking, biting, scratching in little cat bits. Easily enough to
bring a shiver, not enough to drive him mad. Not yet.

      Lips and tongue lapped at a nipple then with an unexpected
pounce came down hard, sucking, drawing him in, forcing out a
moan of surprise and pleasure. More than his heart was throbbing
now, his blood was up and hot, rushing like white water down to
his nether regions. 

      This was working up to becoming the most intense wet dream
of his life. 

      Please, just don't let me wake up, not now.

      The pressure on his left nipple released, a woman's silvery
laugh, almost too soft to hear, came from below his chin.  

      A small, cold shock ran up Mulder's spine. What if this
wasn't just a very, very nice dream. Maybe Pete or Lawrence had
decided as a final bit of irony to hire the girls from the third
floor, maybe even the legendary Mabel, to attend their prisoner
before the final cut, like a last meal. If so, whatever she
charged, it wasn't nearly enough.

      The eager mouth clamped down again this time on his other
breast. At the same time somewhere low, a hand, warm and soft,
squeezed. All thoughts of dreams or not, of kidnappers and
prisons fled. There were no thoughts at all. Just pleasure,
guiltless, beyond depth, past perfection. There was no hurry as
if time had no measure. There was not fumbling, not a single
false move, not a one, as if the artist who played his body knew
exactly what he wanted even before he did. Before he could wish
for a little pressure here, some release there, a cupping of his
balls now, a sliding along the shaft this long and no longer, it
was done. His body shuddered as he struggled to hold it all in,
to make it last. The affect all this was having on his blood
pressure he didn't dare think about.

      Hands massaged his chest and his buttocks at once. The
throbbing in his veins inched up another level. Nails raked
along the inside of this thigh. Now this was approaching
madness. At the same time the claws on the other hand carved
blissful ridges down the skin of his back. Glorious. 

      In the tiny corner of his mind that could still reason,
there smoldered a shred of remorse for taking so much and giving
none in return, but he found, not entirely to his surprise, that
his arms would not lift, instead felt leaden as if he were
restrained by silken cords. The hands smoothed his brow, as if
comforting him, telling him not to worry. 

      We are sexual creatures, she seemed to say. Words are
extraneous. A few thousand years of civilization cannot erase
hundreds of thousands of years of nature's drives. Lie still, be
at peace.

      His head fell back as he she lowered herself onto him, warm
and wet. Peace was suddenly the farthest thing from his mind. 

      She rocked against him, slow but with presence and it was
all he could do to keep from flying away, but that would be
giving in too soon. With a shuddering breath he stayed with her.


      Very good, came the whisper and she kissed him, easing up,
letting him fall back gently only to bring him back to the
heights less than a minute later with just the tiniest movement
of her body. 

      It was harder not to come this time, every muscle in his
body, a special few in particular, were beginning to quaver in
little convulsions with his need. Jaw clenched, fists like claws
he stayed on the earth.

      She stroked his head as if he were a good beast to obey her
so well, to which he growled softly. This was becoming too much.
He had been patient. How long did she expect him to wait? Forget
the gentlemanly control, a little ravishing was beginning to
look better and better. 

      Only he could not move! His nostrils flared in his
frustration as his body began to oscillate furiously between
pleasure and pain.

      Hold on, she told him in a voice still soft but with an
edge beginning to creep in. The greatest prize goes to those who
wait. She moved again, lowered her mouth and sucked.

      His body tight as a drawn bow, stretched as if to breaking
between her outstretched hands. The center of his fire was the
arrow poised but not allowed to loose. His moans became cries,
become curses, but just before he might have sailed over the
edge her voice snapped in his ear.

      No!

      A moan burst from him which was more like a sob. In his
frustration he twisted in her arms trying to evade her but she
only teased with the greater art. Raving, cursing, thrashing he
wished himself rid of her, rid of this dream.  
      
      But she held him close, held him to the ground. Panic and
instinct, primordial and old as the world, rose in challenge.
With the strength of a cornered wild beast he wretched himself
free from her arms the only way he could - by flinging himself
skyward. As he slid past her, he was shocked by the savage,
harsh cry in his ears. This was his voice and, wondrously, his
body was as lithe and light and yet as majestically strong as a
falcon's. 

      Suddenly there emerged before him a massive shape, a
mountain, its lofty top high above him lost in the clouds.
Proud, free, powerful, he found this no obstacle. Soaring,
blazing like a comet, skimming over its rocky slopes like a
flare of light, like the storm's wind, he scaled its heights.
Effortless, magnificent, his body possessed at that moment a
strength beyond imagining. With every pounding thrust of his
heart, he seemed to grow larger and larger as higher and higher
he flew. The rush of the air behind his eyes was like thunder.

      Suddenly his eyes were full of sky. The highest pinnacle
lay at his feet. On the brink he paused and again came that
harsh, fierce sound, a near-to-bursting cry of defiance and
triumph, for he was free, his suffering at an end, and she could
not stop him. He would fly, would leap into the air to take the
most blissful fall of all. 

      Only once poised on the edge he erred. He looked down.

      The fall from here was far, too far, far too far, and in
that moment of hesitation, neigh onto panic, she had him. She
descended from behind. Her fierce, strong arms embraced him and
entrapped him, wrapped him round and round in golden chains to
hold him to the mountain. He screamed in his anger, the fire in
his loins threatened to flare across the sky. Every place the
chains touched on his body was like the touch of her hands, far
beyond pleasure. He raised his arms in his anguish and found to
his horror that he no longer had arms, but huge leathery wings
that when outstretched darkened the whole of the mountainside.
And looking down he found his body was immense, long and scaly,
a serpent beautiful in a golden red sunset.

      NOOOOOO!!!!!! But his scream had no human sound.

      Then she touched him where she should not, the way she
should not, the way she had which, he realized now, had driven
him maddened to the mountaintop. Is that what she wanted? To
drive him over the edge? If he fell from here he would die. 

      Golden chains biting deep and hard into his flesh, logic
shattering like glass, he roared, lashed with his tail, flailed
in his insanity around and around pulling the chains tighter and
tighter unable to find her. Yet he knew even through the scarlet
haze of his rage that she was there, had to be there. He could
still feel her teasing hands, the warmth and wetness of her
mouths, both driving him higher and higher, pleasure raking his
body, over and over, till there was no dividing line between it
and anguish. Shocks convulsed him and still she hung on refusing
to let him go. What else could she want of him? He had already
grown into this monster under her hands. He already burned. Did
she think he could go on burning and burning and burning
forever?

      I am dying. I will burst into flame and I will die.

      A cool hand fell down softly on the red gold of his breast.
 
      It is time, my lover. Open your eyes.
        
      With a last burst of will, he forced open his serpent eyes,
but he did so not at her bidding but to see his temptress one
time before she thrust the burning brand into his vitals and he
burned alive. 

      His hot, weary eyes opened upon his iron prison. He had
nearly forgotten, only it was no longer black, there was light
now, light where there should be none. Nevertheless, a thin
greyness like spider webs clung to all things, outlining the
shape of ceiling, floor, the pipes on the walls. And her. Her
face hung in the empty air, the glowing light dusting her
exquisite face, the nose and chin, her jaw. The light clung like
a fairy's breath to her masses and masses of black curling hair.
Then he looked deeply into the two black pools which were her
eyes. Through these he saw, outlined by the webs of light the
edges of the low door as if through her was deliverance. In
bewilderment he realized that he should not, could not, be
seeing this door. For it was behind her. 
      
      Enough! she growled, the sound coming from low in her
throat, rumbling in warning and the tiny window on the world she
had opened for him slammed shut.

      Around him sprang the mountain and the thunder of the wind,
the cries of the carrion birds and the screams in his ears as
the chains bit deeper and deeper into his serpent skin.  

      She was there this time, clearly there. Her white arms
reached for him. When he sobbed flinching from her touch, she
stroked his flanks and then almost tenderly she breathed upon
the fire she had left banked within him. 

      That was the end. There was no more containing. He burst
into flame. Uncontrollably, he blazed into a brilliant agony.
That brought a smile to her perfect lips, a smile which was much
of the kind which the devil smiles, as she pressed her warm
thighs around him. "Now you may fly," she whispered and crying
out she sank her nails deep into his hide all the way to his
soft and tender flesh. 

      He flew. Chains stretched to breaking before, the links
burst at the moment of their combined screams. Now and truly
free at last he soared one final magnificent time into the
insubstantial air - before he began to fall. 

      For he did not how to fly, not from this high above the
ground. Even if he did there was not enough wind for his huge
winds, instead he fell. Down, down, faster and faster, tumbling
over and over, he poured out his whole self, not only his seed
but all of his blood and bone, being and soul, too, poured all
out upon the thin air as he fell burning from the heights,
becoming smaller and smaller as his life flowed out.

      Only at the very last moment with blackness closing in on
his mind, as he heard his lungs gasping on the smell of his own
burning, did her strong arms catch him. Only in the final
seconds by the glow of the ghost light did he see again through
her dark window that he was a man, a man with his left arm
aching from the shackle, a man sitting on a cold iron floor
fully dressed, covered in sweat, his body convulsing in the
remnants of exquisite pleasure and agony.

      She held him. She kissed his senseless lips. She lowered
his limp body into a black and silken void and, greatly
satisfied, departed. 



Chapter 5

      Jake dreamed and for once he didn't dream of her. Didn't
dream of coming home from work, calling her name, and tossing
off his sports coat. Didn't dream of calling her name again more
frantically this time and then walking into the bathroom to find
her floating in the rust-stained water. He didn't dream of the
feel of her wet and cold in death, lifeless in his arms. Neither
was the red book in his dreams, nor the red shoes, nor any sign
of that mindless stud for whose caresses she had trod their love
in the dust.

      He dreamed of the dark, of the dripping water as his only
companion. He dreamed of that and the rats. Had he had time to
warn Agent Mulder about the rats? He dreamed of his kidnappers'
clubs and their hard hands and the knife. 

      "Why?" had been in the dream. His own voice crying over and
over again, "Why?" In cruel answer he had received only a new
punch to the groin, two more to his face, a kick to his thigh
and another and another on and on until there was no point to
asking any more because none of it made any sense. Just when he
thought he could bare it, the pain always got worse. This was
especially true the time they had dragged him, crying, out of
the horrible iron prison into the light where grinning Lawrence
had held him down so that Pete could wield his knife. There had
been no way of knowing what they were going to do. 

      He had screamed when they cut and he didn't mind who heard
or that Lawrence struck at him to shut up. He had screamed again
as the fire-heated blade cauterized Pete's handiwork. But that
scream didn't last long for after that he had passed back into
the blackness for a long, long time. 

      He was walking now, walking and walking and the world was
rolling around as if he were in the center of a carrousel on a
stormy sea. Pretty lights, but so cold. Cold wind in his hair?
Where was his hat, Mulder's hat and the cane? Lost the glasses,
too. Good riddance. Walk, put one foot down after the other.
Where was Stella? Stella, Stella? Here girl. My friend, my only
friend who only snuggles closer and licks my hand when I cry and
doesn't tell me like Paul and Alex's mother to buck up and get
over it and move on. Stella, who doesn't care if I don't talk
for days. Want some water, you shaggy monster of a dog? 

      "Water? Here's some water, child."

      Choking, Jake came up from some deep place. Had he almost
drowned? He was coughing up water that had somehow gotten down
into his windpipe instead of his stomach. The open palm of a
sturdy hand was pounding him on the back between his shoulder
blades. 

      "You gonna live, child?"

      Jake's eyes flew open and he stared wild-eyed around at his
surroundings. Nothing looked as it should. It was still night,
only much colder and, therefore, much later than his last
memories of the alley. He was sitting to a side of a broad, flat
plain of barren earth. He felt as if he were down in a long
hole, like an old dry riverbed, only this was too straight, too
flat and there were the soft sounds of a city. But the city
sounds were like those of a city in the deadest part of night,
the time just hours before the dawn. And the city sounds were
far way and somehow above him. Yes, there were the street lights
like rows of white-blue stars on the horizon.

      Mama Rosa was kneeling beside him holding an old but clean
Mystic Mist jar containing some water. She had been trying to
give him some to drink. That's where the water had come from. He
could still feel its wetness in his mouth.

      Rosa's old eyes crinkled under her snowy brows. "Welcome
back, child." She seemed genuinely pleased to see him.

      "Where are we?"

      She gestured to her right and to her left where the flat,
dry ground stretched out on either side as far as they could
see. "Why the freeway." 

      "Freeway?" Baffled, Jake stared again at the what he had
taken to be a peculiar riverbed. It very well could be an
expressway carved out below ground level. It had the width and
that would explain the straightness. It was obvious now that he
knew what to look for that this was a road that had never been
paved and on which over time a straggly collection of weeds,
some scrubby bushes and a few daring, gnarled trees had managed
to grow. Now the over head bands of lights made sense. Quiet,
nighttime city streets passed on overpasses above it.

      "Where does it go?"

      "I didn't think you'd been on the streets very long. From
here to there. I like it. It's a smooth ride for old Bessie here
and no one bothers me." Old Bessie seemed to be a rusted
shopping cart which Mama patted affectionately and which Jake
had not noticed before. His eyes were still not focusing too
well. Since he had been put into that black tomb, left and
forgotten, there had been so much darkness. Would he ever be
able to see right again? 

      Rosa was continuing, "They began this project, oh, ten
years ago now, but lost their funding and it never got finished.
As if I cared. I like it better as it is."

      The pieces were falling together, a least some of them.
This was clearly not even close to the alley where he had fallen
asleep with his head in Mama Rosa's lap. His muscles ached,
especially the sore spot on his stomach just under his ribs. He
felt damp and not just where the water she had tried to give him
had spilled. "How did I get here?"

      "Why you walked, child. Well, crawled, ran, stumbled -
anyway you got from there to here." Jake stared at her wrinkled
face unbelievingly and she explained very gently, "You slept
maybe an hour back there in the alley, then you started moanin',
soft at first and then as if all the demons of hell were after
you. And your skin! It did feel like Old Nick himself was giving
you a guided tour. Hot! I'll say. Could've scorched Mama's old
bones. But did you rest? Not you. There was somethin' you needed
to do and you needed to do it real bad so I just decided that I
might as well take you. Even if you were out o' your head, that
never made any mind to me. I've known sicker and crazier men to
move at a right good pace and never hurt them none." The old
woman proudly patted the shopping cart as if it were a good old
horse. "You leaned on old Bessie a good piece of the way. The
worst of the fever broke, oh, about fifteen minutes ago."

      Jake didn't see how he could have walked anywhere so
feverish and out of his head as she described, not without
remembering, but the proof of her story was here around him on
this barren, surreal plain, wherever here was. Groaning he
forced himself to his feet, the general bone-weary ache which
was over and above his known injuries made him ready enough to
believe her. As he stood, the world did the merry-go-round trick
again. Jake reached out and found that Bessie was indeed a right
steady conveyance. He stared up at the nearest row of street
lights. They seemed impossibly high, impossibly far away,
impossible to reach. As the fog had cleared from his mind Jake
felt again the frantic need to get Mulder the help he had
promised.

      "Rosa, I need to find a policeman -"

      The old woman spat. "Polic-y-man no good. On the make,
every last one of them. Spies. I don't talk to them, they don't
talk to me."

      "A phone then," Jake begged though there certainly was no
Ma Bell outlet down here.

      "Voices," Mama whispered warningly.

      "That's rather the point."

      "Nasty voices, demons. You know the demons. They had you by
the throat only a little while ago."

      Jake leaned his long body over the shopping cart with its
piles of old ratty blankets and clothes and for the first time
he really looked at Rosa or tried to for her image kept
shifting. She really was a tiny, wizened thing with a spark of
madness in her beautiful black eyes. What did Hamlet say, "I am
but mad North-North-West: When the wind is southerly I know a
hawk from a handsaw."  For all of her innate kindness, the wind
in her sails seemed more than a little changeable. 

      Anxious, Jake studied the skyline and was relieved to see
that his angle on the point of the Washington Monument was not
significantly different than when he had sighted it from the
steps at the foot of the building where he had been held
captive, and it did, in fact, seem closer. That was a good sign,
but would Rosa help him reach street level? She clearly didn't
trust many people in authority and Jake needed not a hole in the
ground but help: FBI, police, fire department, 911 operator,
minister, Salvation Army worker, good samaritan, butcher, baker,
candlestick maker - at this point Jake wasn't about to be very
picky.

      Jake took another reading of the sky, the sky to the east
this time. The night was still wearing it's black velvet cloak.
Not a hint of the dawn. There may still be time, but he needed
to hurry. Who knew what Lawrence had already done or planned to
do. And Pete had this obsession with sun up, an old west hang up
like his Bowie knife. Would this be the morning he began carving
again, this time on the real Agent Mulder? 

      "Rosa -"

      "Mama, dear. Call me Mama," she insisted sweetly though a
little vacantly.

      "Mama, you said when I was sick that I asked you to take me
somewhere? Where?"

      "Why the big, red building." 

      Jake knew his response to that was as vague as hers. 

      "The one with all the old soldiers - "

      Old soldiers? Jake wondered confused. An old soldier's
home?

      "And the horses," Rosa added. "Soldiers and horses."

      The lights went on in Jake's befuddled brain and he
actually smiled even though it hurt his bruised face. The
Building Museum was all blood red brick with the thick frieze
running around its entire exterior on which was depicted in high
relief a parade of Civil War soldiers on foot with their
commanders on horseback. The 'old' soldiers. It was not
surprising he would have told her to take him there. He had
found the building's symmetry comforting and had spent many
hours there contentedly drafting and explaining his concepts as
part of the exhibit. Even though he must have been close to
running on empty, he had managed to describe it near enough.  

      With an effort that nearly caused him a fall, Jake pulled
the old woman to her feet and hugged her. This brought an
embarrassed and beaming smile to her wrinkled face. "The red
building with the soldiers, you know where that is?" he asked.

      "Of course, child," Mama Rosa said grasping the handle of
old Bessie, "and we're nearly there. The freeway takes us almost
to the door."

                             *********

      "Agent Scully..." Dana raised her head from where it had
fallen into her arms. Skinner was standing in the doorway. Had
she been sleeping? How could she?

      "Sorry, didn't mean --"

      "Get some real sleep, Agent Scully," said Skinner softly.
"It's very late and we have nothing new to go on. Maybe
something in the morning."

      "I don't want to go home --"

      "I know, so don't. Sleep here." Her supervisor had already
unbuttoned the top button of his shirt and loosened his tie.
There were dark patches under his eyes. He had been working as
many long hours on this as she had. So he did care about Mulder
as she had always suspected.

      "Have the police been informed?" Dana asked, her words a
little slurred in her exhaustion. "If Jake gets away alone and
he's lost and hurt it's no telling where he'll end up."

      Skinner had begun nodding before she finished speaking.
"Yes, and the fire departments and the hospitals. The only
problem is there are not many police on the streets tonight.
There was an explosion with some follow up looting and, if I
hear correctly, a minor riot. City services are pretty much
booked up for the night."

      Dana smiled weakly. "Not a diversion of Mulder's I take
it."
      
      "Not this time. Construction too close to a natural gas
line. Just don't expect much help from the police tonight."
Skinner paused but could think of not much more to say. The
waiting was the worst. Probably better to be Mulder, certainly
in danger but with something to do. "I'm going to sack out on my
couch in the office. Someone will call me if anything happens."
He gestured down the hall with a tilt of his head. "I know where
there's a cot in a storage room down here." Dana's eyes went
wide. What Skinner was suggesting was almost -- intimate. "Get
some sleep," he urged her as he turned more heavily than usual
to head back towards his office. "I'll know where to find you if
you're needed."

      One more time Dana stared down at the picture of Samantha
and Fox. Sam outgoing, full of life. Fox a little thin, a little
shy, already the serious one.

      "Come back, Mulder," she whispered. "I don't want to find
Sam without you." 

      The distance to the small room where Mulder had spent four
restless days was not far but seemed to stretch as far as the
hours since she had last seen that distant, tattered figure
sitting on the steam grate. Nothing in the room appeared to have
been touched. There were the science fiction books she had
bought him but which he had not had the patience to read, the
stack of case files he had tried to focus on, his two changes of
clothes on a hook behind the door. Carefully Dana took off her
shoes and folded her jacket over the back of the one chair. Even
the cheap canvas cot felt good to her tired body. Only after she
had lain there for a few minutes did she notice the scent on the
sheets - Mulder's - and looking found a few short brown hairs. 

      After that, sleep was impossible. Sighing, Dana rose and
headed wearily back to the office. There had to be something
useful she could do. 

                             ********


      Frantically, Mulder's eyes flew open or he hoped they had.
He had been in and out of dreams enough for one night. The
question of the hour was: Was this reality or was he in a dream
still? Somehow, after what he had last seen in this place, the
complete absence of light was almost comforting. With his free
hand he reached out and, yes, the junction of the two walls was
where he thought it should be. His prison was cold, hard and
damp. His left arm felt as if it were going to separate from his
shoulder. He was thirsty, his stomach rumbled, and Scully wasn't
here. This then was reality. After his last 'dream', he hoped he
would have the sense to add Scully to his next one, at the very
least for the protection she would give him.

      On trembling legs Mulder forced himself to his feet, not
truly comfortable because he had to bend over under the five
foot ceiling, but at least a change in position. It was worth
the effort to remove the strain on his arm and the numbness of
his butt. All was silence. He could hear only a little drip,
drip, drip of water someplace high above. Someone must have
flushed recently. The breath of a breeze touched his damp skin.
He flinched, tensed, dreading that this might be 'her' coming
back. But it was only the faintest stirring of the air down the
air vent above his head. 

      Dread? The X-rated magazines he indulged in would have said
he was incredibly fortunate - all that passion, the kind of
climax other men can only lie about, no danger of AIDS, and no
chance of any little surprise on his voice machine a few weeks
later. So why wasn't he just counting the hours till his
batteries were sufficiently charged up so he could try it again?
Because despite the videos and the Playboy Calendars, the Sports
Illustrated swimsuit issue and his other reading materials of a
suggestive nature, Mulder longed more than anything for the real
thing. The homogamous relationship, the wedding, the wife and
kids. Normalcy. That these were unlikely ever to be his, at
least not for a long time, well, that was the price he had to
pay for this job and the promise he had made to himself so many
years ago not to rest until he had Sam home and safe.   

      Not to say that the kind of event he had just experienced
was not noteworthy - memorable - utterly amazing - but it
threatened to push him even further off the deep end of the
Gaussian Curve than before. Not the direction he wanted his life
to take.   

      So was he afraid of her, this - earthly spirit? Absolutely.
Was it a dream? From the feel of the dried sweat on his skin,
the shimmering ache in selected parts of his body that was a
special reminder of those kinds of activities, the stiff, sticky
dampness of certain parts of his clothing, Mulder knew that at
least part of it had been no dream. Other facets, particularly
the bestial transformation, however, were fading. Perhaps this
would not be a bad game to add to his wish list of fantasies to
try out some day with the right partner, but in this case that
twist had surely been her addition to the evening's
entertainment. 

      He had slept after the vision had left him. No, that wasn't
a truly accurate statement. He had passed out from the explosive
climax of it all - and the sheer terror of that glowing,
fantastically beautiful, incredibly sorrowful face. Even now the
memory of that face, that light, sent a shudder through him so
intense that he had to lean back against the wall or fall.
Scully was never going to believe this. Did he even believe it?
If he dared tell her she might just say that he had let his
imagination get away from him. 

      But Mulder was well acquainted with his imagination and had
never known it to be THAT good before.

      Mulder flexed his back till the vertebrae cracked and then
used his free hand to pull his shirt away from his skin. He
could still feel the touch of it, of her, moving in the most
incredible way under his clothes, all over his body. No, this
had been no simple wet dream. Mulder had had some doozies before
and none had been anything like this.

      A sound moved in the darkness, just a rustling at first and
then a wailing, a familiar shrieking of the ancient, iron
hinges. The firebox door. A wild hope flew up. Scully? The door
opened wider and a thin, artificial light showed around the
edges. There was no human sound. Unlikely Scully then. She would
have called out.

      Awkwardly, Mulder slid back to the ground. He rested his
head against the upraised shackled arm as he had found Jake,
providing again the appearance of weakness and injury. Not an
easy trick when every finger and toe and sinew in your body
wanted to attack. Automatically, Mulder did a quick mental
survey, a little meditation.  If there was going to be a
confrontation of some sort in the next few minutes it was best
to know where you mind was. 

      What he found was anger, no doubt about that, but it was
tempered with professional coolness. He was after all trained
for this and a little anger made for a good adrenalin mix. And
fear. Don't forget fear. This was not a good situation and he
had every right to be afraid only it must not rule him. Mulder
knew he had to cling to one thought above all others - that his
kidnappers had to continue to believe for as long as possible
that he was the prisoner they had had all along. 

      Men such as these did not like being made fools of. They
had to continue to believe that their rat hole had not been
found, that they were safe and could take time with their
cruelty. It was the only plan Mulder could think of - buy time
for Jake to get away, buy time for Scully to come.

      The small, low door swung suddenly all the way open. A
burning light burst through the darkness. Mulder clamped his
eyes shut, found it took precious seconds even through slitted
eyes to see again. A huge shape forced itself through what
seemed now a tiny doorway. More sounds as the figure dragged
something into the prison behind him. 

      The figure was Lawrence, the larger of the two, not the
knife wielder, and he was alone. The knot in Mulder's groin
loosened ever so slightly. Lawrence had brought what looked like
a crude wooden crate with him, not heavy but sturdy enough to
use for a seat for himself. He had clearly been in this iron box
before and was not about to sit on the filthy, damp floor or
crouch uncomfortably under its ceiling. He sat himself down
close to the prisoner. Far too close for Mulder's comfort.

      A new kind of fear began crawling about within Mulder's
empty stomach. 

      Lawrence carried a flash, abruptly it swung around, leaping
out to play over the prisoner's face, lancing directly into the
agent's eyes. Mulder flinched and would have turned his head
away but one of the man's huge hands darted out and took an iron
grip on his prisoner's jaw.

      "I see you're awake. I wasn't sure you would be after our
last little get together. Case you're interested, Pete and Jim
Bowie are taking a little nap. He wants to be fresh for the
operation. Wouldn't want to slip and lose the patient. At least
not too soon."

      The thumb of Lawrence's hand which had a vise grip on
Mulder's jawbone moved slowly over the stubble on the agent's
face. Every muscle in Mulder's body contracted at once sending
his blood pressure soaring, his heart pounding. Hard to believe
Lawrence couldn't hear it. Every nerve ending screamed: fight,
bite, kick. Every one, that is, but the grey ones inside
Mulder's head which  reminded him in Scully's voice that the ex-
con probably had enough strength in one hand to snap one special
agent's neck. 

      Stall, Mulder. Time is life. 

      Somewhere beyond the glare from the flash Lawrence's
expression was puzzled but amused in his way. His often-broken
nose gave him a resemblance to an older Rocky Balboa. His second
hand came up to turn Mulder's head from side to side critically
examining his victim in the light. Mulder blessed the glaring,
uneven light of the flash. His make up job had never been
intended to stand up to this kind of scrutiny.

      Lawrence shrugged. "My aunt would call this 'plum amazing'.
Plum amazing, how even beat up you can look better than any of
new meat I was ever given when I was at Marion. I remember
saying that to Pete the first time I ever saw you. 'Now there's
a nice piece of ass I wouldn't mind a taste of.'" Mulder tried
to flinch away but Lawrence had a tight grip that only increased
in pressure. "You didn't know that I was the one who pointed you
out to Pete, did you? We had just come back from a 'night' job
and were leaving this little deli we know, when here you come
just walking along in those fancy clothes as if you didn't have
a care in the world. You had your coat over your arm and, oh, I
liked the look of that walk you had." Lawrence's free hand began
to stroke Mulder's hair, to touch it in a way that one person
does not touch another unless they are VERY close friends. The
fire that burned in the agent's hazel eyes did nothing to
dissuade the huge ex-con. Lawrence held all the cards and he
knew it. 

      Grinning suddenly as if amused exceedingly by his
prisoner's response, Lawrence ceased the intimate gestures,
dropping back into the manner of a man critically appraising a
horse or a dog he might buy. "Don't get me wrong. I'm not one of
your bleeding fags. The fairer sex are a pleasure I certainly
enjoy but when there is no alternative one does develop, as I've
said, the taste."

      The huge hand reached out as if to examine the injured eye
which if he probed too closely would reveal that its swelling
was fake and the bruises false. With a burst of anger he had no
trouble generating Mulder brought up his free hand to push
Lawrence away, a doomed move from the start but he needed the
distraction. Dismayed, Mulder found that Lawrence was not only
strong and clearly articulate, but fast. And a fast, smart,
strong enemy was the worst kind. 
      
      With a wide grin of triumph as if he had been expecting his
prisoner to make this kind of move, Lawrence caught the wrist of
Mulder's rising arm. At the same time, he dipped into one of the
pockets of his coat. The man's grip was so intense, numbing the
arm he held almost immediately, that Mulder barely felt the
coolness of the new ring of metal as it encircled what had been
his free wrist, but the all-too-familiar click of the lock he
certainly heard. Within three seconds, Mulder's second arm was
cuffed up above his head next to the first.
 
      A huge hand came around behind Mulder's back until Lawrence
had cupped the back of Mulder's head in his meaty palm and was
drawing the agent's face to within inches of his own. 

      "Now there's some spirit," Lawrence hissed. "I was
beginning to wonder. When I pointed out your swinging little ass
to Pete he took a second and, startled like, announced that, Jim
Daniel! but if you weren't that damn over-educated Fibbie who'd
sent his cousin Billie to Marion. I remember tellin' him 'Naw,
couldn't be. A Fibbie dressed like that? Your run of the mill
Fibbie has about as much fashion sense as the Secret Service.'
You can tell both of them a mile away. In fact it's rather hard
to tell them apart. But Pete said he was sure so we took our
opportunity."

      Without taking his one hand from the back of Mulder's neck,
holding it like a mother cat controls an unruly kitten, Lawrence
began with deliberation to unbutton Mulder's shirt, raising the
undershirt, tracing his finger over Mulder's skin. Throughout
this process the con's small, dark eyes were, thankfully, on
Mulder's face watching for the fear and the anger which were the
big man's rewards, and Mulder generated enough of both to ensure
Lawrence's attention. The con could not be allowed to notice
that Mulder's chest and stomach were certainly dirty but
uninjured. 

      "You know, Fox -- your Mommy named you well, didn't she --
when all of your ID seemed to indicate that we had gotten
ourselves the wrong man, I remember I was mighty suspicious. You
certainly didn't act like any Fibbie I'd ever met. I said so to
Pete. 'Are you sure we've got ourselves a Fed? Sure you haven't
got it wrong?' 'Oh, no,' he says, 'this one may be under cover
but he's Fox Mulder, for sure. That kind of name and your kind
of pin-up boy looks he remembered from the papers. I wasn't so
sure, but I went along. I admit I was really surprised when,
after receiving the first set of pictures, that your superiors
asked so sweetly after your welfare and wanted to arrange a
meeting to discuss 'negotiations'. Oh, they eventually denied
that we had you, but by then we figured it was just a ploy to
confuse us."

      Black spots were beginning to appear before Mulder's eyes.
The con's vise-like grip had to be pinching a host of nerves and
blood vessels. The spots cleared as with slow deliberation
Lawrence's other hand reached to loosen the agent's belt and
Mulder's adrenaline drip shot through the roof. "How are you
doing down here, by the way? Pete's a pro, you have to admit. No
anesthetic but he cauterized that little snip real good. Steady
hands, Pete has. I was real disappointed in you, Agent Mulder,
you shittin' like a pig and then passin' out on us. No
entertainment value at all." 

      Lawrence's hand was getting far too close to discovering
what he shouldn't. Mulder turned up the burn and let the hate
blaze through his eyes. "If talking a man to death is torture,"
he whispered in a raspy voice as if long unused, "then you
should be well entertained."

      Lawrence rocked back, small, beady eyes showing surprise
and delight. "Ho, ho, it talks. Three days. And here I thought
Pete's little snip had somehow cut the link between your brain
and your mouth. Women always do say that a man's brain is in his
cock. You got me almost believing it."

      As he had leaned back, Lawrence's grip on the back of the
agent's neck relaxed ever so slightly. Reason slipped through
Mulder's fingers. Somehow he found moisture in his dry mouth,
not much but just enough to send a stream of wrathful spittle
right into Lawrence's face. As the con hurled himself back
cursing, Mulder exploded kicking and twisting away from the
con's huge hands with every ounce of strength. A calloused hand
came out of nowhere to connect like a club against Mulder's jaw
and mouth. Pain erupted in his face, in his head, as his skull
snapped back against the iron wall. Light burst in Mulder's
skull that had nothing to do with what was coming in through his
optic nerves and he tasted blood. Lots of it. 

      "You're stronger than I expected but not strong enough. But
keep it up. I like the feisty ones." Lawrence was close to him,
very close, a hand down near Mulder's crotch again. 

      Though dazed, Mulder knew Lawrence was getting far too
close. He surged upwards, pivoting against his cuffed hands. As
his knee drove itself into what he took to be Lawrence's face,
he enjoyed a fleeting satisfaction. Another blow to his jaw left
Mulder with his head spinning but somehow he found the strength
to force his body to turn away from Lawrence, to partially show
his back as though seeking protection from another blow. It was
one of the hardest things Mulder had ever done in his life but,
as intended, the submissive posture was all that was needed to
spark the huge man's imagination. 

      With a roar from Lawrence which in Mulder's ears sounded
more like football cheer than anger, Mulder felt his stunned
body being lifted by a huge arm around his waist. While his
victim lurched and kicked to no effect, Lawrence roared with
triumphant laughter. There was a scraping sound and then Mulder
found himself flipped back to front and dropped down hard onto
his knees. The scraping sound had been the crate Lawrence had
brought in being moved to serve, Mulder soon realized, its
intended purpose. It was now against the wall so that the
prisoner could be stretched over it, cuff-linked arms shackled
high on the wall, the edge of the box cutting across his
stomach. All of this served to keep Mulder on his knees, hips
and particularly buttocks all too vulnerable to what Lawrence
obviously had in mind from the start.

      Lawrence moved with a frightening grace as if he had done
this time and time again. As he dropped his weight down on the
agent's legs, one dirty hand clamped itself over the agent's
nose and mouth while the other reached around his victim's hips
and began expertly to complete the release of Mulder's belt. At
the same time he lay along the agent's broad, young back letting
teeth and lips generously kiss and nip the skin at the back of
Mulder's neck.

      Furious at being barely able to move and not able to breath
at all Mulder struggled but his ineffectual twists and snarls
only further fueled Lawrence's laughter. Only when his
resistance weakened as blackness closed did Lawrence remove the
hand over his prisoner's mouth leaving both arms free to reach
around his prisoner's hips. Gasping, head hanging slack on his
neck, shackled upraised arms practically pulled from his
sockets, Mulder barely noticed what Lawrence was doing, only
that he could breathe again. Within seconds the con's large
hands had expertly manipulated both button and zipper, thick
fingers hooked inside the waist band at both of his victim's
sides and smoothly both boxers and pants were pulled down with
a single fluid yank.

      Furious, tears of anger and humiliation coming unbidden to
his eyes, Mulder fixed burning, unfocused eyes on the blackened
iron wall. He wondered if it were possible to will your body to
turn to stone. Setting his jaw, he waited for Lawrence's obvious
next move, but his tormentor did nothing for a full five seconds
except stare at his prisoner's cooling naked flesh. When the
huge, rough hands finally touched that skin Mulder lurched
backwards against his cuffed hands and felt the back of his head
impact with something soft. Mulder prayed it had been the con's
thick nose. With an almost leisurely destain, a huge hand
reached out and wrapped itself painfully around a fist-full of
Mulder's thick brown hair which put an end to that avenue of
resistance.

      "Naughty, naughty, and just when I was going to
congratulate you, Agent Mulder, on how much you surprise me. You
shat into your pants when Pete made his little cut. Like I said
I remember that vividly and I was going to ask you how your
diaper rash was doing but decided that was just a little - "
Lawrence leaned forward draping himself across Mulder's back to
whisper in his ear - "just a little personal. I figured I'd have
to clean you up a bit - a little '409' never hurts - but what do
I find? As clean and lily-white as ever I saw one." Lawrence
laughed again, deep and echoing. Mulder could feel the bellows-
like lungs heaving in mirth against his back. The man's weight
was pressing the prisoner's midsection against the edge of the
crate which limited each breath to one desperately inadequate
pant. 

      "My, but that one-eyed vet must really have taken his job
seriously. What did you give him to clean your bottom for you,
Agent Mulder? You know what they called me at Marion? Breaker
Lawrence, that's cause I've got a rod like steel and I can get
through the tightest little holes you can imagine. I was looking
forward to adding yours to my collection. To go where no man has
gone before? I do like that. Only looks like I may not be the
first one to make this particular voyage." One of Lawrence's
hands caressed the side of Mulder's right thigh moving up
towards where certain other body parts were hidden in shadow but
exposed enough to probing hands, just as a certain agent's ass
was currently against a certain ex-con's crotch. Pete's snip had
been small. There would still be a very noticeable difference
between Jake and Mulder in this respect.
 
      The hand moved on up towards Mulder's groin. Moved closer.
Mulder forced in enough air to grunt out, "No..."

      The exploring hand hesitated. Lawrence cuddled closer to
let his hot, stinking breath brush across Mulder's ear. "No?
Still a little tender are we? I think I'd like to hear you plead
with a bit more conviction though if you don't mind."

      Mulder wondered if hatred could drip like poison from a
man's lips. If so, then at that moment his bite would be lethal.
"P-Please."

      Lawrence chuckled in response as though he had seldom
enjoyed himself so thoroughly."Not bad, though as our little
visit together goes on you'll get better. As for not lettin' you
in on the fun? It's no sweat off my back. This is your last
chance to be a man is all, if you know what I mean. Only fair."

      Voice tight with bitterness, Mulder spat out, "This has...
NOTHING... to do with being fair."

      "Oh, but it does. If you knew what happened to Macon, you'd
understand. He died three years into his sentence from injuries
suffered in a small riot, a riot that started with a gang rape.
His. Course between you and me I know Pete's anger ain't all for
Macon's sake. How do you think a little thing like Pete survives
in the Pen. 'Petula' we called him. From the day he stepped into
that place, he didn't have a chance. He was younger then, too,
and prettier. Just look at you. You've got pounds and inches
over Pete and see where you are." Lawrence shifted his weight
slightly and Mulder was able to draw for the first time in
minutes something approximating a full breath. Probably the ex-
con hadn't liked the sound of the agent's strangled breathing.
No fun humping the dead or just as good as dead. Lawrence
shifted to get his hands on Mulder's smooth taut bottom again.
"Now let Breaker Lawrence see just what damage has been done."

      Rough fingers worked around Mulder's rear, strong and
demanding, stretching. Mulder dropped his head till it hung
limply down between his up stretched arms. He forced his mind
up, out, anywhere but here. Focus on the cold, the clinical...
Rape was violence, power, not sex. In this case it would buy him
time, maybe life. Torture? To the body, yes. Mulder could feel
the bleeding already, another wound added to his psyche, but
this kind of pain was nothing compared to the scars already on
his soul.

      Lawrence was softly humming, happy. If Mulder knew the
routine correctly the ex-con would be reaching now into his
pocket for the lubricant. 

      "Scully..." Mulder sighed soundlessly like a petition, like
a prayer, "this would be a real good time for you to show up."
 
      He tensed, listened, prayed.

      No rescue.

      Don't think then.

      But it was impossible not to. The gel from the tube was so
very cold.



Chapter 6

      Lucidity can be fleeting Jake discovered. After the
equivalent of only two blocks he could feel the fever back
behind his eyes. Closing them felt better, cooler. Besides, he
didn't need to see to navigate the freeway's straight and level
ground. Clinging to Old Bessie for balance as she rattled among
the ruts, the cold breeze battling with the sweat on his body,
reminded him of the fever dreams of his childhood which were
always filled with other worldly places and discordant sounds.
Suddenly the cart stopped and Jake found himself reaching for
empty air. Forcing open his hot, tired eyes he saw only darkness
until he looked up and up and realized that they had literally
come to the end of the road - or just as likely - the beginning.
Years before the project had either started or ended here. A
vertical wall of dirt and rock rose four stories before him to
meet the street level above. 

      Dazed, Jake turned at the sound of soft chiding on Rosa's
part. She had already maneuvered Bessie part way up a step track
which had been made by many before her in order to allow those
on the freeway to reach the 'real' world above. 

      Jake started. "You must be mad!" he croaked. "You can't get
that cart up there."

      "Done it before," the old woman wheezed, "I'll do it again.
Now don't go givin' me those patented, sad eyes, child. I'm a
tough old bird and I've been rattlin' around these streets
before you were born. Take care of yourself first. You're not
well. If you make it up before me, then you can turn around and
give old Rosa a hand. Now on with you and mind the prickle
bushes."

      Having discarded his dignity days before, Jake crawled up
the slope on his hands and knees. His hands reached out for
whatever he could find to pull himself along - a buried stone,
a hand hold of hard, packed dirt, the rough stem of one of the
few thorny bushes. Despite the cold, the fever sweat poured into
his eyes. By the time he forced his upper body over the top, his
legs quivering too violently to hold him, he had lost his coat. 

      But he had reached the street level, that was the important
thing. All his hopes of a quick rescue, however, rapidly
crumbled away. The street was totally deserted! Barely on his
feet, clinging forlornly to a handy light post, Jake squinted
down the empty pavement. To his right he saw chain link fencing
from a construction site. On his left a great, silent, grey
limestone Federal building gleamed ghostly in the halogen glare.
Eagerly he looked from floor to floor but all the offices were
dark at this hour. Staring down the silent street again he saw
only the alternately red and gold and green glow from the
traffic lights that had no traffic at this hour to direct. It
wasn't until he concentrated past the construction site that he
was able to make out the dark, blocky bulk of a massive
building, a building with a wide strip of much lighter stone
around it. 

      In that instant he knew where he was. That was the Building
Museum with its Civil War frieze. Rosa had been right. He could
scarcely believe that it could be so incredibly close. In this
town where so much was strange to him the sight of it was almost
like seeing the lights of home.

      Jake found his breath catching in his throat. Damnit he was
not going to cry! Instead he remembered Rosa, his strange guide
and benefactress. 

      "Rosa, here, let me help you." He reached his hand down the
steep path to aid the old woman, thinking to grab hold of Bessie
and help drag the cart like a stubborn old mule up the last few
feet.  Only Rosa's trusty shopping cart wasn't at the top of the
path where Jake had expected to find it. Taking a long study of
what he could see of the path leading crookedly down into the
dark, it appeared to Jake that Bessie wasn't anywhere on the
path and neither was Rosa.

      Perhaps she had never intended to take that path, but had
let him think so, so that he would not feel awkward about
leaving her. That was her realm below where she had presence and
a kind of grace and where she was clearly awarded a kind of
respect she would never be granted along the Pennsylvania and
Constitution Avenues of his country. After standing for a moment
on the edge of the eroded path, one hand raised briefly in
farewell, Jake turned without further hesitation to face the
empty street. 

      From somewhere he found the strength to run though it was
not a graceful gait. By the time he stood on the side walk
leading to the dark, double front doors of the museum his breath
was the loudest sound which could be heard in this silent city.
It didn't help that the pain under his ribs had blossomed to
include most of his left side which made movement of any kind
difficult and yet both were miseries he found he could almost
ignore so great was the pure relief he felt to be standing here.
Yes, the building was dark, unoccupied, locked for the night,
but it was also familiar and had been as much of a home to him
as any other in this city for the scant days he had lived here. 

      Lifting his eyes to the band of carved limestone he saw the
lines of ragged soldiers. On his first day he had walked around
the entire building which was more than a football field in
length on each side and he had never found a repeated soldier.
Feverish eyes eagerly scanned the contents of the display case
beside the door. Though slightly out of date now, the notice he
had hoped to find had not yet been removed. "Special Exhibit:
The National Building Museum welcomes America's Young Urban
Architects." Quivering fingers reached out to touch the glass
case. Running along the bottom of the poster were the names of
the juried exhibitors. And there was his own name. His name. His
world, not the dark and violent place where Fox Mulder lived.

      The good memories were coming back as if he were emerging
from a dark and horrible dream, the second such horror of his
life. At least he was finding this time, more quickly than he
had after the first, that nightmares do have a way of ending.

      Two steps and his hands came up to touch the door. He laid
his hot cheek against the cold bronze. How he wanted just to
rest here beside these walls which was the one tiny island in
this huge and powerful city where he felt safe. To lie on this
doorstep and sleep was all he desired at that moment. Let them
find him in the morning, pick him up and send him home. In the
hours between he would just sleep in the cool darkness...

      Jake's body suddenly jerked, swayed, but stayed upright. To
sleep in the dark... 

      Dark... Mulder, was still in the dark and waiting for him!
How could he have forgotten...

      Jake whirled and calling though his voice came out barely
above a whisper, "Mama Rosa, help me. Where...?" But, of course,
she wasn't there. He was alone. He had forgotten. The old woman
had gone her own way as the old tend to do. It didn't matter,
though he would have liked to have thanked her and maybe she
even knew the way to the FBI as she knew the way to this place.
In the end it didn't matter, most likely she would have refused
to take him anyway. She probably liked the idea of the Feds even
less than police and the voices that spoke to you over
telephones.

      Jake's fevered brain turned over slowly. FBI... where was
it? What had Mulder said? Pennsylvania Avenue and ... and what?
Some round number. Tenth? Tenth.  And this was... Fifth? His
tired green eyes, only one of which worked reliably, raised to
the street sign on the corner as if to reassure his flagging
memory. Yes, this was Fifth.  Not so far... 

      Wavering slightly, one arm hugging as always his stomach
and lower ribs, Jake forced his legs to carry him down the
deserted street. For just a second as he turned towards the east
he thought he heard behind him the distant rattle of an ancient
shopping cart rolling along the sidewalks.



                             ********

      Mulder shivered more from what the gel foretold than from
it's chill.

      Behind him, still humming, maintaining enough weight on
Mulder' calves so that Mulder had no use of his legs for
defense, Lawrence zipped down his own pants and then in one
practiced motion was up on his victim's back like a stallion on
his mare, or a ram on his ewe. For the moment he was just
rubbing skin on skin, generating a little excitement for
himself. He smiled in evil delight as he entwined one huge hand
in Mulder's hair while the other reached around to caress the
firm and lightly haired chest. He liked the feel of this one.
The huge body began to move faster, then faster still, harder,
his breath coming deeper, but not hurried. Oh, no, not yet.

      Mulder's thoughts were barely coherent through the panic,
the hatred. His world had narrowed down to two options. Fight or
surrender. Lawrence had said that he liked a good fight. Perhaps
it would be better to do so then and let the devil get hot and
pumped up all the faster. Then it would be over. Over and done
with. Part of his past like so many other horrible things. On
the other hand if he went passive and submissive perhaps his
tormentor would be turned off and settle for a simple beating.
Then Mulder felt Lawrence poised behind him, teasingly close and
easily as hard as the man had boasted, and suddenly his options
narrowed in crystalline clarity down to one. Mulder bucked with
every fiber of his being like a horse determined to rid itself
of an unwanted rider. Without effort Lawrence only settled his
considerable weight down with greater force crooning softly,
"Now there's my little Fed."

      It was clear Lawrence was more than ready now. He had only
to reposition himself after that last series of exhilarating
struggles and then he would begin his final assault. So intent
in fact was he upon the anticipation of the next few minutes
that Lawrence failed to notice that the air in the small,
enclosed space which had become close and warm since the con's
arrival had in the last few moments begun to chill, and more
notably to thicken, as if it were filling with a dense but
unseen fog. 

      Alerted by a prickling between his shoulder blades, Mulder
was acutely aware of the arrival of the chilling draft and
immediately after detected again the unmistakable scent of musk
and flowers. What could she want here? Did her appetite run to
finding pleasure in observing this kind of torture? At the mere
thought Mulder sent a blast of purest rage in her direction. As
if in reproof for his faithlessness, an icy pain shot through
the length of his body. There was no mistaking her touch though
it was not her gentle loving hands he felt this time, nor the
fire of her passion, but the merest backlash from her jealous
fury. No, she was not here as a voyeur to enjoy the sport. Far
from that.
  
      Lightening crackled, softly, unseen, thunder rumbled as if
from a rapidly approaching summer storm but oddly the sound was
low, felt more than heard and almost beyond the ability of a man
to hear. But Mulder heard and hearing wished fervently to be
just about anywhere at that moment than handcuffed to a pipe in
the shell of an old furnace with a sadist on his back and a
sensual, avenging spirit hovering far too closely nearby.

      That was the end of logical thought. Logic had no place
here. The heaviness and tension in the air had begun growing at
an incredible rate and had become a pounding, pounding in his
head. Quickly there followed a return of her chilling touch but
this time it stayed becoming a bitter cold which turned his
hands and feet to ice. And the cold spread like a creeping
glacier numbing his limbs as it crept along its icy path up his
legs, into his thighs, down his arms. It flowed on death's cold
fingers across his shoulders and down his back, as if purifying
all of the places that Lawrence had touched. But there was one
hint of grace to this. Just as a man who is freezing to death no
longer feels the cold, pain had became a sensation which was
far, far away and even farther away was any sense of Lawrence's
rough clothes and rougher skin.

      Amazingly, Lawrence was still oblivious to all of this. So
intent was he on his own pleasures that he completely failed to
notice the breath of December in the room, the electricity
building and growing dangerous in the thick, cloying air about
him. Nor was he aware that the skin of his victim had come to
more closely approximate that of a corpse than a man over the
last minutes. When a convulsive tremor ran through Mulder's body
as her cold touch crept near his heart, Lawrence only laughed
lightly assuming that his prisoner was simply experiencing
arousal from Lawrence's attentions. What further proof did he
need of his virility.

      But SHE was not entertained by Lawrence's immersion in his
own lust, and certainly not by his attentions to this one which
at least for the moment she considered hers. The temperature in
the room plunged another ten degrees in response to her wrath.
SHE would be loved or SHE would be feared but SHE would not be
ignored nor would she tolerate a transgressor.

      The thunder which had begun like the slow heavy strokes of
huge beating heart now merged to become a steady roaring like
the rushing of a mighty river just out of sight, like the ocean
plunging in waves against the rocks of home. Sensing something
ominous in the change Mulder forced open his eyes.
      
      The iron wall of his prison which was within inches of his
eyes had begun to move. 

      Feeling what parts of his body he could still feel go
rigid, Mulder blinked and stammered with numb lips whatever he
could remember in Latin at that moment from his humanities
classes and hoped it was a prayer. Couldn't hurt. A black film
was emerging from the soot of the walls, the ceiling, the floor.
It was the  color of ink and the consistency of honey. Mulder
cringed as it emerged within inches of his eyes but then,
mercifully, flowed off to either side absorbing into other
streams like mercury. As Mulder watched fascinated and yet
horrified, they twisted themselves within seconds into strands
and then into coils of sooty smoke as thick as a man's arm or a
woman's all of which slithered out of sight to gather in the
shadows.

      If it were possible, the air in the room became suddenly
even heavier, in its way, alive and nearly too heavy too
breathe.

      Scarcely able to feel anything and barely able to hear with
the roaring in his head, Mulder was still aware of Lawrence. The
man was now swearing and getting rougher. Even he was not
totally unaware to what was going on any longer, though all that
the icy chill in the room and his victim's sudden detachment
meant to him was that it affected his performance. He would have
his prize and if he had to let his anger fuel his desire then so
be it. To atone for the disappointment he was causing this one
would just have to be introduced to some of Lawrence's more
creative games in the future. Over the years Lawrence found he
had a knack for administering that sort of punishment. 

      But that for later. For now Lawrence was tired of waiting.

      Another power also sensed his sudden determination to
finish this and would have her own say. From the shadows one of
the coils of inky smoke struck out as quick and fluid as a snake
and closed in - hard - upon that bar of living iron of which
Lawrence took so much pride.

      The man's roar was like the bellow of a enraged bull cut
across the belly by the warrior's sharp, bright sword. "What the
hell...! Damn you mother-fucker!"

      Murder flared in Lawrence's eyes brighter even than his
agony certainly more than reason which would have told him that
his victim was in no position to initiate that sort of an
attack. Before the man's monstrous hands could close in to crush
and snap his victim's neck, the host of the black coils
materialized from all corners of the room and converging with
the cold charged air created a storm of which hell would have
been proud. Only at the last moment did Mulder see shadowed on
the wall above his head two forms, one was Lawrence screaming,
the other was an outline of a rearing column of darkness which
moved far too quickly for Lawrence or anyone to avoid. A thunder
clap exploded like a bomb in the small room and Lawrence was
suddenly - gone - the sound of his huge body hitting the farther
wall of the furnace shell like a thousand Chinese gongs. Mulder
found himself thrown through the air in the opposite direction,
not far, for there was nowhere to go, but far enough to end in
a burst of shattering pain from a face thrown into the wall and
the near dislocation of shoulders and wrists. 

      For long, long seconds the only sound Mulder heard was a
deafening silence such as that which follows the crack of the
lightening bolt, the only sensation that of freezing in the
cutting, brittle snow, the only sight of lights bursting behind
his eyes. Boneless, like a discarded toy, Mulder slid back along
the crate, falling back in roughly the same position where
Lawrence had held him. Though barely conscious, one tiny flame
still burned in his brain with questions for which he had no
answers. Wearily he turned to see as far over his left shoulder
as he was able. Lawrence's flash had shattered at some point
during the conflagration but there was still light. A thousands
points of phosphorescence glistened like a thousand fire flies
over every surface inside the iron cell. By their glow Mulder
was easily able to pick out Lawrence's body, now a crumpled and
twisted mound, his neck and limbs lying at angles never found in
nature except on the dead. 

      There were no shapes at all now to throw shadows upon the
wall. 

      Scully was going to love this, Mulder thought shivering
violently. More impossibilities for her to try to rationalize.
 
      The glittering lights began to dim. As the horrible frozen
numbness flowed from Mulder's limbs like water, feeling returned
which was not altogether welcome. Mulder blinked trying to shake
off a small flow of something slightly warm and sticky that
dripped down from where his forehead REALLY hurt. He tried to
raise his head, tried to move from this ridiculous position with
his hands cuffed above his head and his naked ass still sticking
out into the chill of the room, but he had no strength. It
seemed that the lights were beginning to fade faster and faster
but were those the lights in the room which were fading or the
lights inside his head. Both he decided though it scarcely
mattered. He was going to lose consciousness. At this point that
was inevitable.

      "You have got to work on your timing," Mulder whispered
into the darkness.

      Gently, a little apologetically, warmth settled over and
around him like loving arms. 

      Rest... nothing will harm you. 

      Tired beyond imagining, Mulder gave himself up to the
comfort of that warm, healing touch and when it came he embraced
the dark.

                              ******

      Time moves as it will and not as men would have it. Best
then that the lean man forcing his way painfully empty block
after empty block did not notice that the sparkle of the stars
in the east was gradually fading. He was angry enough but that
kept him moving. A cold breeze blew against his aching face, the
rough wire of the chain link fence that walled off yet another
huge, deserted construction site burned his fingers as he pulled
himself, swearing, along another block.

      Didn't anyone work at night in this city? he wanted to
scream into the black sky and he would have if he had had the
breath and the strength to spare and if he'd thought that there
was anyone out there to hear. Perhaps they all stayed up late
celebrating spring like the crowd on the street the evening
before.

      On his five block journey Jake had met with only
infuriating disappointment. Within a hundred yards of the
Building Museum he found a fire department but a notice
displayed on its door announced it would be closed on Tuesdays
as a budget move and the public was advised to seek assistance
at another location the nearest of which was blocks away. The
purely utilitarian structure was totally dark. Must be Tuesday.
The window glass covered in places with plywood, the cracked
concrete walls and dismal landscaping all pointed to a building,
and a city, in a sad state of disrepair. In front of the
National Portrait Gallery he found a water fountain in the
middle of a small park. His captivity, his fever, the walk had
left him parched, but the spigot only gave up the tiniest
trickle of its precious fluid. Enough to allow him to wet his
grimy fingertip and lick off the few clinging drops but little
more. Ironically, Jake had found three public phones - one was
out of order, one had its receiver cord cut and the other only
took credit cards.

      Braced against a utility pole to keep himself upright, Jake
blinked impatiently waiting for his good eye to focus on yet
another street sign. This anger was doing him no good, he told
himself. It drained him and he hadn't the strength to spare. It
scarcely mattered any more anyway. He was close. Had to be. This
was Ninth. He had traveled east far enough. South now. From here
he could not help but run into Pennsylvania Avenue. At least
there if he fell on his face in the middle of an intersection
someone was bound to notice. A stray thought tickled his brain
as he forced his leaden legs past another boarded up building,
more broken street lights. Maybe he should just walk up to the
White House and knock on the front door? He was close enough.
Now that might be get someone's attention. Probably the wrong
kind, but something.

      The first block south felt a mile long. There were
limitations to his strength and his will and he had exceeded
both blocks before. How much father could he go? How much
farther would he have to? E street, another street sign said.
But how far was Pennsylvania Avenue? Like the other state named
streets in D.C., it radiated out at angles from the Capitol like
spokes on a wheel, but where any could be expected to cross the
square grid of lettered and numbered streets was a riddle that
had baffled more than a century of tourists. 

      Across the street a huge building, squatting on what seemed
to be an entire city block, caught Jake's weary eye. Sixties
modern it was, in an unusually creamy color for poured concrete.
Automatically his eyes made sense of its form and design. Not a
bad example of its style. The large block-like windows were
deeply recessed giving it a dash his professional mind found
satisfying. 

      Jake wiped his perspiring forehead on the back of his shirt
sleeve. He must really be close to losing it if he was analyzing
buildings at a time like this. 

      But the building claimed his attention again or something
about the windows did. It came to his mind only slowly what that
was. Some were lit. Wonder upon wonders, office lights were
burning. Not many but a few. His heart picked up its faltering
beat and he scanned up and down the structure for an entrance.
The damn place was built like a fortress! One set of stairs was
even blocked by a steel barrier, a unoccupied security station
and gates guarded the access tunnel to an underground parking
garage. Jake took this all in as he hurried awkwardly across the
street, in his haste stumbling on the curb. Almost as an after
thought he saw posted a small plaque posted at knee level with
an arrow pointing up the block to his right. "Hoover Building,
E Street Tour Entrance."

      Hoover! Jake's fingers threatened to crack the concrete
barrier he was currently holding onto to keep on his feet. Then
he ran, reeling like a drunken man but he ran. Somehow he
managed the half block. The concrete steps he took crawling. He
threw his body against the double doors and pounded on the dense
glass with his fists over and over and over again. The lights
were dimmed in the tall lobby, there were signs everywhere
listing tour hours and stating 'No Food or Beverages Past this
Point', but not a living soul came.

      Nearly in tears, Jake slipped onto the ground, furious that
he hadn't even had the strength to trigger the building's alarm
system. Crawling to his feet he kicked at the useless door one
final time and turned to find his fury transformed to dismay as
for the first time he discerned the faintest greyness of
approaching dawn in the east. 

      Damn! Flinging himself recklessly back the way he had come,
Jake staggered down the sidewalk following the curve of the
building. There had to be a night entrance, a staff entrance
someplace! In his frantic haste he took a corner too quickly and
a sharp edge of concrete which jutted out from the wall caught
him directly on the swollen, aching space under his ribs.

      In agony he fell writhing to the ground, the lights
flickering on and off in his head. As the worst of the pain
passed, however, the light in his face steadied and Jake heard
a young and slightly unsteady voice. Squinting, he looked up
into the face of a young man wearing a uniform.

      "You hurt?" the security officer asked.

      Jake found no breath for the moment to speak and could only
stare in stunned amazement. Perhaps Washington wasn't a city of
phantoms after all.

      "Are you hurt?" the man repeated. "Do you need an
ambulance?"

      "I need..." Jake began in an entirely unsatisfactory voice,
as he searched his feebled brains. The name of the man Mulder
told him to ask for, what was it? An odd name.

      "Sk-Skin...Skinner."

      "What?"

      "Call Skinner."

      The young man shook his head more than a little uneasy in
this situation. "Sorry, I just got transferred from Treasury
yesterday. I don't know the staff. What I think you need is an
ambulance." 

      "No, I need to talk with someone at the FBI." Jake let his
head loll back against the sidewalk. He was too tired to try to
talk any more, too exhausted to move another step. He hurt, but
at least he was no longer alone. That stood for something. 

      The young officer drifted from his sight. In the quiet of
the city night even from a distance, Jake could hear the young
man make a phone call. Only it wasn't to the FBI! He was calling
the police, reporting that they might have need of a team from
St. Elizabeth's, the District's psychiatric hospital. 

      Raw panic broke through all. No! He would not let the
police have him and send him away to a place where no one would
believe his story, where everyone would assume he was crazy. At
the minimum there would be delay and the dawn was coming and the
dawn could very well bring Mulder a visit from Pete and his
sharp little friend Jim. For what he hoped was the last time
Jake forced himself to his knees and immediately into a
staggering run. As he stumbled away he heard an alarmed shout
from the guard. 

      It was a long block. Jake passed another set of stairs with
an iron barricade. Frantic despair was settling in as the guard
drew closer shouting his urgent demands for the running man in
the filthy army fatigues to stop. 

      Jake reached the corner, a broad avenue, and there was even
an occasional headlight moving here. Coming up through breaks in
the sidewalk in front of the Hoover Building, were three
straight rows of young trees. The street lights and the palest
silver of dawn tossed their shadows in a distractingly regular
pattern onto the ground like the bars of a cell. It was in
stumbling away from those confining shadows that Jake found
himself at the right angle to see into the corner of a shadowed
alcove. There he saw a door whose purpose was identified with
the simple words: "Personnel Entrance" in simple white letters
outlined in black. 

      Relief providing energy which little else could, Jake
sprang for the handle of the door - only to find the entrance
locked, accessible only by a passcard at night.  

      Throwing himself and his fists against the glass, Jake
roared in frustration just as the young guard came running
around the side of the building. The young man was so intent on
searching the shadows under the trees that he almost missed Jake
who had sidestepped into a shadow of his own. Eyes fevered, face
white and glistening with sweat, he stood defiantly with his
back against the locked door.

      The young guard dropped to a crouch, gun carefully raised.
"Quiet now," the guard said gently, seeing wild fear more than
anything in the glazed eyes. "No one is going to hurt you..."

      Like an animal Jake drew deeper into the shadowed corner
mere steps from the door and there his finger tips clutched
helplessly at the brick of the wall behind his back. Within him,
strength and will were shattering into a thousand pieces. 

      "Mulder, I'm sorry," he said his lips barely moving. "I'm
sorry ... I tried...." 

      Out of nowhere a voice spoke beside him, not the young
guard's voice but a different voice, an older voice. Jake spun
staring. A guard from inside the building had come to the door
in response to the pounding and now opened it, drawing his own
gun as he saw that the young security guard facing the entrance
had his weapon drawn. "What's going on here?"

      At the sight of a second gun, Jake had instinctively drawn
even further back into his shadow, but then he realized as he
stood here hesitating that his last chance was slipping,
slipping further away. Half-leaping, half-falling Jake lunged
for the partially open door. 

      The security guard outside shouted - something. A command.
Already in mid air Jake never heard. 

      The weapon in the young guard's hand fired.