Part 15 of 27: All Messed Up and No Place to Go....

Tuesday, May 17, 1988, 8:47 AM. Apartment 42.

The phone woke him with a violent start. It was just as well. He'd had a bad 
night, jerking awake repeatedly from dreams of one subject: his murder and 
subsequent dismemberment. After all that, there was bound to be another body 
somewhere in Wheeling. Or maybe he really *was* just losing his mind. Mulder 
scrubbed his face wearily. Hell, who said one possibility was mutually exclusive 
to the other...

"Good Morning America" was droning away at hyper perky. Mulder slapped the off 
button on the remote and grabbed the phone, wincing as several scabs popped open 
on his hand. The voice in the receiver identified herself and Mulder mouthed 
several silent expletives to the room at large. 

Personnel Services. Shit.

The slightly bored, slightly nasal voice was telling him he had an appointment 
this morning. Or this afternoon, if it was more convenient. 

Mulder blinked slowly and the woman outlined the pros and cons of a 10:00 a.m. 
appointment as opposed to, say, a 3:30 time slot. He stared blearily at his 
reflection in the TV screen. The bitter taste in his mouth had little to do with 
morning breath.

The voice on the line paused for his response. He muttered vaguely about 
checking his calendar and would she please run down the list of available times, 
slowly this time. He tuned her out as she complied. 

What the hell was wrong with him, he wondered? This wasn't even the counselor. 
This was some Psychology 101 dropout smacking her gum on the end of the 
receiver-- and his palms were sweating, his legs trembling so hard he was afraid 
to stand--

Mulder rubbed at the heavy stubble on his jaw, taking in one deep slow breath, 
releasing it with absolute control. "Under whose orders," he asked calmly, "was 
I assigned a mandatory counseling session?"

Another pause and the shuffling of papers. "Assignment was signed by ASAC 
Purdue, sir. But it's not mandatory. Just strongly suggested." 

So. Purdue was not above resorting to Patterson's early tactics: the 
concerned-friend approach to assuming sovereignty over Mulder's life. So much 
for Purdue's grand words and posturing.

Mulder glanced over at the kitten sitting in the middle of the dining room door. 
The little thing was still half-terrorized after some of Mulder's more dramatic 
awakenings during the night. It had that wide-eyed "what's next" stare his dates 
had begun developing over the past year. Right before they hit the door. He 
waved an inviting set of fingers toward it, holding his hand near the floor, a 
peace offering to nibble on. The kitten retreated to the kitchen. 

"Hell," Mulder sighed into the phone. "Look, ahm. I'm not sure I can make it 
today. How does tomorrow look for you?"

"No, sir. ASAC Purdue specifically stated today. I'll have to notify him--"

Mulder stopped listening abruptly, stopped breathing, his eye caught by the 
bright item lying on his coffee table. He reached a tentative hand, lifting the 
jewelry to the light filtering through the shade. A garish bit of plastic and 
metal. The long, swirling earring worn by the woman at the bar. 

Mulder declined the appointment. As easy as declining a dinner invitation. 
Polite, firm. The receiver back in its cradle.

He didn't have time for this crap. He had a litter box to clean. 

9:22 AM

The phone again: Purdue this time. The ASAC's voice was calm, matter-of-fact, if 
not exactly pleasant. No mention of Sauceda. He understood Mulder hadn't 
scheduled with Personnel Services, though.

"I'm fine," Mulder informed him helpfully.

"I'm not saying you aren't, Agent." 

Silence on Mulder's end. The kitten had re-attached itself to his boot. The tiny 
pest seemed to be developing a major thing for leather. *Great,* Mulder mused, 
*even my cat's a pervert.* He would have to remember to take that into 
consideration whenever he got around to naming the imp.

Purdue's voice filtered through the line: the standard 
need-to-reach-out-and-touch-someone schmooze of the psychiatric profession. 
Wonderful, and just who did Dr. Reg here think he was talking to? The grinding 
sound echoing in the receiver was Mulder's teeth.

"Listen, son," there was a compassionate hesitation in the ASAC's voice. It 
grated down Mulder's spine like fingernails on a chalkboard. "I just want you to 
know," Purdue insisted, "that I understand what you're going through--" 

Mulder felt something too tightly wound snap. His knuckles went white on the 
receiver and it was an effort to keep his voice level.

"You understand *this,* Purdue: I don't give a shit what you do and do not 
understand about my personal life. You dismissed me from a case without cause, 
without a fair hearing. Hell, you didn't even do me the courtesy of telling me I 
was being removed to begin with--"

"Mulder, this is not about your performance--" Purdue's sigh rattled through the 
receiver. "Look, I'm sorry. It's not my place to pry. I know that. But I also 
know that the death of a woman you... cared for is--"

"Don't--" Mulder was unexpectedly gulping air. His left hand lost all feeling 
and he scrambled to keep from dropping the phone. "Fuck you," he gasped. "I'm 
not having this conversation. Not with you. Not with anybody. And least of all 
those damned quacks at Personnel. Do you understand?" Purdue was silent again as 
Mulder panted, the receiver cradled on his shoulder as he rubbed the feeling 
back into his upper arm. "Look," he seethed, "all the Bureau needs to know is 
that I haven't swallowed my goddam gun and if that much isn't obvious then you 
must have dialed one hell of a long distance number."

Mulder paused. *Well, hell, Fox, that's an awful lot of violence to shove down a 
phone line considering you keep telling yourself you're so damn numb otherwise.*   
He closed his eyes, cursing himself, silently this time, and collapsed on the 
couch, receiver resolutely at his ear.

Now the silence reflected back to him on Purdue's end. Mulder bit his lip and 
waited it out, one of his many talents. He finally heard a sigh.

"I'm in DC, Agent Mulder. Got in last night. You know Georgetown, right?"

Mulder ran a hand through his hair, pushing the kitten away gently with his boot 
heel.

"Why?"

"Meet me at the Greystone Condominium on Potomac. I'll be out front."

"Look, Purdue--"

"Are you on the job or not, Agent?"

"Ah. I'm on my way--" The line was dead before he could add the "sir."

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

10:13 AM, Georgetown, Washington, DC.

Purdue was waiting as promised, standing at the front gate, hands buried in his 
coat pockets, half-chewed cigarette gripped resolutely between his lips.

Mulder parked up the block and took his time getting down the sidewalk, 
strolling with his usual careless leisure through the inevitable crowd of 
spectators huddled at the police barrier. His delay was deliberate, designed to 
give the ASAC a chance to look him over. Mulder had made certain that he could 
afford the extra attention: he'd dressed hurriedly but well, Armani suit and 
after shave adequate armor against all detractors. The suit was tan and rarely 
worn simply because Mulder didn't like it much. Today, however, it was a 
godsend: very possibly the only thing in his closet that wouldn't highlight the 
fact that he was far too pale. A breakfast of another half-dozen aspirin had 
subdued his headache to relatively tolerable but Mulder kept his hands in his 
pockets as much as possible: they seemed to have developed a tendency to twitch 
at the oddest times. 

He shouldn't be here. He knew it half-way out the door of his apartment. He had 
to pause too often to remember directions, and streets he should have known like 
the back of his hand were suddenly unfamiliar. Mulder told himself it was just a 
transitory displacement, a reaction to chronic stress and it would pass. He 
*had* to do this, after all. He had to do it, or admit he wasn't fit for the 
job. When that excuse wasn't enough to keep his foot on the gas, he told himself 
he had to do it at least long enough to pay for the impending vet bills. Yeah. 
That was it. He could hang on for that much longer.

 Purdue nodded once as he approached, then waited him out, body perfectly still, 
 face ominously calm. It was difficult, but Mulder maintained the man's eye 
 contact, looking away only once or twice and quickly back, managing, he hoped, 
 to appear confident and serene and eager to be back at work. Without being 
 overly eager, of course. 

 Purdue tossed his cigarette, brows raised warily as Mulder presented him with a 
 small volume of poetry. The ASAC accepted the book with the same deliberately 
 orchestrated courtesy with which it was presented, frowning at the evidence bag 
 poking up from between the pages. He pocketed the volume without perusal, 
 however, and Mulder followed him dutifully into the building. Not a word had 
 passed between them. 





Crime technicians and DC police spilled down the stairs and up the hall, 
converging on apartment 307. Mulder followed Purdue inside, meek as an asp. It 
was another nice, neat unit: cozy fireplace, ceiling fans and one seriously 
mutilated corpse.

"I'm sure you'll recognize the work." Purdue, re-pocketing his hands, remained 
at the door. He allowed Mulder just enough room to squeeze past.

Sauceda was busy with the body on the sofa: have meat thermometer, will travel, 
apparently. The pathologist waved the instrument at his partner in uncertain 
greeting; Mulder tossed him the stoic nod Purdue had given him earlier. Sauceda 
frowned, but returned to his work.

Mulder took in the room at a glance and backed away to the window. It was one 
large piece of plate glass stretching from ceiling to floor, the drapes open. 
The view alone must have pushed the rent well out of Mulder's price range: 
Francis Scott Key Memorial Bridge spanning the Potomac. Pretty as a postcard in 
the morning light.

It was much too beautiful a day for all this crap. The thought startled him: 
Mulder couldn't recall ever considering such a fact, couldn't remember ever 
giving himself that kind of option. And while he was being so blatantly honest, 
that long, quick drop down to the street looked pretty inviting, too. He was 
dizzy suddenly but concealed it well; his only concession to weakness was to 
remove his hands from his pockets, steadying his balance with his fingertips 
pressed to the window.

The sensation passed within seconds and he found Purdue's reflection in the 
glass next to his own. The ASAC, still at the door, was watching him intently. 
Mulder checked the vision of himself, trying to determine if he was as flushed 
as he felt under this man's unblinking gaze. His image, however, floated 
serenely pale against the blue of sky and water and sun-washed expanse of 
bridge. He considered the dark eyes swimming in the glass next to his own. *I'm 
tired,* he confessed to that dispassionate vision. *I'm just tired.* 

Purdue's image blinked solemnly, impossible to translate.

*Ah, the lies,* Mulder mused, then spoke the words aloud, heart pounding as 
Purdue's frown reflected back at him. "The lies to feed the lies. Until they 
feed us to the truth."

Purdue bit his lip. Even in the distortion of the glass, Mulder could tell the 
ASAC was struggling with words and whether to speak them. The indecision never 
reached those too-confident eyes, however, and Mulder turned away abruptly, his 
hands trembling again. He shoved them deep into his pockets and crossed the 
room, the nonchalance of his stride a mask for prying eyes.

Sauceda stepped back, smiling wearily as he approached. Mulder noted the traces 
of razor burn on his partner's jaw, but didn't comment. For some reason, he just 
didn't know what to say to Sauceda  this morning. Mulder stared down at the 
corpse instead; somehow, the bloodied form seemed the least threatening person 
in the room.

The victim was male, with dark hair, about Mulder's height and weight-- judging 
from what was left intact, anyway. Sisyphus had left the eyes again. They were 
Academy textbook doll's eyes: open, fixed, unfocused. He was nude, splayed 
disdainfully to the flash of forensic photographers, organ deep gray against the 
yellowed thigh. Purdue was right about the handiwork being familiar. So, Mulder 
mused, Sisyphus had followed him home. If her latest creation was anything to go 
by, she'd been pretty well hacked about the move-- she'd certainly hacked this 
one up enough. Understandable, given the circumstances, Mulder supposed.

"The guy's an American Lit Professor at Georgetown," Sauceda offered. "Make that 
*was.*" The pathologist shuffled his feet nervously then froze with a guilty 
look. Fifth rule of forensics: walk lightly in a crime scene and never, *never* 
shuffle your feet. Mulder gave him a merciful shrug. 

"I need my gun back, Len."

Sauceda dropped his head. 

"Shit, Lenny--"

"I, ah. I forgot it at home, Marty. I meant to bring it, though. Really. I'll 
get it to you later, okay?"

Mulder wanted to tell him it wasn't okay. That he'd surrendered the weapon in 
faith. That-- Hell. What did it matter?

"Marty?"

"Yeah, Len."

"You okay?"

"Oh yeah."

"What'd you do to your face, kid? You been fighting again?"

Mulder patted the Band-Aid on his check and gave his partner a cryptic shrug. "I 
cut myself taking out the trash."

Sauceda screwed his face up, studying the response. His jaw worked silently for 
a minute. "Yeah. Well. Listen, kid--" His voice dropped to a conspiratorial 
hiss. "You watch yourself, okay? Purdue's kinda pissed."

"About my gun?"

"Hell no!" Sauceda squeaked. "Christ, Marty-- 'Member in Wheeling, I tried to 
tell you? He thinks you know shit you're not telling. Maybe names and... and 
stuff like in Shreveport--"

"Now just who," Mulder demanded, "would have given him that idea?"

Sauceda backed away from that penetrating glare. "Marty, you know I wouldn't-- " 
Sauceda locked his jaw down hastily and Mulder sensed Purdue's approach over his 
shoulder.

"No, Lenny. Not much you wouldn't." Mulder said the words but there was no anger 
in them, no animosity. There wasn't much of anything in them, in fact. *So,* he 
mused, *we're back to that again.*

Purdue positioned himself to Mulder's right, well within both agents' lines of 
sight. Sauceda practically squirmed beneath Purdue's teeth-grinding silence. 

Mulder wasn't about to give Purdue that kind of satisfaction, himself. He 
blinked benignly, staring down into the open cavity of the man on the sofa. He 
could identify some of the organs if he was called upon to do so, not that 
anyone was asking. Human hands, he marveled, had performed this deed. No 
ravaging carnivore, killing what was necessary for survival. No hellish specter, 
no Late Show extraterrestrial. What need had humanity of such monsters when we 
have ourselves? The hands of a murderess had created this evil. The same hands 
that had touched his Kay only hours before--

Mulder tried to close his eyes, his mind, against the thought but it refused 
honorable retreat. The image of a woman's hands presented themselves before his 
mind's eye: small tender hands like Kay's. Hands that had reached out in love to 
a man, seeking comfort, seeking to give a measure of herself to another. Gentle 
hands that had held the children of other women and longed for their own. Strong 
capable hands that had prepared meals, made beds, creating and caring for the 
minute necessities that composed a life. But these hands had taken life. Again. 
These hands had washed themselves in blood, had held a heart as it beat once, 
again, and then stilled. They had slashed Mulder's life away, too, ripped his 
heart out of his chest and dropped it, still struggling, on the floor of a diner 
while he lay sleeping a few short yards-- and entire world-- away. Mulder 
wrenched back from the image, unable to completely muffle his cry of pain.

"Mulder?"

Purdue's hand on his arm was sudden and startling and he recoiled with a gasp. 
The ASAC stepped back, Sauceda's tug at his sleeve an unnecessary warning. 
Mulder swore, cradling his arm where Purdue had touched him, the flesh burning 
beneath his jacket. For all his earlier bravado, he was suddenly wishing he 
hadn't forgotten his shades. He turned away from Purdue's scrutiny, his mouth 
swallowing acid.

"She still on the poetry or has she moved on to prose yet?" he demanded. There 
was too long a pause and Mulder glanced back up into Purdue's dark eyes. 

"You little bastard," the ASAC hissed.

Sauceda was pulling frantically at the ASAC's sleeve again; Purdue pushed him 
away. "Like you don't know," Purdue spat. "'Has she moved onto prose'--" He 
whirled on the pathologist. "Show him. You were so damned handy handing crap 
over in Wheeling--" 

Purdue shoved his hands back in his pockets, his face a grotesque mixture of 
rage and concern. Sauceda tried to catch Mulder's eye as he handed over the 
baggied slip of paper; Mulder snatched it from him, pushing Sauceda back to 
arm's length. His heart was pounding much too hard.

"They don't make rocks like us anymore. And holding on to the thread, fine as a 
cobweb, but incredibly strong, Each of us advances into his own labyrinth. The 
gift of invisibility Has been granted to all but the gods, so we say such 
things, Filling the road up with colors, faces, Tender speeches, until they feed 
us to the truth."

 



He glanced back up again and into Purdue's twisted face. 

"Now, Mr. Mulder," the ASAC's voice was far from tender, "you tell me how you 
managed to stand there at that window and quote this before you even saw it. And 
I don't want to hear any of that goddam spook shit."

Mulder stood speechless. For the life of him, he had no answer for the man. The 
quote had simply come to him, or at least, he thought it had. He searched the 
paper again, staring through it, reasoning frantically. Had he heard the poem in 
his dreams? Or had he so tuned into this woman's inner workings that he could 
anticipate her now and not even distinguish the presence of her personality from 
his own? For that matter, had there ever been any true line of demarcation from 
himself and *any* of his profiles--

Spook? Shit. 

Meanwhile, the pressure of Purdue's presence was overwhelming. This was a 
mistake, Mulder realized. Since his return to DC, he had discovered an 
unexpected comfort, something intensely reassuring, in the mundane activities of 
housework, of quiet routine. It was new to him, had lulled him into believing 
that he was almost whole again, that everything would be all right. 

But nothing was all right. Nothing ever would be again. He understood that now. 
He should have gone in for the counseling, or-- the unthinkable-- sworn off the 
case. It was pointless, after all. He couldn't bring Kay back. He should have 
refused to come here-- 

Should have. Didn't. And there was no backing out now.

Mulder chewed his lip and handed the paper back abruptly. Sauceda reached out to 
accept it but Purdue slapped him away, watching Mulder's hand, extended before 
him, shaking so hard the paper rustled within its bag. The profiler's eyes 
narrowed viciously and he tossed the bit of evidence at Purdue's chest.

The ASAC made no effort to catch it, didn't even look down as the bag fluttered 
to the floor.

Mulder choked on his anger; the trembling moved up his arms and shuddered into 
his chest. His damned teeth were chattering for Chrissake--

"Page fifty-six," he gasped. His hands clenched involuntarily and against all 
rational thought he envisioned himself flattening Purdue clean out, regulations 
and assembled personnel be damned.

Purdue frowned, hands out of his pockets, alerted. His vision wavered from 
Mulder to Sauceda. Hot Sauce, however, was meeting no one's gaze, deliberately 
re-stuffing his medical kit with the air of a man who knew better than to go 
shoving his hand in a snake pit. 

Mulder had his shivering under control by the time Purdue turned back to him and 
he pointed imperiously at the book peeking from the ASAC's pocket. Purdue 
retrieved the volume, watching Mulder closely as he fumbled for the page. He 
read and stared at him again.

"I don't follow. She's quoting this book? And you recognized the poem--"

Mulder shook his head. "Now. Page sixteen." His voice was remarkably steady now.

Purdue obeyed: the page marked by the evidence bag.

Sauceda was playing with something in his medical kit, out of view of his 
partner. Mulder leveled him with a look and he dropped what he was doing in the 
confines of the bag, taking a quick two-step to the far side of Purdue. Mulder 
grit his teeth, watching him: the little ass even had the gall to feign 
innocence, developing a sudden interest in the book as Purdue shuffled through 
the pages. 

Mulder snatched up Sauceda's case: a syringe, partially filled, remained 
imbedded in a fresh vial of Thorazine. Sauceda resolutely refused to glance up 
from the pages before him. Purdue was watching though. Mulder dropped the bag 
back to its place on the couch. 

Sauceda chose that moment to frown, leaning sideways to get a look at the book's 
cover. "Hey, Marty," he blinked benignly, "isn't this the same book you've been 
hauling around since Baytown?"

"Since Baytown?" Purdue slapped the volume shut. "Then you had this with you in 
Wheeling?"

Mulder didn't bother answering; Sauceda was already nodding anyway. Purdue was 
jerking Sauceda's coat sleeve now. He waved the book at him. "He had this SOB in 
Wheeling?"

Sauceda stuttered, suddenly comprehending the importance of the question. For 
the first time, he looked old to Mulder, old and confused and vulnerable. The 
sight made Mulder's chest tighten for some reason.

"Leave him alone, Purdue." He jerked his head away from Sauceda's gratitude. 
"*I'm* the one screwing up left and right here. Not Lenny. You know it."

"What I know," Purdue growled, "is that Nilson didn't say jack about poetry in 
that article." Things were falling into place rapidly for the ASAC. "This bitch 
was in your motel room."

Mulder would have killed for a decent pair of shades. He managed a shrug. 
"Either that or she's a regular on the Psychic Hotline."

The ASAC's breathing got harder. Sauceda looked like he was anticipating having 
a fist fight on his hands. Purdue's voice was even enough, though.

"She was in your motel room," he repeated the observation with the determination 
of a ransom demand. 

"I don't know." Mulder's sigh dissolved into an exhausted moan. "I assume she 
had to be to see the poems. Maybe she found out where we were staying and came 
in while I was out. I don't know."

"'Out' as in 'out of the room,'" the ASAC demanded, "Or 'out' as in drugged 
unconscious?"

Sauceda swore. "I told you, Reg, I checked on Marty every hour on the hour after 
I gave that pill--" 

"Yeah," the ASAC mused, "and maybe she decided to check on him on the 
half-hours." He turned to Mulder, resolute. "I've had enough. From here on out 
you're under constant guard. You don't so much as step out for the paper without 
one of our people wearing blisters on your heels." He didn't allow Mulder to 
interrupt. "You've got damned near half this book highlighted, Mulder. When did 
you do that? Before the note showed or after?" Purdue took two steps forward and 
the profiler stepped back involuntarily. "Before, wasn't it?" the ASAC demanded. 
"She's writing you the parts you've highlighted, isn't she? She's done it this 
time, too." Purdue's voice had a habit of getting low and deep when he was 
angry. He was angry now. "You knew in Wheeling, you son of a bitch, and you said 
nothing. You stood there in that diner and read that goddam poem and said not 
one word about this book."

"Damn you," Sauceda sputtered. "He was hurting and you wanted a freaking 
criminal analysis?"

Mulder swore and was ignored. Purdue shook the older man away. "Sauceda, this is 
his *job*--"

"Not anymore it's not," Sauceda seethed. "It's his goddam life now."

The air was suddenly too thick to breathe-- for anybody, apparently. There was 
sudden, total silence. Even the crime unit had stepped out to the safer 
sidelines of the hall.

Mulder couldn't meet Sauceda's eyes. He couldn't seem to focus any higher up 
than Purdue's tie pin for that matter. The ASAC was staring at him hard; Mulder 
hoped that his jacket was able to hide most of the uncontrollable trembling.

Purdue's voice was ominously quiet. "You're right, Len. It *is* his life now." 
They were the same words but in Purdue's mouth they assumed an all-too sinister 
meaning. Mulder looked up from under dark lashes and finally met the ASAC's 
stare. Purdue kept his voice calm. "That's why you didn't tell me, isn't it, 
Mulder? Not in Wheeling. Not at the airport--"

Sauceda moaned. "He was *drugged,* Reg--"

The ASAC waved him back, never looking away from the profiler. "--Not last night 
when you should have called me," he insisted. "And not this morning." 

Mulder looked away, accused of a clarity he no longer possessed and completely 
unable to admit the truth. He had failed to report pertinent evidence and had no 
explanation to adequately account for such a lapse. Temporary insanity could get 
you clear of a murder conviction but it wasn't much good for anything else--

Mulder shook his head. Christ. His world wasn't just crumbling, it was 
imploding, and here he stood popping lame jokes. Physically he was falling apart 
where he stood: the trembling was getting worse and he would need to sit down 
before he collapsed. Mentally, he was screaming when he wasn't laughing and it 
was becoming difficult to tell the difference. Emotionally, however, he was cold 
as stone and he was clinging to that fact for dear life. *One sign of weakness,* 
his father had warned him since childhood, *one sign of weakness, son, and 
they'll be on you like wolves.* Mulder jaw clenched spasmodically as Purdue 
sighed.

"Look, agent, I can understand your not wanting a bodyguard dogging your every 
move. But you knew she had already gotten this close once and you wouldn't even 
let Sauceda watch your back. This," Purdue waved an arm at the mess drying on 
the couch, "this could have been you, dammit."

*It was me-- in Wheeling-- in the diner when it was Kay--* Mulder's mind 
screamed the words but Purdue couldn't hear.

"Answer me, Mulder," the ASAC demanded. "Do you want to die? Is that it? You've 
got a death wish?"

Mulder choked down the grief trying to strangle him. He shrugged a levity he 
couldn't feel. "This," he heard himself query politely, "is one of those 
rhetorical questions, right?"

The pathologist and the ASAC were a study in contrasts: Sauceda squeezed both 
eyes shut while Purdue's couldn't have possibly gotten any wider.

The ASAC's voice was just above a whisper. "You don't know, do you? You really 
just don't know what's going on in your own head. God Almighty, Mulder--" 

Purdue seemed to run out of expletives suddenly. He stood, hands on his hips, 
apparently waiting for answers. 

Mulder bit his lip and tried not to focus on very much. He didn't dare shake his 
head, uncertain of how it would be interpreted at this point, but just how to 
answer was beyond him. It seemed, suddenly that he only knew two facts. One: he 
was reasonably certain that he didn't want to die. Two: he was even more 
positive that he didn't much want to live. His vocabulary held no words to 
explain such a paradox, however. Not to Purdue. Not to Sauceda. Not even to 
himself. 

So Mulder did the only thing he knew to do at that moment. He smiled serenely 
and asked Purdue to repeat the question.

The ASAC rubbed his eyes wearily. "I submit, Mr. Mulder that you make a serious 
effort to get your head together here." He pointed an accusatory finger at the 
body. "You take a good long look at this, and then let me explain something to 
you--"

Mulder's knees finally gave and he sat down abruptly on the arm of the couch. 
"Please," he insisted in the sudden silence. "Please explain it to me, Reg. 
Because right now I'm having a real hard time understanding how the FBI runs 
this set up." 

Mulder's mind-numbing emotional vacuum was back with a vengeance and he was 
grateful: at least it helped him keep his voice steady. "Here's how I see it," 
he began counting off points on trembling fingers, too angry to care whether 
anyone noticed now or not. "This bunch of bureaucrats train me, tell me how 
damned brilliant I am, toss me out here and then try to run me into the ground 
with it. Meanwhile, they're busy promising 'every available means of support.' 
Translation: we'll provide you with a partner we can rely on to report any 
suspect activity and supply all the psychopharmaceuticals you can possibly 
ingest, shoot up or have forced on you at any and all available opportunity. 
'Just try to remain vertical around the locals, kid. And if and when you *can't* 
pull it off anymore, we'll tag you for psychotic breakdown, sic the goddam 
shrinks on you and *commit* your ass.' And I'm just stupid enough to let them do 
it to me. So much for my highly lauded brilliance."

He paused, ignoring Sauceda's red face. Right now, he didn't much care about 
that either. Purdue was very still, with an expression of supreme comprehension. 
Mulder wasn't certain that was such a good thing.

"That's what this is, then?" Purdue asked solemnly. "Jesus Christ, Mulder, 
didn't we get this shit settled in Seattle?" 

"Did we? I seem to recall an appointment with Personnel Services this morning."

Purdue looked around for help and found only the bewildered Sauceda. "Jesus 
Christ," the ASAC hissed again. "Look, I'm not out to institutionalize you, 
Mulder. You need help and you don't want it. Okay, fine. That's how you want to 
play it. But I'm trusting you to tell me what you *do* need and when. No 
mandatories. No involuntaries." He licked his lips, watching Mulder closely. 
"You've got to trust me, son."

Over Purdue's shoulder, Sauceda was nodding reassuringly. Which was, of course, 
far from reassuring.

"I'm not your goddam son," Mulder scarcely had energy for the words. They lisped 
of their own accord, a knee-jerk reaction. He drew back as Purdue approached, 
froze as the ASAC knelt beside the couch. Purdue squatted slowly onto one knee 
and waited for Mulder to restore eye contact. The profiler recognized the 
tactic. It was a trained negotiation technique, a deliberate maneuver meant to 
convey psychological advantage to an opponent. By kneeling, Purdue was literally 
giving Mulder the upper hand, seeking not to stand above him. The ASAC kept his 
voice calm, his expression neutral. God help him, Mulder mused, the man sounded 
sincere.

"I tried to tell you on the phone," Purdue insisted. "I've been where you are. 
When I lost my wife, I thought I'd lost my mind along with her. But no one 
pulled the rug out from under me. Even when I knew they needed to wrap me up in 
the damn thing and bury me in it." He lifted a hand from his knee, thought 
better of it and put it back carefully. "Here's the plan, then. I'll give you 
time if you think that's all you need. I don't agree, but you call the shots 
now. Until you become a danger to yourself or someone else, I'm not going to do 
anything drastic. But damn you, Mulder, don't you hold anything back from me. I 
need to know what's going on in your head. I need to know I can rely on you for 
that much." 

Mulder forced himself to take in oxygen. He indicated the body beside him with a 
waver of his eyes. "You don't think this makes me a danger--"

"It's not your fault that people are dying here, Mulder. It's hers." Purdue set 
his jaw. "And I'm not confusing the two of you. I hope to *hell* you're not." 

Purdue waited a long minute, apparently waiting for some sign of compromise in 
Mulder's unyielding stare. 

"You made me another promise in Wheeling," Mulder reminded him quietly. The 
profiler wet his lips, carefully holding to the advantage Purdue had 
surrendered, but Mulder was shivering uncontrollably now, desperation the only 
thing keeping him vertical. "You think I'm withholding information. Fine. Not 
that I give a shit, but I'm giving you everything I can rationally comprehend. 
*When* I can adequately comprehend it. But you--" he choked, shook his head 
savagely to clear it. "I want Kay's file," he had to hiss the words, clenching 
his teeth as the shivering escalated momentarily. 

Purdue looked defeated. He took a deep solemn breath, flexed his fists and 
stood. "Why?"

"Why?" Mulder jerked his head up. "Am I on this damned case or not?" he 
demanded. "Look, you want answers. Well, I need a few of my own--"

Sauceda stepped between the two men. "Marty, don't do this."

Mulder grabbed Sauceda's arm and pulled himself to his feet, eyes never wavering 
from Purdue's. "I can't profile off what I don't have--"

Purdue's brows crawled up several inches. "Really. You want to tell them that in 
Fredericksburg? You want to step over to the window and quote some more poetry?"

"Goddammit, you promised me a copy of Kay's file. Give it to me now or take me 
off this case."

Mulder had played his trump and Purdue didn't even blink. "I've already gotten 
your profile, Mulder," he answered quietly. "If those are my only options, I'll 
take the latter."

Mulder felt the world roll over much too fast. He forced himself to focus. 
Purdue was watching him like a man charmed by a spell. 

Mulder nodded solemnly. "Then here's a final addendum to your highly regarded 
profile: she's escalating. Again. You might have a day before she goes for her 
next victim. I forced her hand by bailing on her and she doesn't appreciate 
being dumped." He grimaced ruefully. "Something she and I have in common, I 
suppose." He turned on his heel for the door.

"Marty--"

"Agent Mulder."

Mulder turned to the ASAC, his eyes cold, willing himself to stand still when 
every nerve in his body screamed *move!*

Purdue's voice was too level. "You're in no shape to drive. Get one of the 
officers to take you home or call a cab. And I'm serious about that guard 
detail. I'll make arrangements--"

"And the leave of absence?" Mulder dredged up a knowing smile from somewhere 
around the level of his knees.

"The leave of absence still stands," Purdue assured him.

Mulder nodded. "When Sisyphus pops by for her next visit, I'll let her know." He 
fished a plastic baggie from his coat pocket and tossed it to the ASAC. Purdue 
shook it flat, staring at the earring it contained. "Send me a sketch artist. 
You'll need a picture to show around Drummond's on Fifth and Hegal Place."

The profiler turned on his heel. DC cops, Bureau personnel and two federal 
marshals dove quietly out of his way as he passed.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

11:42 AM, Apartment 42, Alexandria, VA

Mulder arrived at his apartment as enraged as he'd been when he'd left the one 
in Georgetown. *Call a freaking cab--*

And Mulder had done just that. From his cell phone. Sitting in his car while his 
hands shook so hard he couldn't get the key into the ignition even on the third 
try. He'd had the operator dial the number for him or he'd probably still been 
sitting there. 

The chair in the living room caught the coat he flung from the door. Mulder 
scrubbed at his face roughly, so incensed he was fighting tears-- which only 
made him more furious.

*Christ, I've just got to get it all to stop. Just for a while, till I can think 
this crap through. There's something wrong, something you're not seeing, Fox. 
Something's wrong.*

Something *was* wrong. Mulder felt it with every nerve, every instinct prickling 
with the certainty. He bit his lip, forcing the anger down, deep into that 
bubbling hole Sauceda was so afraid of. As his head cleared, he set his eyes to 
roaming.

Mulder couldn't remember leaving the lights on. He also wasn't in the habit of 
leaving his computer running. In fact, he couldn't recall having used it since 
his return to Washington. Yet, there it was, blinking at him, screen saver 
glowing steadily against the sunlight streaming through the window. 

He reached to his hip instinctively, recalling too late that he no longer had a 
firearm. Mulder bit back a few choice words as he knelt and pulled the 
switchblade from under his pants leg. It wasn't a weapon he felt particularly 
comfortable with, one of his father's more unusual Christmas gifts actually, but 
he'd felt naked this morning dressing for duty without a weapon of some kind. He 
flipped the blade open and assumed the open armed stance they'd taught him at 
the Academy. He seriously doubted the training would do him much good against a 
.22 but it was the best he had right now. God damn his stupidity for 
surrendering his weapon to Sauceda--

Mulder spared a glance for the kitchen door but entered the living room first, 
scanning corners rapidly, his heart racing, hand surprisingly steady under 
adrenaline rush. Nothing.

Mulder put his back to the window, pulling the monitor around awkwardly to view 
it while keeping watch on the dining room beyond. He hit the space bar to 
deactivate the screen saver and was greeted by his word processor: neatly typed 
lines. More Ashbery. The knife forgotten in his hand, he read:

Somewhere someone is traveling furiously toward you, At incredible speed, 
traveling day and night, Through blizzards and desert heat, across torrents, 
Through narrow passes. But will he know where to find you, Recognize you when he 
sees you, Give you the thing he has for you? Is it enough That the dish of milk 
is set out at night, That we think of him sometimes, Sometimes and always, with 
mixed feelings?

 



Mulder re-read it, then stared at it without seeing it. *Dish of milk...* Alarms 
set off with the realization he'd actually walked across the floor without that 
damned cat under his feet every step--

*No--*

The knife at ready, Mulder followed its jerking movements to the kitchen door-- 
and froze.

The slack little body, so full of energy when he'd left, was now on the floor, 
quite still, head in a saucer of watery milk. Random drops of cream drying on 
the tile were the only testament of struggle. A single eye, dull and dark, 
regarded Mulder from the depths of the bowl. 

Mulder felt his heart slow, felt his panting ease to a single rasping breath. 
His mind iced over like winter in the harbor, ears deafened by the blast of 
snows blowing from a land beckoning beyond his vision. The earth rolled on 
beneath his feet and he did not care, standing rapt at the gates of Awe, his 
soul focused too far away, in the depths of that one unblinking eye.

The knife slipped from his hand, skittering across the floor, unseen, unheard, a 
discarded remnant of a world to which he no longer belonged. He slid to the 
floor into a place of great darkness. 

It was enough, he decided on the way down. He'd had quite enough.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

12:47 PM Georgetown Medical Examiner's Office.

The problem with most ME offices, Purdue decided, was that they were designed 
for the bodily comforts of the dead-- not the living. Chairs were a scarce 
commodity, as were halls you could stand around in without finding yourself 
leaning against a panel of recessed cadaver drawers. And forget looking for a 
lobby: it wasn't exactly like there was a run of visitors at such facilities. 
Even when the public was invited, it was usually just to get a quick, 
identifying peek so the ME'd know who to bill once the autopsy was complete.

So when the Medical Examiner left for lunch, Purdue lost no time or pangs of 
conscience in commandeering his private office. The room was windowless and 
cramped but it beat the hell out of trying to conduct business with that damned 
clunky cellular the Bureau gave him to cart around. Sauceda was in his element 
up the hall, busy piecing together the various organs Sisyphus had left on Mr. 
American Lit's plush pile carpet. Purdue didn't have to hang out for the 
pathologist's report, but he wanted some kind of peace offering for Mulder when 
he showed up with the guard detail. 

He had dispatch forwarding calls from agents in three states: just checking in, 
nothing pressing. Rich Kirkland had promised to get back with him on assigning 
some agents to protect Mulder. Rich was reliable; Purdue'd have a call back 
within the hour. Meanwhile, Purdue had put in two calls to Skinner-- yesterday 
and this morning-- advising the AD on Mulder's apparent mental state. Skinner 
had been singularly non-committal, suggesting Purdue handle the situation as he 
saw fit. Purdue could almost smell the cigarette smoke over the phone, though 
and hadn't pressed the issue. 

Harris had left two messages this morning. Purdue dialed Wheeling using the ME's 
old rotary phone. The sound of the dial spinning, leisurely and solid, was 
laughably comforting.

"So, how's your kid doing?" Three hundred miles distance didn't manage to filter 
the concern from Harris' voice.

Purdue shrugged, grimaced as he realized Harris couldn't very well see the 
motion through the phone. He sighed, instead. "Mulder's... Mulder," he said.

"That bad, huh?"

Purdue didn't bother to laugh, just too tired to try. "All right, smart ass, 
what've you got?"

"Latent found a partial oblique on the headboard in Kress' motel room. Your boys 
at NCIC found no match but that's no surprise given Mulder warned us she'd 
probably have no priors to compare prints with. It'll be handy at trial once we 
find her, though, if it *is* hers to begin with."

"Mulder'd also said she'd get bolder, maybe get sloppy. Good work, Nat. It's 
more than we got at apartment three oh four."

"Yeah. Oh, and I'm still following leads on the Enron thing. It doesn't look too 
promising, though. Doesn't she have some kind of *recent* history we can check 
out?"

"Yeah, actually. She does." Purdue flipped Mulder's book out of its evidence bag 
and spun it upright, avoiding the fingerprint dust coating its cover. "We've got 
a couple of prints out here, too--"

"Out *there*?"

"--I'll have them checked for a match on your partial and send you a file on our 
latest acquisition. Soon as I get a file, anyway. Meanwhile, check your local 
book stores for recent purchases of "A Wave" by John Ashbery."

"A what?"

Purdue scrubbed at his face and spelled it for him. "It's poetry, so maybe you 
won't need to plow through the New York Times bestseller list." 

"Uh huh." Harris sounded less than thrilled. "How recent a purchase? Maybe 
something in this decade?"

"Try this week, Nat. Think you can handle that?" Purdue's voice was much too 
tired.

There was a silence born of wisdom on Harris' end of the line. When the 
detective spoke again, his voice was somber. "Things are really bad on your end, 
aren't they, Reg?"

Purdue didn't answer. He felt about seventy right now. He'd had Olivia on his 
mind for days. Not Olivia healthy and vibrant, but Olivia ill, and certain of 
death. Over and over, he'd wakened with the memory of her struggle for life, her 
weariness, the expression in her eyes when it was finally beyond hope--

Mulder had given him that same look, sitting there on that blood-splattered 
couch: inhumanly still, scarcely daring to breathe as Purdue had knelt. Fear had 
poured off the young man like sweat, a heady aroma, intoxicating as liqueur. 
Purdue had tasted the scent and felt his heart race, like a wild beast closing 
in on choice prey.

Then the profiler had looked up at him and all the life the man possessed seemed 
to have retreated to the depths of those too-green, too-liquid eyes. Purdue, on 
his knees, had gazed through doors best kept closed, a voyeur in a world God 
kept hidden for His own private viewing. 

Mulder's words, cool, arrogant, and defiant, had no answering reflection in the 
young agent's eyes. 

"Reg?"

"Yeah. Ahm. Mulder thinks he may have a description. I'll be faxing it over 
ASAP." His coat pocket began ringing. "Hey, hang on a minute, okay?" Purdue 
fished out his cell phone and got the boxy instrument activated. "Purdue." He 
waited through a few silent seconds of precious airtime but nothing seemed 
forthcoming. He jabbed the disconnect button. "Technology." He made the word 
sound like profanity and sat the phone on the desk to return to Harris' line. He 
scarcely got the detective's response when the cellular rang again. 

"Well, hell's bells. Hang on Nat. This damned half-ass phone is at it again--" 
He jabbed the necessary button and barked. "Yeah. Purdue."

"She's been here." 

The voice on the other end was alien to him. The tone was wrong, the timbre of 
the voice off, the speaker far too vulnerable to be anyone he knew-- . The 
ASAC's breath caught in his throat.

"Mulder? Mulder, where the hell are you? Are you all right?"

"No. Ah-- I mean--" 

Purdue waited, listening to the man on the other end gasp air. A shaky rustling 
filtered through the line and Purdue got the sense Mulder was having difficulty 
holding the receiver.

"Agent Mulder, what--"

"I'm home," the profiler managed at last. "I'm--"

And again that voluminous silence. Purdue was a long way from worrying about 
line charges. He closed his eyes, silently willing Mulder to hold on, to get 
himself to make some rational sense, at least for a little while longer.

"Mulder. Mulder, can you hear me? Look, I want you to get out of that apartment. 
She may be hiding somewhere. She may still be there." 

Silence. 

"Mulder, dammit, listen to me. Have you secured the premises?" Purdue shook the 
phone gingerly. "Goddammit--" No, no, the phone had to be working; he could 
still hear the young man breathing. "Mulder! Get--"

"I'm going to lie down now," the profiler announced simply, finally.

"What the--? Mulder, Get out of that apartment, do you hear me?"

"I'm going to lie down, now." Mulder repeated the words patiently. "It'll be all 
right, Reg. You'll see."

Suddenly, all the pieces fell into place for Reginald Purdue. He finally 
recognized the crack in Mulder's voice: it wasn't fear. It was grief. And the 
soft click of the telephone was laughter, the delighted chuckle of Hell as it 
laid claim on a young profiler who'd finally taken just one too many trips in.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX 

Part 16 of 27: A Trip Out through the In Door

1:47 p.m. Apartment 42.

Sauceda, weapon drawn, was hard on Purdue's heels as the ASAC burst through 
Mulder's door. Purdue's pistol scanned left, tense, professional. Sauceda 
fumbled his bag, dropping it to the floor so he could two-fist his Smith and 
Wesson. Procedure dictated holding a firearm with both hands, but right now 
Sauceda needed them both just to keep the site steady. 

*Marty was dead.* The words had rolled through his head when Purdue had slammed 
into the autopsy bay, stumbling against the door, trying to break the momentum 
of his frenzied dash up the hall. Purdue had gasped: "It's Mulder. Let's go." 
But Sauceda knew all the same. He raced after the ASAC and the words echoed back 
to him with every frantic footfall. *Marty was dead.* It reverberated in the hum 
of the engine as Purdue floored his Ford through DC's traffic and down the 
George Washington Parkway. *Marty was dead. Surely, Marty was dead. She'd found 
him and he didn't even have a gun to defend himself-- He trusted you and you 
screwed him, you son of a bitch--* 

Purdue held up his hand, listening, and Sauceda forced himself to focus. He 
peered past the ASAC's shoulder, holding his breath, searching for some hint 
that would tell him Marty was here, Marty was gone, Marty was safe. The 
apartment was a black hole, sucking up all sound, all life. Silent as the grave.

"Agent Mulder!" Purdue's voice resonated in the emptiness, unanswered. 

Purdue took a few hesitant steps in, past the dining room table, glancing into 
the living room warily. Sauceda watched his every move, alert for any sign of 
trouble while still trying to keep his peripheral vision scanning. Purdue 
paused, flexed his shoulders, concentrating, and Sauceda realized with a start 
that he now had his weapon trained on his ASAC's back. He winced and spun to 
bring his .44 to bear on the kitchen door. Purdue, alerted by the frantic 
motion, turned to realign his own weapon, then froze, intent on something hidden 
from Sauceda's view by the table.

The pathologist's palms started to sweat; he flexed his fingers against his 
pistol grip, reassuring himself of his grasp, of his courage. He pressed 
silently to Purdue's side and followed the ASAC's line of sight. 

On the floor near the kitchen door was a switchblade. Sauceda squinted in the 
faint light but the blade gleamed dully, cold and untarnished, blade and 
floorboards innocent of blood. 

Purdue nodded at him solemnly before jerking his head toward the living room. 
Purdue himself stalked past and on to the kitchen. Sauceda's heart had a death 
grip on the back of his tongue, but he concentrated on procedure, securing the 
living room, investigating behind the chair, the curtains. He felt like his 
chest was going to burst; his skin wouldn't stop crawling and the revolver was 
far too heavy in his clammy hands. The room was so quiet he could hear his watch 
ticking. The computer hummed softly on the desk, screen dark, a field of stars 
fleeing for infinity. At the end of the couch, Mulder's bedroom door was 
partially open, the room behind it impossibly dark. He took a hesitant step 
toward it.

In that same instant, however, Purdue's savage swearing echoed from the kitchen. 
Sauceda scurried through the dining room, hermit-crab fashion, half-sideways, 
his gun still scanning corners restlessly.

He found the ASAC kneeling next to a saucer of milk. On the floor beside the 
dish was something covered respectfully with a cup towel. Purdue held up a 
corner of the cloth and displayed the cold figure of a tiny yellow tabby. 
Sauceda knew the signs of asphyxiation well enough; he didn't need the fur, 
stiff from drying milk, to tell him the story. He choked down bile and grimaced. 


"The bitch," he hissed. The gun in his hand was suddenly not so awkward; it felt 
welcome and warm and good to hold. His finger sliding across the trigger 
provoked an almost sensuous burning in his gut. He hoped she was here, he 
realized abruptly. As long as Marty was okay somewhere, he hoped the bitch was 
still here--

"You sure it wasn't Mulder?" Purdue asked softly.

The horror and instant consternation on Sauceda's face must have said it all. 
Purdue held up his hand to forestall the indignant protest.

"I know, Hot Sauce, I just..." Purdue blinked down at the little body and his 
shoulders slumped. "Hell, I don't know what I was thinking," he said. 

Sauceda watched Purdue lower the towel. The ASAC shifted his gun as he stood. 

"Bedroom door's open. Lights out," Sauceda reported, marveling that his voice 
was so suddenly steady. "Back this way--" 

Purdue grabbed his arm, pulling Sauceda back and proceeding him. Sauceda didn't 
protest: between them, Purdue was probably the better shot.

The bedroom was in near total darkness, heavy drapes yielding no hint of the 
afternoon sun beyond them. Furniture and bric-a-brac were indistinguishable, 
ominous shapes looming up in the gloom. The four-poster was easily enough to 
find, however: a solitary sliver of daylight pierced the drapes and highlighted 
a mound of blanket, motionless on the far side of the bed.

Following Purdue's unspoken cue, Sauceda kept his revolver trained on the lump 
on the mattress while Purdue checked the closet and bathroom for signs of life. 
The weapon was slick and cold again in Sauceda's hands as he edged around the 
end of the bed, drawing nearer the form. The blanket trembled slightly, just 
once and was still again. Sauceda froze. Purdue, ever observant, set his back 
against a wall and leveled his weapon on Sauceda's target. Sauceda stepped 
carefully to the nightstand, gun held absolutely steady as he flipped on the 
lamp. His breath caught in his throat. His weapon lowered of its own accord.

At the top of the blanket lay a dark head and too-bright eyes. Nothing else of 
the profiler was visible. The blanket shuddered sporadically. 

Sauceda knelt to bring his face into Mulder's line of sight. "Hey, Marty," he 
whispered.

Mulder blinked a moment in the light, registering the voice, the presence before 
him. His eyes crinkled to impersonate a smile. "Hey," he responded. His voice 
was soft, harsh like he'd been choking, his eyes glittering like liquid metal. 
Sauceda's gut chilled as he realized Mulder was making no effort to hide the 
tears.

"You okay, Marty?" 

*Oh, brilliant question, Dr. Sauceda, go on, ask another... *

Mulder nodded patiently, all wisdom and compassion, dark eyes waiting while 
Sauceda swallowed down something trying to strangle him. 

"I really need to sleep right now, Lenny," Mulder explained. "Just turn it all 
off for a bit..."

Sauceda nodded. Mulder's voice was possessed by an odd calm, a dissociated 
quality that made Sauceda blink a few times just to test reality.

Mulder's brows furrowed. "'Cept I can't sleep. And I'm trying really hard." 
There was an expectancy across the eyes, and a weariness, too, deep enough to 
drown in.

Sauceda glanced at Purdue, quiet at the foot of the bed. "You want a pill, 
Marty?"

"I want to sleep *now*." Those patient, wounded eyes, that fragile whisper.

Purdue ducked out the door, returning in seconds with Sauceda's bag. He kept to 
the far end of the bed, locked in silence and out of Mulder's line of sight. 

Sauceda gulped air, digging through his supplies, determining the proper drug 
and Baez's recommended doses. His hands shook as he loaded the syringe. 

Mulder was shivering so hard Sauceda could hear his teeth chattering. It had 
nothing to do with the temperature of the room; still, Sauceda whispered an 
apology as he gently untangled Mulder from his blanket. 

The young man was still fully dressed, still in the suit he'd been wearing in 
Georgetown, the tie a dark and portentous smear across the white expanse of 
shirt. Mulder blinked longingly at the syringe in Sauceda's hand and uncurled 
himself but his trembling fingers couldn't manage his belt and trousers. He 
accepted Sauceda's help with childlike gratitude, dropping his hands to either 
side, palms up, arms flung out like Christ on the cross. Purdue shifted 
uneasily; Sauceda silenced him with a look and the ASAC kept his place. 

Belt finally loosened, Sauceda helped Mulder turn back to his side once more. He 
pushed back the trousers and slid the shorts down discreetly then paused with 
the needle at the profiler's hip, cursing the agitated muscles that could not 
relax but obviously ached to do so.

"Marty? You wanna to go to the hospital?"

Mulder shook his head, eyes squeezed tightly shut, anticipating the relief of 
the Thorazine. "Can't I just sleep first?" he whispered.

Voices outside announced the arrival of the back-up unit. The ASAC gave Sauceda 
a nod and stepped out to direct operations, closing the door behind him quietly. 
Sauceda delivered the drug and tucked the shivering form back beneath the 
blanket. 

Purdue's voice filtered back into the room: "The bedroom is off limits right 
now. No exceptions. I want someone at HQ on the wire. I need a list of everyone 
accessing Agent Mulder's personnel records for the past two months. And somebody 
get a print kit after that computer..."

The voices beyond the bedroom door were suddenly part of another world. Closed 
in with Mulder's oppressive silence, Sauceda could only marvel that he'd ever 
been a part of it. He shrugged off the sensation-- he didn't have time for that 
kind of nonsense right now, anyway. He set about undressing Mulder as best he 
could without disturbing him too much: the shoes slid off easily, then the 
trousers. Mindful of Mulder's continued shivering, Sauceda pulled the end of the 
bedspread up and over the young man, trying to provide further warmth before 
easing him out of his jacket. 

Mulder grunted softly in his struggle against the encroaching psychological 
shock. Sauceda cooed in response, little nonsense words-- *doin'goodkid, 
'salright*-- chosen more for their comfort than their meaning. He ran a gentle 
hand across Mulder's forehead, a touch of comfort that also managed to detect a 
fair amount of fever. He debated whether Mulder could manage a thermometer 
without snapping it in two; the chattering of his teeth decided against it. 

He set his face into an expression he hoped would convey benevolence and calm 
and reached gently beneath the blanket to unknot Mulder's tie. Mulder didn't 
resist, raising his chin to make it easier. He seemed quite incapable, however, 
of unclenching his body from its fetal position. Sauceda didn't ask him to try, 
unbuttoning the top button of the starched shirt and tucking the blanket back 
again. Mulder blinked at him, searching his face without judgment and accepting 
the comfort of his partner's presence.

Sauceda turned, overwhelmed by the need to simply not witness the suffering-- at 
least for a moment or two. He occupied the time guiltily, laid Mulder's tie 
across the night table with exaggerated care. The pattern, a soft, sedate 
paisley, glowed with a mixture of silver and scarlet, iridescent in the pale 
light. Convoluted swirls drew the pathologist's eye deep into the fabric and he 
touched it tentatively, wondering if this was a hint of what it was like for 
Marty: dazzled by the horror of the human heart, drawn into the killer's 
madness. 

He turned away abruptly and found that the profiler was still watching him, eyes 
as wide, unblinking as an owl's. "Thank you," Mulder whispered and Sauceda felt 
dizzy suddenly.

"Go to sleep, Marty. I'll say your prayers..."

Mulder nodded, closed his eyes. His world stilled but he was not at peace. 
Random impulses twitched his facial muscles. His shivering, when it hit, was 
still much too violent. Sauceda laid a hand on his forehead. 

"I fly to your Mercy, Compassionate God--" He whispered the ancient novena, 
certain that too many of the words had escaped his memory, praying that God 
would forgive him such oversight. "Friend of a lonely heart, although my misery 
is great and my offenses are many, I trust in Your Mercy, for neither Heaven nor 
Earth remember when a soul trusting in Your Mercy has ever been disappointed--"

Mulder whispered too, but the words were slurred as though traveling from a 
great distance. They had the mimicked quality of nursery rhymes, or prayers 
learned and repeated over the bed in childhood. "In peace, O God," he lisped, "I 
shut my eyes. In peace again I hope to rise--" The rest was gibberish. Or 
Yiddish, Sauceda wasn't sure which.

He watched as the young man descended backward into sleep, like a man drowning, 
surrendering without struggle into the dark current, unconcerned whether death 
awaited him within the fathomless depths below. As the drug claimed him, Mulder 
wriggled a bit under his blanket, a last gasp, then turned off like a light; his 
muscles finally following suit several minutes later.

Sauceda took a pulse and used his penlight to check Mulder's pupils gingerly. It 
had been years since he'd worked with a breathing patient and his palms were 
sweating harder now than when he'd been waving his gun around. Hell, this was 
why he'd taken up forensics: with your patients already dead, you had a much 
more comfortable margin for error. Still, he would have paid good money right 
now for a half-decent blood pressure cuff.

He glanced up to find that Purdue had re-entered, watching reverently, his back 
against the door. The unit outside was uncharacteristically subdued, mutually 
confined to shuffling and muffled voices. With the ASAC on the premises, they'd 
be doubly thorough, though. Sauceda found the thought reassuring.

"He out?" Purdue mouthed the words soundlessly. Sauceda nodded. Purdue pocketed 
his hands and both men stood mute, watching the regular rise and fall of 
Mulder's chest.

"What do you think, Lenny?" Purdue whispered finally. "We give him time or call 
the hospital?"

Sauceda shook his head. The motion was both an answer and a disavowal of his 
part in this decision. He was ashamed suddenly; ashamed of his role in Mulder's 
apparent destruction, ashamed of every word he'd ever spoken behind the young 
man's back. It was all coming back on him now, every tale he'd trotted off for 
Patterson and that damned man with the cigarette that had sat like part of the 
furniture in Patterson's office. God was making sure Sauceda paid for such 
sins-- only Marty was paying for them now, too.

Staring down at the form on the bed, Sauceda finally realized that Marty had 
always known the truth of it-- hell, the kid's rebellious intelligence was one 
of the reasons Patterson had kept such close tabs on him. Ten months together, 
though, and Marty'd never asked, never once let on that he knew for sure. They'd 
simply never spoken about it. Occasionally, Sauceda'd even allowed *himself* to 
forget the fact, had gone so far as to call himself a friend. 

And Marty'd never called him on it. 

*Jesus, Mary. Saint Joseph--* Sauceda hiccuped on the fist in his throat and 
stared down at the finally peaceful face. A moment ago, this young man had 
looked at him with eyes that pleaded trust, begged for reassurance of a perilous 
brotherhood. The plea had not wavered even as the lids had closed over, the drug 
dragging him down into the silent current of sleep. And Mulder had surrendered 
willingly, placed himself upon the mercy of the man standing at his bedside. 

Sauceda's eyes roamed the room but found no place of rest, no corner in which he 
could claim solace. This was Marty's home; there was no place here for a man who 
was friend in name only.

"Lenny, I need an answer."

Sauceda stopped breathing under the weight of the ASAC's dark regard. He 
shrugged it off with difficulty.

"I don't know, Reg. So far, the kid's reactions have been pretty rational. I'd 
say he's as sane as circumstances will permit."

"That's not saying much, is it?"

Sauceda grimaced. "Yeah." He looked down at the sleeping form. Mulder's right 
arm twitched slightly, struggling against life even when drugged senseless. The 
long lashes lay black against pale cheeks, sealing the eyes that had closed in 
hope. 

Sauceda took a deep breath and scrambled for answers. His eyes on Purdue were 
cool and deceptively assured. "I think he's been coherent and calm. He hasn't 
refused help. Hell, Reg, he's even asked for it. Requested necessary medication, 
time out to rest. I think he's doing pretty damned good considering the hell 
he's been through the past year."

Purdue was back to watching Mulder breathe, apparently doing some fast thinking 
of his own. "Hospital worth its salt finds out the kind of stress he's been 
under, they'd refuse to release him just to keep him away from the Bureau. Can't 
say that I'd blame them," he admitted cautiously.

"That's not our only problem," Sauceda's voice barely masked the wonder of the 
realization. "Jeezus, we put Marty in a hospital ward, we get our hands slapped 
off entirely. Our access will be limited at best. Think about it. He's got a 
killer stalking him. You want to trust his life to hospital security? Or even a 
couple of our guys out in the hall who wouldn't question if Sisyphus herself 
walked in his room as long as she was dressed in hospital scrubs and carrying a 
bedpan?"

Purdue looked down at the crumpled lump of blanket. His voice was distant, 
"'It'll be all right', he said." 

Sauceda blinked. "Come again?"

"On the phone. He said 'It'll be all right.' As calm as if he was giving a 
weather report. His whole freaking life falling apart around him and he wants me 
to believe it'll be okay."

Sauceda had no answers for the ASAC. He had too few for himself. He sank quietly 
onto the foot of the bed, feeling the muscles in his legs give way, weary of 
bearing up under the anguish of thought. For the first time in his life, he felt 
old. Old and tired. *Jeezus, Marty, I don't wanna do this anymore. Please, 
Marty, get well so I can just walk away and not look back--*

Mulder's answer was to begin a feeble fight with his blanket, a hopeless 
gesture, a solitary hand, too pale in the dark room, rising to clutch at a bit 
of cloth. Long, numbed fingers curled and twisted at the linen, seeking to pull 
it closer-- or push it away. Sauceda could only guess. The motion stilled 
fitfully, Mulder's face frighteningly tranquil, his chest frozen, breath 
forgotten. 

Sauceda choked, waiting for some sign of life, eyes widening in the darkness as 
he willed himself to see. He staggering to his feet-- There was a fretful rasp 
and the hand loosened on the blanket. Mulder's chest resumed its peaceful 
rhythm, air escaping in quiet sighs.

Sauceda felt something brush his arm and turned to find Purdue standing at his 
shoulder, face pinched and bitter. The ASAC's voice was hard in the quiet. "What 
aren't you telling me?" he demanded.

Sauceda didn't even pretend to misunderstand. He bit his lip and swallowed. 
"Patterson said--" Sauceda choked briefly and tried again. "Patterson always 
said that Marty's life was in my hands every time the kid gave a case his all. 
Every time he allowed himself to cross that line of reality to stop a killer..." 
Sauceda held his gaze steady on Purdue's. "He was right. You've seen the kind of 
dreams Marty has while he's on a case like this. Until this Sisyphus is stopped, 
they're going to continue. You shove him in the hospital and he has just one 
dream and it's over, Reg. They'll diagnose paranoid schizophrenia and lock him 
in a nut ward."

A soft knock on the door interrupted Purdue's response. The ASAC moved to 
answer, blocking the view of the room with his body.

"Sir," an unfamiliar voice whispered in the door, "what do you want us to do 
with the cat?"

"I told you I'll handle it," Purdue snarled. "Look, I'll be right out." He 
turned back to Sauceda with a sigh. "You know what happens if we're wrong about 
this, Sauceda. Mulder cracks for real and we haven't brought him in, they'll 
hang both our butts for criminal negligence." He looked Sauceda firmly in the 
eye. "It'll mean your pension, Hot Sauce. You want to reassess?"

Sauceda spent a brief minute choking down the thought. It felt like molten lead 
sliding down, burning a hole through his gut. It must have solidified on it's 
way to his knees, however. He found himself standing straighter as he shook his 
head. 

"I don't give a shit, Reg. You want an out, that's fine, but I'm not backing you 
on an involuntary. You've got precedence. Marty damned near collapsed in 
Shreveport and Baez made the same call on it I'm making now. I'm the doctor 
here. No one will fault you."

Purdue looked away. "Sauceda--"

"You promised. He gets some time, you son of a bitch. It's my call." There was a 
pitiful crack in the pathologist's voice. Against his better judgment, Sauceda 
didn't look away when Purdue turned back to regard him.

Purdue's decision took even less time than Sauceda's had. The dark man's 
shoulders slumped in resignation. "You're not standing for it alone, Len." He 
shrugged. "What the hell, all this ASAC crap cuts into my writing time, anyway. 
Mulder wants to rest? Fine-- we'll give him tonight, at least. I'll put a call 
in to Baez, update him on the situation. He's more likely to toss me back to 
Personnel Services but at least I'll have tried. We'll see what Mulder has to 
say about all this when he's... once more among the living." He gave Sauceda a 
minute to digest his victory then nodded at the door. "Soon as these guys are 
done, I'll put a guard detail in the hall. And I want someone one-on-one with 
Mulder from here on out. You want the first shift?" 

"Shift, hell. I'm here. I'm staying. Just like any other case."

Purdue nodded. "Look, why don't you call your wife? Try to get some rest while 
the team's here. I'll... hell." The ASAC bit off his speculations and moved to 
the closet; he flipped on the light and disappeared inside.

Sauceda used the combined lights of the closet and the lamp to check Mulder's 
color again. The profiler looked even more pallid than he had before, if such a 
thing were possible. The Band-Aid on his cheek had pulled away and the scab was 
deep red against ash-white skin. The trembling had finally subsided, however, 
and Mulder's breathing was deep, and as reassuringly steady as his pulse. 

In the closet, something fell and Purdue hissed curses, emerging with a panicked 
face. Mulder stirred only slightly, however; a solitary sigh of protest all that 
managed to escape the riptide of Thorazine holding him under.

Purdue shook off his desperation and waved an empty shoe box at Sauceda, his 
mouth grim.

"I'll be back shortly," he promised.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Wednesday, May 18, 1988. 1:17 a.m. Apartment 42.

Mulder had always been of the opinion that he should wait, before he died, for 
his body to be dead. But then again, if he were dead he would probably feel a 
whole lot better than this...

He tried unfolding himself, stretching out on his back slowly, resolutely 
keeping his eyes closed: *one major item at a time, Fox...*

The unfolding accomplished, he waited anxiously for his muscles to calm. They 
twitched erratically, the muscles in his calves aching from the effort to lie 
still. His mouth felt like cotton batting and his head wasn't much better. 

He tested his vision, opening the left eye first. When that one came to no 
apparent harm, he worked on opening the other. He lay staring a long while 
before he actually began seeing anything, though: dark room, dim ceiling. 
Familiar blanket, familiar sounds in the walls around him. Home.

Somehow, he managed to free himself from the blanket and struggle to the 
dresser. Black jeans were the first thing in the drawer. He stumbled back to the 
bed to dress himself, still unsure of his balance. The jeans were warm after the 
cool air on his legs, and he rested a long minute, falling back onto the bed to 
wait for his energy to return. 

It was a full half-hour before he was finally able to roll off the mattress and 
convince his legs to get his thirst to the kitchen. His stocking feet made no 
noise, long white dress shirt pale gray in the light of the transom window above 
the sink. He found a glass in the drying rack. His hands shook with the effort 
to hold it and he spilled as much as he drank, but the water was sweet as nectar 
running down his throat. 

Then he noticed the bowl on the cabinet. The light through the window lit the 
residue of milk curdled in the bottom: curds glowing like embers, blinding white 
in white ceramic on white porcelain tile. The image burned into his retina, 
blinding him. He felt he would never see again. 

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sauceda jerked awake at the slap on his leg. He caught himself just before he 
took the swing that would have landed his partner on the other side of the 
living room. Mulder, bleached as white as his shirt, glowed like Casper standing 
there in the dark.

"Jeezus, Marty, you scared the crap outta me--"

 "Where's my cat?"

 Sauceda sat up, scrubbing the sleep from his face. "Marty. It's okay--" 

 "Where's my cat?" Mulder's pupils were unfocusing even as Sauceda's head 
 cleared.

 "Marty, listen to me. It's okay. Purdue took care of it. He's taking care of 
 everything. You don't have to worry about anything. Okay?" Sauceda pushed his 
 blanket aside and struggled to his feet. Mulder took four rapid steps back, 
 however and the pathologist froze. 





"Marty?"

Mulder stood quite still, head down, eyes shadowed, waiting for the violence of 
betrayal, waiting to be hit, slapped, screamed at, drugged. Something. 

Sauceda squinted, trying to catch some subtle hint in the young man's stance. 
He'd seen Marty in this state before. In Shreveport. In Saint Paul. But he'd 
never understood it and couldn't identify the source of such certainty of 
treachery. Not for the first time, he wondered at Mulder's past and the parents 
he never mentioned.

"Look, kid," he whispered, "you're tired. It's late. Why don't we go back to 
sleep?"

"I don't want any more drugs," Mulder warned.

"Okay." Sauceda presented empty hands. "That's fine. Do you need help getting 
back to bed?"

Mulder briefly considered the question. "I'm sleeping on the couch," he 
announced. "I wanna watch TV."

Sauceda rubbed the back of his neck, willing himself to at least look like he 
was okay with all this. "You sure?"

"Yeah."

Sauceda backed around the coffee table, letting Mulder keep his distance. The 
young man waited until Sauceda was well out of range before climbing onto the 
couch, flopping the blanket over himself, wriggling down into the cushions. The 
remote control shook in his hand as he fumbled the TV on.

Sauceda padded across the room in his socks and boxers. He stopped at the sight 
of the front door. Randomly shifting shadows were highlighted in the slit 
against the floor.

"Marty, while I'm snoring in the bedroom, you're going to sneak out, aren't 
you?" He didn't mention the two men posted in the uncomfortable folding chairs 
in the hall. Marty didn't like being caged.

"No." TV programs flipped by frantically.

"Not even for a little while? Not even for a run?"

Mulder didn't look up, sleepy eyes staring at the blur of stations. "I'll be 
right here the whole time. I promise."

"Okay. You promised, Marty. Don't lie to me."

Mulder looked him full in the eye. His voice remained quiet and flat. "You think 
I'd just leave you here for her to waltz in and hack up?" He watched Sauceda 
blanch, and turned back to the TV. "I promised, Len. Now go to bed before I get 
up from here and kick your ass. Or get one of Purdue's guard dogs outside to do 
it for me."

Sauceda stood quietly a few minutes more. Mulder didn't acknowledge his 
presence, however, and he finally padded reluctantly off to the bedroom. The 
profiler remained oblivious even to Sauceda's continual tiptoeing back and 
forth, checking on him every few minutes. The trips finally slowed to once every 
half-hour or so.

Sauceda was in bed, finally asleep and unaware, before Mulder finally dared to 
investigate the sharp little item poking him in the ribs. He pulled it loose 
from its hiding place between the couch cushions, examining it in the glow of 
the television: Sauceda's pen knife. A handy little instrument that was forever 
slipping out of Lenny's pocket when he sat down...

Mulder stared at the marvelous little device for a long while. He held it 
tightly in the hand covered by the blanket, not thinking much of anything 
really. Not anything he could share with the rest of the class, anyway. He 
slipped it silently into his shirt pocket and resumed his television viewing.

"I'm going to have to remember," he noted aloud, "to ask Purdue about that cat."

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

5:57 a.m. Apartment 42.

Mulder woke with a scream. He managed to get it strangled to a gasp as Gregg and 
Mitchell burst in from the hall, guns at ready. Both agents froze, staring into 
the living room as Sauceda barreled in from the bedroom. One look at Mulder and 
the pathologist looked like his heart was about to do itself serious damage.

With everything still, finally, Mulder realized he was on the floor. He was on 
his knees, in fact, next to the couch, hugging himself and shaking convulsively. 
There was blood on his shirt, blood on the rug, more blood on the blanket. 

Sauceda swore and ran for his medical bag. Mitchell crossed the room and grabbed 
the phone on the coffee table. Mulder grabbed Mitchell's hand.

"No!" Mulder gasped, still trying to calm himself, to steady his heart.

"Agent Mulder, I've got to call 911."

"No, I'm all right. I'm not bleeding." Mulder looked away from the incredulity 
on the man's face. Jeezus, he knew what it sounded like, but--

Sauceda was back and plopped down on his knees beside him, scrambling in his 
bag.

"Hot Sauce, tell them. Tell them I'm all right," Mulder pleaded.

"Yeah, Marty. We know, kid. It'll be okay--"

"Len, I'm not bleeding. Please--" Mulder was trying hard to keep his voice calm. 
Trying real hard not to break Mitchell's hand on that damned receiver. And 
Sauceda's expression was soft and so irritatingly compassionate. Mulder wanted 
to slap him but that would probably provoke Greg who was already eyeing Mitchell 
for some kind of permission. Mulder lowered his voice to a harsh hiss, the best 
he could manage given the circumstances. 

"Dammit, Len, I'm *not* hurt. I'm *not* bleeding." He tugged at the buttons on 
his shirt, fumbling to get them loose. "Dammit, look at me."

Sauceda obeyed, to humor him and because he had to see the wound to repair it. 
He assisted with the buttons then blotted at the blood across Mulder's abdomen 
with a corner of the blanket, one hand ready with the gauze.

But there was no wound. No cut, no abrasion. Nothing. There was nothing there.

Sauceda dabbed again, rubbing the blood into dark streaks on Mulder's skin. His 
mouth worked on words that didn't come and he grabbed his partner's hands, 
bloodied and cold, rubbed *them* with the blanket. 

Still nothing. 

Sauceda sat blankly, holding Mulder's wrist and gasping like a landed fish. 
Mulder, angrily patient, watched him.

"Open your mouth," Sauceda demanded.

Mulder obeyed, closing it back grimly when Sauceda finished poking. Lenny even 
tapped the scab on his cheek but as best Mulder could tell, it was still 
well-crusted and dry. Sauceda sat back on his haunches, looking like the poster 
child for bewilderment.

Mitchell was staring alternately at Mulder's bloody hand on his wrist and then 
at the two men on the floor. Just for the hell of it, Mulder grinned at him.

"Spooky strikes again, boys," he quipped.

Sauceda's entire body convulsed.

"Son of a *bitch,*" he spat, "I oughta slap the shit out of you, you little--" 
He slammed his fist into the coffee table, screaming at Mitch and Gregg. "Out! 
Just get the hell out!" 

The two men wasted no time in obeying. Sauceda still had hold of one of Mulder's 
wrists. He shook it at him.

"What the hell is this, Marty? Monkey blood? You got some of that fake vampire 
shit stashed out from Halloween or something?"

Mulder stopped grinning and shook his head. "No, Lenny. Look, I'm sorry, I--"

"That's what it is, isn't it? You just have to go around messing with people's 
heads, don't you? Goddam monkey blood. You little shit. You screwed up little 
shit--"

Mulder sat defeated; Sauceda's hand was squeezing his wrist so hard, his fingers 
were tingling. Mulder accepted the pain as his due. "Whatever's easiest for you 
to believe, Len," he conceded quietly.

Sauceda wasn't having it. His face flushed with rage. "Whatever's easiest-- what 
the hell is that supposed to mean? Damn you! What the hell do you think you're 
playing at here?"

"Look, Lenny, I swear. I just woke up like this. That's all. I had a really bad 
dream. And I woke up like this."

"Just like that."

"Just like that." Mulder pulled away to lean against the couch. "I don't know, 
Lenny. There are cases... Maybe it's psychosomatic--"

"Psychosomatic, my ass, you little punk bastard--"

Mulder jerked his hand away, his voice finally hard and heading for dangerous. 
"Look, I'd like to tell you I'm just sick enough to think this is hysterically 
funny. That I did this to myself. But then you'd go and tell Purdue and he'd 
want to see the container I had this crap stored in and send it to the lab for 
analysis and prints and then I'd be totally screwed because there *is* no 
container and there sure as *hell* would be no prints."

Sauceda sat numb in the sudden silence, frozen with the impossibility of truth. 
He watched Mulder jerk to his feet, watched the young man swear as another fit 
of shivers threatened to land him back on the floor.

"Marty--"

Mulder didn't bother to look down at him. "I'm going to take a shower," he 
hissed.

Mulder made it out of the room by sheer force of will. Sauceda followed him 
cautiously. 

"Marty, I'm sorry--"

Mulder turned, furious at the gentle voice beside him, holding his anger 
tightly, needing it to help him think, to remind him to breathe. "I don't want 
you to be sorry, Lenny," he seethed. "I don't need you to be sorry. I just can't 
afford to be kind, courteous and courageous just now, okay?" He moaned, jerked 
away, the explanation taking too much effort. "I'm going to take a shower. I 
just really need to take a shower."

"Marty. You're not steady enough on your feet, kid--"

"Damn you. Don't tell me what I am. You have no idea. Don't fucking tell me what 
I am!"

Sauceda followed him silently through the bedroom. Every step Mulder took 
convinced him he was in no shape to be standing, let alone trying it on a 
slippery surface.

Sauceda tried again. "How about a bath, kid?"

"Screw you. I hate baths." Mulder didn't bother to look back at him. "And you're 
*not* going to help me. I don't want you touching me," Mulder's voice was headed 
for hysterics. He bit back the words but they came anyway, slurred but clear 
enough for Sauceda to understand. "I don't want anyone touching me anymore."

He felt Sauceda freeze with comprehension: sexual molestation cases and Mulder's 
penchant for long showers. 

*Shit. Shit, shit, shit--*

Mulder steadied himself on the wall, still working his way over to the bathroom 
door, resolutely refusing to look his partner in the eye. He felt he'd landed in 
a Dali painting, "Burning Giraffes" perhaps, a tragic, surreal landscape of 
twisted images and illusions and too little oxygen. He paused, breathless, when 
Sauceda finally answered.

"Okay, Marty. Whatever you need, kid. I'll just sit outside the door, in case 
you get in trouble. Then I'll hear. Okay?"

Mulder swallowed hard, closing his eyes in gratitude, fearing the compassion 
even as he accepted it. He continued his exodus, Sauceda close beside with every 
step but careful not to touch him. 

Mulder made it into the bathroom at last and sat down hard on the toilet seat. 
He closed his eyes against the spinning of the room, panting with the effort to 
remain vertical. He felt Sauceda standing in the door, watching him, shifting 
nervously.

Mulder's stomach churned threateningly but he had other problems right now. If 
Sauceda knew what he knew, if Sauceda knew the extent of the blood, that it ran 
slick and sticky down his thighs, plastered his briefs to his body in areas the 
pathologist hadn't dared to check...

If Sauceda knew, Mulder'd be drifting out on that cold dark Thorazine sea and 
Sauceda'd be cussing the smell in the autopsy room again.

Mulder looked over at his partner, keeping his eyes cold, his voice malicious, 
holding Sauceda off guard and at bay. "Just let me get cleaned up. Then you can 
crawl in the damned shower with me, I don't care. Just keep your hands off the 
merchandise."

Sauceda smiled meekly, apparently satisfied with the compromise.

Mulder nodded at him. "Make some coffee," he ordered, "And close the door. I 
won't lock it. I promise. Just... go away for a while."

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sauceda stationed himself outside the bathroom door as promised. He listened to 
Marty moving around, probably undressing. The clothes hamper snapped open, 
slapped closed again after a while. Finally, there was the irregular splash of 
water against skin.

Sauceda dashed to the phone on the nightstand and dialed Purdue. 

"We've got another body," he hissed by way of greeting.

"Shit."

The remaining conversation was hurried and whispered, with Sauceda interrupting 
himself for frequent trips back to the bathroom door to listen. The water ran, 
pounding irregularly as Mulder moved beneath it.

Assured the ASAC was on his way, Sauceda sprinted to the kitchen to make coffee, 
trotted back to the bathroom door, listening even as he scooped the granules, 
back to the kitchen to pour the water in the machine. Back to the door. He 
thought briefly about calling Mitch in to help but balked at the idea 
immediately. Sauceda'd be damned before he'd admit he couldn't deal with his own 
partner. Besides, Marty didn't like crowds. And in Marty's dictionary, just 
being alone was sometimes crowded enough.

The water still ran and after a bit Sauceda heard nothing but the water, no 
splash or step, just the water, running on and on. It was still running long 
after the hot water heater had played out.

It was 7:00 a.m. when Sauceda finally decided he couldn't take it anymore. He 
called out twice and tapped on the door. There was no response.

Sauceda chewed the inside of his cheek, took a deep breath and reached his hand 
out to the knob. The water stopped abruptly. Sauceda jerked his hand back 
guiltily, glancing around, trying to imagine something he could be busy doing 
when Mulder came out. The kid had been fairly sedate up till now, there was no 
sense antagonizing him by being under his feet. Sauceda'd gotten Gregg to pick 
up a few groceries last night. They would need some breakfast--

Mulder emerged from his exile, still damp, wrapping himself in his robe. He 
glanced over at Sauceda but refused to look at him directly. Sauceda bit his 
lip. Mulder looked like hell. No one that young should have eyes in that much 
pain. It made Sauceda's gut hurt just to look at him.

"You okay, Marty?"

"Go to hell, Len."

Sauceda didn't take the cussing personally. The voice that spoke it was tired, 
obviously operating on reflex, not fully connected to any real thought or 
malice.

"I'm gonna fix breakfast, okay?" Sauceda offered pointlessly. He didn't expect 
Marty to be registering words just yet, anyway.

Mulder nodded blankly and Sauceda was off like a shot, guiltily grateful for the 
reprieve.

Twenty minutes later, Mr. GQ, hollow-eyed and solemn, stepped into the dining 
room for his sugar-with-coffee and found Sauceda, dressed, wolfing down a second 
bowl of cereal. Mulder eyed the box: "Life."

"If memory serves," Mulder noted, "this is what's known as poetic irony."

"Sit down and eat, Marty."

"I'm not hungry."

"Marty, you gotta eat--"

Mulder sighed. "It'll just come back up again before we're done, Hot Sauce. You 
know the routine."

Sauceda licked his lips. "Let's wait a bit, Marty. Okay?"

"Why?" Mulder's eyes dropped to suspicious slits. "You and Purdue got something 
planned?"

"No. No. Really. But, it's like the man says, the victim can't get any deader, 
right? So, it's not like we gotta get in a big rush or anything--"

Mulder looked at him a long minute and Sauceda prepared himself for the 
argument.

But Mulder just sat down in the chair opposite and shrugged. "You're the one 
doing the autopsies. If you want him after the heat's gotten to him, it's no 
sweat off me."

Sauceda blanched. "Just let me call Purdue, okay? Just to let him know we're on 
the move."

Mulder didn't say anything, didn't even nod.

Sauceda sat his spoon down and tramped to the living room to dial Purdue's cell 
number. He exchanged a few carefully chosen words with the ASAC; Mulder watched 
from his chair, eyes too wise in that silent face. 

Purdue was three blocks away. *Jesus, Mary and Saint Joseph, just let him be 
here by the time we get to the parking lot. I can't to do this shit anymore...*

Sauceda reached up a trembling hand to blot tears. He was getting too old for 
this. He jerked the hand away at the sound of Mulder's chair scooting back. The 
profiler had stepped out the door before Sauceda could even get the receiver 
cradled.

Mulder's voice, flat and unrelenting, drifted back from the hall: "Good morning, 
boys, we're going for a drive now. Of course, you can come, just keep your hands 
off the suit, I just had it cleaned--"

By the time Sauceda popped into the hall, Gregg and Mitch were staring in 
bewilderment. Sauceda didn't bother to explain, eyes wild as he followed his 
partner down the hall. Mulder, coat swinging Joe-Cool easy, led them to the 
elevator. Mentally he was a world apart, towing three lesser beings in 
elliptical orbit. 

Everything was moving too fast for Sauceda. Marty was walking too fast, the 
elevator opened too fast, depositing them efficiently on the first floor. Mulder 
led the way again, that animal grace, those too-green eyes hidden behind the 
shades, that inhuman mind locked in silence with secrets no man should know-- 
Sauceda was praying again.

*Jeezus, just make him slow down. Make him still be here when Purdue gets here. 
I don't want to do this. Not this time. Not with all that blood already. It's 
too much. It's too weird. Just make him stop-- *

And just like that, Mulder *did* stop. Sauceda almost collided with him, the 
change of motion was so abrupt. Sauceda circled to check his partner's 
condition. The shades were on, but the face was very pale, the breathing 
bordering on hyperventilation. Sauceda frowned.

"Whatsa matter, Marty? You need to sit down, kid? Let's go back and sit down--"

Mulder pushed him away absently, staring at the door to his left. Number 9. As 
Mulder's luck would have it, his super chose that moment to come up the hall, 
wrench in hand, muttering something about the hot water heater. Mulder waved him 
down.

"Can you open the door?" he requested politely.

Sauceda's gut sank.

The super looked from Mulder to the door in question. "To Norman Seilman's? Just 
knock."

"Please."

The man with the wrench took a closer look at his tenant. "You all right, Mr. 
Mulder?"

"Please. I just need the door open."

The super's eyes went wide. "Is this official FBI business?"

"No!" Sauceda gasped. "Marty, wait. You can't. You can't do it this time. It's 
too much. You have to wait for Purdue. Let Purdue take care of it."

Mulder blinked at him like he'd sprouted another head. He turned back to the 
super. "Just open the damned door."

Seconds, bare seconds and they were in the room, through the room and into the 
bedroom. Mulder never hesitated, never slowed, certain of where he was going and 
of what he would find when he got there. Nude male, dark hair, somewhere one 
side or the other of six feet, gutted on the bed.

Sauceda stood at the bedroom door, defeated and exasperated with himself. 
Purdue'd asked him just one favor: keep the kid out of the next crime scene. And 
he'd blown it. Just that easy. Shit, he must be getting old. He was certainly 
too old for this--

He stared at the body, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand. The 
victim's hands had been cuffed to the headboard. The tongue protruded, laid like 
some dark patch of beard against the chin. The corpse retained a grimace, like 
he was still straining against the cord around his neck. Sauceda wanted to spit. 
The sick bitch had probably kept the man alive, strangling him, trying to get a 
stronger erection so she could--

"Oh God," Sauceda hissed, finally recognizing the organs spilled from their 
proper places. Sisyphus had gutted this one all right, but she hadn't stopped 
there. This time, she'd worked her way south. And from the look of things, she'd 
enjoyed it immensely. And this is what the kid had dreamed so vividly he'd bled 
for the guy--

Mulder turned away from Sauceda's numbed stare and stalked back through the 
apartment, Sauceda hard on his heels.

"You knew," Sauceda voiced the accusation.

Mulder kept walking.

"Say it, dammit. You knew."

"Okay. I knew. So what?"

Purdue was in front door, unreadable gaze flickering from Mulder to Sauceda. 
Sauceda was too numb right now to care. The ASAC passed them and moved to the 
bedroom without comment.

Mitchell backed out of the bedroom shaking his head. "Jeezus, Mulder. I think 
your lady friend is pissed."

"I'm paying attention, Mitch."

Purdue emerged.

Mulder had the balls to smile. It looked like a crack in his face. "So, what'dya 
think?" he asked. "Self-inflicted?"

"Got your poem, Agent?" Purdue demanded.

"Gregg's bagging it for me now."

"Good. I want it, your partner, your bodyguard and your ass back in your 
apartment until we're done down here. Is that clear?"

"Yeah."

"No argument?"

Mulder shook his head arrogantly but the color was draining from his face even 
as they watched.

Sauceda's fingers itched to take the shades away and gauge the dilated stare 
that lay beneath. Mulder's hands were shaking now, too. By Sauceda's estimate, 
the carefully constructed shields Mulder had built around his life had cracked 
at least two months back, and now the reality of the corpse in the next room and 
all those that had preceded it was finally bleeding through.

Purdue turned as Mitchell approached. "Get him upstairs while you still can and 
this time you *keep* him there. Gregg, call an ISU out here. Sauceda, I'm 
arranging for a move to a safe house although we may have to get him in a hotel 
first. Damn witness protection must be having a two for one sale this week. But 
he's not staying here. Not after this--"

"Where's my cat?"

Sauceda's eyes snapped shut and Purdue carefully turned back to the man in the 
shades.

"I took care of it, Agent Mulder."

"Everybody keeps telling me that," Mulder observed. "Isn't it funny how they 
keep telling me that and I still don't know what you did with it?"

Mitchell's eyes were wide and busy calculating Mulder's weight and the reach of 
his swing. Gregg looked like he was trying to determine from the hang of 
Mulder's jacket if Sauceda'd had enough on the ball this morning to hide the 
profiler's gun.

Purdue's voice was soft. "I buried your cat in my backyard, Mulder. Next to my 
old dog, my wife's cockatoo and three of our cats. I can show you the spot 
sometime if you like."

"You didn't put him in the dumpster?"

Purdue frowned. "Did you want me to?"

"No."

The ASAC licked his lips. "I didn't put him in the dumpster, Agent Mulder."

Mulder nodded. "He didn't like it in the dumpster."

Purdue nodded, too, like this was the most rational conversation he'd had in 
ages. Nodded like it didn't feel like someone was kicking his guts out. Nodded 
like it wasn't killing him to watch the Bureau's finest shatter like so much 
misused crystal.

"Mulder--" Purdue began softly.

"Thank you," Mulder whispered and Sauceda bit his tongue to have a reason for 
his eyes to go blurry.

"I'm going home and lie down now," Mulder informed the room in general. "I'd 
like my poem, please."

Purdue nodded and Gregg presented the baggied paper gingerly. Mulder accepted it 
without looking at it, turned for the door. It obviously took everything he had 
left, but he managed to remain vertical for the trip back upstairs to apartment 
42: Mercury, mortally wounded, his little army of satellites tagging quietly 
behind.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX 

Part 17 of 27: The Thing at the Bottom of the Stare

7:46 AM. Apartment 42.

Seilman's poem was more Ashbery: bright blue highlights of "Ditto, Kiddo" from 
page thirty-three:

"How brave you are! Sometimes. And the injunction Still stands, a plain white 
wall. More unfinished business. But isn't that just the nature of business, 
someone else said, breezily. You can't just pick up in the middle of it, and 
then leave off. What if you do listen to it over and over, until It becomes part 
of your soul, foreign matter that belongs there? Until those times when driving 
abruptly off a road Into a field you sit still and conjure the hours. It was for 
this we made the small talk, the lies, And whispered them over to give each the 
smell of truth... There was room. Yes, And you have created it by going away. 
Somewhere, someone Listens for your laugh, swallows it like a drink of cool 
water, Neither happy nor aghast. And the stance, that post standing there, is 
you."



Mulder sat on his couch, heedless of the dried splatters of blood, and reread 
the poem. Sauceda stood in the living room door watching him. Out in the hall, 
Mitchell and Gregg were arguing in harsh whispers like some long-married couple 
trying to hash out the divorce without waking the kids.

"Marty?"

Mulder didn't hear apparently. He hadn't heard the first two times Sauceda'd 
spoken, either. But Sauceda could blame those failures on the fact that Mulder 
was concentrating on the poem. 

But the poem was on the floor, now. On the floor where it had slipped unnoticed 
from the profiler's hands, the hands still posed like the paper was there 
between the fingers. And Mulder's eyes still roved left to right like there was 
something there to read.

Sauceda was praying like he'd never prayed in his life: he prayed to be 
somewhere else, any place but here, watching Mulder's slow slide into oblivion 
and knowing his part in the process. He prayed that Purdue would get back here 
to tell him what Baez had said, tell him what to do to make it better. Somewhere 
between the two requests Sauceda respectfully suggested that God do them all a 
favor and let some thug put a bullet in this bitch's brain. The prayer he wished 
most earnestly, though, was that Marty would just come back from wherever it was 
he'd stepped out to.

Mulder blinked slowly and finally seemed to notice something was missing. He 
just didn't seem to remember what. He eyed the coffee table blearily. The 
morning sun through the window illuminated the smears of fingerprint dust no one 
had bothered to remove. There was this morning's newspaper, too, an ashtray with 
too many cigarette butts, a Bic pen. The phone was near at hand, still smeared 
with dried monkey blood. The television remote sat next to it.

In seconds, the TV was on and blaring. Mulder huddled on the couch, still in his 
suited finery, hugging his knees to his chest. The hand with the remote worked 
furiously. Channels flipped by at warp speed, washing neon colors across his 
face: pale green, electric blue and crimson. Mulder scarcely blinked, his 
concentration frightening in its intensity.

"Marty?"

"Hum?"

*Thank you, sweet Heart of Jesus--* "You want something to eat, kiddo?" 

Mulder's head shook almost imperceptibly, wide eyes staring at the screen. 
Sauceda waited until the finger on the control had stilled before stepping 
around to supervise the selection. Opening credits to "Son of the Creature from 
the Black Lagoon." Mulder's expression was impassive but the hand holding the 
remote trembled violently.

"Marty, you cold?"

No response.

"Marty, you gotta eat something. How about some warm soup? Maybe some juice? 
Something."

Mulder's brows furrowed, intent on the opening dialog of the film.

"Sure. Great," Sauceda wasn't above filling in the blanks for himself on 
occasion. "So. Juice sounds good, you think? Good deal." 

The pathologist trotted to the kitchen to stare into the refrigerator, grateful 
for a reprieve from the oppressive presence in the living room. He scanned the 
shelves, chewing his lip. Decisions, decisions. 

The selections were V-8 and apple juice: good nutritious stuff, right? Sauceda 
grabbed the V-8, but stopped with the jug still on the shelf. He stared at it, 
considering the dull red tomato juice and how it looked in the clear bottle. 
Sort of like the stuff he'd scraped off the couch and put on slides for the lab. 


Sauceda blinked, considering the possibility-- Nah, Marty couldn't have just 
spilled juice. The jug was still sealed. Besides, Sauceda wasn't stupid enough 
to confuse tomato juice and blood. The smell alone--

Sauceda grimaced, thinking about that coppery odor, the odor of life spilling 
hot from the veins, the fragrance of impending death. It had been all over 
Marty. And all over the kid's clothes when he'd pulled them from the hamper: 
that still unidentified substance, dark red and sticky, drying to crusty black 
on Mulder's jeans and briefs...

*Okay. Apple it is then--*

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Mulder's view of the television was obstructed suddenly: a glass of amber fluid 
attached to a hand. He rubbed at his left eye, considering the implications of 
such a vision, then realized Sauceda was standing over him.

"Here you go, Marty." The pathologist's eyes looked desperate behind the 
brilliant smile. "Here's your juice."

Mulder frowned, considering the liquid. A quick tour of his short-term memory 
located no record of such a request. In fact, he couldn't honestly say he could 
recall how he'd wound up on the couch. His frown deepened with his efforts to 
assess the situation, but too many areas of his brain seemed unwilling to 
participate in the process. He watched Sauceda's face do a slow slide into 
desperation and found that he was also completely unable to form simple words 
like "no" anymore. 

Well, hell, it was just a little juice, right?

He reached out to accept the glass. Sauceda, too-joyous smile returning, pulled 
it away to hand him a pill, instead. A little yellow pill. Valium, five 
milligrams. Mulder definitely didn't recall ordering this and he'd be damned if 
he'd take it, no matter how pathetic Sauceda managed to look.

He opened his mouth to inform his partner of this decision but stopped 
mid-breath. Sauceda's lips were moving, and try as he might, Mulder was hearing 
no sounds. He knew his eyes were wider suddenly, and knew Sauceda could read the 
fear there. The older man swallowed hard, moved his lips again, and Mulder heard 
the words.

"I'm praying for you, Marty. It'll be okay."

Mulder considered his options once more, a tedious and disappointing process 
given his current condition. "Lenny?" he asked slowly.

"Yeah, kid."

"If I take the pill will you stop praying?"

Sauceda squinted at him. "No. Of course not."

"I don't want it then."

Sauceda looked like he wanted to cry. "Aw, Marty, its just five milligrams. It 
won't hurt anything."

"I don't need it."

"I do, Marty. I need you to take it. Please."

"If I say no, you're going to force me to take something, aren't you?" Mulder 
eyed the door, considering the two men beyond it: two well-trained, well-fed, 
completely-sane men with orders to protect him. Even from himself. That, at 
least, was one fact he was still clear on.

Sauceda waited for Mulder's focus to turn back to him. "No, Marty. I won't do 
that," he assured, face set to convey absolute sincerity. 

Mulder nodded. "Good." He turned back to the TV and just like that, Sauceda and 
the juice and the little yellow pill winked out of existence, lost in the melee 
of black and white images running rampant before him. 

They just didn't make films like this anymore, Mulder realized after a bit. 
Considering the dialogue, he could understand why. The plot was about the most 
inane thing he'd seen in years. A distressing fact considering he seemed to be 
unable to keep track of most of it. He shook his head, trying to knock loose 
some rational explanation for this lapse.

A big-chested blonde squealed, running through the forest on the screen. Mulder 
counted to four before she stumbled over the obligatory stump. The creature, 
scaled and reptilian, reached for her, music swelling in the background before 
the screen dissolved into a commercial. A cat food commercial. Damn Friskies 
Kitten Chow with their little yellow tabby with big green eyes and fuzzy face...

"Lenny. Lenny? *LENNY!*"

Sauceda trotted from the bedroom, his hair rumpled, unfastened belt buckle 
pinging like a dinner bell with every step. His eyes were wild and snapped to 
frantic when they turned to regard Mulder.

Mulder laid his hand across his face to shield himself from the fear in 
Sauceda's eyes. He was shivering again and hating it, hating the tears he 
couldn't make stop and couldn't hide.

"I'd like that Valium now. Please." His teeth were clenched to keep them from 
rattling and the words were slurred but Lenny seemed to comprehend well enough. 
The older man nodded, vanished, then reappeared, comforting and cooing. 
Confident hands removed Mulder's suit jacket, slipped off his tie and wrapped 
him in the warm refuge of an old blanket. Finally, a little pill was pressed 
into his hand. It was a different color this time: the soft blue of a ten 
milligram and Mulder sighed his gratitude. But his hand was trembling too hard 
and half-way to his mouth, the tablet fumbled away. Salvation, however 
temporary, disappeared into the folds of the blanket gathered across his knees.

Mulder wailed his disappointment. It was a sound thin and pitiful even to his 
own ears-- horrifying. It wasn't his voice. It was, instead, that of a terrified 
child. Samantha's voice. Samantha's squeal, heard in one of his dreams, and 
Mulder choked it down frantically, desperate to flee before the horror finally 
caught up with him, became him. He slapped Sauceda away, struggling to escape 
the blanket. *This was not happening. It couldn't happen to him. It wasn't 
possible. He couldn't let it--*

Mulder lashed out blindly as Sauceda reached for him. He was struggling against 
a stranger, struggling against himself. His panic rose as his vision blurred, 
darkened, refocused with the mind's eye of a young child: a room full of men, 
shrouded in searing light, a needle, pain and pulsating flashes of heat. A 
dispassionate voice: "He remembers nothing," the most frightening memory of 
all--

The pain altered, becoming more solid suddenly, assuming another kind of 
urgency. Mulder jerked his eyes open and his panic was instantly overridden by 
reality. He paused, panting, taking a long minute to realize that it was Sauceda 
that was holding him, pinning him to the couch, each fist held fast, his body 
held down by the older man's hip.

Sauceda's face was twisted in torment. Mulder turned away, seeking some place 
else to be, some place that required no explanations and kept no notes. He 
collapsed back into the cushion, limp and unresisting, face turned to the 
window, surrendering whatever ground Lenny might feel necessary to claim. 

Sauceda loosened one wrist tentatively but Mulder remained quite still. 
Sauceda's voice was a guarded whisper.

 "You okay now, Marty?"

 Mulder considered the question before nodding. He made no further motion, 
 however, willing his body to relax. Sauceda released him slowly, sitting down 
 on the couch beside him, watching him closely all the while.

 "You sure?" He licked his lips as Mulder blinked a yes. "Where the hell did you 
 go just now, kid?"

 Mulder opened his mouth but words would not obey him, would not even form in 
 his mind, and he shook his head finally, locking his jaw down tight.





"You still want that Valium?"

Mulder nodded, his head turned resolutely to the window. He squinted at the top 
of the sun-washed tree beyond: another world entirely. The room was silent; he 
could hear the clock tick even above the rattling of the pill bottle. A light 
pressure on his hand and he looked down, accepted the pill, and placed it 
carefully in his mouth. Sauceda stepped back, allowing him to sit up before 
presenting him with a glass. The juice was cooling, reassuringly real down his 
throat and Mulder drank greedily, juice sloshing onto his chin. The pill slipped 
down obediently, the sensation so endearing that he continued swallowing until 
the juice was gone.

"More," he whispered, still refusing to look Sauceda in the eye. The old man 
rose to obey and Mulder found himself repeating the word to the empty room, 
something to keep him company in the silence, reciting it into the blurry hum of 
a mantra, blocking out the fear that gripped his heart without reason. And 
finally, the glass was back, back in his hand and full again and there was 
Sauceda's steady grip on his numbed fingers, like God's, delivering comfort in a 
glass, flooding his being with munificent grace.

His thirst sated, Mulder curled up back into the couch, eyes falling back to the 
television. Sauceda pressed the remote into his hand and he gripped the familiar 
object, his talisman, his sole measure of control in this world. Thus arrayed, 
he waited, unblinking as a sphinx, for the pill to convince his soul he didn't 
hurt anymore.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sauceda set up house in the chair, discreetly going back over autopsy files, 
glancing up now and again at the television and the man watching it. It'd been 
twenty minutes since the Valium and Mulder hadn't so much as twitched, not even 
when the pathologist had removed the kid's shoes. With Mulder in this state, 
Sauceda woud have felt safer having the kid's belt off and squirreled safely 
away with certain other lethal objects-- cutlery and forks and a drawer full of 
other belts, an entire collection of ties-- but Mulder's body was too tightly 
clenched just yet. Maybe when the Valium hit its peak...

Another girlie scream from the television and Sauceda glanced back over to 
observe the action. He shook his head. It must be Creature Feature day or 
something, he decided: one long string of old B-movies full of babes with pointy 
boobs. Well, hey, maybe the kid was on to something. Sauceda grinned at the 
thought, looked back to his partner's wall-eyed stare and felt himself slide 
back to thinly veiled panic. 

"I don't know, Marty," he whispered. "Maybe it'd be easier on the rest of us if 
we *did* just stick you in a hospital--"

Mulder lurched to life and Sauceda jerked guiltily. The young man flailed 
aimlessly, fighting with his blanket. No, not fighting really, Sauceda decided, 
just struggling to push it aside. Mulder got loose just as Sauceda freed himself 
from his lapful of files. Finally vertical, Mulder swayed above the coffee 
table, tipsy as a drunk on a binge. He flinched as Sauceda grabbed for him.

"Easy, kid," Sauceda peered into eyes that didn't quite manage to focus. "Just 
trying to get you steady." Mulder grunted and shrugged him off absently. Sauceda 
allowed it, keeping his expression friendly. "So, where're you going, Marty?"

"I gotta pee," Mulder's voice was soft and distant with a petulant quality that 
reminded Sauceda of his six-year-old grandson.

Sauceda nodded agreeably. "Okay, Marty. That's fine, just let me help you--"

"Not in your best dream," Mulder growled, slapping him away, a rough backhand 
against his chest. "Hot Sauce, my ass."

Sauceda blinked at the abrupt transformation. The phone rang, however, 
interrupting his protests. He swore, releasing the profiler to reach for the 
receiver. He eyed Mulder's belt warily.

"All right, Marty," he warned. "But you take it slow getting there. And don't 
lock that damned door. You hear?"

Mulder didn't answer, apparently too busy concentrating on weaving his way 
across the room. Sauceda frowned. Ten milligrams of Valium shouldn't cause a man 
Mulder's weight to walk like that--

But voice on the line was insisting on its share of attention. It was the lab 
with test results on the monkey blood from this morning's little episode. 
Sauceda listened, his frown deepening.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

In the sanctuary of the bathroom, Mulder finished his business and got his pants 
zipped before the nausea hit. The juice, so cool and welcome going down, made 
the return trip like boiling acid. The vomiting was surprisingly discrete, 
however, accomplished quickly, almost silently. Mulder's first reaction was one 
of utter shock. One hand clutched his chest uncertainly and he stared into the 
toilet in amazement. Little clumps of powder blue floated defiantly in the foamy 
fluid of the bowl.

Damn. The Valium.

Really now. This couldn't be happening. Yet, there it was: the certain evidence 
of his own body's betrayal. Mulder decided that right now, he really needed only 
one thing in this world, a single, simple necessity: the reassurance of his own 
sanity. He'd been promising himself that all he had to do was hold out for a 
bit. Just hold on and all the missing pieces of his brain would come home and he 
would be all right again. Like when Samantha disappeared: Mulder had disappeared 
then, too. Not physically, just into the consoling recesses of his mind, locked 
in a coma for three weeks while all hell broke loose around him. Then when he 
woke, it had been okay again. Not good. But okay. Sort of.

Only now, his body refused to shut down, refused to bring the comfort of coma, 
refused him even the comfort of drug induced solitude. It had left him, 
resolutely, on the front lines of a fight to hold his own or to die, apparently 
oblivious to the results of either choice.

Mulder swayed uncertainly, trying to comprehend it all. But what could he do, 
really? There was certainly no way to alleviate the immediate situation. 

He turned to the sink and washed his face, trying to drown the roaring in his 
head. He couldn't scoop the water fast enough, however, and finally just stopped 
trying. His fingers were numb and he left them under the water, letting them 
warm beneath the faucet while he stared at the intruder in the mirror. The man 
regarding him, however, had no answers, met his eyes with only bewildered 
resignation. Mulder looked over the man's shoulder, staring hard into the space 
behind him, seeking he knew not what. 

It was a trick of his own mind, surely, but Mulder felt suddenly that someone 
else had stepped up behind him. Someone warmer than he, someone softer, someone 
invisible in the glass. Someone fragrant and gentle. He could almost feel her 
breath against his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Kay." 

The words came without thought, only barely heard above the running of the 
water. Mulder's chest constricted unmercifully but he was beyond tears, the 
sorrow locked in too tight to express itself so easily. If he could simply 
believe that she had heard the words-- if he could know that much-- then he 
could surrender in peace. Just lay down and wait for death. Like the man in the 
Suffolk woods. Just sit and wait to die. Mulder wondered if that man, too, had 
sought forgiveness. If he had found it, somehow.

The numbness had spread from his hands and into his brain, finally. He shut the 
water off solely out of habit, and weaved his way back to the living room. 
Sauceda's back was to him, the pathologist grunting monosyllabic responses into 
the phone. Mulder rubbed his arms-- to be so emotionally numb, he seemed to ache 
an awful lot physically-- and remembered how happy just swallowing all that 
juice had made him. He padded resolutely off to the kitchen. 

Midway to the refrigerator, though, Mulder suddenly lost all forward momentum. 
For the life of him, he couldn't remember what he'd come for. 

The realization was bewildering and not a little frightening, and he felt his 
heart begin to pound. Mulder forgot things very rarely and the experience was 
traumatizing, an intimate violation, an assault upon his soul. When Samantha had 
disappeared, half of Mulder's childhood had disappeared with her: huge gaps of 
data, the minute details of the past eight years, were suddenly a garbled, 
nonsensical maze or, worse, simply missing altogether. The prospect that the 
rest of his life could disappear as easily was a recurring nightmare-- when he 
wasn't otherwise busy dreaming up corpses.

*It's just a trip into the kitchen, Fox. Don't panic. It'll come to you--*

There was a familiar clump from the living room: the sound of the receiver 
settling back on the phone. Mulder hugged himself comfortingly and waited for 
Lenny to find him. It didn't take long. 

"Whatsamatta, Marty?" 

Mulder lost himself in the activity on the man's face. Sauceda's wary eyes 
seemed to be configuring Mulder's position, triangulating his trajectory. 
Sauceda finally settled on the refrigerator and his face brightened visibly. 

"Hey, kid. You want some more juice?"

The words sounded familiar enough but Mulder found he was having difficulty 
registering the question. Sauceda's expression clearly said the older man was 
expecting a reply, however. Mulder decided he had only a fifty percent chance of 
being wrong if he stuck to "yes" and "no" answers and nodded after what he hoped 
was an appropriately sedate pause. It must have been the correct response. 
Sauceda got a broad grin and instantly transformed into Mr. Mom. Mulder watched 
him pull out a clean glass and shoo him over to the refrigerator to present a 
wealth of options.

*Oh, yeah. Juice.*

Mulder leaned down to examine the selections. He frowned at the bottle of red 
stuff, quickly looking away to other jug as his stomach began churning. He 
dragged the apple juice across the shelf, trying to get it as far as possible 
from that gross looking stuff in the other container.

Sauceda fussed gently, "Here, Marty, let me get that."

Mulder didn't argue. The jar was one of those economy sizes and still too close 
to full to make simultaneously standing and pouring a viable option. Mulder 
frowned at the realization. Jeezus, had he suddenly gone so far south, he 
couldn't even manage a jug of juice? The thought made the drink bitter in his 
mouth. He swallowed it anyway.

When he lowered the glass, Sauceda was frowning and reached up to blot his chin. 
Mulder noted the tell-tale flecks of powder blue on Sauceda's cup towel. 
Sauceda's brows lowered suspiciously.

"You keep that Valium down, Marty?"

Even confronted by the evidence, Mulder nodded his lie. He didn't know why 
exactly, except that he just didn't feel like explaining. If he'd shaken his 
head the other way, Sauceda would want to know about how much had come up and 
that could get complicated. Mulder imagined a whole series of debates on granule 
sizes and just imagining the ensuing argument was exhausting. He slumped against 
the refrigerator, allowing Sauceda to finish blotting his face. Sauceda clucked 
like a hen, busy making what he no doubt thought were helpful noises. All the 
fuss made Mulder's head hurt, though, and he really just wanted to be alone...

"Lenny, I'm going to take a shower. Okay?" That brought the helpful noises to an 
abrupt halt.

"Marty, you just had a shower a couple of hours ago."

Mulder looked at Sauceda and read trouble there. When Hot Sauce got that look in 
his eye there was just no winning without breaking out some major hell and 
Mulder didn't have that kind of energy right now. Or that kind of mental 
capacity.

"Can I watch the TV then?" he asked sweetly.

Sauceda paled and shook his head, his jaw working with wonder. He looked 
downright disappointed.

Mulder frowned. Hell, he wasn't being sarcastic. He was even asking permission, 
for crying out loud. He'd let Sauceda blot his face and hadn't even punched him 
out for it. You'd think the man would look happier. It was just TV, after all. 
And *his* TV at that. 

You just couldn't please some people...

Sauceda finally stopped chewing his lip and nodded. Mulder smiled, so grateful 
he didn't even protest when Sauceda steadied him on the way back to the couch.

Sauceda was very quiet as he got Mulder settled in. Mulder didn't even have to 
listen to those little cooing noises as Lenny tucked him under the blanket and 
handed him the remote. Mulder was thankful enough that he didn't even protest 
when Sauceda asked him to remove his belt.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

10:13 AM

Mulder was still installed in front of the TV when Purdue tapped and opened the 
door. Sauceda rose from the dining room table where he'd posted himself. Purdue 
stared at the profiler a few minutes before following Sauceda into the kitchen.

"Jeezus, Hot Sauce, what did you give him? I've seen guys strung out on smack 
with more on the ball than he's got right now."

Sauceda planted his back against the refrigerator. His voice was weary. "Ten 
milligrams of Valium. Not all of which has managed to stay down, thank you."

Purdue frowned. "Well," he said slowly, "at least you didn't let him argue you 
out of it."

"Argue? Hell, he asked for it. Damned near panicked when he thought he wasn't 
going to get it down. He's scaring me, Reg. Manic, depressed, worn out, even 
drugged, Marty prides himself on being uncooperative. It's a matter of 
principle. And here he is: meek as Mary's lamb. Man's said 'please' twice in as 
many days, for Chrissake." The attempt at levity failed to amuse either of them 
and Sauceda scrubbed at his face. "Look, Reg, I've seen Marty and Post Traumatic 
Stress. I've seen Marty and Valium. This ain't it." He choked briefly and 
cleared his throat. "We heard from Baez, yet?"

"He's in some hotshot conference in Geneva or some such. He called about an hour 
ago though. Dispatch got him patched through downstairs. We had an, ah, 
interesting chat."

"Is he going to hospitalize him?" Sauceda hadn't intended to sound so hopeful 
and dropped his head. 

Purdue seemed willing to let it pass. "Baez doesn't want to hospitalize Mulder 
for the same reasons we don't. And more."

"What 'more'?"

"He says at this point, hospitalization would be all Mulder would need to push 
that last button that says 'self-distruct.' Apparently institutionalization is 
Mulder's biggest fear. Baez says he's probably pretty much diagnosing himself at 
this point and thinking his odds aren't so hot. He wakes up in restraints, that 
may just be the last straw." 

Sauceda chewed his lip a minute. "So what do we do?"

"We've got to find this woman, Hot Sauce."

Sauceda didn't bother to point out that that much, at least, was obvious. "Don't 
suppose this place has surveillance cameras?"

"Damned things don't appear to work half the time. And nobody saw anything. 
Christ. How many times have we been here, heard this?" Purdue sighed, shaking 
his head. "There's some evidence that she might have climbed in through a 
window." He slumped against the cabinet and picked up a half-empty glass of 
juice from the counter, studying it blankly. "I got a sketch artist to work up a 
composite of the description Mulder left for us. Local PD's doing the canvas. So 
far, no one in the area remembers seeing anyone matching the sketch. The 
bartender didn't get a name and she paid cash. Just to cover all the bases, I 
checked Mulder's phone records for incoming and outgoing calls since he got back 
to DC."

"Yeah? You got something? Sisyphus made a call while she was here?" 

"No." Purdue slid his thumb across the glass, staring into the sugary liquid. 
"But something significant otherwise. At least for me, anyway. Enough to know 
Mulder was managing to hold it together longer than I was giving him credit 
for." 

"Hell, the fact that he managed to get that description written out before we 
showed told me that much."

"Yeah." Purdue set the glass down with a soft clink. "It seems that right before 
Mulder called me, he put in a call to his father. I spoke to *him* this morning, 
too." He noted Sauceda's grimace. "You've met the man?"

"Once. I made the mistake of calling Marty's mom when the kid was shot last 
year. She didn't show at the hospital but his old man popped by and gave me the 
what-for about calling. Said Marty was a grown man and if he wanted to go and 
get himself shot it was Marty's business and not my place to go bothering her 
about it." Sauceda shrugged. "Still, he stayed with Marty at the hospital all 
night. Refused to leave until Marty came to and told him he'd be okay. Hell, 
Marty's never complained about his parents, not that he talks about them much 
one way or the other. I don't know, maybe I got just got Dad on a bad day."

Purdue sighed. "Well, apparently I got him on the same day you did."

"So, I don't get it. Why would Marty call his old man?"

"Apparently he was worried Sisyphus might be digging a little deeper in his 
personnel file; he was afraid she'd find his parents' addresses and pay them a 
little visit. Stands to reason: if she found Mulder, she could find his family, 
too."

"So Marty called to get mom and dad on the alert? Shit, Reg. What'd I tell you? 
With everything Mulder's got going on head-wise, he's still five steps ahead of 
the rest of us--" Purdue's raised eyebrow stopped him short. Hell, Sauceda 
wasn't even fooling himself.

"Baez says to give Mulder time. What about it, Len? Think you can handle him a 
while longer?"

Sauceda shrugged. "Yeah. Sure." He sighed, remembering how Marty'd let him help 
him to the couch, even let him put an arm around his rib cage. Sauceda had felt 
bones there that shouldn't have been that close to the surface. "I don't know 
about all Baez's hare-brained theories but I know he pulled Marty through 
Shreveport. If he says Marty stays out of the hospital, then dammit, he stays 
out." He ran fingers through his hair. "Marty's just really fragile right now. 
If we can just keep him calm, maybe make him feel safe, he could relax long 
enough to get some perspective."

Purdue smiled humorlessly. "He's got a serial killer ripping out people right 
and left for his personal benefit. If that fact upsets him, I think his 
perspective is pretty much dead on target." He rubbed at his face, let his hands 
fall to slap against his thighs. "All right then. We're moving. I've paid cash, 
reserved rooms under an alias. Hotel suite with a kitchenette, and two more 
suites on either side. It'll do until a safe house becomes available. It's 
quiet, not too large to keep surveilled. Some place Mulder can settle in, have 
some peace and quiet."

"He doesn't have peace and quiet while she's killing, Reg. And these days she's 
always killing."

"And she'll get tired and start making mistakes. She might have forgotten her 
shower cap this time, Lenny. We found it near the head of the bed, slipped down 
beside the nightstand. And we got a strand of hair. Red. Hell, it's probably 
Clairol Number Six. But it's something. You got anything on that monkey blood 
business?"

Sauceda grimaced. "Yeah. The lab called. It's blood and it's *his*, all right. 
No thinners, no preservatives. Just Marty, fresh out of the vein."

"How the hell--" 

"And he's anemic." Sauceda looked defeated. "The kid musta been puking for 
weeks. His electrolytes are shot all to hell. I've order B-12 injectables. He 
needs Feosol, too, but all that damned iron would just tear his stomach up even 
worse than it already is--"

"So where'd the blood come from, Hot Sauce? He just, what, coughed and--?"

Sauceda shook his head. "I want to tell myself that maybe he just bit his tongue 
in his sleep and didn't realize it, but there was just too much of it for that."

"You checked him out, right? You're sure you checked--"

"Hell, yes, I checked. It's like... Hell. It's like it just came out his pores, 
Reg."

"But that's not possible--"

"Of course it's not possible! But Jeezus God, it had to come from somewhere. 
This isn't a bad remake of *The Exorcist,* you know."

"I don't know *what* I know about this man anymore." 

Sauceda's silence was an unwilling agreement.

Purdue sighed again. "Baez says Mulder's got the most formidable set of coping 
mechanisms he's ever seen. But that it may just be taking longer for them to 
kick in. He says Mulder has a history of shutting down mentally, while his brain 
restructures all those wonderful Polaroids he's been collecting in that mental 
gallery of his."

Sauceda's frown slid into confusion. "History, hell. Look, Reg, I was with Marty 
every step in Shreveport, even before Baez got there. I didn't see anybody 
shutting down, especially Marty. I swear, the kid was running the rest of us in 
circles mentally. Sick as a dog, and a physical wreck but mentally-- well, hell, 
he wasn't this bad anyway. Not then. And he kept on that damned profile, 
refining it so clear he could tell them what the next victim was going to look 
like. Hell, he even gave them a name before they started drugging him out of his 
mind."

"He's given us one, too. It's not his profile I'm worrying about."

"I'm telling you, Reg. Marty never shut down and this Baez is full of shit if he 
says otherwise."

"Earlier, Lenny," Purdue spoke slowly, watching him. "In his childhood."

Sauceda's confusion was getting thicker and a few internal red lights started 
snapping on. "Come again?"

"Medical history, Lenny. Mulder's medical files covering his childhood were 
sealed. Some nonsense about family members of State Department employees. Total 
bullshit. The Bureau got a court order to open them for Baez, though."

Sauceda sat down on a stool near the doorframe, face twisted with the effort to 
comprehend the implications and not certain that he was doing too well. "Who the 
hell seals medical records on a kid?"

Purdue shook his head. "I've requested the file. Even requested the Missing 
Persons file on his sister. Apparently no one at HQ knows what the hell I'm 
talking about. Baez admits only to seeing Mulder's file once. Hell, he sounded 
guilty that he'd even mentioned it. He swears he wasn't allowed to keep a copy, 
but... Seems damned odd to me." The two men were silent, listening to the roar 
of the TV and the oppressive silence sitting before it.

Purdue tugged at his bottom lip. "You ever known Mulder have any kind of 
selective amnesia?" Sauceda's face scrunched up and Purdue made vague motions 
with his hands, grabbing for words that wouldn't come. "Baez says Mulder's mind 
rearranges things, locks down events until he's practically convinced they never 
happened, at least not to him. Ah... how did he say it? It's like gluing photos 
in an album, then closing it and locking it away. And you can't get at it again 
until you have a specific key. He thinks that's what's happening now-- Mulder 
rearranging his memories so he can cope."

"Uh huh," Sauceda said slowly but without agreeing. None of this was making any 
sense. He could tell from the look on Purdue's face that Reg was having similar 
problems. "Marty never mentions his childhood. I know about the sister, I've 
heard him talk about her in his sleep sometimes. She disappeared, kidnapped or 
just snatched, his parents divorced, but that's it. That's all I know." 

"I know Patterson raised billy-hell trying to get his hands on the sister's case 
file. The Bureau said there wasn't one." Purdue was watching him intently.

Sauceda squinted. "The girl's father worked for the State Department and we have 
no file?"

"Maybe..." Purdue seemed to have to force the words out. "Maybe mom and dad just 
didn't want to lose *both* kids. Maybe they got Mulder help. Maybe they hoped it 
was in time--"

The look on Purdue's face was enough to get the pieces in place for Sauceda. His 
shoulders set, his fists clenching of their own accord. "Hold the goddam phone 
here. The sister disappeared and they investigated Marty. That's standard 
procedure, Reg. The family's always the first investigated. It doesn't mean they 
thought he was guilty, dammit." 

"No, of course not." Purdue growled. "It's just-- Well, there was talk of a 
cover-up-- I don't know. It makes a certain kind of sense--"

"Like hell. There's nuts out there that swear the CIA killed Kennedy, too. Get a 
government official in a bad situation and everyone screams cover-up. God, Reg, 
would you listen to yourself? We're talking about a twelve-year-old kid hiding a 
body-- and no one's found one clue about it after fourteen years? It's 
ridiculous. But then, of course, it's the only goddam thing that you can pin on 
him that will lead back to this case, isn't it? A murder." Sauceda was off the 
stool and livid, his voice a hiss as he spat the words. "You think he killed Kay 
too, don't you? You son of a bitch. You think he killed the cat and that guy up 
the hall. Hell, he probably flew to Wheeling on his day off and hacked up those 
vagrants, too, huh? And the prostitute." Sauceda slammed his hand against the 
counter and silverware danced in the sink. "This is just freaking great. Just 
freaking--"

"Someone's hot to give the impression, Sauceda," Purdue closed the small 
distance between them. His face was less than a foot away, now, distorted in 
rage, voice very low. "*Someone's* dropping major hints, Hot Sauce. *Someone's* 
hot to see this case closed. Right now."

Sauceda stopped quite still. 

"Yeah," Purdue sneered. "Tell me, Sauceda. Ever wonder who it was you and 
Patterson trotted out reports on Mulder *for*?"

"I don't--" Sauceda didn't bother to complete his lie. His mouth worked a 
moment. Anger finally overcame shame and slid his brain back into gear. "There's 
no evidence that Marty was at any of the crime scenes, Reg. We've got prints--"

"We've got prints that match nothing and we've got no evidence, period. Nothing 
but Mulder, in no position to defend himself against charges. They want to pin 
the last two murders on him, Sauceda. Barring that, they're working up a case 
for institutionalization." Purdue ground his teeth. "The only thing keeping them 
off his back at this point is me and Walter Skinner. And I've got my doubts 
about Skinner." 

"They can't--"

"The cuffs on Seilman were Mulder's."

Sauceda thought he might never be able to breathe again. 

"They're running Mulder's switchblade, too," Purdue growled. "They found traces 
of blood inside the handle. Fibers and blood matching Mr. American Lit, thank 
you very much. And Mulder's are the only prints on the goddam thing." Purdue was 
shouting now and Sauceda flinched against the violence staring him down.

"There's no way, Purdue. You can't let them arrest him. You son of a bitch. In 
his condition--"

"Like hell--" Purdue hissed, paced to the dining room, Sauceda hot on his heels.

"It's circumstantial evidence, Reg," Sauceda spun the ASAC around before he 
could reach the living room. "It's circumstantial," he hissed, "and that's all 
it's ever gonna be. If she could get into his room for a damned poem, she could 
get in here long enough to get his knife and back in to return it. Christ, Reg, 
you had two men posted outside his door all night-- you think Mulder could slip 
past me *and* the two of them to kill Seilman--"

Purdue kept his voice down, now too, mindful of Mulder in the room beyond. 
"Seilman's death is the only thing keeping Mulder out of jail right now. 
Sisyphus is doing her beloved a favor-- whether she knows it or not."

"See? The kind of so-called evidence they've got couldn't convict him. It 
wouldn't stand up in a court of law--"

"They don't need him in a court of law, Sauceda. They just need him right where 
he is: freaked out on his own damned couch, damned near catatonic. You think 
he'd pass a psychological examination? No. They'd institutionalize him tonight. 
And conveniently lose the key. Tell me why? Who the hell are they? And what is 
he that they're so damned scared of him?"

Sauceda's chest hurt too bad to even swear. "I dunno. But I know Mulder didn't 
do this. *You* know he didn't do this. And if they've got some kind of evidence 
he killed his sister, well, they've rigged that, too. I swear to you, Reg, he's 
not capable--"

"We're all capable, Lenny. I just don't think he did it."

"Damned straight he didn't--"

"And I want you to prove it."

"Say again?"

Purdue was obviously tired of whispering, tired of leaning down to make certain 
Sauceda could hear. He squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep steadying breath. 
"If someone in the Bureau's building a case against Mulder, then I want to know 
what they've got. And I want that dammed Missing Persons file."

"On the sister?"

"I don't know who's after Mulder. That damned cancer-mongering bastard you and 
Patterson kiss-assed--" Purdue looked like he wanted to spit. "--Blevins, or 
even Skinner himself. And I don't care. They're coming through me to get him. 
Guilty or not." 

Sauceda flexed his shoulders, pulling himself to his full height. The effort 
still left him a good six inches shorter than Purdue. "You can trust me, Reg--"

"Like shit."

"But--"

"You look me in the eye, you little bastard." Sauceda obeyed, blinking 
painfully. "You screw Mulder over on this," Purdue growled, "and I'm taking it 
personally. You understand?"

Sauceda swallowed down grief. "Honest, Reg, I-- I'm not doing that. Not 
anymore."

"You want to stay employed long enough to retire, sir, you just make certain of 
that fact."

Words quite beyond him for the moment, Sauceda simply nodded. Purdue didn't seem 
to notice, however, his attention on the long slender form occupying the couch. 

Mulder returned the regard without blinking, silent and utterly still. 

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX 

Part 18 of 27: Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night: No, make them drug you 
first....

Wednesday. May 18, 1988. 4:58 PM. Apartment 42.

Sauceda was in the bedroom patting a stack of freshly laundered T-shirts into a 
suitcase when the television snapped off in the next room. The ticking of 
Sauceda's Timex was thunderous in the sudden silence and he glanced up. Mulder, 
unshaven and barefoot, was watching him from the door. 

"Hey, Marty. Enjoy your nap?" 

Mulder didn't answer. Didn't move. Sauceda licked his lips nervously, waiting 
for some hint of recognition on the profiler's face. He'd opened the blinds that 
afternoon and the room was now awash with late evening sun. In the doorway, 
however, Mulder was nothing more than a darkly shadowed form, deep grays and 
black, absorbing all light, devouring it whole. He looked like death's 
apprentice come to call.

Sauceda stared down into the suitcase on the bed, struggling to reorient 
himself. His palms had started to sweat and he wiped them on his undershirt as 
he moved back to the dresser, checking the next drawer for necessary clothing, 
struggling to remain calm. 

"You, ah, you hungry, Marty? I got some barbecue chicken from the deli up the 
street. We got soup, too. All kinds. Mitch went to the store and stocked up for 
you, kid."

Mulder again failed to answer, intent on watching Sauceda stuff socks into the 
case between stacks of underwear and blue jeans. He had the predatory stance of 
a stalking panther, muscles taut, coiled, perfectly motionless. The apartment 
was so quiet, Sauceda could hear Mulder breathe: short, desperate gulps 
following hard one after the other, but the struggle never reflected in the 
young man's shadowed face.

Sauceda moved to the closet, keeping his distance from the sentinel in the door. 
He kept his motions slow and deliberate and dredged up a tune to hum softly, a 
talisman against dread. He shuffled through the clothes hanging before him, his 
peripheral vision prepared for assault. Mulder moved into his visual field and 
he flinched, but the attack never came. Instead, Mulder crawled onto the bed, an 
image of cautious grace as he curled, catlike, on the far side of the mattress, 
back tight against the headboard. He resumed his silent vigil of Sauceda.

"Hey, kid, you want me to do this later so you can go back to sleep?"

Mulder's eyes, cold and feral, narrowed and he drew his knees tight against his 
chest. His head shook just a bit. Sauceda couldn't tell if it was an answer or 
just an attempt to find a comfortable spot on the pillow. He sighed and tugged 
Mulder's last remaining suits from the closet.

"Okay, kid, I'm about done anyway. So. You want me to pack the blue suit and the 
gray one?" He paused, regarding the nearly empty rack, knowing he was talking 
just to hear his own voice. "Or how about the brown one? You don't have much 
left till the cleaners get done--"

He turned from the closet, holding the selection up helpfully, expecting no more 
response than before. Mulder was sitting up, however, still staring, breathing 
through his mouth.

Sauceda licked his lips. "Okay. Blue and gray it is, then--"

"Where..." Mulder tried words on for size, "are we going?"

 "Marty, Purdue told you--" Sauceda bit his lip. *Jeezus, Len, it's the kid's 
 first full sentence of the afternoon, cut him some slack why don't you?* 
 Sauceda tried again, pronouncing his words carefully, but keeping his tone 
 agreeable. "We're moving to a hotel, kiddo. And not one of those dive joints, 
 either. An honest to God three-star jobby." Mulder's expression hadn't changed 
 much except for a twitch in his jaw. Sauceda shrugged reassuringly. "We'll 
 still be in Washington. Purdue just thought it'd be better if this Sisy-whatsit 
 wasn't visitin' your neighbors. Okay?"





He wasn't certain how much Mulder had managed to digest of that, but he gave the 
young man time to sort it out as he shimmied the suits into Mulder's carryall 
and tried to steady his own breathing. 

"We're not going to the hospital?" Mulder's voice was painfully small. Sauceda 
froze, looking up into those haunted eyes.

"No, Marty," he answered solemnly. "Do you want to go to the hospital?"

Mulder blinked several times but didn't seem to be able to form words anymore. 
Sauceda barely managed to find enough spit to speak himself.

"You're not going to the hospital," he repeated carefully. "Okay, kid?"

Mulder blinked once more then, without a sound, folded abruptly down onto the 
bed. It was a movement of such total collapse that Sauceda was certain he'd 
fainted and sprung onto the mattress, kneeling to reach him, his heart pounding. 
But no, Mulder's eyes were still open, still slowly blinking. A fine sheen of 
perspiration bathed his forehead.

Sauceda checked Mulder's pulse tentatively. The young man watched him without 
comprehension. Sauceda took a deep, steadying breath.

"Marty? Look, I know you've got a lot going on right now, but I really need to 
know you're okay. Okay? Can you talk to me?" Mulder blinked at him calmly, 
apparently unconcerned or simply unable to speak. Sauceda ran a hand across 
Mulder's face, brushing the sweat away. It occurred to him that he had never 
dared such a touch before. Mulder would have never allowed it, would have 
removed Sauceda's arm just for having the audacity. In fact, Sauceda realized, 
he'd been touching Marty an awful lot lately, completely without retaliation. 
Sauceda's hand trembled as he pushed the rumpled curls from Mulder's forehead.

He'd surrendered. No defenses remained. 

Marty had given up. 

Sauceda wanted to slap him, suddenly. Hit him just to *make* him fight, just to 
have some kind of reaction other than this vapid withdrawal. The desire was so 
strong that he laced his fingers through his own graying curls, gulping air. He 
didn't dare strike the younger man. If he slapped him and Mulder didn't 
respond-- 

Sauceda backed off the bed, frantic, bumping into the suitcase in his flight. 
The lid slamming down echoed like a gunshot in the silence and brought him to 
his senses. He took another deep breath. And a second, just to be sure, and 
dredged up a smile from somewhere around his ankles. 

"Okay, Marty. Look. How about I just fix us some tea? How would that be? You 
like iced tea, doncha, Marty? Yeah?" Mulder blinked at him rapidly for a second 
and seemed to be trying to remember. Sauceda grinned, relieved by even so minor 
an improvement. "Yeah. Yeah. Sounds good, huh? I'll be right back, then. Don't 
you go anywhere, 'kay?"

Sauceda stumbled for the kitchen and busied himself with getting ice into a 
couple of disposable glasses. His hands were shaking and ice cubes kept escaping 
him, splintering onto the tile, skittering this way and that. Sauceda was 
oblivious to the mess. Something had to give, here. He couldn't hold up to this. 
Hell, he didn't think he could even stand to look at the kid anymore. Not like 
this. Jeezus, if Marty had some drugs in him, he could see it, but the kid was 
stone cold sober--

Sauceda jerked at the soft click of a door closing somewhere in the apartment, 
then the even quieter click of a lock.

"Marty?" 

Sauceda tossed the glass into the sink. More ice, slivered by the impact, joined 
the water on the floor as he sprinted for the bedroom. Mulder wasn't on the bed 
any longer and the bathroom door was shut, light shining from the crack near the 
floor. Sauceda jerked the doorknob, already anticipating its resistance, 
swearing anyway when it refused to yield. He slammed his fist against the 
doorframe.

"Goddam it, Marty, you open this door!"

"I'm taking a shower." Mulder's voice was muffled. The "screw-you" tone had 
Sauceda's blood pressure soaring on the first word. *That damned Baez is gonna 
have a lot to answer for on these freaking mood swings--* Sauceda froze there, 
his jaw working with realization. *Well, hell, Sauceda, this is the fight you 
wanted, isn't it?* He choked down grief and gratitude and got his voice level.

"Okay, kid, you can take a shower if you want. But you need to unlock the door, 
okay?"

There was no response.

"Marty, come on. Unlock the door. You don't have to open it. Just unlock it. 
Hear?"

Again, no sound in the room beyond.

Sauceda was suddenly, guiltily, missing the compliant patient from earlier 
today. Still, he was grinning like a madman while he shouted. "Look you little 
ass, I know you're not in the shower, yet, the water's not even running-- Shit!" 
The water started up obediently with the words still in Sauceda's mouth. He 
listened, shaking with anger, fear and joy. 

And all he heard was water, just the water hitting the tub. No irregular splash, 
no thump of a body beneath the stream. Sauceda's grin dissipated. He'd spent 
most of the day locking away knives and breakables, just to be on the safe side. 
He'd even removed the glass tumbler from Mulder's toothbrush rack. All the young 
man had in there was a cake of soap, a bottle of shampoo and a dozen towels. 
Still, Sauceda had too much respect for Mulder's intelligence to convince 
himself he'd covered all the bases. He swore softly, realizing he hadn't gotten 
around to unscrewing the medicine cabinet from the wall. It had such a nice big 
mirror on it, too.... 

Sauceda shook his head, amazed at his own stupidity. Marty was his partner and 
Sauceda trusted the man with his life. He just wasn't too keen on trusting Marty 
with *Marty's* life right now. 

Sauceda backed up, gauging the door for where to put his foot. He'd never kicked 
in a door in his life and he knew that most efforts were not as easy as they 
might seem. He'd seen Marty kick them open with leading man abandon, but Sauceda 
had never been the leading man, not even in his own life. Besides, Marty was 
liable to kill him for this-- Sauceda pushed the thought aside, licked his lips, 
and sucked in a good breath. Then stopped, his foot in mid-air. *Well, screw 
this,* he stomped his foot down and popped his hands on his hips, *that's what 
the hell I've got Mitch and Gregg for--*

Still as if on cue, someone tapped on the front door. Sauceda rolled eyes at no 
one in particular and slammed a fist into the bathroom door before stalking into 
the dining room.

Purdue was already on his way in, and paused in the doorway, Gregg peeking 
curiously over his shoulder.

"Sauceda? What's going on--"

"Well, it's about goddam time you showed up," Sauceda wailed. He flapped an arm 
in the general direction of the bedroom. "Hell, the kid's locked himself in the 
bathroom and won't open the damned door." 

Gregg's eyes were wide and he opened his mouth but Purdue closed the door in his 
face before he could get the words out. The ASAC eyed the older man gently. 
Sauceda paused, trying to remember what he'd looked like the last time he 
checked. Razor burn ran across his cheeks and halfway down his neck on both 
sides. The paunch he usually strapped in with a corset was resting over his 
belt, and he had barbecue sauce and ink stains on his T-shirt-- and that was 
just the stuff he could identify. Sauceda imagined the mixture of rage and 
relief on his face wasn't too pleasant, either.

"I'll handle Mulder, Hot Sauce. Why don't you go home for a while?" Purdue 
suggested quietly. "You need a break."

Sauceda regarded the confident face and finally felt the full impact of his own 
anger. "Oh," he growled. "So, now I need a break, do I? Well, screw you, sir." 
He slammed back the nearest dining room chair and dropped into it heavily. "I 
sit here all damned day, alone, thank you so very much, supervising the Mayor of 
Loony Tune City, and now I need a freaking break--" Sauceda wanted to cry, 
suddenly, but he'd be damned first. He shook his head, marveling at his own 
impulsive mood swings. "Shit." He sighed. "You want the latest update? The kid 
caught me packing his things and thought we were hauling him to a hospital."

Purdue bit his lip and glanced away.

"He knows he's not going," Sauceda moaned, "but now he won't unlock the bathroom 
door. I can't follow his mind, anymore, Reg. Hell, he was five steps ahead of me 
before all this shit. Now I don't even think we're on the same planet half the 
time."

"Well, I don't need the two of you lost in space, Sauceda. You're going home for 
a while. That's an order."

Sauceda studied his hands, flexing his fingers, thoughtfully. "Well... I *did* 
hear back about that file. The one on the sister?" 

Purdue took a step forward, "Yeah?"

"I've, ah," Sauceda blushed unaccountably, cleared his throat. "I've got a, ah, 
friend in Records and--"

"And she found the file. Good work. Have her courier it over ASAP. I want that 
damned thing yesterday."

Sauceda was blushing in earnest, now, not wanting to know how Purdue knew the 
*friend* was a woman. Hell, the last time he and Dorothy Bahnsen had... met, was 
a decade ago. Sauceda still couldn't think of her without breaking out in a 
sweat, though. He'd give the ASAC credit, his instincts were good.

"Tell her to be discreet about it," Purdue was saying. "I had lunch with Skinner 
this afternoon. A clandestine little cafe in Logan Circle, *his* choice. 
Hospitalizing Mulder's out of the question. That smoking bastard has something 
up his sleeve and he's sniffing around for an excuse to bring Mulder in on an 
official evaluation. Skinner claims he doesn't know what the hell it's about, 
but I need that file. And Mulder on his feet, fast."

Sauceda shook his head. "The file, I can handle. I told her to leave it where it 
was, that way she's not responsible for it, ah, disappearing without a file 
request, you know? The only record on it was on an old card file, back before 
the Bureau went so damned hi-tech. Anyway, I can pick it up in the morning." 
Purdue nodded. "Tell you what," Sauceda rubbed at an ache in his shoulder, "we 
get the kid set up in the hotel tonight and I'll go home for a few hours. You 
get someone else to take a shift--" He glanced up, the words freezing on his 
lips as Purdue grimaced. "What?"

"We've-- got a security problem--"

"Security problem." Sauceda repeated the words blankly.

Purdue waved his hands, helpless. "Hotel's closing out a vacuum cleaner 
salesman's convention--"

"And you're afraid of what? Some clown trying to sell Marty an Electrovac?"

"There's just too much going on there, Sauceda," Purdue's own strain was evident 
in his deliberate patience. "I'm not moving him until I have a few more empty 
rooms on our floor. Most of the reps will be gone by tomorrow anyway. We'll 
wait, move him about one in the afternoon. I've got a few more details to cover 
tonight, then I'll start running shift with you."

Sauceda scrubbed at his face. "Hell, Reg, there's no sense in that. You've got a 
damned department to run. I'll go home tomorrow night and--"

"No. You'll go home tonight. Gregg and Mitch will watch the kid. They know him 
well enough. Mitch's mom's diabetic so he's used to needles. I want you to 
explain the Valium to him. Maybe load up some Thorazine, just in case. Tell him 
what to watch for."

Sauceda was staring at him like he was sporting that secondary head again. "So, 
you think it's just that easy, huh?"

Purdue sighed. "No, Hot Sauce, I don't think it's just that easy. I think you 
need a rest and right now, dammit, this is the best we can do. You think he's 
going to be a problem the boys can't handle, put him down before you leave."

Sauceda's answer was cut short by the whispered movement behind him. Mulder, 
clad in jeans and a T-shirt, limped slightly as he entered the dining room. He 
paused in the doorway, gaze drifting past Sauceda to the ASAC. He met Purdue's 
eyes defensively, hugging himself against the ASAC's quiet regard.

"Agent Mulder," Purdue acknowledged softly. It was more a question than a 
greeting. Mulder didn't answer it.

Sauceda frowned, staring at the leg Mulder was favoring. "Whatsamatta, Marty? 
You bump into something?"

Mulder searched Sauceda's face coldly, but didn't turn his head, keeping Purdue 
in peripheral focus. "Yeah," he agreed distantly. "I bumped into something."

"Want me to look at it--"

"I put a Band-Aid on it. I'm fine."

"Really?" Sauceda was watching the young man's eyes.

"Really." Mulder stood like he expected to be tackled. Purdue frowned, watching 
the exchange. Sauceda ran his tongue over his bottom lip, trying to track the 
lie he was certain of. Mulder's stance was intractable, however; he would 
tolerate no dispute. The pathologist decided that discretion was perhaps the 
better part of confrontation, for the moment.

Mulder hesitated, taking one long look at the men who had invaded his home 
before turning for the couch and his remote control. He managed not to limp at 
all now, Sauceda noted, suddenly completely confused.

Purdue studied Sauceda's face. The older man chewed his cheek a minute, watching 
Mulder, before glancing back to the ASAC. 

"You're right, Reg. I need a break. I'm starting to see symptoms behind every 
breath that boy takes."

Purdue kept his voice low below the blare of the TV. "What symptoms? What's 
going on now?"

Sauceda stood, and Purdue followed him through to the bedroom, quick-stepping 
past Mulder's fierce focus on the television screen. 

"I was worried," Sauceda admitted, sotto voce, "about that list of symptoms Baez 
nixed on his official report. You know, fascination with suicide, 
self-mutilation and such. So, anyway, I child-proofed the entire apartment 
straight off: knives, forks, glass, belts, ties, spare electrical cords. 
Everything I thought we could do without, I had Gregg lock up in the trunk of my 
car. That doesn't cover everything, of course. He could always hang himself with 
a lamp cord or something..." He sighed, scanning the bathroom for some hint of 
mischief. "I don't let him wander off anywhere by himself for more than a couple 
of minutes. Hell, I don't even trust him with safety razors. If anyone could 
turn something like that into a weapon, it'd be Marty, you know?"

Purdue nodded solemnly.

"So far," Sauceda shrugged, "he hasn't had the snap to complain. Which is not 
necessarily a *good* thing with Marty, you understand. I'm hoping it just means 
that he's not contemplating anything drastic. Hell, I'm probably being paranoid 
for no good reason, but--"

"I understand, Lenny." Purdue peered over Sauceda's shoulder into the bathroom: 
there were damp towels on the floor and one in the sink. Sauceda collected them, 
shaking them out, pausing as he noted the Band-Aid wrapper in the sink. 
Actually, there was more than one wrapper. More than several, in fact.

Sauceda frowned and leaned to examine the contents of the trash can: tissue and 
another wadded up Band-Aid. Another bit of wrapper floated in the toilet bowl. 
The bathroom was humid with shower mist, the mirror still frosted with 
condensation. Sauceda collected up the wrappers, counting out a good half dozen, 
then considered the combination of slightly damp skin and cheap adhesive. He 
tossed the wrappers into the toilet and flushed them away with a sigh. Purdue 
rose to tip-toe, watching the paper swirl in the bowl.

"Yep, seeing symptoms behind every breath he takes." Sauceda gauged the height 
of the sink cabinet and leaned to examine that, too. The lower edge was rough, 
the Formica on the corner loose and sharp as a knife-edge. Mulder could have 
easily scraped his upper thigh, just below the groin. 

"Well, hell, it's not like the kid's going to bleed to death or anything."

Purdue straightened from his own examination and considered the calm on 
Sauceda's face. "Everything okay, then?" he asked.

Sauceda nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, it's okay. Look, I'd like to put him down for the 
evening, I'd feel better about leaving if I could, but he's in son-of-a-bitch 
mode again and it's not going to go over too well." He grimaced. "I need to get 
him to eat something first, anyway. Wish me luck."

"Good luck," Purdue intoned without enthusiasm.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

But Mulder wasn't hungry. And he didn't bother to look up from the television 
when he informed Sauceda of this fact.

"I'm going home for a while, Marty."

Mulder didn't look up for that announcement either, patiently enduring Sauceda's 
heavy sigh. Purdue, Mitchell and Gregg were making soft noises at the front 
door.

"You gotta eat before I go, kid. Otherwise I ain't going. Understand?" Sauceda 
said it like it was some kind of threat and should warrant compliance. Mulder 
kept his eyes on the screen before him and didn't so much as blink.

Sauceda threatened to bring him some soup; Mulder continued his oblivious 
routine. He really saw no point in all this emphasis on eating. Hell, if he 
couldn't keep down something as useful as a Valium, then what was the point? He 
sniffed thoughtfully, rubbing at the pain behind his left eye, now a constant 
companion. Maybe he should ask for something stronger. Something injectable 
perhaps, bypassing his finicky stomach altogether. The thought was frightening, 
though. Lenny would chose the Thorazine and Thorazine robbed Mulder of, well, 
everything: all will, all reason. It was just a little too damned thorough and 
Mulder enjoyed the sensation of blissful thoughtlessness too much not to fear 
it. It's why he'd been so busy in the bathroom, locked in with his numbness and 
the penknife, carefully slicing his way back to conscious thought, using the 
pain to force himself to think. It wasn't enough, though. He wondered how deep 
he'd have to cut next time, just to find himself beneath the layers of apathy. 
Lost in such considerations, he scarcely noticed that Sauceda had trotted off, 
swearing softly.

The clinking of can, pan and can opener echoing from the kitchen brought him 
back to a semblance of numbed reality. Purdue had taken Sauceda's place, 
kneeling on the floor to put himself at Mulder's eye-level. The ASAC explained 
the situation to the profiler like Lenny hadn't just told him all this crap. He 
introduced Gregg and Mitch like Mulder'd never met them before. Like Mulder 
hadn't sat beside Mitch at the RICO lecture at the Academy, like he hadn't come 
this close to breaking Gregg's nose for that smartass remark about Mulder's 
collar wearing the same lipstick as Grace Anderson over in Handwriting Analysis. 
Even if it had been hers, it'd been none of Gregg's goddam business, as far as 
Mulder could recall.

Mulder flicked the volume control up another notch as Purdue droned. "Bride of 
Frankenstein" was coming on, for Chrissake. Didn't the man have any respect for 
the classics....

Purdue swore and relieved him of the remote. Mulder registered the sudden loss 
and instantly rewarded the ASAC with more attention than he'd apparently 
anticipated.

The ASAC rose and took an involuntary step back as Mulder swung his legs off the 
couch. Mitch and Gregg stepped forward, training evident in every muscle. Gregg 
was stone white. Sauceda paused in the process of entering the room, soup bowl 
in hand, jaw suddenly slack.

And just as suddenly, everyone froze. Even Purdue's "Easy, Agent" warning was 
forgotten on his lips as he watched Mulder slip into catatonia in mid-breath.

For seconds that felt like years, Mulder stared at Purdue without seeing, feet 
on the floor, hands braced on the edge of the couch to help him rise. Only 
Mulder didn't get up. He just sat there, lost in amazement.

He moved his chin finally, a parody of slow motion, and looked down to his left 
hand where it gripped the couch cushion. He lifted the hand cautiously, left it 
hovering in mid-air as he examined the spot where it had been. The dark leather 
gleamed from the track of his sweaty palm. And there they were: the tiny set of 
pin holes he'd felt beneath his hand as he'd struggled to rise.

No. Not pin holes.

Kitten claw holes.

He felt entire corridors shutting down in his brain. The pounding of his heart 
became the echo of impenetrable walls slamming into place, barring both entry 
and exit. This was the final betrayal, then: his mind had had quite enough of 
him and was shutting down occupancy.

His vision was still operational, however, his hearing functioning. Mulder 
registered the fact that he was still breathing, that his muscles, while 
sluggish, were managing to hold him upright. *Great. Take my sanity and leave me 
living. Son of a bitch--*

Mulder felt the dip of the couch cushion and vaguely registered a large, hulking 
shadow next to him. He flinched as the shadow moved and it immediately stopped. 
Mulder licked his lips hesitantly, still staring down at the tiny holes 
invisible to all eyes but his own.

There was a bowl moving slowly from the shadow into his line of sight. Mulder 
surprised himself by accepting it. The dish was hot, stinging his hands, and the 
burning was answered by the throb of the cuts the penknife had left on his 
thigh. Between the two pains, Mulder felt almost alive again. Well, alive enough 
at least to hear Sauceda telling him he had to eat. He *had* to. 

Well, of course he had to. Lenny told him so and Lenny didn't lie. Not much, 
anyway. Not about something like that.

Mulder complied as best he could, frowning when his hand sloshed most of the 
liquid out of the spoon. Noodles were a distant temptation, tiny bits of chicken 
a lie he couldn't swallow. Lenny had told him he had to eat and he wasn't 
eating. But he had to. There was just not enough of Mulder's mind available to 
explain why all this should be so frightening. He stared into the bowl, the 
spoon rattling against the ceramic even as he fumbled to hold it steady, and his 
vision blurred into a soup of its own.

Beside him, Sauceda's voice came soft and pained.

"Here, Marty. That's too hot to eat, isn't it? Let me get you some more."

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sauceda stood in the kitchen with the bowl of soup forgotten in his hand. He 
wiped tears with the back of his arm, blinking his eyes, trying to make them 
stop watering. He registered Purdue's footstep in the dining room behind him, 
knew instinctively the ASAC would be putting himself in a position to watch both 
ends of this partnership, seeking an area where he could help. Damned if Sauceda 
knew what to tell him now. 

The pathologist's coffee mug was on the counter. Amazing how such mundane 
objects could be so damned comforting, could rouse the mind back to rational 
action. Sauceda dumped the remains of morning coffee into the sink, and washed 
out the ring before filling it with Marty's soup. Most of the noodles remained 
in the bottom of the bowl but Sauceda was in no shape to fret about it. He 
sloshed a little water into the broth and tapped a spoon around in it. A few 
quick, deep breaths and he spun on his heel for the living room. 

Purdue watched him pass, followed him silently. Gregg and Mitch were politely 
staring out the window, unwilling sentinels in Mulder's brave new world. Marty 
had at least completed his examination of the couch cushion. Sauceda frowned; 
when he'd left the room he'd been reeling with the image of Marty so vulnerable 
and lost. Mulder was still seated where Sauceda had left him, but his eyes were 
closed in concentration, his left hand a fist, pressing hard on his thigh. There 
was nothing overt that Sauceda could identify but something in the action spoke 
of ravenous anger, a desperation dangerous in its intent. The pathologist licked 
his lips, the cup trembling suddenly in his grip. 

"Sauceda?"

Purdue's quiet voice made him turn, assuming an ease he didn't feel. Sauceda let 
his eyes rake over the ASAC and quickly away, unwilling to look him in the eye. 
He moved on to the living room but didn't dare presume to sit beside the man on 
the couch. He squatted down beside Mulder instead, his back to Purdue, leaning 
to address his partner softly.

"Marty? I brought you some more soup, kid."

Mulder's eyes snapped open with a gasp. And there it was again, that lost, 
wondering quality that Sauceda had left when he'd stumbled to the kitchen. There 
was a wild desperation to it now, however, that made the skin down Sauceda's 
back crawl. 

"Marty? You still here?"

Mulder scanned his partner's face. There wasn't a great deal of comprehension in 
his expression but he accepted the mug, holding it with both hands, staring into 
it's depths like a young Nostradamus pondering his mirror of time. 

"It's okay, Marty. I cooled it down for you." Sauceda waited, then whispered. 
"Drink, Marty."

Mulder sipped the hot liquid dutifully, then greedily. Sauceda actually smiled, 
watching him, turning to share the smile with Purdue. The ASAC had planted his 
back against the wall, like he didn't trust his legs to keep him vertical. He 
held Sauceda's glance a long moment. By the time Sauceda turned back to Mulder, 
the mug was lowered, empty. The profiler was watching him expectantly. 

Sauceda grinned at him, delighted with such progress, and leaned to blot soup 
from Mulder's upper lip; the young man's eyes narrowed, however, and Sauceda 
thought better of it. Mulder wiped the liquid away with the back of his hand, 
his focus never leaving Sauceda's face.

Sauceda took a deep breath and gently retrieved the mug, backing away before he 
asked the burning question of the evening. "You want to sleep *now*, Marty?" He 
pronounced the words carefully.

Mulder's eyes went wide with comprehension, narrowed again, his head lowering 
and Sauceda's heart sank. But Mulder nodded, a grateful glance from under dark 
lashes. Sauceda blinked at him, his own comprehension slower, unwilling to 
believe his grave good fortune.

His voice remained wary. "You want to sleep in the bed, kid?"

Mulder's eyes were wide again. A shake of the head.

"Okay," Sauceda assured. "That's okay, kid, you sleep out here if you want to." 
Purdue handed Sauceda the syringe full of tranquilizer. Sauceda received it 
without looking away from Mulder's face, waiting for explosive retaliation. 

But at the sight of the syringe, Mulder wriggled back onto the couch, not in 
fear, but passive expectancy. He lay on his side, his left hip within Sauceda's 
reach, and cradled his head against the pillow. His gaze swung from the syringe 
to Sauceda's face patiently.

Sauceda heard himself thinking *you lay down and we'll go night-night* in a 
voice he usually reserved for his grandson. He bit his tongue to keep the words 
from popping out. Mitchell and Gregg made themselves scarce as Sauceda worked 
the button on Mulder's jeans.

Sauceda delivered the drug, and quietly handed the syringe back to Purdue. Then 
he pushed Mulder's hip back against the couch. Watching the profiler's face all 
the while, Sauceda tugged Mulder's jeans down to his knees. Mulder's eyes were 
big and the profiler stopped breathing momentarily, but he did not resist. The 
pathologist examined Mulder's upper left thigh: a half dozen Band-Aids lined up 
neatly across the skin, disappearing up into the leg of Mulder's briefs. Blood 
soaked through the little pads and oozed in bright rivulets from the pressure 
Mulder's fist had applied to the wounds. Sauceda tugged at the leg of Mulder's 
black jockeys: two more Band-Aids lay hidden in the hollow of his groin but the 
injuries appeared to go no further.

Purdue laid a towel across Sauceda's shoulder and the pathologist fumbled for it 
blindly, patting at the blood. Sauceda's medical kit appeared from nowhere and 
he busied himself with gauze and antiseptics. Mulder watched the two men 
silently, completely without expression, his head pillowed on his hand. 

The wounds bandaged to his satisfaction, Sauceda patted down the pockets of 
Mulder's jeans, seeking the weapon. There was nothing.

"Where is it? Marty, where have you got it hid? Huh?" 

Sauceda stared into the eyes regarding him. A man could get lost in those 
fathomless black holes that sucked in whole worlds of horror and let nothing 
back out again. The drug had began its work and Sauceda watched in fascination 
as Mulder's eyes glazed slowly over, still unmoving, unblinking. 

"I swear, Marty, we'll tear this damned place apart till we find it. Hear?" But 
Mulder didn't hear.

Sauceda sighed, turning to tug the young man's jeans back up. He got them zipped 
and buttoned then ran his hands across Mulder's chest and back, looking for a 
razor blade, perhaps, taped to the skin. Purdue patted down his legs, producing 
the same results.

Sauceda looked away at last, up at the ASAC standing at his shoulder. Purdue's 
eyes begged assurance and his head nodded solemnly when Sauceda couldn't give 
it. Together they tucked Mulder under his worn blanket. Purdue surrendered the 
remote control and watched a minute as Mulder's thumb twitched through fifty-six 
channels of cable.

Pathologist and ASAC joined the two other agents in the kitchen. No one seemed 
particularly chatty and Sauceda handed Mitchell a pad of paper with a breakdown 
of symptoms and possible drug reactions. They waited, listening as Mitch read 
them aloud. Gregg's eyes were big by the end of the page. Mitchell shook his 
head but didn't protest. 

"Can do," he vowed hollowly.

Sauceda frowned but nodded anyway. He wriggled his finger for the man to follow 
him and wound up with the whole kitchenful following him to the bathroom. As if 
a unit, they double-stepped past the television; Mulder's glazed stare might as 
well have been radioactive. 

Sauceda's little band gathered outside the bathroom door, Mitchell front and 
center with his pad of paper.

"Got a pen, Mitch?" Sauceda asked, yanking open a cabinet drawer.

A dark hand handed Mitchell a Bic over his shoulder.

"Ah. Yes, sir," the agent assured.

"Take notes." Sauceda's voice rose and fell as he opened drawers, patted them 
down, pulled them out and turned them over, and slammed them back in place 
again. "Okay. Marty should sleep all night, probably most of the morning with 
that dose I gave him." 

"Sle-ep a-ll ni-ght," Mitchell inscribed this information on his pad of paper as 
he quoted. "Uh-huh."

Sauceda was on to the next cabinet; his voice muffled as he flipped out towels 
and linens.

"Under no circumstances," he growled, "do you clowns let him sleep on his back. 
He likes to sleep on his back but if he gets nauseated-- and he does-- he's 
liable to choke if he's on his back--"

"Keep-him-m off his baa-ck," Mitchell mimicked, scribbling dutifully.

"If he starts in on his 'I-wanna-shower' routine, tell him that as God is your 
witness, you'll drug him again. And call me. Do not call 911, unless my wife 
tells you I'm dead or something. If you have to call 911-- which you're *not* 
going to do-- tell them I gave him Thorazine--" the rest was obstructed as 
Sauceda dropped to his knees and shoved his head in the cabinet under the sink.

Gregg was watching over Mitchell's shoulder. "I don't think there's an 's' in 
Thorazine, Mitch--"

Mitchell gave him an elbow to his ribs and returned to his dictation as Sauceda 
popped back out of the cabinet, catching his breath, both hands planted against 
the floor.

"I wrote the dose and all on the pad next to the phone. If he wakes up, let him 
go to the john-- but *not* by himself, no matter who he threatens to kill-- He 
gives you any flack, make him pee in a damned cup. Then give him a Valium. A 
blue one. But just one. And call me. I can be here in ten minutes." Sauceda sat 
on the floor and frowned up at the ASAC. "I don't know what the hell he's used. 
I've even checked for razor blades taped to the plumbing. Nothing."

Purdue nodded at the toilet. "How about the tank?" 

Sauceda scrambled up. "I checked that earlier today--" He checked again, 
however, peering into the water, then running his hands down the back of the 
ceramic, then down the tile wall. He sighed as he straightened, rubbing his face 
wearily. "Nothing. Hell. I don't know. There's not much we could do with him 
now, anyway." He pointed a stern finger at the two younger men in the door. "I 
swear to God, if I come back here and find one scratch on him that I didn't know 
about beforehand, I'll castrate the both of you, understand?"

Both men nodded solemnly, shuffling as they said their "Yes, sir's," and Sauceda 
rolled his eyes at the ASAC.

Purdue shook his head. "I need you rested, Sauceda. Especially now that we know 
what we're up against." His voice softened. "We're fresh out of options here."

Sauceda regarded Mitchell and Gregg, sizing them up carefully. Mitchell was tall 
like Mulder and a good fifteen to twenty pounds heavier. And Gregg, well, Gregg 
could have been a halfback but it was clear that Gregg was about half-scared of 
Marty. Which probably meant he had pretty good sense.

"He's hell on wheels when he's angry, boys," Sauceda warned. "He'll look you 
straight in the face with a smile like an angel and lay you flat out, and not 
take a second breath in between. The kid's old man learned to swear from Patton 
himself and there's enough acid in that tongue to corrode platinum. Barring 
that, he can charm you into letting him sleep with your sisters and convince you 
he's doing them a favor. You keep him calm. You keep him quiet. And you do *not* 
under any circumstances leave him alone. Not even to take a leak. Especially to 
take a leak."

Mitchell nodded. "Can do," he assured again.

Purdue and Sauceda stared at him like he'd grown a second head.

"Jeezus, Reg," Len sighed. "Why can't I just wait and do this crap tomorrow 
night?"

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

 10:20 p.m.

 After an hour's worth of effort, Mulder finally managed to get his feral greens 
 open. His brain felt thick as cotton batting but was operational enough to 
 inform him his remote was gone and some inane sitcom was droning away on the TV 
 screen. Gregg was piled up on the floor-- Mulder could make out his blonde head 
 propped up on the other side of the coffee table-- grunting every time the 
 canned laughter notified him something was funny. 





Mulder couldn't recall inviting Gregg over. Hell, he couldn't even imagine *why* 
he would have invited him over. He felt no great shock or outrage one way or the 
other, however. He was still quite well cocooned within his Thorazine haze, his 
emotions and body both pleasantly numb. There was the dispassionate patter of 
rain against the window, the distant percussion of thunder in the unseen sky 
another floor above. Mulder listened quietly, taking comfort in the ominous 
rumble. He liked the rain; somehow it always reminded him of Samantha and days 
spent indoors playing board games or reading. Days when life was pleasant, or at 
least when unpleasantness was blissfully forgotten. Through the fog in his head, 
he felt neurons spring to life, off to analyze these thoughts, unbeckoned, 
clambering their way down the more accessible corridors of his brain. He waited, 
contentedly, confident of their return.

Mitchell passed into his line of sight and reached for a slice of still steaming 
pizza from the box on the coffee table. He stopped as he noticed Mulder blink.

"Hiya, Mulder. You hungry?"

The face was kind, but not pitying; Mulder had always liked Mitchell. He was 
that rare combination of honest investigator, blue-flamer and solid family man: 
everything, in fact, that Mulder had ever wanted to be. And knew he never could. 
Another set of neurons bumped about in the fog, seeking out theories for this 
random observation but Mulder ignored them-- he was still waiting for the first 
group to get back. He didn't respond to the proffered pizza, too involved with 
the internal exchange to reply.

He did note, at last, that Gregg, too, was all interest now, wide blue eyes 
regarding him over the coffee table. There was an awkward silence and not for 
the first time in his life, Mulder realized he was the cause. He wished he 
hadn't wakened and wondered vaguely why he had.

He managed to get out "I'm thirsty," even as he searched the Thorazine haze for 
snatches of a dream strong enough to have roused him. He'd surrendered the quest 
by the time Gregg got back from the kitchen with a glass. Mulder watched 
blearily as Mitchell poured soda from the two-liter bottle on the coffee table. 
Mitchell hesitated, with the glass half-full, continued to the three-quarter 
mark before finally offering the drink to Mulder.

"Uh-uh," Gregg intercepted the glass and popped in a straw. He nodded to the 
profiler while he held the liquid to an angle Mulder could manage.

The fizz burned on the way down but didn't manage to dispel the Thorazine cotton 
wadding in his brain. Mulder drank the liquid greedily until the fizz began to 
choke him. He stopped to cough and then drank some more.

Gregg's hands were patient but not overly gentle when he settled the profiler 
back under the blanket. Mulder realized he probably would have slapped Gregg for 
any overt show of kindness and the agent knew it. Mulder frowned at the thought 
and what it said about him. After twenty-six years, however, he had grown 
accustomed to the realization that sometimes just being himself was unsettling 
enough for most people.

Mitchell leaned back over the coffee table. "You need to take a leak or 
anything, Mulder?"

Gregg sighed wearily.

Mulder shook his head. He would have thought the caffeine in the soda would have 
given him a bit more snap but if anything, he was drowsier now. He frowned 
again, eyes automatically back to the TV screen: a bunch of people at a bar. One 
of them was wearing a postal uniform...

Mitchell's voice in the gathering haze: "Well, hell, Gregg, man's gotta take a 
leak sometime. Think something's wrong--"

"Mitch, any idiot can look at him and tell he's dehydrated. If he needs to go, 
he'll say so. There's no sense in getting him riled up over nothing. Hey, what 
kinda games has he got in that computer, anyway--"

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Thursday. May 19, 1988. 2:43 AM.

The VCR clock had rolled over to 2:43 a.m. when it finally dawned on Mulder that 
he was awake again. Numbed hands rubbed sleep from his eyes but couldn't manage 
to get at the fuzz in his head. His mouth tasted like someone had shoved more 
cotton batting in it.

After a number of efforts, the most strenuous being mental, Mulder managed to 
get relatively vertical. He sat a while longer, recovering, before his brain 
began the slow and arduous task of assessing his current situation.

Remains of pizza littered the coffee table, cold and unappetizing in the light 
of the TV. Soda in a bottle. More soda in bright disposable glasses. A well of 
comforting familiarity flooded him at the sight of the glass with the straw.

He was thirsty, he realized, a solid bit of reasoning for his conscious mind to 
latch onto.

He knew better than to trust his still unconscious fingers, though, and leaned 
precariously to the coffee table, using the straw to sip the liquid from where 
it sat.

He frowned. The soda was flat. *Well, Of course, it's flat, Fox. You've been 
asleep how many hours now?* 

The VCR clock was still in view but he didn't bother to consult it, not certain 
he could handle the math just yet. Besides, it wasn't the flat part of the soda 
that bothered him. It was that bitter edge it left in his mouth. A bitterness he 
wouldn't have tasted with the fizz...

Mulder sat back on the couch, eyes large and empty in the darkness. 

He sat in the flickering glow of the television, listening to the familiar 
sounds in the walls, the sounds of home. The chilled silence left by the passing 
rain.

He sat staring into the dining room, lit by the dual glow of the hall light 
through the transom windows and the computer screen on the desk.

He sat a long time thinking about that oppressive stillness, thinking about the 
fact that he'd surrendered his gun. Thinking about the deadly seriousness of a 
.22 slug through the heart.

Thinking that it, at least, would be quick...

He didn't remember reaching for the phone. Didn't remember dialing it. Just knew 
that somehow Sauceda's sleepy voice was suddenly on the line and that the sleepy 
was gone at the sound of Mulder's quiet "Len?"

"Marty? Hey, kid-- Hey, you okay? What-- ah, where's Gregg?"

"I dunno."

"You in the living room, kiddo?"

"Uh-huh."

"Then he's probably in the bedroom asleep. Where's--"

"Lenny?"

"Yeah, kid. Listen--"

"Remember in Wheeling. 'Member when I asked if you'd come see me if I was laid 
out and gutted on my dining room table?"

"Jeezus, Marty, don't think about that stuff right--"

"Lenny, how 'bout if it's Mitch instead?"

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX Part 19 of 27: A Trojan Horse of a Different Color.

"And to tell the truth he was by temperament more reptile than bird and could 
suffer extensive mutilation and survive." Samuel Beckett, "Malone Dies"; New 
York: Grove Press, Inc. 1956.

 Thursday, May 19, 1988. 3:40 AM. Apartment 42.

Sauceda thundered off the elevator, his weapon drawn, loafers slapping the 
floorboards like gunshots. The door to apartment 42 opened before he was halfway 
down the hall, and he came to a skittering halt, bringing his revolver to bear, 
the trigger already half depressed. Mulder stepped out, regarding him stoically, 
and Sauceda stumbled, gasping. Every muscle in his body was screaming and it 
took conscious thought to pull his finger from the trigger.

"Jeezus, Marty--"

Mulder didn't bother to answer. He just stood there, his arms loose at his 
sides. He was still in his T-shirt and jeans but had slipped on a pair of work 
boots, the laces apparently tucked somewhere in the trunk of Sauceda's car. The 
apartment behind him was an abyss, the glow of the computer monitor encircling 
his body with a deep blue halo. The light of the hall, however, made Mulder's 
eyes glow like unmitigated hell.

Sauceda heard himself swallow in the silence, and Mulder turned and walked back 
into the apartment's murky gloom. Sauceda followed cautiously, the grip of his 
revolver slick with sweat. The movement of his own shadow startled him, and he 
froze as the light behind him divulged the contents of Mulder's dining table. 
Mitch's head hung limp, upside down over the table's edge. The face was simply 
too calm, too utterly still to have ever known life. The rest of the body was a 
pulpy mess with arms and legs, and Sauceda turned away.

"Marty?"

Over the wail of sirens, he heard the rattling of keys. Mulder re-emerged from 
the shadows, shrugging into a leather jacket. Sauceda recognized the car keys 
dangling from his hand and swore, making a wild grab for them. Mulder blocked 
the move, shoulder lifting in an easy shrug, his forearm firm across Sauceda's 
chest. Sauceda continued his struggle, however, and Mulder shook his head, 
slamming the pathologist backward into the doorframe as the older man cursed 
him. Sauceda lashed out, too busy trying to keep his gun hand out of reach to be 
very effective. Mulder grunted as Sauceda's fist grazed his chin but made no 
move to strike back. 

"Lenny." 

Mulder's voice, remarkably reasonable, made Sauceda stop struggling. He searched 
the young man's face, not bothering to hide his surprise, his hope. Mulder 
endured the scrutiny calmly. He was haggard, his skin fine as porcelain beneath 
the stubble of a two-day-old beard. His pupils were tightly constricted, the 
light from the hall making his eyes too pale, clear as glass, almost completely 
devoid of color. Sauceda searched them, seeking some reassurance of sudden 
sanity. The man he sensed looking back at him was Marty, all right. Just not a 
Marty who seemed at home in his own skin quite yet. 

Mulder dropped his arm and took a step back, wavering slightly. "Look, Len. I'm 
just going downstairs to sit in my car. I'm not gonna go anywhere. I promise." 

The voice was weary, but Mulder's tone bespoke complete comprehension. Sauceda's 
jaw worked, trying to absorb what his senses were telling him. He couldn't force 
his mind to make that kind of mental leap, though. After days of madness, Mulder 
was suddenly far too rational. It just wasn't possible. Sauceda shook his head, 
holstering his weapon. "Gimme the keys, Marty."

Mulder grimaced. He slapped Sauceda's hand back. "No! Dammit, you can come with 
me if you have to. But I'm going. Understand?"

"Marty-- I don't get this at all. You're just gonna *sit* in your car? That's 
crazy--" Sauceda winced at his own declaration, damning himself for so little 
tact. "Christ, Marty, I didn't mean--"

Mulder turned away, his face clouding with bitterness. Regret battled with the 
sudden moisture in his eyes and he ducked his head abruptly. "I've just got no 
place else to go--" he choked on the words, fled through the door. 

Sauceda grabbed for him, managing to get a good handful of wrist and jacket 
sleeve as Mulder tried to shrug him off. The profiler swung around in Sauceda's 
grip but Lenny's hold was resolute, the grasp of a drowning man, clawing his way 
to a too-distant surface. To his surprise, Mulder didn't lash out. Instead, he 
seemed suddenly intent on dragging Sauceda with him across the hall. Lenny 
struggled with the wrist and the leather jacket, clawing like a man possessed, 
but couldn't slow the young man's momentum, couldn't slip free of Mulder's grip. 
In the blur of their motions, Sauceda's mind was whirling, trying to envision 
Mulder's strategy. If he were Marty, he'd use the wall, sling him into it like a 
sledge. Sauceda imagined the bone-jarring blow and moaned in anticipation. He 
refused to release his grip however, tightening his hold on Mulder's sleeve, 
preparing for the impact. 

Sauceda almost lost his grip from shock when Mulder himself slammed into the 
wall, knocking the air from his lungs with an agonized cough. 

"Jeezus Christ, Marty--"

Mulder gasped, gulping oxygen, eyes tightly closed, unperturbed by Sauceda's 
cussing and frantic pleas. He'd taken the force of the blow in his back and he 
maintained the position, spine set firmly against the wall, pressed tight like 
he planned to disappear into the paint. He planted his feet resolutely, an 
immovable force and pocketed his keys defiantly. The older man shook his head. 

Up the hall, the elevator "pinged," resolving into a low rumble as the doors 
opened. Purdue and the backup team thundered out into the hall. The ASAC caught 
sight of the two men immediately and paused, waving the team of agents past him. 
They spilled into Mulder's apartment, brandishing weapons and snapping on 
lights. Sauceda composed his features, but Purdue's focus was on Mulder, the 
young man's unyielding stance. The profiler was fragile and trembling, but he 
held his ground with the tenacity of a bull elephant, his head resolutely down. 
He didn't even bother to struggle against Sauceda's fierce grip on his wrist.

Purdue approached slowly. "What's going on, Hot Sauce?"

Mulder didn't raise his head, but his jaw tightened. Sauceda took a deep breath. 
Bewilderment lent his voice a measure of calm he didn't possess.

"He wants to sit in his car." 

Purdue considered the words, scanning Mulder critically, assessing the 
situation. Sauceda knew he'd be calculating the tension of Mulder's muscles, the 
weakened trembling of his hands, the fact that Sauceda was apparently unharmed.

"Mulder."

The profiler understood the unspoken command and pulled his head up, leaned it 
back against the wall. It seemed to take a supreme effort, but he looked the 
ASAC in the eye, refusing to blink as Purdue studied him, an unlicensed doctor 
of the soul weighing the intent of his heart. The muscle in Mulder's jaw 
twitched once, but even his breathing seemed to be tightly controlled. 

Purdue himself remained stoic. He nodded finally. "So take him to his car, 
Lenny. Just make sure it stays parked."

Mulder swallowed and squeezed his eyes shut, dropping his head again before he 
found the energy to push himself away from the wall. He surrendered the keys to 
Sauceda's outstretched hand and glanced up at Purdue once more, just the 
briefest glimpse, fathomless eyes under damp lashes. Sauceda thought that he 
might have noted a hint of gratitude before Mulder brushed past the ASAC and 
tugged Sauceda to the elevator.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

7:48 AM.

The investigative unit worked efficiently, solemnly, checking every detail with 
the thoroughness born of anger and the desire for justice-- or at least for 
vengeance. It was one of their own gutted on the table, after all. One of their 
own ripped open on the bed. And one of their own, almost as lifeless, curled up 
in the red Monte Carlo in the parking lot.

Diana Fowley scanned Mulder's cluttered desk. The computer screen was blank: the 
word processor displayed an empty page, no new file saved and nothing recovered. 
They'd found no note elsewhere, either. If this Sisyphus person had left another 
love letter, Mulder was keeping it to himself. A framed photo sat beside the 
monitor: a young boy, smug and confident, leaning against a tree. Beside him in 
the frame was a little girl with long dark pigtails and a wistful smile. Well. 
An interesting photo to find displayed in a bachelor's apartment.

Fowley had always heard that you could determine a man's character by looking at 
his home. Personally, she had her doubts. While still a rookie, she'd helped 
investigate a prostitute in Oceanside: a woman living in an abandoned church who 
collected icons and figurines of the Virgin Mary. Each item had had the 
appearance of being lovingly placed and adorned, but, in fact, they served as 
objects of ridicule, spectators to the woman's murderous fascination for 
preadolescent boys. Fowley'd since learned not to take too much at face value.

Still, Mulder's rooms were darkly masculine, filled with books and files and 
mismatched collectibles. There was a definite design, the organized chaos of one 
accustomed to discerning order in random facts. This was the domain of a man who 
lived in his head, who tracked the regions of the soul and viewed shelter simply 
as a place to lay his head when it was too full to reason any longer. The haven 
had offered too little shelter last night, however, and in the cold light of 
day, everything she touched smelled of remorse.

A solitary plant claimed a perch in the window, stubbornly competing with the 
drapes for the sunlight. Fowley decided it might have been a rubber tree once, 
before someone watered it with Agent Orange. Still, considering the status of 
the apartment's other occupants, the little rubber tree didn't look half-bad. If 
plants served as reminders of the impermanence of life, Fowley decided, then 
Mulder had obviously learned the lesson well.

She heard Purdue swearing behind her and turned. The ASAC stood at the entrance 
to the living room, deeply absorbed in a losing argument with his cell phone. He 
shook the unit, jabbed a few more buttons before placing it to his ear again. 
The results only drove him to another round of profanity. Fowley had worked only 
briefly with Purdue-- AD Kersh didn't loan her out from Domestic Terrorism very 
often-- and that had been years ago when she was still just an overly nervous 
rookie. She didn't recall Purdue being easily agitated, however. The stress of 
this particular investigation must be hitting a critical juncture. Two dead 
agents could do that to you, she supposed.

"I don't give a shit if he's on freaking Mars--" Purdue informed the phone, "You 
find Skinner and you tell him to call me. Now. I'm sick of him dodging my goddam 
phone calls." He paused, growled, "*Yes,* you can quote me," and jammed his 
finger at the number pad, dialing yet another set of digits. This effort failed 
to yield the desired results as well, apparently, and he swore again, this time 
at some unreachable individual named Baez. His tantrum halted abruptly as he 
glanced up, catching sight of Fowley.

She feigned chronic hearing loss as he disconnected the call. "Quite a case you 
have here, sir," she offered sociably. "How is Agent Mulder holding up?" 

Purdue glowered at his phone. "That's what I'd like to know. Shit." He shoved 
the instrument into his coat pocket and tried to rotate the tension from his 
shoulders. "Sauceda packed him a bag a couple of hours ago. Took him down to the 
YMCA for a shower. They should be back by now."

Fowley raised a solitary brow. "Couldn't that wait until we got him to the 
hotel?"

"Mulder said he needed a shower." Purdue answered evenly, like such things 
should be obvious. He glanced away, scanning the walls for answers. "At least 
there are no private stalls and Sauceda could keep an eye on him." He seemed to 
have said more than he'd intended and looked over at her sharply. Fowley was 
careful, however, not to react, and his sigh was a low rumble. "You got any 
*useful* theories on this one, Agent?"

She shrugged, ignoring the barb. "Seems fairly obvious on the surface. There's a 
tap on the phone. If Sisyphus had access, maybe she heard the boys ordering 
pizza, ran a drug-laced bottle of soda up and set it by the door. The delivery 
boy found the soda sitting there when he got here. He says he thought someone 
had put it down to unlock the door and just forgot it. He handed it over when 
Gregg paid for the pizza. I figure the guys thought they'd lucked in on some 
kind of weekly special." She leaned against the desk, long legs crossed at the 
ankles. "What's your take on it, sir? You think she's one of us? Someone in the 
Bureau? Or at least someone with access to wiretapping equipment and personnel 
files?" Purdue regarded her coldly, chewing his cheek, and she paused, suddenly 
wondering if she'd wound up on the wrong page. 

"Maybe she just set the soda outside and hoped they'd pick it up. Ever consider 
*that* option, Agent?"

Fowley's mouth opened but she closed it again. There was something in the ASAC's 
eyes, something she couldn't read clearly. "Well, certainly that's possible 
but--"

Purdue turned abruptly. The investigative unit was still processing the bedroom, 
but the coroner's office had returned, ready to collect their second grisly 
project of the morning. Mitchell had been carted out in his body bag a good 
twenty minutes ago. The event had been marked by a solemn assembly of the entire 
on-site unit. The body passed, venerated by absolute silence, and after a 
moment, the teams had dispersed again, soundlessly, back to their duties, 
collecting lint samples and fingerprints. The soft whir of a hand-held vacuum in 
the kitchen had sounded like sacrilege.

Purdue didn't seem to relish the idea of a second memorial, however. He waited 
for the techs to enter, then vacated the apartment like a man fleeing a fire. 
Fowley jerked to life, skittering after him. 

The ASAC tossed a notebook of orders to the officer in charge, but didn't wait 
for a response, plowing his way to the elevator. Fowley trotted to catch up, 
silently cursing his long stride. She felt ridiculous chasing after the man, but 
she'd be damned before she'd let this kind of opportunity pass her by. She had 
lobbied for admission into Violent Crimes for seven years. Patterson, ViCap's 
mystical guru, had taken an interest in her, but aside from a brief-- and 
best-forgotten-- reassignment, Fowley had been snubbed repeatedly. She'd 
continued a tenuous association with Patterson and the man had no qualms about 
using her research skills. He'd never reciprocated, however, never offered a 
recommendation, and side-stepped the issue deftly whenever she'd worked up the 
nerve to ask point blank. She'd screwed up for him once, and with Patterson that 
was all it took. Still, if Fowley could make a difference in this case, Bureau 
brass might reconsider. This, after all, was not just any assignment. This case 
had put the Bureau's brightest and hottest-burning star on the line. This was 
Fox Fucking Mulder and she'd make good if she had to screw Blevins himself to 
stay here. 

"Sir, you seem so certain the wiretap has no link to Sisyphus--," her voice 
bounced with her footfalls as she hurried but she had to offer the observation 
to Purdue's back. The ASAC didn't answer, jabbing the elevator control 
impatiently. She followed him in as the doors slipped open. "Sir? May I ask 
why?" 

Purdue still refused to respond, poking at the desired button then cramming his 
hands in his pockets. He rocked on his heels, eyes on the ceiling. Fowley 
couldn't decide if he hated confined places, or if he was just simply that eager 
to be free of her. 

"Sir. Have you assigned anyone to that angle yet? If not--"

"Yeah. Sure. Like it's going to do me some freaking good." Purdue didn't 
volunteer anything further, slamming his fist against the doors as if he could 
make them open any faster. They shuddered obediently after several long seconds, 
freeing them, and Purdue bolted out of the building. Fowley double-stepped after 
him as they fled across the parking lot. 

Mulder's Monte Carlo was back, parked in a far corner of the lot, radio playing 
softly. Sauceda was in the driver's seat, his window down as he chewed on the 
side of his thumb, eyes vacant. He looked about eighty. A smile of relief 
flooded his face as he noted Purdue's approach. He opened the door and stepped 
out, pausing to squint at Fowley. He didn't speak.

Purdue bent at the waist, peering in the door at the figure slumped in the back 
seat. Fowley stood behind him, flustered from her haste and her inability to 
control her rising anger. Sauceda moved aside and Purdue pushed the driver's 
seat forward, prepared to crawl into the back seat of the two-door.

"*Sir.*" Fowley had had enough and didn't bother concealing the fact in her 
tone. Her temper would be her undoing some day, but enough, dammit, was enough. 
The man wasn't *her* ASAC, after all. Not yet, anyway.

Purdue turned and did her the courtesy of looking her in the eye.

"If I may respectfully point out, sir, you called *me* in on this case."

Purdue looked her over, shoulder-length hair disarrayed by the wind, cheeks 
flushed with anger and some measure of embarrassment. "So I did, Agent. So get 
in the damned car."

He slipped behind the driver's seat quietly, and motioned for Sauceda to pull 
the door to without shutting it. Sauceda obeyed, resuming his place behind the 
wheel and turning to watch the two men in the back seat. Fowley was left on the 
blacktop, her hands on her hips. Well, hell-- She circled the car and availed 
herself of the front passenger seat.

Sauceda's eyes narrowed at the intrusion, and he looked like a man at a tennis 
match, glancing from Fowley, to Purdue and back again, looking for some kind of 
clue. The ASAC paid no heed, busy assessing the man slumped in the seat beside 
him. Fowley turned to do the same and her breath caught in her throat.

Fowley had never met Mulder. She'd *seen* him, of course; there wasn't an agent 
in the Bureau that hadn't offered his right arm for a peek into Patterson's 
bullpen, just to get a glimpse of the golden boy that had set ViCap all abuzz. 
Fowley had made the pilgrimage herself several times, casting hungry eyes after 
the GQ suit, that confident I-don't-give-a-shit stride as she'd tracked the man 
through the halls of Quantico. Mulder turned heads both professionally and 
personally. She'd glanced back herself more than once, when she thought no one 
would notice. But this-- 

"Jesus H. Christ," she hissed, swallowing back the words as Purdue glanced at 
her sharply. "I'm sorry, sir. I know you said he'd been ill, but-- I'm sorry." 
She turned away, looking out the windshield, waiting for the flush to leave her 
cheeks. She couldn't shake the image of the man seated behind her however: the 
thin body curled in restless sleep, the face in profile, unshaven, the dark 
stubble a stark contrast to the pallor of the skin. Long black lashes shadowed 
deep circles beneath the eyes. His hands, palms up on his thighs, trembled 
spasmodically, his breathing a series of weary sighs. 

There was the whisper of leather as Purdue shifted uncomfortably. "You give him 
another dose, Sauceda?"

The pathologist shook his head stubbornly. "I offered but he said he didn't want 
anything. He said he needed to get his head clear." He glanced over at Fowley, 
then away again, lowering his voice like he was divulging some guilty secret. "I 
think the shower tired him out." He glanced over at her again, looking her up 
and down closely enough to make her check the length of her skirt. She curled 
her legs up daintily, turning to get a better view of the back seat. 

Sauceda nodded at her, reluctant but respectful. "He's not been eating," he 
explained. "Just hasn't been able to keep anything down." He glanced back at 
Purdue. "If he doesn't make a turn around pretty quick, I'm going to start him 
on Compazine. It'll knock him flat on his butt, though." He grimaced. "And it 
makes him dream more vividly."

"Hell," Purdue sighed the word, letting his own head slump against the window. 

"So," Fowley whispered, "do you think that's what he's doing now? Dreaming up 
more facts on the killer?"

Both men looked at her like she'd turned into some ranting hydra. "I'm sorry, 
sir. I thought you'd said that he--"

"He's asleep," Purdue growled. "Just asleep. Period. Until he tells us 
otherwise. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

Mulder stirred, pausing mid-breath. His leg jerked involuntarily and he moaned. 
ASAC and agents alike held their collective breaths as Mulder slipped back into 
fitful sleep with the barest flutter of his lashes.

Purdue slapped Sauceda on the arm. "How about it?" he hissed. "Is he dreaming? 
Can you tell?" 

Sauceda squinted. "Hell, I don't know. I don't see any REM activity, do you?"

Purdue leaned in closely, then shook his head. He collapsed back in the seat 
like he was his own heaviest burden. "Well. We get an analysis on the drug she 
put in the soda, maybe we can trace it--"

"I don't get it." Fowley kept her voice down but didn't bother hiding her 
exasperation. "Why am I the only person that seems to be surprised that there's 
a tap on Agent Mulder's phone? And a very *professionally* installed tap by the 
look of it. This is clearly a matter for investigation. OPR has been notified, 
correct?"

Sauceda ducked his head, laying his forehead on his arm, leaving Purdue to 
answer. The ASAC's whisper was cool, a dispassionate tone not reflected in his 
enraged glance.

"Mulder's been surveilled since his admission into Quantico. Maybe even before. 
No one knows for sure. No one has taken responsibility for it and no one has 
been investigated. OPR has been notified repeatedly with the same results. 
Nothing. They deny all knowledge of the situation. Every request for an official 
investigation has been ignored. Patterson filed four times on it himself and I 
co-signed three of them. There's no record the requests were even made."

Fowley's brows crawled up to her hairline. Her mouth worked silently for a 
moment before she thought to close it. Purdue's expression was absolutely 
impassive. 

"Just to let you see," he hissed, "what you're getting yourself into."

That statement brought Sauceda's head up. He stared at Purdue, open mouthed, 
then turned the same attention to Fowley, his eyes narrowing to hard slits. He 
looked her up and down again and she tugged her skirt down self-consciously.

"As I was saying," Purdue's tone brooked no further interruption. "We get an 
analysis on the drug, maybe we can trace it to a pharmacy somewhere--"

"It's Thorazine."

Three sets of eyes jerked around at the sound of Mulder's voice. The profiler 
sat up slowly, rotating his chin to ease the tension in his neck. His efforts 
seemed to tire him, however, and he rested his head against the window, scanning 
the faces around him but meeting no one's glance. His eyes were puffy and 
bloodshot, but his focus seemed clear enough. He swallowed convulsively a moment 
before he spoke and Fowley wondered if he were thirsty.

"I drank some of the soda last night," he explained, pronouncing his words 
carefully like he was unsure of them. His voice was raspy and raw but calm. "I 
didn't taste the drug for the fizz. Drank some more when I came to."

"You sure, Marty? You sure it's Thorazine?"

Mulder tried unsuccessfully to work his face into smile. "I'm a connoisseur. 
Remember?" He wiped sweat from his neck, peering at Sauceda, his vision still 
bleary. "You do what I told you?" 

Sauceda frowned. "You mean all that mess about getting Imelda to a safe house? 
Well, hell, no."

"Christ, Len--" Mulder stared at his partner, struggling to get upright in his 
seat. Purdue laid a steadying hand on the profiler's arm and he ignored it. "You 
didn't even listen--"

"Listen, hell. You weren't making any kind of sense, Marty. Starting a sentence. 
Never finishing it. Jumping though ideas like I could read your mind or 
something--"

"She got into my room for the poems. You don't you think she could get into 
yours for the drugs? Dammit, Len, what else do you cart around with you in your 
suitcase? Pictures of your family? A phone book with addresses, maybe?"

Sauceda's mouth worked a minute before the words would come. "You little shit!" 
He lurched to life, digging out his cell phone. "You could have told me this 
three days ago--" He jerked the door open and tumbled out, frantically punching 
buttons on the cell.

Mulder bit his lip and noted Purdue beside him. "I-- I didn't put it all 
together straight off. I should have and I didn't--"

"Don't go there, Mulder. You're not the only one working this case. It should 
have been the first thing on my list. It's my responsibility."

"No! I should've--"

"No. *We* should've. *We* didn't. And you've had a hell of a lot on your mind, 
in case you haven't noticed." Purdue lowered his voice and ran a hand through 
his hair. "Let it go, Mulder. We don't have time for regrets just now." Purdue's 
gaze was as calm and professional as his tone, but he held it too intently, like 
Mulder's slightest action could reveal the secrets of life.

Mulder turned away, glancing down, and noted his hands trembling on his lap. He 
shoved them to either side of his chest, crossing his arms, fingers tucked out 
of sight. "So," he quipped hollowly, "if I confess to all this you think they'll 
lock me away some place safe?"

"She sashays into your apartment and kills two men and a damned kitten," the 
ASAC's voice was an accusation. Outside the window, Sauceda was tapping more 
buttons, his face not so frantic now, but determined. Purdue laid his hand on 
driver's seat's headrest, knuckles white as his grip tightened. "She's killed 
five people since she discovered you, Mulder. Everyone but her primary target. 
Why didn't she just kill you?"

Mulder looked away out the window, his face hard. His eyes had too much water in 
them suddenly. "'Cause she's cruel." His answer was bitter but he seemed to find 
the control he'd been looking for and turned back to Purdue. "She and I 
understand the same things." Purdue waited. Mulder closed his eyes against that 
unrelenting stare. "Death is the easy part," he explained simply. "It's living 
that's so damned hard."

"Is that why I'm having to treat you like a walking suicide?"

There was an uncomfortable silence and Purdue turned away from the man beside 
him, from the trembling shoulders and the tightly set jaw. He found nothing out 
the window to ease his mind, however and he turned back, his gaze rock hard as 
he leveled it on the young agent. "Why would she want to make you suffer, 
Mulder? What the *hell* is her point?" His voice was so hard Fowley flinched 
with the words.

Mulder considered for a long moment. He loosened his arms, allowing his hands to 
fall to his sides. They shook when he relaxed them, which wasn't often, but he 
seemed actually to draw strength from Purdue's rage; Fowley's eyes widened as 
she considered the fact, wondered if that was the rationale behind Purdue's 
hostility. 

Mulder answered at last, keeping his tone neutral; his voice was steadier now. 
"She's suffered. She wants to share the experience with someone who comprehends 
it." He shifted away from Purdue's scrutiny, his fists clenched beside him. 
"Maybe, she's screwing me over for the psychological advantage." His own sigh 
shook him. "It's what I should be doing to her. Where the hell was my poem, 
anyway? Or did she leave two of them? One for each--" He couldn't seem to 
complete the sentence and slumped down into the seat, letting his head fall back 
against the upholstery.

The position brought his eyes up and Mulder finally seemed to realize that he 
had a brunette curled up in his front seat. She returned his regard with her own 
open appraisal. A relatively attractive woman, Fowley was accustomed to a 
certain level of reaction from a man, even when the male in question was merely 
a colleague. Mulder, however, froze beneath her gaze, the startled reflex of a 
deer caught in the headlights of a semi. For a moment, she thought he was 
seeking something in her face, recognizing someone he couldn't quite place. The 
intensity of his examination made her blush. His response was to pale, becoming 
suddenly so ashen she thought he would faint. He gasped instead, fumbling his 
arms across his chest once more, shuffling back away from her, pushing into the 
upholstery, fleeing with nowhere to go. He never broke his gaze, however. 

Fowley was reminded of one of those tragic cats in the zoo, the ones that paced 
their cages. Sitting stock still, Mulder was roaming yet, side to side to side 
to side seeking that one point of weakness, that one weak link he could worry 
until it released him. The eyes were too bright and artificially calm-- surely, 
Sauceda had lied about the drugs. Fowley was, however, certain of one thing: 
this wasn't Mulder. This was something from "Zombies of the Stratosphere," a 
leftover Patterson had tossed Purdue. 

Purdue needed to get his money back.

She nodded by way of salute. Mulder's response was to look away, staring out the 
window without really focusing, blinking rapidly. 

Purdue's focus was dancing between the two of them, Mulder to Fowley, Fowley to 
Mulder, back. She could sense some mammoth gears turning behind those 
intelligent eyes. 

"We get anything on Mulder's personnel records, Fowley?" he asked quietly.

She shook her head, licking her lips to recover herself. "The only record of 
access is from Personnel Services."

 Purdue frowned. "I had Personnel call--," he glanced at Mulder, glanced away as 
 Mulder turned and raised eyebrows at him.

 "Oh, this is just great," the profiler quipped, "so now you think we got a 
 serial in Personnel Services. Shit."

 Fowley snorted. "You think we got someone that inventive over there?"





Mulder turned back to her, surprised. A slow smile spread across his face but it 
didn't reach his eyes. "Not likely." The smile disappeared as he watched her and 
she was blushing again, unaccountably. "Who are you?" he demanded slowly.

Purdue moved to make introductions. Fowley beat him to it, offering her hand to 
the profiler. Mulder didn't accept it, keeping his arms across his chest, 
holding himself together.

"Diana Fowley?" He seemed to be absorbing the name. "I wrote a couple of 
profiles once based on some of your field work. That spree killing in 
Westchester." He blinked, benign as a cobra. "The one the DA sent you packing on 
after you came up with that asinine astral projection theory."

"I've heard of your work, too," she answered neutrally. "They say you catch 
serials from visions. That true?"

Purdue was watching them closely. Mulder's eyes turned a deeper shade of green, 
the soul roaming, roaming-- "I've been told," his tone was that of a challenge, 
"that I can catch them because I'm as twisted as they are. You think that's 
true?"

She answered gravely, "I wouldn't know, Mr. Mulder."

"Do yourself a favor," his glance at Purdue was volatile and brought the ASAC to 
attention. "Keep it that way."

Fowley wasn't to be outdone, however, not with Purdue near at hand and paying 
attention. "I've also heard you don't like being called Fox, Fox."

Mulder looked like he was already losing interest in the game. He growled, 
embitter and tired, "You may have also heard I tend to get people killed."

She shrugged. "That's one of the charms of working Violent Crimes, Mr. Mulder. 
You get to meet so many violent criminals." She let her gaze flick him up and 
down. "Look, *I'm* no rookie, sir. I've been in this outfit seven years now. 
I've had my share of bad calls but I've been advanced and commended with the 
best of them. I'm reliable and I make damned certain that I pull my own weight. 
Any time you don't think so, you're free to report me."

Mulder's eyes were suddenly all wisdom. Fowley could see the wheels turning in 
that formidable brain, Mulder putting two and three together and finding the 
square root of six. She tried to mask the surge of adrenaline, biting her lip to 
keep the triumph off her face. She *could* do this. She could pull this off. 
Spooky Mulder-- Patterson's Second Coming-- was now dawning on *her* career 
horizon. She didn't let it bother her that he seemed less than impressed with 
the realization. He'd get used to the idea once he realized how valuable she 
could be, how much she could bring to his work. Purdue might have warned her, 
however. Might have warned *him.* It was suddenly glaringly obvious-- 
unthinkable, but obvious-- that no one had bothered to tell Mulder that his 
partner was bailing on him. Now he was expected to deal with betrayal on top of 
everything else. The sons of bitches. No one had even bothered to tell him--

Sauceda slipped back into the front seat beside her, sighing gratefully. 

"How we doing, Lenny?" Purdue asked. "Everyone accounted for?"

"Yeah. Everything's okay. I'm rounding up Imelda, my daughter and her family. 
Dispatch is sending out a couple of agents. They should be in Memphis tonight." 
He licked his lips, regarding Mulder regretfully. "I'm sorry, Marty. It dawned 
on me-- hell, I had *your* number in that book, too. You know? *Your* address." 
Mulder didn't respond, studying the floorboard, scarcely breathing. Sauceda 
shook his head, making his confession to Purdue, now. "She never had to access 
Mulder's files. I handed him to her all by myself. I told you, didn't I? I told 
you I was too damned old, too damned stupid for this shit--"

"Lenny." The ASAC shifted in his seat carefully, a casual gesture, or an overly 
tired one. "Agent Mulder, Sauceda had asked me to begin making some 
arrangements--"

"No." Mulder's voice was low and vicious. Sauceda squeezed his eyes shut, 
blinking them open again as he took a shuddering breath.

"Marty--"

Mulder ignored him, intent on the ASAC. "You're not doing this." 

Purdue didn't bother to look confused. He didn't bother to answer, either, 
waiting for Mulder to make his case.

"Damn you," the profiler growled. "I'm not doing this--" Mulder leaned forward 
over Fowley's shoulder, jerking the door handle. Purdue grabbed for him but 
Mulder shook him off, slender body slipping free of the back seat and stepping 
out into the sun. He'd stumbled several feet across the parking lot before 
Purdue managed to get Sauceda out of his way and climb out his side of the 
two-door.

"Agent Mulder!"

But Mulder wasn't fleeing, just seeking room to maneuver. He spun to meet 
Purdue's approach, body trembling with rage and fatigue. Sauceda was just a few 
paces behind Purdue's back and Fowley hovered near the car, waiting for some 
indication that she was needed.

"I'm not doing this," Mulder repeated. "Goddammit, you *know* what she does to 
women. What she did to Kay." He waved an arm at Fowley. "You're just giving her 
another target!"

Purdue's brows gathered. "How the hell do you know what she did to Kay? If 
Sauceda showed you that goddam file--"

Mulder's eyes were cold and feral. "Maybe," he hissed, "you boys shouldn't go 
jumping to conclusions about what it is I hemorrhage for."

Sauceda looked like he might faint. Even Purdue gasped, a landed fish gulping 
air. Fowley had heard about the so-called monkey blood and her heart was 
pounding.

Mulder stepped sideways toward her, keeping his focus leveled on Purdue. "How 
about it, Fowley?" he demanded. "You've seen the file, haven't you? Sure you 
have. Everyone gets a copy but me. Right?"

Fowley desperately wanted to glance over at Purdue, find some clue for the 
situation in the ASAC's face. Mulder was close enough to backhand her, however. 
Close enough that she could feel the rage pouring off him with his sweat. Even 
in his weakened condition, she knew Mulder's reputation well enough to 
understand the damage he could do. Besides, to look away would be an admission 
of fear, of uncertainty. Something in her told him he deserved better.

"Yes," she said calmly. "I've seen the file."

"And?"

"I've seen worse," she lied.

"What'd Purdue tell you about me?" 

*Jeezus but his eyes were vicious--* Her voice was smaller than she cared for. 
"He told me that half of what I've heard about you isn't true."

"He lied," Mulder hissed, nodding his chin at the two men waiting him out. "He 
tell you I've already run one partner off and run another into the ground?"

Sauceda shifted where he stood but didn't speak. Fowley didn't answer either. 
Mulder took a step back, away from her, still tightly focused on the ASAC.

"What's she supposed to do that someone else can't, Purdue? You think a woman's 
going to settle me down?"

Purdue bit his lip and refused an answer.

"You son of a bitch." 

Mulder's tone was savage. Fowley shivered but she was the closest one to him, 
the only one he wasn't directly angry at. If she could diffuse the situation--

"Maybe," she quipped, "he just thinks you won't take a swing at me, Fox. Like 
you did Lamana."

"Shit," Purdue answered absently, licking his lips, studying Mulder. "I took a 
swing at Lamana once myself."

"So have I," Fowley took a tentative step toward the profiler, watching Mulder's 
eyes, making certain they were still on Purdue. "But that's beside the point, 
isn't it? I think Agent Mulder deserves an answer."

Purdue paused, taking in the sight of Fowley, thin boned and elegant, her head 
almost touching Mulder's shoulder, she was so close. Mulder was watching her 
too, scarcely breathing. The profiler stepped back warily and she swallowed 
hard. 

"Why do you want me here?" she repeated, her voice light, trying to provide a 
gentling force on the young agent just three feet away.

Purdue set his jaw, playing along, biding his time. "You're strong," he 
conceded, "you're discreet. You've got a strong stomach." He glanced back at 
Mulder, still addressing her. "And you usually give as good as you get." 

Mulder glared at him. It was a ravenous, haunted expression, like one of those 
big cats in a little cage-- 

The ASAC turned to Fowley. "He has visions--"

"Shit!" Mulder exploded behind her and Fowley recoiled in spite of herself. 
Mulder's arms were back across his chest again. He looked like he was in pain 
this time, though. He swayed and Fowley reached out, steadying him. He flinched 
from the contact. 

"He has visions," Purdue repeated breathlessly. He'd taken several steps 
forward, closing a small bit of the distance between himself and the profiler. 
His focus was completely on Mulder. "He has visions, Fowley, and dreams that 
don't just come true, they're already true when he dreams them. And they're 
straight out of hell." Mulder finally looked up. "They're straight out of hell," 
Purdue insisted, "and that's just where he'll take you when he wakes up. He'll 
haul you fifty miles to find a body. And three days later," Purdue was almost 
spitting the words, "he'll sit there and tell you it was just something his 
friggin' subconscious was working on."

Mulder's motions in the next moment were little more than a blur. One arm 
grabbed Fowley from behind, cradling her waist roughly as he jerked her against 
him. She gasped as his free hand groped beneath her jacket. There was the hiss 
of metal sliding on leather, and as the pistol cleared her holster, Fowley felt 
the hair stand up on the back of her neck. Just as quickly has he'd claimed her, 
Mulder shoved her away, his hand on her back like flame, searing clean through 
her jacket, her blouse. Purdue caught her as she stumbled, pulling her behind 
him. Sauceda kept his own hands in plain sight, arms half-raised, a conductor 
who'd forgotten his baton and was suddenly uncertain of protocol.

"Goddam you--" Mulder hissed. He stepped forward, the weapon trained on Purdue, 
knuckles white around the pistol grip. He held it right-handed, his left arm 
cradled against his chest as though paralyzed or just too numb to trust anymore. 
He trembled convulsively but the gun was remarkably steady, aimed straight at 
the ASAC's chest. "I'm not doing this, Purdue. I'm not doing this with her. You 
get that much straight right now."

"Marty--" 

"I'll do it alone," Mulder vowed. "But I'll be damned if I do it with her. Do 
you understand? I'll fucking end it. Right here, right now."

Purdue's voice was a haven of calm. "Put the weapon down, Mulder. We'll talk it 
out--"

"I *won't* put it down and we'll still talk it out," Mulder mimicked. "I can't 
take this, don't you understand? I don't need anyone else dying! It's over, 
Reg--"

"Mulder. Listen to me. This just temporary. Sauceda's request. I just need 
someone to assist you. Someone to help me understand all this." He swallowed, 
maintaining his poise before that murderous gaze. "Diana has some experience in 
psychology and the paranormal. She's studied the kinds of things you're 
experiencing, precognitive dreaming, spontaneous bleeding--" Mulder was staring 
at him. Not hearing, just staring. Purdue took one step forward, motions easy, 
non-threatening. "Everything's fine, son. Just put the gun down."

Mulder shook his head, hefting the weapon, flexing his hand for a better hold. 
"Mitch was just helping, too." His face pinched with misery. "And Gregg. They're 
dead, goddammit!"

Purdue was inching forward carefully, never taking more than half a step at a 
time, steadily holding Mulder's gaze. "What are you going to do, son? You said 
it yourself. You don't need anyone else dying. So what are you doing with the 
gun? Just think about it, Mulder. Think about what you're doing."

Mulder blinked rapidly, watching Purdue's creeping advance. He took a step back, 
but only one and even that motion seemed to require more strength than he 
possessed. His knees tried to buckle in mid-step and he faltered. Purdue stepped 
forward, ready to assume the advantage but Mulder brought the weapon's front 
sight higher, trained on Purdue's head, now.

Purdue didn't halt, simply nodded, still maintaining his slow steady pace. "Are 
you going to kill me, Mulder?" he asked quietly, "Is that what you want?"

Mulder shook his head again, all the grief in the world constrained into one 
man. "Ultimately," he confessed, "she has only one target."

Purdue stopped. The muzzle of the semi-automatic trembled just inches from his 
forehead. Purdue's voice, his face, the stance of his body-- nothing betrayed 
the ASAC's studied calm. "Is that the plan, then?" he asked softly. "You finish 
the job for her?" He watched the muscle in Mulder's jaw work. "And then what? 
You kill yourself, Mulder, she'll just find another target. You have to see 
that, son. You know this woman. Is that what you want? All these people dead for 
nothing?" He straightened, took a deep breath. "I would have thought that *Kay,* 
at least, deserved better."

It was a cruel, calculated blow and it hit its target full in the chest. Mulder 
staggered under the words, the briefest conflict in his concentration and Purdue 
was on him, quick as a heartbeat. The ASAC grabbed for the hand that held the 
pistol, aiming the weapon into the air as it discharged. Mulder refused 
surrender, however, fueled by desperation. He twisted, slamming into the ASAC's 
gut with his shoulder, driving it into Purdue's left rib cage with the force of 
a sledge. Purdue bent double from the blow, but used the momentum of Mulder's 
maneuver to pull the agent forward, Mulder's back against his chest. Mulder 
stumbled, falling against him, and Purdue aimed a sucker punch for the young 
man's kidney. Fowley's Sig hit asphalt as Mulder staggered. He didn't fall, 
however, his left hand reaching up and back, grabbing Purdue by the scruff of 
the neck and he twisted yet again, finally facing the man, shoving him backward.

Purdue only barely managed not to go down. He skittered back, trying to regain 
his balance. Mulder pursued him, the deliberated steps of a man with unfinished 
business. Sauceda circled around behind him, but the fight had moved the two men 
into the midst of several parked cars and the pathologist paced too wide an arc 
to be a threat. Fowley circled the opposite direction, seeking to retrieve her 
weapon. Mulder ignored them both. Purdue had no such luck, however, and no such 
fear. He regained his footing, steadying himself against an aging Buick, then 
bounded forward suddenly to take a punishing swing at his profiler's jaw. 

Mulder dodged it with astonishing ease, instead catching the fist with both 
hands, twisting Purdue's arm so hard Fowley swore she heard bone snap. Mulder 
held back the coup de grace however, pushing Purdue's too stiff arm and the ASAC 
with it, driving Purdue back against the automobile. 

Purdue laid himself hard against the hood, using the smooth surface to slide 
along the side of the vehicle, slowing Mulder's momentum even as the younger man 
freed one hand to take his next swing. Purdue rolled his upper body, suddenly, 
letting his knees buckle down. Mulder's left fist connected with the glass of 
the driver's door and it cracked with the explosion of a gunshot, spider-like 
veins splintering through the window. Fowley gasped at the sound, racing to the 
near side of the vehicle. Purdue, however, hadn't pulled his own weapon and she 
hesitated, pistol at her side, uncertain of the plan. Threatening to shoot a man 
who was already suicidal didn't seem too intelligent somehow. Meanwhile, Mulder 
hadn't even changed expression, too far gone to even register his own pain. 

Purdue launched himself from his crouched position against the fender and lunged 
again, wrapping his arms around Mulder's hips. The profiler, already unbalanced, 
flailed wildly at Purdue's back as the ASAC propelled him into the side of a 
nearby van. Mulder's spine and the back of his head hit glass and metal in rapid 
succession. There were two equally sickening thuds and he dropped to the ground, 
stunned.

Purdue was taking no chances and made certain Mulder stayed down, dragging the 
profiler flat on his back down onto the asphalt. Mulder, dazed and bleeding, 
still struggled, swearing frantically. Purdue held him fast, straddling him, one 
hand holding his right wrist tight against the pavement, the other trying to 
capture the bloody fist Mulder was pounding him with. Sauceda managed to do what 
Purdue could not, catching Mulder's left arm as he swung and pinning it down as 
well.

ASAC and pathologist considered one another a moment, both of them gasping. 
Mulder swore at them, ranting-- "You can't do this to me. You can't make me do 
this--" Sauceda shook his head. Mulder howled his frustration, kicking against 
the pavement and managing to drag himself and Purdue several inches in his 
effort to break free. Purdue held tight, but refused to fight any longer. He 
looked like he wanted to grieve, just taking it all in.

"Goddam it, Hot Sauce, give him the Thorazine--"

"But--"

"Do it!" Sauceda obeyed, waiting only for Purdue to shift his grip and take 
control of Mulder's right hand as Sauceda released it. The pathologist ran for 
the car and Fowley moved in to help Purdue but the ASAC shook his head at her. 
She stared down into hellishly green eyes and found no hint of recognition in 
Mulder's face, no whisper of human reasoning. No breath of surrender.

"Oh, Mulder," the ASAC rasped, his breathing as labored as the agent's beneath 
him. "God forgive us for what we've done to you." 

Sauceda was back, brushing Fowley aside as he found a spot for his bag and 
rummaged through it. He spent another few precious seconds trying to find a 
suitable location for his needle. 

Purdue growled, "Jeezus, Sauceda, do I have to do it myself? Move it!"

Sauceda jerked into motion, settling on Mulder's right arm, and shoved the 
needle through the shirt sleeve. Mulder's too tense muscles fought the syringe 
and Sauceda gasped at the effort it took to drive the needle in. He winced at 
the pain he was inflicting, and Fowley found herself doing the same, knowing 
Mulder was unable to do it for himself.

"NO!" Mulder gasped. "Nonononono! I'll be good, God-- I'll be good, don't do it, 
don'tdoitdon'tdoitdon't--"

"Sauceda," Purdue gasped as Sauceda tried to push in the plunger. "Stop."

"What the--"

The ASAC shook his head. "Don't do it. It's okay. Just-- leave him be a minute."

Sauceda's jaw worked but Mulder was quite still suddenly. The young man's eyes 
were wide, watching the ASAC, not even daring to breathe. There were too many 
emotions on his face and Fowley lost herself, trying to track them all.

Sauceda obeyed finally, pulling the syringe away without delivering the drug. He 
didn't bother to recap the needle immediately, settling back on his haunches as 
Purdue nodded down at the profiler. 

"How about it, Agent?" Purdue asked levelly. "Can you hold it together now?"

Mulder seemed to take another minute to register the question. He nodded but 
offered no other explanation for himself.

"You okay?" Purdue asked reasonably, as dispassionate as if he were asking over 
the health of a distant aunt. Mulder found the strength to nod again, but Purdue 
waited another minute before releasing the profiler's left hand. Mulder didn't 
move, and Purdue released the other wrist, straightening. Another few seconds 
without a response and the ASAC struggled to his feet, grunting as he tugged on 
Mulder's limp weight. 

Sauceda pitched in to help and between the two of them, they managed to get the 
profiler vertical. Mulder moaned several times during the process but they 
ignored him dutifully. Once his legs seemed steady enough, Mulder pushed them 
away. His actions were entirely without malice, however, and Fowley noted that 
the two men seemed to accept this as a kind of psychological defense rather than 
an overt act of aggression. 

Mulder leaned against the van that had felled him, and then doubled over, his 
hands on his knees, gasping. Drops of sweat glistened in his hair, burning gold 
in the sunlight, and Fowley, standing three feet from him, caught her breath, 
unable to look away. Sick, half dead from grief, he was still the most beautiful 
man she'd ever laid eyes on. Prometheus in shirt sleeves, tormented by the gods 
for bearing gifts to Man. Just to look on him, wracked with pain and preferring 
death to life-- it was an intrusion, an act of intimacy. There was a sudden 
warmth in her lower abdomen and for once she was grateful not to be the object 
of attention. 

Purdue wasn't looking too steady himself, in fact, and he backed away to lean 
against a car. Sauceda fished a handkerchief from his back pocket and began 
solemnly folding it into a longish rectangle. Mulder watched the motion of his 
hands, fascinated or just too tired to look away. Sauceda stepped toward him 
finally, the bandage ready, but Mulder moved back, matching the distance, 
sliding down the length of the van, still firmly focused on Sauceda's hands. He 
stopped when Sauceda did, slid just a bit more as Sauceda took another step. The 
pathologist halted, Mulder did the same. Sauceda sighed and simply offered up 
the bit of cloth. Mulder accepted it, still not looking up and Sauceda watched 
critically as Mulder wrapped the handkerchief around his hand. The bleeding was 
minimal, but there would be a hell of a bruise, Fowley imagined. 

Sauceda shook his head, his voice low. "Dammit, Reg, I'll rot in hell before I 
let anyone else see him like this. Do you understand me? It's bad enough *she's* 
here." Sauceda looked back at the profiler, expecting some kind of reaction. 
Mulder didn't give him one, however, busy tending his injuries. Sauceda scowled. 
"We're taking him to my house," he declared, "screw the damned hotel."

Purdue grunted. "Sure, Hot Sauce. You got neighbors giving you problems?"

Sauceda opened his mouth, closed it with a grimace. "Well, shit."

Fowley found her voice at last, a suitably penitent tone. "I'm sorry, sir. I 
take full responsibility for this situation--"

"Jeezus Christ," Purdue moaned. "What the hell is this? A meeting of Martyrs 
Anonymous? We're going to the damned hotel. We'll just let him get himself 
together first, all right?" He crossed his arms and regarded his profiler. 
Mulder had straightened, still leaning against the van, and was watching the 
proceedings now, unconcerned, apparently, that he was being discussed like he 
was no longer present. "Well, son," Purdue said evenly, "it looks like you're 
going to get another nice long shower."

Mulder blushed and looked away, cradling his left arm across his chest 
unconsciously. Purdue didn't move, just watching Mulder breathe. Sauceda, for 
all his fidgeting, was doing the same. Fowley decided that she'd probably need 
drugs to deal with these two herself.

"Mulder," Purdue's voice was quiet. "I need to know what you're thinking right 
now."

Mulder licked his lips, pulling the sweat and grit into his mouth and running 
the moisture across the inside of his cheeks. "I just wanted it all to stop," he 
whispered hoarsely. "You know? I don't want to die." He sighed. "Not really."

"You sure?"

Mulder didn't answer, didn't look up, his face renewing its flush but his 
resolve was evident. "I don't know anything else to do."

Purdue clamped his jaw. "You can make me a promise. Promise me that I can trust 
you to live. At least until this is over."

Mulder squeezed his eyes shut, his uninjured hand clawing fingers through his 
hair, trying to comb through the tangle of emotion clouding his mind. He shook 
his head. "I can't--"

The ASAC exploded forward, slamming the profiler back against the van. He held 
each of Mulder's wrists tight against his chest, pinning him in place. "I made 
you a promise in Seattle, you little bastard. Now I want you to promise me this 
one thing. You promise *me*!"

Sauceda watched wide-eyed and at a safe distance. Fowley felt as though she were 
spying on the souls in hell, locked in their respective torments, desperate, 
drowning within an overwhelming tide of flame.

There was nothing Purdue could threaten that would force Mulder to comply. 
Nothing he could do to force the words or enforce their sanctity. How do you 
threaten a man who has nothing left to forfeit, not even his own sanity? The 
ASAC had to realize the foolishness of the effort and, indeed, it was written on 
his face, the muscles twisted with horror and fear. His gaze was fierce, 
however, determined. He would have this much. He would have his promise or kill 
the man. Fowley realized she was trembling.

Mulder's face, just inches away, was rapt with surprise. He searched Purdue's 
eyes, blinking like a startled rabbit. Whatever he discovered there seemed to be 
enough, however and finally, he nodded.

"A promise for a promise," he said simply.

Purdue stepped back, releasing Mulder's wrists to lay a hand against his chest, 
still holding him in place.

"Don't lie to me, Mulder."

The profiler looked like he'd been slapped. "Fuck you."

Purdue grinned. 

Mulder glowered at him, embarrassed again. "You give me back my goddam gun."

Purdue's smile dissipated abruptly. "You, sir, give me that goddam knife." He 
nodded at Mulder's left leg and the profiler flushed a deeper shade of red.

"I'm not insane," Mulder insisted. "Not now." 

Purdue didn't answer. He seemed to be having difficulty just swallowing. Mulder 
gulped air for a few minutes himself, staring into the distance, coming to some 
kind of decision. He held his hand out to Sauceda but didn't bother to look over 
at him. "Give me the keys, Len." Sauceda didn't move and Mulder growled. "Gimme 
the *goddam* keys." 

Purdue nodded consent, and the pathologist complied, slipping the car keys into 
Mulder's outstretched hand. His fingers brushed Mulder's wrist as he released 
the bits of metal. The profiler jerked away from him, stumbling the short 
distance across the parking lot.

"Jeezus, Marty--"

Fowley remained quite still as Mulder passed her. She might as well have not 
been there for all the notice he took of her. Purdue followed him closely, ready 
with a steadying hand, but Mulder only staggered twice, seeming to grow stronger 
with each step as he paced to the back of his vehicle. 

Fowley followed Sauceda, taking her place at the rear fender as Mulder slipped 
the keys into the lock on the trunk, reached in to unzip a duffel bag. He slung 
a bottle of shampoo and some damp towels into the recesses of the trunk, items 
that Sauceda had apparently packed for Mulder's trip to the Y. He paused a 
moment, his hand motionless in the bag, biting his lip as though considering his 
options. Purdue was silent beside him, waiting for Mulder's decision.

The profiler shook his head, a gesture of remorse, eyes shielded beneath a wisp 
of dark hair. He pulled a white terry cloth robe from the bag, holding it like a 
cloth of gold, lifting it to his face and inhaling its scent, eyes distant 
suddenly, and pained. Sauceda shifted, fidgeting again, and Mulder seemed to 
come to himself. Back from his netherworld, the profiler pushed his fingers into 
one of the terry pockets and turned to Purdue. His eyes looked like his soul had 
been ripped out, but his hand was steady as he pulled out his fist. He turned 
the hand over and opened his fingers. The penknife lay in his palm, closed and 
benign.

Sauceda blanched but Purdue didn't glance at him, studying Mulder. The young 
man's eyes were still hazel, still sane. Purdue accepted the weapon like a man 
in a trance and Mulder tossed Sauceda the robe, scarcely looking at him. The 
pathologist caught the garment, holding it at bay like it might bite him.

"Now, you give me back my gun," Mulder demanded.

Purdue squared his shoulders. "I can't do that, son."

Mulder's jaw worked a minute. "No. You promised--"

"No, Mulder, I didn't promise." He swallowed. "I just asked for the knife."

Mulder searched his short-term memory, his face clouding ominously. 

"I'm sorry." Purdue hefted the knife, truly regretful. "You haven't left me much 
of a choice. You know?"

Mulder's eyes narrowed, his face grim. "Son of a bitch." He stepped back, 
scanning the faces around him like a thing trapped. He flinched to find Fowley 
standing so near, licked his lips, glancing back to Purdue. "I'm going to end 
this thing, Reg. One way or the other." He grimaced. "You get in my way, I'll 
chop you in half. *That's* a promise."

The ASAC nodded, solemn but satisfied. "You just make sure you're still standing 
when it's over."

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX 

Part 20 of 27: Encrypting the Tell-tale Heart

Mulder had no clever comeback for Purdue's challenge, no witticism worthy of the 
ASAC's betrayal. His rage, his guilt, were overwhelming and his attempts at 
physical assault had done nothing to relieve the turmoil. He'd spent days locked 
in apathy-- brief bursts of agony suspended in an emotional vacuum. This 
morning, however, every breath was torment, every glance-- at Purdue, at 
Sauceda, at the windows of his apartment-- a reminder of grief, of the crisis 
beyond his control. 

Purdue was watching him closely. Sauceda was doing the same. Mulder didn't even 
glance in Fowley's direction, preferring to imagine that at least one clown in 
this circus had good sense. Why were they always looking to him? After 
everything, how could they stand here like this, anxiously awaiting some 
marvelous pronouncement? What was it they wanted to hear? All will be well, my 
children, you may breathe now? Jeezus, was he really that good a liar, or were 
they just that desperate?

"God damn." Mulder backed away, squeezing his eyes shut. Someone spoke but his 
chest was constricting with the effort to remain calm, and he had to concentrate 
to hear, to distinguish just who had said what. It scarcely mattered; he knew no 
words that wouldn't choke him in mid-sentence. Hands laid hold on him-- 

"No!" 

*No more.* Mulder jerked away, fleeing for the front seat of his car. Purdue 
blocked his access to the driver's side so he wound up in the passenger seat. 
Sauceda caught the door before he could close it. He laid a steadying hand on 
Mulder's wrist as his fist clenched defensively. 

"Easy, kid. Hey." He waited for Mulder to focus, for the heartbeat beneath his 
fingers to stabilize. "Come on Marty. I'll get you back to the Y. Okay? Get you 
cleaned up?"

The ringing in Mulder's ears had finally subsided and he nodded, grateful. As he 
lay back against the headrest, Purdue crossed into his field of vision. Mulder 
watched the ASAC dig for his cell phone, dial a number. The phone at his ear, 
Purdue turned, studying the young agent through the windshield. Mulder didn't 
bother to glance away. 

Purdue was impossible to read, dark eyes shielded under drawn brows as he 
squinted in the sun, body perfectly motionless. The ASAC had made his reputation 
as a master interrogator. He would know the subtle tell-tales signals, the body 
language that betrayed the mind, the thoughts that energized the blood, the 
muscles. He was giving Mulder nothing. And Mulder had already given him 
everything. 

*What is happening to me?* Mulder wondered. *So many mistakes. So many errors in 
judgment--*

judgment, hell. He hadn't even thought this morning, just lashed out with blind 
instinct. And buried himself. There was no way out of this. Mulder had pulled a 
gun on a fellow agent-- more, he'd threatened the life of his own ASAC. The 
least the Bureau would do was terminate him, but Mulder was too high profile to 
be let off that easily. Brass couldn't have every second year rookie, especially 
one as privileged as he, brandishing weapons with impunity. No, Mulder had no 
excuse. He was looking at criminal prosecution. 

Or institutionalization. Mulder's heart was pounding again with the realization. 
It would be in his best interests after all, to lock him away some place quiet 
for a good long while. Mulder had given them enough to make a case for it. And 
the PR would be better too: press reports would inform taxpayers that another 
agent, overworked, overwrought by his responsibility to the public good, had 
cracked beneath the strain. It played well with the masses. And it helped to 
have so much public sympathy when it came time to plan the budget. Much more 
popular than the idea that J. Edgar's heirs had handed a badge to a murderer. 

Christ, how could he have been so stupid? So-- 

So lost.

He knew his first mistake, the foundation he'd laid for all the others: he 
should have remained with the BSU. Better the devil you know, after all. Of 
course, Mulder had never pulled anything this desperate with Patterson. No, he'd 
always been so very sure of himself, so carefully contained.... Still, with 
Patterson on hand, Mulder could have maneuvered his way out this mess, he was 
certain of it. Bill was always too involved with his own psychological 
manipulations to be swayed much by Mulder's, too content to wait out the case, 
giving the profiler room to work, calmly waiting for Mulder to become the thing 
he hunted. 

But Purdue was an honorable man, damn him, too set on doing the right thing, 
whatever the hell he perceived that to be. Purdue had made it clear: he saw 
himself as Mulder's only trustworthy friend, and it didn't matter to him if 
Mulder never reciprocated that regard. The ASAC would have Mulder put away in a 
nice quiet hospital and all for his own good, case or no case. And Purdue wasn't 
the type to let a little thing like a promise stand in his way. Not if he was 
smart. He was probably calling the hospital right now--

Just beyond the windshield, Purdue lowered his phone. He stood a moment, 
shoulders relaxed, breeze cooling the fine sheen of sweat on his face. And then 
he saluted his profiler. It was a slow movement of the hand, fingers lightly 
brushing his forehead, deliberate and respectful. His expression was still 
cautiously neutral, but not unkind. Jeezus, the man almost smiled-- 

Mulder held his breath, refusing to respond. His face was a perfect blank as 
Sauceda backed the car out of its space and turned them away. 

One block down, two, and Sauceda chanced a glance behind him. He kept his voice 
low, like Purdue might actually be able to hear him. Mulder resisted the urge to 
turn around and check.

"I'm sorry, Marty. You know, about not giving your gun back. Purdue just-- Hell. 
*We* don't think it's a really good idea for you have access to a weapon right 
now. Not just yet. You understand."

Mulder kept his focus out his own window. He watched Chinquapin Park fleeing 
past, then shrugged, his voice hoarse. "What the hell. I can always borrow 
Fowley's, huh?" 

Sauceda's foot slipped off the gas abruptly. 

Mulder sighed. This was hopeless. "I'm *kidding,* Len."

"Uh. Uh-huh." 

The rest of the drive was blissfully silent, Sauceda allowing Mulder the space 
to recoup if he could. Nothing much was said when they reached their 
destination, either. Sauceda signed them in and Mulder dutifully followed him 
down the hall, standing to one side as Sauceda commenced setting up house in a 
corner of the locker room. The pathologist staked out an entire bench, arranging 
first aid kit, toiletries, and a change of clothes with the precision of a scrub 
nurse prepping for surgery. 

Mulder watched him quietly, marveling. Sauceda's attitude was simply 
business-as-usual. He was well acquainted with his role in this partnership, 
especially when Mulder was quiet like this, and he evidenced no false hope, no 
anticipation of Mulder's continued cooperation. But he wasn't nervous, either, 
or belligerent. Sauceda had simply made himself a neutral target, a 
disinterested canvas, suitable for any shift in Mulder's emotional landscape. 
His smile, genuine but tired, was careful, his eyes quick as he registered 
everything, motions deliberately open and non-threatening. 

"Lenny?"

"Yeah, kid."

"You ever think about going into hostage negotiation?"

Sauceda turned to eye him cautiously. "As the negotiator? Or the hostage?"

Mulder decided the conversation was obviously heading into deep water. "I wanna 
wear a suit," he said. Sauceda nodded and repacked his jeans.

Mulder didn't bother with the ceaseless showering that had so occupied him of 
late. A quick wash up and a change of clothes was enough: a white shirt with 
extra starch, and his blue suit. Dressing well usually made Mulder feel better, 
and right now he was pretty desperate to feel better. There would be Purdue to 
deal with shortly and no matter what the ASAC had up his sleeve, Mulder knew he 
couldn't afford another loss. 

Sauceda, however, had his own agenda: Mulder wouldn't be wearing a belt-- no 
belt and no tie. Mulder took several ragged breaths before cussing him savagely. 
Sauceda endured the diatribe in silence, bearing up with practiced stoicism. He 
turned only the barest shade of pink and crossed his arms, oblivious to the 
other patrons as they fled the room. 

Mulder stripped as he ranted, tossing his pants at the older man, then the 
shirt. Lenny said nothing, stooping to retrieve the items as Mulder grabbed his 
jeans from the suitcase. The action dislodged something else from the suitcase 
and it slapped the floor. Mulder caught sight of it out of the corner of his 
eye. He froze mid-breath, his violence forgotten. Sauceda, too, had come to a 
complete halt, only halfway straightened, staring at the small, leather bound 
notebook on the tile next to his hand. Mulder's journal. The pathologist jerked 
upright, guiltily, but Mulder's focus remained on the book. Surely this was 
further betrayal-- Lenny's confession was written on his face as Mulder finally 
met his eyes. 

Mulder's growl was so deep only part of the words were distinguishable. 
"...treasonous bastard... piece of shit--"

"Now, don't start, Marty." Sauceda shook his head, taking an unsteady step 
backward. "You know I can't read your damned shorthand. Jeezus. I just thought 
you might want it, is all. Honest." 

Mulder's jaw worked, trying to reason beyond his panic. But it was true. Sauceda 
had no way of comprehending the symbols in the journal. He'd tried. Patterson 
had tried, too. Blevins and God knew who else. Each mark on the paper, however, 
was Mulder's own particular product, a code devised for his personal use, 
defined nowhere outside his head. Through the preceding year, the Bureau had 
confiscated his laptop, "borrowed" his books, memorized his files. Mulder's 
journals, however, remained intact. His final inviolable armament. 

He calmed himself with the reassurance, taking a deep breath to steady the 
trembling of his hands as he slipped into his jeans. Sauceda moved in slow 
motion, face set with his "just being helpful" expression, leaning down to 
retrieve the book. Mulder's look made him think better of it, however. He danced 
back as Mulder lunged for his feet, snatching the journal off the floor and 
shoving it roughly into his back pocket. Sauceda nodded, apparently relieved 
that Mulder considered him unworthy of actual physical assault. Mulder zipped 
his pants and Sauceda handed him a polo shirt, relatively free of wrinkles. 
Mulder accepted it indignantly but didn't bother to tuck it into his jeans; 
maybe this way no one would notice his lack of a belt, after all. Sauceda 
reached up to straighten his collar and got his hand slapped for his trouble.

Ultimately, Sauceda did concede one bit of ground: he would let Mulder shave-- 
as long as he could supervise the activity. Mulder, wearied by his own 
histrionics, agreed. He accepted the safety razor with a restrained bit of 
profanity, but otherwise feigned complete lack of concern. Sauceda had no 
response either way. 

Standing over the sink of running water, however, Mulder was almost reluctant to 
scrape away the shaving cream. His own reflection would betray him, he knew it. 
Above the snowy lather, his face was hot with embarrassment, his hand trembling 
violently with every stroke. The simple act of shaving, an activity he'd 
performed without thought every day for a decade, felt like a rape with 
Sauceda's eyes so intense over his shoulder. Lenny watching him pee hadn't been 
this humiliating.

Sauceda gave no indication that he noticed Mulder's discomfort, however. The 
pathologist had no probing questions-- "whatsa matter? You okay?"-- and demanded 
no explanations. Mulder watched the lather swirl down the drain, falling down, 
down into endlessness, and decided that he owed Lenny for that much then, at 
least.



                                                  Dressed, dried and finally fit 
                                                  for public consumption, Mulder 
                                                  followed Sauceda out into the 
                                                  hall. Lenny wasn't headed for 
                                                  the parking lot, though. He 
                                                  turned into the gym and 
                                                  proceeded to stake out a seat 
                                                  on the bleachers: front row 
                                                  for the suitcase, second row 
                                                  for himself. The place was 
                                                  almost deserted. A couple of 
                                                  spectators on the bench across 
                                                  the room, a half a game's 
                                                  worth of kids on the court, 
                                                  practicing hoop shots. 



Mulder remained at the door. "Len, what the hell--?"

"Have a seat, Marty." Sauceda patted the lump the cell phone made in his jacket. 
"Purdue'll call when he's ready for us." 

Mulder came over reluctantly. "Lenny. Don't you think we should be at the crime 
scene, processing evidence?"

Sauceda blinked at him calmly and Mulder blushed. Just where did he get off with 
this self-righteous schpiel? Hell, he'd spent the best part of the morning 
hiding out in his car, unable to face his own blood-splattered apartment. 

Sauceda's voice was irritatingly gentle. "Kid, anywhere you *are* lately, turns 
into a crime scene. Why don't we just say you're here processing this one a 
little early?" Mulder was lost suddenly, trying to digest this reality, but 
Sauceda shrugged. "Bad joke, Marty. Sorry. Look, just... take a seat and watch 
the game, okay? Give the rest of us a chance to get caught up this morning. 
It'll be okay." 

Mulder bit his lip but the conversation seemed to have ended without him. 
Sauceda rested his elbows on the bench behind him and crossed his legs, 
obviously ready to enjoy what little game was to be had on the floor. Mulder 
felt foolish just standing there, like a child dismissed to his room. He 
considered walking out. It would do him good just to be alone for a while, to 
catch his breath mentally, maybe hear himself think. The fact that it would also 
piss Lenny off royally would just be icing on the cake. Escaping, however, would 
only make his situation worse. They'd put out an APB on him, stick him in jail. 
Or in a hospital in restraints. And he hated restraints-- Besides, Sauceda had 
his car keys. 

Mulder resigned himself to his fate and climbed up the bleachers, settling 
several rows behind Sauceda, and a full arm's length further down the bench. The 
journal made an uncomfortable lump against his backside; Mulder pulled it from 
his pocket, holding it awkwardly. 

He watched the young men below, tall, burly boys so much younger than himself, 
playing at free throws and practicing rebounds. Mulder envied them the gritty 
feel of the basketball in their hands, the sensation of sweat on skin and the 
cooling breeze generated as they skittered between baskets. He knew the 
satisfaction of a shared goal, the certainty of muscle and sinew, reflexes honed 
to instinct, the comfort of obvious bounds. These were the pleasures of the 
game. The comforts of life.

Mulder's mind would not leave the journal, however, it's leather hot against his 
palms. Unbidden, the memory of his final entry burned in his brain: a note to 
ask Harris for the name of a decent restaurant. Some place really nice. 
Someplace where he could take Kay and have it mean something to her. He 
remembered the words, their positions on the paper, could read the code in his 
mind's eye: a slash, a Greek "e," a lower case slash before an undotted "i"," a 
looping "o" resolving into a lingering dash... The symbols, their meanings, were 
sharper to him now than any knife blade, deeper than any self-inflicted 
mutilation. They hit bone and jarred their metallic agony so deep Mulder could 
taste it in his teeth, toxic, bitter, lethal as mercury in the vein. 

Memories of Wheeling flooded him, swallowing him whole. He thought for a moment 
that he would drown, suffocate right there in the bleachers. His throat 
constricted, his chest suddenly too heavy to retrieve oxygen. Random flashes of 
lights crossed his field of vision and he fought overwhelming panic. Mulder 
gasped silently, realizing that Sauceda only had to turn to see. And Lenny would 
rescue him, damn him, use drugs and CPR like weapons to force him to submit to 
life--

But there was no need to worry. The episode passed too quickly, Mulder's lungs 
sucking in air against his better judgment. Sauceda glanced over then and Mulder 
covered his distress with a fit of coughing, ramming the heels of his hands into 
his eyes to kill the tears of disappointment before they could fall.

"Need some water, Marty?"

Mulder jerked his hands down and shook his head vehemently, suddenly so very 
interested in the game below. Sauceda chewed his lip but turned his attention 
back to the court. A kid in a faded Michael Jackson T-shirt had chased the ball 
out of bounds and there was an indignant scuffle as he tried to return it to 
play and slam-dunk it. No one called for personal fouls, however. The cheap-shot 
artist surrendered easily enough, passing the ball to a lanky, tow-headed boy 
sporting a pair of bright yellow Nikes. Yellow Shoes hit a jumper straight off, 
bouncing to the far end of the court as the rest of the team scrambled for 
positions.

"I can't have a tie," Mulder grumbled just loud enough for Sauceda to hear. "Or 
a belt to hold my damned pants up. Think you can trust me with a freaking pen?"

Lenny wobbled his head. "Nope." 

But Sauceda passed him one anyway. A felt tip marker, fine point. Mulder 
actually considered not accepting it, regarding it with grave suspicion. 
Sauceda's concession had come too easily. Mulder hadn't actually wanted a pen, 
after all; he'd just wanted something to be angry about when Sauceda refused. He 
needed the rage right now, it helped him think. Life had taught him that 
animosity provided no room for grief, no time for it. Ironic, that. Doubly 
ironic that the one person he knew capable of fully appreciating that fact was 
the woman who'd put him here. Sisyphus, a woman much aggrieved in her time... 

Mulder rose, snatching the pen from Sauceda's outstretched hand, refusing to 
look the man in the eye. The pathologist faced forward with a studied 
nonchalance, flicking imagined lint from his trouser leg. 

Mulder's knuckles were still scarred from his impact with the mirror, but they 
offered little protest as he gripped the pen. He studied the marker carefully. 
The barrel was a simple construction, quite self-contained, soft plastic, the 
cap possessing no bit of metal. A preschooler pen with water-based ink. Lenny 
never used a pen like that. The prick. This was enough to be angry over, 
surely... 

Mulder settled the journal on his lap and flipped it open. An entry dated May 13 
bared itself for inspection and Mulder stared at it, considering its time, its 
place. Kay had been alive that day, with just two days remaining to her. She 
hadn't known, and she'd laughed a lot. Mulder hadn't known and he'd laughed with 
her. It was a Friday, wasn't it? Yeah. Friday. Mulder had done something to hack 
Purdue off and the ASAC had sent him back to the motel and told him to go to 
hell while he was at it. Kay had been waiting for him. They'd made love the rest 
of the afternoon and well into the evening: passionate and fierce the first 
time, then slowly, joyfully-- they'd had all the time in the world, after all-- 
exploring, learning, memorizing the details of skin and the nerve endings 
beneath, the responses of each touch. Just so. 

He felt even now the warmth of her against him, the sensation of her skin 
sliding beneath his hands, her fingers digging into his upper arms as he held 
himself above her, her grip intensifying with her pleasure, intensifying his. An 
endless circle. He'd thought of a ring then, just before thought was rendered 
impossible. A circle of gold. And he'd understood, finally, the ancient 
tradition of golden bands, the mystery of handing eternity to another as a 
solemn pledge. The ring on his own hand had been a mockery to him. Just exactly 
what he deserved.

Mulder's groin burned with the memory of Kay, her body, her breath against his 
chest. His heart answered the burning by threatening to burst again. The journal 
waited patiently for Mulder's eyes  to finally start focusing again. At the top 
of the page, he'd written her name: no code this time, just plain English in 
large fanciful letters quite unlike his usual angular scrawl. There was a bit of 
coded poem below the name, snippets of Irving Feldman copied from memory: 

"Only now have I understood

I have no better measure for the fitness of things than her gesture... my soul 
at focus in its instant of sight."



It was a foolish thing to write, childish, or so he'd thought four days ago, 
listening to her moving about in the bath. Poems and the spelling out of names 
were juvenile expressions, and he was a grown man, after all, with one long-term 
relationship to his credit not so many years before. Mulder knew better than to 
believe that love was so simple, that devotion should be won so readily. Phoebe 
had taught him that much, surely. Mulder had started to line through the words 
as soon as he'd written them. See? There was the mark where he'd rested the tip 
of his pen, considering. His hand had refused to comply however, had not obeyed. 
Then Kay had returned, body still slightly damp, shy as she approached the bed, 
embarrassed by her own nudity, aroused by his. The journal had been forgotten as 
he sought to inscribe his feelings on more tender objects.

Now the memory of it all lacerated his soul, and he cursed himself, eyes 
squeezed tightly shut. He could see her even more clearly, though, all 
distractions forgotten. She was glorious, her face aglow with the light that 
filtered through his eyelids, smiling at him, searching his face as he spoke her 
name. The face transformed again, sun shining behind her now, just visible 
behind her head. Her image was bright as the corona behind her, brighter, 
brighter still, searing his skin, blinding and too beautiful to allow him to 
look away. She reached for him, blinking through the haze of his pain as he 
gasped up at her, struggling to reach her as Reg held him against the asphalt. 
She stood above him, staring down, a single tear in her eye-- 

Mulder sat forward, gasping again. His fingers numbed almost instantly, colored 
lights spotting his vision. This time, however, he had no illusions regarding 
his own mortality. He would live, goddammit. And God damn him for it. Kay dead 
less than four days and this morning he had found her watching him, her 
expressive eyes still framed by soft brown hair, regarding him from the front 
seat of his own car. Smiling at him with Diana Fowley's mouth. 

Just what the fuck kind of monster was he? 

"Marty? You okay, kid?"

Mulder didn't bother with the lie, bowing his head over his journal, yanking the 
cap off the pen. He flipped through the pages, finding an empty bit of paper. 
Sauceda waited patiently as Mulder drew a random circle and took a deep, 
steadying breath.

"So. How's Imelda?" Mulder glanced up, voice quite calm, his face a mask. "I 
mean-- Really?" And he did suddenly, honestly need to know.

Sauceda propped his knee on the bench, leaning back on his elbow. He looked 
grateful for the conversation, for the sobriety in Mulder's voice. Mulder was 
struck suddenly by Sauceda's appearance. He looked so much older, somehow. 
Decades older. He'd lost weight, too, but Mulder couldn't fathom how such a 
transformation had taken place without his noticing, couldn't remember Sauceda's 
skin ever sagging around his jaw quite like that. The rash he did remember, 
though, and it was only slightly better. 

"She's good, kid," Lenny smiled fondly, which made looking at him all the more 
painful. Mulder controlled his expression as Sauceda tilted his head, watching 
him. "She's... good. Marty, everything's okay, I swear." 

The kids on the court called for a free throw, scampered into the necessary 
positions, sneakers squealing in protest. Mulder looked away to the basket 
opposite him, grateful for the excuse not to hold Sauceda's gaze too long. 

"I'm glad she's okay, Len. I--" *God, he couldn't do this--* "I'm glad 
everyone's okay."

"Marty." Sauceda's voice was a plea but Mulder didn't dare turn to look. "It's 
not your fault. You know?" Mulder's nod wasn't terribly convincing, apparently. 
"She's *safe,*" Sauceda insisted, "and the kids are fine." Mulder glanced at 
him, at last, offering a smile he didn't feel. Sauceda fidgeted with his watch. 
"Look, ah, she told me to tell you that she's praying for you." He looked up, 
blinking uncertainly. "You don't mind, do you, Marty?"

Mulder stared down at the book in his hand, took a deep breath. "No. No, it's 
okay." He drew a slow heavy line through the circle on his paper, the ink 
soaking into the pages beneath, bleeding out from its source in feathery wisps. 
"Tell her thank you," he requested softly. He struggled for words a minute. 
"Look, ahm. So when's your flight out to Memphis?" 

Sauceda shrugged sheepishly. "I'm not going, Marty. I'm already on a case, 
'member?" He talked faster, surprised by the confusion on Mulder's face, eager 
to reassure. "Purdue sent Hovind and Braden with her. They're good men. Better 
than me." He grinned. "Besides, she's getting some time with the kids. She'll 
have me under her feet soon enough. We're heading for Maui come December. You 
remember. I've been promising her for years. Since our honeymoon." Lenny 
actually blushed. "She's real excited. Real excited." 

Mulder nodded as if in a trance. Sauceda was asking his permission, he realized, 
requesting a release of some kind. An amicable divorce. He felt his chest 
tighten, marveling that Sauceda would care so much, that it should matter to 
him, after everything. 

"Purdue should have sent you with her, Len," He answered gently. "Hell, he's got 
a whole freaking army out there." His voice was almost a whisper now and Sauceda 
had to lean forward to hear him above the scuffling on the court. "You don't 
need to be dealing with this shit anymore."

Sauceda's jaw set determinedly. "I'm not bailing on you, Marty. I know it looks 
like it with Purdue hauling Freaky Fowley in like this, but I'm not. I'm 
staying, dammit--"

Mulder shook off the despair that threatened to devour him whole. "No. I don't 
think that-- Christ, Hot Sauce, you've lasted a hell of a lot longer than you 
should've tried to. Don't you understand what these bastards did to you? They 
should have settled you in at Quantico for a milk run and instead they threw you 
out here on the road chasing after every goddam nut with a knife. They had no 
right to do that to you. I'm just--" he couldn't trust his voice suddenly and 
took another deep breath, let it out slowly. "I'm sorry I was so rough on you." 
He couldn't look up as he said the words but his voice was steady. "You're a 
good man, Len. You deserve to retire in peace and raise your grandkids."

"So do you, Marty." 

Mulder glanced up, surprised by the words. Sauceda looked back at him, dark eyes 
shining too brightly. 

Mulder's thoughts overwhelmed him temporarily: the image of himself standing in 
Sauceda's shoes some forty years hence, his career over, his star long burned, 
blushing as he spoke about the woman waiting for him, her arms the reward for 
all battles fought, won and lost. It hurt. It hurt because Mulder couldn't see 
it happening. Not for him. And the realization had the bitter edge of prophecy, 
like too many of his dreams.

"I'm... tired, Lenny." Mulder barely managed the words, surprised himself that 
he had confessed as much aloud. 

Sauceda answered carefully, watching Mulder's face. "You haven't been eating 
right, kid. You can't keep doing that to yourself."

"I know. I don't mean to. I just-- I'll eat lunch. I promise. Soon as we're at 
the hotel." Mulder studied the circle he'd drawn, the line. Some embittered area 
of his brain informed him it was the symbol of eternity, voided. "I just want to 
sleep," he said and it was true, only not the way that Lenny would want to 
interpret it.

The cell phone buzzed hollowly in the vaulted room. Mulder rose and surrendered 
the pen, not waiting to be asked.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

10:53 AM. En route: Georgetown, Washington DC.

Five escort vehicles of various makes and models, none with government plates, 
each manned by agents in various stages of casual attire. Each positioned at 
staggered intervals as they wound their way through the streets of DC: two units 
preceding Purdue's Chrysler, three following after. The ASAC had plotted the 
logistics of the move with the ingenuity of a military analyst, but if he had 
anticipated a quiet little drive he was surely disappointed. 

First off, Mulder had refused to sit in the back. He'd commandeered the front 
passenger seat, ignoring Purdue's arguments. And flatly denying his orders. 
Hell, Mulder insisted, they were expecting Sisyphus, not a sniper. The ASAC had 
slammed the door in disgust, then leaned back through the window.

"Right now," he'd growled. "I almost wish she was a damned sniper. Just so long 
as she could hit her actual target. Just once."

Mulder's answering grin hadn't helped in the least but Purdue had surrendered, 
apparently ashamed of his outburst. The ASAC had climbed into the backseat and 
they'd fallen into their place in the convoy.

Things didn't improve much once they were on the road. Within the first two 
miles, one of the rear vehicles pulled aside to accost a hapless delivery van, 
insisting it had been following too closely. Mulder, lounging calmly, thought 
the van's lettering had a nice twist given the circumstances: "Amaz-A-Color: 
We're just Dye-ing for You." In the backseat, walkie-talkie gripped with ashen 
knuckles, Purdue wasn't laughing. Not even when it turned out to be a false 
alarm.

The second escort to stir into action took out after a woman in a hot red 
Pontiac. She didn't slow. Purdue barked orders and Mulder kept his smartass 
remarks to himself as Fowley made several too-quick turns, almost losing the 
remaining escort units in her efforts to follow Purdue's convoluted 
instructions. She slammed on her brakes at a red light and the tires squealed in 
protest, the back end fish-tailing precariously. 

Mulder blinked his eyes open, his immediate focus falling on the bumper sticker 
of the yellow Impala they'd almost rear-ended. "Beam me up Jesus" glowed in hot 
pink neon. Mulder wondered if the prayer would work for him, an infrequent Jew, 
blessed/cursed with an even less frequent Methodist father. There were less 
turbulent ways to die than in a car wreck, after all. When Mulder had joined the 
Bureau, Mulder's father had warned him: "If you've gotta die, son, just try to 
leave your mother a decent corpse."

Mulder felt Purdue's silence over his shoulder, aware, yet again, that he was 
being observed in the mirror of his visor. The ASAC had probably caught Fowley's 
nervous glance in the rearview mirror a few dozen times, too. Mulder's hand 
itched to snap the visor up, but the action would be too much of an admission 
and he'd be damned before he'd concede Purdue any more ground. Besides, after 
days of too little lighting, the sunlight was already more than Mulder's eyes 
could handle without tearing; no one, apparently, trusted him with his shades 
anymore.

The traffic light was a long one, and he patted his pockets down unconsciously, 
looking for a cigarette. A second's thought and he gave up the effort. They 
hadn't trusted him with his cigarettes, either, of course. Well, hell, he might 
die of self-inflicted lung cancer in about twenty years. Couldn't have *that* on 
their consciences, now could they?

"In my purse," Fowley said.

"Pardon?"

"There's a pack in my purse. Help yourself."

The offer surprised him, given the circumstances, and he glanced over at her. 
His 'thank you' wouldn't quite voice itself, however. The sight of her was... 
disturbing. The day had gotten warmer and she'd removed her jacket, turning the 
a/c on 'high.' The force of the blast blew her blouse tight against her breasts, 
leaving nothing to his already formidable imagination. The gun on her hip was 
too dark in its leather holster, too great a contrast to the translucence of her 
skin, the softness of the hair fluttering against her neck. The hair, the eyes-- 
Christ, all of it belonged to Kay, and this woman had no goddam right to them.

He was aware suddenly that he was gasping with pain. Conscious, again, of 
Purdue's presence not three feet behind him. 

Mulder turned back to the floorboard, seeking the purse Fowley had tossed next 
to his feet when she'd crawled into the car. He waited for another red light-- 
waited for his hands to steady-- before handing it to her. She took it with an 
only half-irritated sigh and offered him the pack. Then, because it was another 
long light, she lit the cigarette for him. He tried not to look at her until the 
deed was done, but couldn't help glancing up as he took the first drag. She 
blushed, suddenly as aware as he of how intimate a gesture she was making. She 
shoved the lighter back in her purse, tossing the bag at his feet again. 

Purdue was silent behind them, as omniscient as the eye of God.

They made the Embassy Suites Hotel, passed it and parked in the garage. Purdue 
informed them they were to stay put, that he was waiting for the units to gather 
and for the agents inside the hotel to give him the all-clear. Sauceda's driver 
pulled in behind them and Purdue climbed out, eyes scanning, for a brief 
conference.

Fowley shifted awkwardly in the silence. She'd heard only about a half dozen 
words pass Mulder's lips since the confrontation in the parking lot. Mulder 
imagined that his current condition-- physically and mentally exhausted, 
complacent as a lamb to the slaughter-- was a considerable contrast to what she 
would know of his reputation. Hell, he didn't much resemble what *he* knew of 
it. His sudden voice beside her made her jerk.

"You baby-sit often, Agent Fowley?"

She recovered quickly and frowned at the suggestion, what it might imply about 
her abilities. What it implied about him. "I take care of my partner, Fox. 
That's all."

"Purdue said this assignment was temporary." He kept his voice light, 
indifferent.

She flipped her hair back from her shoulder. "Whatever." 

Mulder smiled in spite of himself. Dammit. He liked her. In spite of himself. 
Liked the way her legs went on forever and her nipples stood small and hard 
against the friction of silk...

Shit. Purdue was going to regret this. Hell, *he* regretted this.

She was watching him and fighting a faint blush. She looked like Kay again, 
suddenly--

*Damn.* Mulder turned away, staring out the passenger window. J.J. Levin stood 
at the bumper, hands held before him. A casual observer, noting Levin's pleasant 
smile, the way he looked first this way, then that, then again, slowly and 
without undue concern, would assume that Levin was simply waiting for someone. 
And in truth, he was. Someone stupid enough to wander too closely, to look 
suspicious or hesitant. Someone who'd make a suitable target for the .45 in the 
unclipped holster beneath his jacket. Beyond him, Purdue was giving orders to 
the flock of agents lounging against their own vehicles.

"Jeezus," Mulder hissed, angry but not at the ASAC. "Five freaking cars. What 
the hell is he thinking? JFK only had four."

"JFK's dead."

"Then this was your idea?" 

He didn't bother looking over at her and she didn't bother denying the 
accusation. "Obviously, the Bureau finds you worth the effort, Fox."

"Shows what they know." His voice was completely level. He didn't take his eyes 
from the scene out his window. "So, how long have you bought into all this 
paranormal crap, Diana? Too many reruns of *Casper* and *Scooby Doo?*"

She stiffened and he knew he'd hit that nerve again. "Why is it everyone acts 
like I'm supposed to apologize for my views?" she demanded. "I've researched the 
paranormal for the better part of a decade. There's some very credible evidence 
for ESP-er phenomenon. The Soviets have been studying--"

"The Soviets have been standing in lines for three hours every day just to buy a 
loaf of bread. They've got to do *something* to pass the time." Mulder rolled 
his head against the headrest and feigned disinterest. "That case in Westchester 
should have taught you something. You try building another case based on psychic 
phenomenon and this bunch will lock you away."

"How about this, then? How about I *don't* admit to profiling a case with 
paranormal ability, psychic dreaming, clairvoyance and visions? How about I just 
do it and keep it to myself-- think maybe they'll pump *me* full of Thorazine?" 
She didn't flinch from his glare. "There's no way you come to the conclusions 
you do-- as quickly as you do-- without some serious psychic talent. I've read 
your case files, Fox. All of them. Baytown, Seattle, Shreveport. Every one of 
them. Completely uncensored."

She seemed rather proud of this personal triumph. Mulder's brows rose 
appreciatively. "Well, well. Another of Patterson's little pets-- and squirreled 
away in Domestic Terrorism just in case he needs something really juicy. 
Personally, I never kissed the man's ass well enough to rate that kind of 
courtesy. What's it like?"

"I'll let you know when I try it." If looks could kill, Mulder would have been 
well out of his misery.

He grinned. "You ever experience precognitive dreams, waking visions, Ms. 
Fowley?" He said it like he was propositioning her.

"Not personally. What's it like?"

Mulder's mouth opened, closed in a tight line. The victory twinkling in her eye 
was too much for him to choke down but he didn't trust himself to answer. He 
really didn't need this crap. It was pointless. 

He shrugged back against his seat and flipped the radio on. Jimi Hendrix. Well, 
*someone* had good taste in music. He turned up the volume until "Spanish Castle 
Magic" was thumping the windows. He no sooner pulled his hand away than she 
adjusted the volume to a more suitable level.

"Look," she insisted. "I'm a psychologist by training, Fox. Just like you. But I 
happen to think that the human mind is capable of more than we give ourselves 
credit for. It just manifests itself more readily in some people than others: 
like precognition and psychokinesis--"

"You know, a few years ago they had a scientist at Cal Tech that was convinced 
there was a direct connection between microwave ovens and mass murder. They 
found him dead, with his head shoved in his gas oven. No pilot light."

"And your point would be?"

"There's more than enough strange and unusual things in this world, enough 
insanity built into human nature without having to resort to some paranormal, 
delusional crap. I'm not a damned psychic, I'm not a side show magician and I'm 
sure as hell not your goddam lab rat. I'm a profiler. Highly trained? Yes. 
Talented? Damned straight. And I maintain my spooky reputation by hard work and 
malice aforethought. No hocus pocus, no witchcraft, just a determined resolve to 
hack off as many people as possible. As frequently as possible." He smiled. 
"Actually, I've been told that I'm pretty good at it."

Her gaze was unblinking, hard as nails. "So. It doesn't bother you that I think 
you're full of shit?"

Mulder considered the question. "Should it?"

She looked like she was trying to come up with some kind of suitable answer. And 
not having much success. Well, his work here was done then. Mulder turned up the 
radio, offering the woman an out, trying not to contemplate why he felt her 
worthy of such mercy. She didn't seem to take hints very well, however, and 
reached for the control. Mulder raised his hand, leaving it floating at the 
radio dial. It was a languid gesture, as though the outcome of the argument 
didn't concern him. Perhaps it didn't. He didn't glance at her, not inviting 
conversation, simply blocking her access to the control. She could have easily 
pushed his hand away and availed herself of the appropriate dial, but her hand 
flew to her lap instead. From the corner of his eye, he noted her checking the 
hem of her skirt, adjusting it quickly down a few more millimeters. It didn't 
help much.

Kay wouldn't have worn such a skirt. He heard the words in his head and the 
observation surprised him. Where had that come from? 

But Kay *wouldn't* have worn such a skirt. Even her uniforms had been longer 
than the other women on Chris' staff, settling just above her kneecap, the 
tailoring, however, unable to conceal the tantalizing curve of hip and thigh. 
And away from her carefully restricted role at the diner, Mulder noticed that 
Kay never even glanced up as she walked. He pictured her in his mind, strolling 
with studied modesty, eyes down, inviting no unwarranted attention, never 
noticing the heads that turned to watch her pass, never responding to an 
appreciative glance. He had marveled at that. Marveled that she had blushed, 
honestly flustered, when he'd told her she was beautiful. She didn't know. And 
she didn't believe him although she loved him for saying so. She had asked for 
so little. Expected nothing. 

How had she slipped through his defenses? So unassuming, so unsure of her own 
footsteps-- how had she navigated, almost unnoticed, past the worst of his 
walls? Had he opened himself so completely? It was possible, he supposed. After 
the body count he'd mopped up over the past several months, Mulder's need for 
reassurance, for mercy, was strong enough to be frightening. Frightening, 
because there was only one source from which he'd ever learned to receive such 
comforts: the soft, fragrant hands of women.

The training had come early and permeated his life. Mulder's father had been 
distant when he'd been home at all. They'd discussed sports scores and politics; 
Bill Mulder seemed to know little else about the world. It was Fox's mother who 
had shushed the fears and tended the wounds of childhood, did what little she 
could to console him when Sam had gone away.

Then suddenly, in his early teens, Mulder had stepped outside his mother's 
world. In one life-altering encounter, he'd discovered that there were other 
hands and softer, hands that translated the art of compassion into far-flung 
worlds of fierce passions. And Mulder, at twenty-six, still had far too little 
arsenal against the onslaught of desire. 

Kay hadn't known him well enough to be scared, hadn't known him long enough to 
realize the danger he presented. She'd made her cautious way through the 
wastelands he'd constructed about his life, walking head down, eyes averted, to 
bring him peace. And one morning he'd awakened to find her, her body trapped 
between the barbed wire and the sniper fire that seemed to destroy everything he 
touched--

Above the radio dial, Mulder's hand was shaking uncontrollably. He snatched it 
back, furiously adjusting his seat belt to conceal his turmoil. Moisture 
gathered ominously in his lower lashes. Fowley's voice was quiet.

"Fox, you can't deny that you have some very unusual abilities--"

"I'm not interested in your bullshit, Diana," his response was a full-throated 
growl, dangerous. "Why don't you go tell some more of your fairy tales to 
Purdue? He's so goddam impressed with you."

She licked her lips, carefully considering him, her voice neutral. "Maybe he has 
reason to be impressed."

"Why? Does fucking Patterson give you some tremendous insight into psychotic 
behavior? And you just absorb it by osmosis?" Mulder knew he was pushing a few 
too many limits. He just hurt too bad to care right now. "Or maybe you're 
kissing Purdue's ass, too?" He mocked a bow. "Busy lady."

He hit more than one nerve with that one. She positively seethed. "Screw you, 
Fox Mulder."

"Here?"

Sauceda popped the back door open and leaned in. "Hey, kids, how's it going?"

"I'd rather screw *him*," Fowley hissed as the pathologist plopped in 
innocently.

Mulder shrugged. "Go ahead. Shouldn't take him long. Anyone else you want to add 
to your list?"

She gave Mulder a glare hot enough to fuse bronze but remained silent, eyes 
resolutely forward as Purdue opened his door. The ASAC leaned in and paused, 
wary eyes rolling over the tension in Fowley's shoulders and ending at Mulder's 
languid smile. Sauceda gave him a lost shrug.

"Whatever he's done this time," Purdue growled. "I really do *not* want to hear 
about it."

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

11:37 AM. Embassy Suites Hotel. North of Georgetown.

Purdue went through the lobby first, checking last-minute details, assuring that 
everyone was in position. Mulder shook his head at the continuing series of 
delays. Just when had this operation gotten so completely out of hand? The 
transfer should have been simplicity itself: rent a couple of rooms and haul the 
luggage in, for Chrissake. Instead, Purdue had agents manning the security 
cameras, running background checks on hotel personnel and inspecting the laundry 
service. Mulder honestly couldn't fault him on the precautions, though. 
Sisyphus' body count was intimidating and with two Federal agents already to her 
credit, the ASAC was taking no chance that she wasn't up to taking out a few 
more. Purdue wasn't just protecting Mulder anymore; no one had any illusions on 
that score.

Mulder was escorted to the atrium via the side door: nothing obtrusive, everyone 
walking casually, Fowley the only agent remaining at his side. Their point man 
strolled several yards ahead of them as though he'd simply walked in on his own. 
Sauceda followed well behind Mulder, another stag guest. A third agent tagged 
after the pathologist, pausing to inspect an island of plants, calm, unhurried, 
a businessman with a few minutes to spare.

Just to keep up appearances, Mulder took Fowley's arm, furnishing the room with 
a lazy grin. The muscles of Fowley's arm tightened beneath her jacket but she 
didn't pull away and her smile never faltered. 

The covert unit joined Purdue in the elevator, just a bunch of strangers 
slipping into a convenient elevator, riding to their respective floors. The 
elevator itself was glass, providing an undisturbed view of the atrium and the 
open floors of rooms above. There seemed to be no halls in the building: each 
room was accessible by the long balcony-hall that ran around each floor and 
overlooked the atrium itself. For visual access, the layout was ideal. One or 
two men in the lobby could view practically every unit in the building. Mulder 
glanced over his shoulder, granting Purdue a respectful nod. The ASAC didn't 
respond and Mulder faced forward, slipping his arm around Fowley's waist, just 
for Purdue's benefit. She stiffened but didn't protest further. Mulder let his 
thumb swirl over her waist, humming "Honky Tonk Women" softly as they waited for 
their floor to ding.

The Embassy Suites Hotel might not have been the finest digs in Washington, but 
it was better than most of the dives Mulder had slept in in recent months. Each 
accommodation was a series of suites: sitting room with a little nook 
masquerading as a kitchenette, bathroom accessible from a discrete hall, and 
finally a bedroom. A real three-star jobby, just like Lenny had promised.

Purdue had reserved three suites on the third floor, each under a different 
name. The idea was to settle Mulder in the center suite and flank him with the 
two remaining units. This would provide a protective buffer of sorts: the rooms 
to the left serving as a command center, the unit to the right providing a place 
for the assigned agents to recoup when necessary-- all without disturbing the 
much-lauded profiler.

Someone, however, had decided the debriefing should be brought to Mulder. The 
door of Mulder's suite opened to Purdue's specific knock and Mulder found 
himself swallowed up by an assembly of agents. They greeted him with handshakes 
and solemn welcomes. Purdue, Sauceda and Fowley were left on the balcony to wait 
out the crush, the two other agents in the escort dispersing to their respective 
positions in the adjoining rooms.

The sitting room had a table and it was piled with papers, maps, drawings. 
Personnel spilled out around it, claiming chairs and slapping one another for 
knee room on the sofa. With all the seating taken, more agents had plopped up on 
the sink cabinet in the nook, or propped themselves against the walls. Mulder 
divided his time between trying to be sociable and counting heads. They'd left 
one man in the garage, two agents had been lounging downstairs as they'd come 
in-- and here were another dozen agents... Jeezus, surely this was just for the 
transport. Purdue wasn't stupid enough to expect the Bureau to put up with this 
kind of personnel drain--

Mulder knew most of those present, had worked with each at some point in his 
short career. They'd gained his respect and, apparently, he'd done some small 
favor to gain theirs. It was odd having them all assembled like this, knowing 
that he, for once, was the object of their case, rather than merely a colleague. 
He wondered how many had volunteered for this assignment. How many were donating 
their time.

Everyone was friendly, solicitous, but suitably sedate. Gregg and Mitchell were 
foremost on their minds, of course, and Mulder couldn't meet Purdue's eyes 
without blushing, ashamed suddenly of his childishness in the elevator. No one 
else seemed to notice, though. Ten-year veterans rose to offer the rookie a 
seat, proffer a handshake, nod respectfully. Samuel Lurie made a point of 
pounding Mulder's back, speaking some nonsense designed to be encouraging. Word 
was, Lurie was bucking for Deputy Assistant Director. And that he'd probably get 
it, too. He pumped Mulder's hand with such abandon that the profiler briefly 
glanced around for a camera, certain he'd wandered into some kind of photo op. 
Lurie seemed sincere enough, however, if that meant anything. 

The truth was, Mulder was speechless before all the nerve-wracking kindness, 
uncertain of his role. He was the odd man out, he felt, a corpse resurrected at 
his own funeral, trying to mingle with the distant cousins, the forgotten 
friends come to bury him. He declined all offers to sit and retired to the far 
corner of the room, content to leave the spotlight for whoever the hell wanted 
it. Fowley had made herself at home, settled on the arm of the sofa, her long 
legs folded serenely, her jacket unbuttoned, a conspicuous attraction: the only 
female in a room rank with testosterone. She seemed quite at home, Mulder noted.

Purdue outlined their course of action. The shift schedule was fairly simple-- 
three agents would remain on site at all times, one in Mulder's suite, one in 
the lobby with a view of every floor, and one in the security office monitoring 
the camera feeds. No one would be expected to be on duty for more than six hours 
at a stretch. Mulder's fears of overkill were relieved, at least. Every agent 
onsite would have a closed-frequency walkie-talkie and a cell phone. There were 
set signals and codes, check-ins scheduled at irregular intervals, all the 
standard procedures for witness protection. Everyone was playing this one by the 
book. Purdue did the standard disclaimer of full Bureau support, et cetera, as 
well as the blessings of the US Marshal's office: murder of a Federal officer 
was a capital offense even if the Supreme Court had rescinded the death penalty. 
The only injustice was they wouldn't be able to sentence Sisyphus twice.

Q and A time rolled around quickly, everyone crowding the table to receive their 
respective assignments. Mulder wasn't too surprised to learn that no one had 
thought to give him anything to do. Just staying alive seemed to be the most 
they expected him to manage. He understood the logic but it was wounding all the 
same. He skirted the crowd, mumbling something he hoped was appropriately 
grateful, and retreated to the bedroom. No one seemed to mind, too kind to 
inquire. Too busy. Besides, Wayne and Sandidge had turned up with lunch: 
Kentucky Fried Chicken and Mickey D's.

Sauceda wasn't letting his partner off so easily, though. He followed Mulder 
down the little hall, the greasy bag in his hand smelling suspiciously of Big 
Mac and Fries. Mulder stepped into the bedroom without bothering to turn on the 
light. He glanced around, gaining his bearings while keeping his back to 
Sauceda. He just didn't think he could handle any detailed conversations at the 
moment. Sauceda remained behind him, waiting patiently in the door.

"You gonna take that nap now, Marty?"

"Hum?"

"You know. You said earlier that you wanted to sleep--"

Mulder was grateful that he'd kept his back turned. He paled dramatically, could 
feel the blood rushing from his face, leaving him light-headed. He ducked back 
into the hall, brushing past Sauceda and excusing himself to the bathroom 
abruptly, not trusting himself to answer further. Sauceda said nothing but 
Mulder didn't bother trying to close the door before relieving himself. Making a 
scene was the last thing he wanted right now after all. 

When he emerged, however, Sauceda was gone, certainly an unexpected turn of 
events. Mulder glanced around the bedroom, assuming at first that he simply 
hadn't noticed him. His journal was on the night table, next to an extra large 
Coke and the bag containing his lunch. The felt tip pen lay atop the little 
book, a flag of truce, an impulsive act of grace. Mulder crossed the room to 
touch it gingerly, needing to reassure himself of its reality and the 
brotherhood it implied.

Behind the bag, next to the lamp, was a photo in a frame-- the picture from his 
desk: Samantha and a much younger version of himself standing beneath the tree 
at his family's house in Chilmark. So many years ago. A lifetime. His hand 
trembled as he reached out to touch the photo but he didn't complete the 
gesture, hand frozen in mid-air, fingers extended. His own confident smile 
mocked him from the frame, his young, unwounded face, Samantha's assured eyes 
beside him. The lamp shone down upon the glass, creating a flash of hazy light 
that obliterated her pigtails, her chin, her chest. She seemed to float there 
within the glossy paper, like those surreal photos people take in old cemeteries 
and try to pass off as evidence of ghosts.

"Fox is home!" He could hear the words, the soft lisp of Sam's voice echoing in 
his memory. "Fox will fix it." He heard her light, quick tread as she sought 
him, weary of the futile efforts of their less-than-mechanically inclined 
father. And Fox-- irritated, impatient, secretly delighted-- would wait for her 
to find him and present her latest victim: the wounded Barbie doll, the loose 
shoe skate... 

Mulder's hand dropped as a fist against his thigh, pushed against the wounds 
there until the physical pain obliged him and overrode the throbbing in his 
head. 

Christ. He never carried photos with him, Sauceda knew that. What would possess 
Lenny to pack such an item? 

Hell. Mulder knew why. Lenny thought he was doing him a favor: Mulder had been 
run out of his home, so Sauceda was doing his determined best to make him 
comfortable here. A photo. His journal. 

*No ties or shoestrings, though. And no belt. Don't forget the belt, Fox. 
Jeezus.*

Mulder couldn't fault the man, much as he wanted to. Sauceda understood loss, 
certainly. Unlike Mulder, he had lost both parents. Mulder himself, though 
embittered by the disappearance of a sister, couldn't conceive of such an 
enormity. But sometimes, watching Lenny's face, Mulder wondered if Sauceda could 
comprehend the turmoil of *inexplicable* loss. The horror of just not knowing. 
Mulder had asked once and Sauceda had tried to explain the heartache of losing a 
father to cancer; the tragedy of a mother dead from a brief illness and the 
subsequent ringing of his phone in a distant motel room. 

It was like trying to explain color to a man born blind.

Was there a disparity in the experience of grief, Mulder wondered? Did each man 
feel it differently? How could you tell, how did you measure suffering? Did it 
come in flavors like ice cream, lingering on the soul like quinine on the 
tongue? If it were so, who could say that they truly comprehended the pain 
another? And would Mulder *want* Sauceda to know his loss if it meant inflicting 
still more agony, in new varieties, upon his friend? Was Mulder's need to be 
understood so vital? Was Sisyphus right? Was he everything she was? Just as 
great a monster even if his talents were yet unexpressed?

Until Kay, Mulder had known death only vicariously: through bereaved spouses as 
they were questioned in police stations. Through parents waiting to claim their 
children at the morgue when he was finally done with the bodies. He had had no 
first-hand experience of death's unrelenting hand; instead, Mulder's rage was 
against life's uncertainty. In his visions, there was no hope of a bright heaven 
where Sam smiled, at rest. Every day, he woke to one simple fact: she was 
simply, unaccountably, not there. Kay's death had been a revelation, a look into 
another layer of hell. 

Still hell, though. All the same. 

He switched off the lamp, watching the photo blur into shadows, and sank to the 
edge of the bed. He was just too burdened to stand any longer. He'd been 
thinking of the knife for the better part of an hour. Lenny's little penknife. 
Missing it. It had lent him a certain level of control over his life, however 
destructive. And here he had surrendered it, giving his life away to another, a 
near stranger. Were things so bleak that he no longer trusted himself with 
himself? Mulder didn't honestly know. He'd told too many lies too long, mostly 
to himself, concealed his darkest thoughts too deeply to decipher what was his 
heart and what was simply more layers of bullshit. He rubbed at his face. Hell, 
he'd need an emotional backhoe just to find himself if he ever actually had the 
guts to go looking--

His head hurt. The room was permeated with the odor of cooked meat, sickening if 
he allowed himself to think about it. He retrieved the bag dully, grimaced at 
its contents. Burger, double meat, double cheese, pickles no onions and an extra 
large order of fries. He'd made a promise, and Sauceda, apparently, intended to 
make the most of it. 

"Clever, Lenny."

Mulder dropped the fries back in the bag and took the biggest bite possible from 
the burger. He chewed it just long enough to choke it down, then took another. 
Between determination and Diet Coke, duty was served within a few minutes. He 
dropped the ketchup-stained wrapper into the bag and pitched it onto the dresser 
for Sauceda to inspect later. Lenny didn't really expect him to eat the fries. 
There was a limit even to honor, after all.

The voices in the next room rose briefly, fell. Mulder recognized Douglass, and 
Heller, Douglass' arch nemesis in the theory of testimonial evidence. Two better 
investigators couldn't be found anywhere, but in the same room, shaken, not 
stirred, they were a Molotov cocktail looking for a match. Purdue should have 
known better; well, the ASAC would have his hands full for a while. 

 Mulder lay back on the bed, trying not to think about why he should be so 
 tired. The burger was lead in his stomach but at least it seemed willing to 
 stay down without an argument. The voices were quieter suddenly, scarcely a 
 steady drone down the little hall, one long hum just slightly deeper than the 
 whisper of the air vent above his head. The room glowed serenely with 
 drape-filtered sunlight, warm amber and speckled with gold. Mulder kicked off 
 his shoes, and stared for a while at the television across the room. He made no 
 move to turn it on.





Footsteps padded in the hall, shoes scuffing softly against carpet. Mulder 
turned his head away but there was no need. The bathroom door clicked shut in 
the next instant and he stopped holding his breath. In the sitting room, the 
television blared. There was a volley of protests and it muted abruptly to a 
more sociable level. The artificial voices had the unhurried pace of a news 
broadcast. Some kind of announcements, weather or sports.

Mulder was unaccountably tired but his brain demonstrated no willingness to shut 
down. Too many memories, too much undone, unsaid. He should be putting it all 
down in his journal, as much of it as he could manage, anyway, nailing down his 
observations in some location other than his brain. This was the true purpose of 
the journal, after all: a kind of itinerant priest, receiving his confessions, 
offering no absolutions. But now the empty pages mocked him even from across the 
bed. There was no peace for him. There would be no coming to terms, and he had 
to face the fact. His whole life had been split down the middle now. Twice. 
Before, Mulder had divided his life in terms of Sam's disappearance: things that 
had come before her loss, as opposed to the events that occurred after. Now, the 
After was further broken down: the long interminable struggle that was his life 
Before Kay; and the waking death that was After Kay.

His chest thudded ominously, a warning, a threat. Mulder could feel his heart 
beneath his fingers as his hand lay across his chest, swore he could feel his 
lungs exchanging oxygen with his blood cells. Life was strange. His life was, 
anyway. Before Kay-- well, before Shreveport, anyway-- Mulder had possessed an 
almost inhuman ability to shut off emotionally, step back, at least for a while, 
and deal with the grievous and the dire. It was a talent he'd acquired early, 
from somewhere, and it had often worried him. The Bureau's training had enhanced 
it, his instructors lauding it. And still it had bothered him. Didn't the fact 
that he could shut himself away so brutally, even just temporarily-- didn't that 
make him inhuman, somehow? A cold-hearted son of a bitch? But no one had seemed 
to understand the question.

God. Patterson would be laughing his ass off. Mulder could just hear him: "So, 
you're a cold-hearted son of a bitch, Mulder. At least you're a sane one." It 
was one of Patterson's credos. Right below the one that read: "Homicide 
investigators answer to God-- and he's already pissed." 

But Mulder's question remained: did sanity have any value if you lost your soul 
trying to maintain it? Patterson hadn't been able to answer that one, either. 
Had cussed Mulder soundly for asking. There'd been uncertainty in the man's eyes 
though, and a fair measure of fear.

Right now, Mulder had no hope for answers. What he really wanted was a Valium. 
Just a quick shot of... something, anyway, to keep his heart in his chest. He 
could ask. Sauceda wouldn't deny him, certainly, but it would hurt the old man. 
Sauceda had problems of his own now, with Imelda possibly running for her life. 
He didn't need to be worrying about Mulder anymore. Hell, let Sauceda think he 
was healing, that things were starting to turn around for him. Mulder owed him 
that much.

He tried to quiet himself, stretching, tightening major muscle groups one at a 
time then relaxing them with concentrated effort. His body only half listened, 
however. His muscles contracted well enough but flatly refused to ease, denying 
him physical rest even as his mind refused the comforts of sleep.

Trying another tack, Mulder allowed his thoughts to free fall, passing 
unmolested across his frontal lobe, not lingering long enough to assign 
themselves any kind of emotive quality. Memory assailed him, however, in full 
color, overwhelmingly vivid. Months of work, bodies swirled in his mind's eye, 
piecemeal and disordered: a dock foreman in Baytown shot point blank in the 
face. A twelve-year old dug up in Memphis, her hands and feet discovered four 
months later in St. Louis. The toddler Mulder had never recovered, twelfth 
victim in the Shreveport serial killings, her body buried somewhere in the four 
million tons of concrete that now composed the Red River dam. 

The bathroom door fumbled open, the footsteps retreating back to the sitting 
room, accompanied by Lurie's booming voice. To Mulder, however, the voices and 
the television had become a continuous, indecipherable blur, accompanying music 
for the holocaust roaring in his head. An occasional snatch of conversation 
would become distinguishable, only to be overridden by another, a disjointed 
Babel impossible to translate. It took effort to remember that the voices 
belonged to someone, men who stood ready to take a bullet for him. Just because 
they had been asked. Like Mitch had. Like Gregg-- 

A soft feminine laugh floated through the open bedroom door, quite clear. 
Echoing. Mulder turned away to his side, trying to shut it away. His hip ached 
at the action, burning beneath him, a bruising from Sauceda's needles: B-12 
injections hurt worse than tranquilizers, he'd discovered. He ignored the pain, 
busy swearing at Purdue beneath his breath. 

The laugh repeated, completely unaffected this time, genuinely delighted. Mulder 
flung his arm over his head. His face twisted in grief and his body went rigid 
in his efforts to crush back the pain, the tears. One hand clawed at the 
bedspread, twisting it up and grinding it to his chest. His other hand was 
clenched so tightly his nails drew blood, unnoticed. His legs kicked, pulled up 
to his chest then kicked away again almost spasmodically. 

Mulder's struggle, however, was absolutely silent. An occasional gasp and the 
ragged breath that shook him from head to foot-- only these betrayed his agony. 
When he felt he could not possibly contain himself any longer, he buried his 
face between the pillows to muffle his sobs. And wished that he could smother 
there.

The laughter, the muted bickering and the best-laid plans of the men beyond the 
wall were a separate reality, nonexistent. Grief took everything he had, 
everything he was. He wore himself out with his efforts to contain its fury to 
this room alone and after a long while, his body simply could take no more. 
Still gasping sporadically, he slipped into sleep, fitful, arduous, fists 
clenched tightly as his mind continued to rail against the horror that had 
become his life. 

It wasn't until Mulder was finally breathing steadily that Purdue stepped back 
from the door.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX 

Part 21 of 27: Sight-reading Braille

...."'Old fool,' 

I say, 'what living man would wear your suit? You sew for monsters, or sew for 
no one.' He glances up, blue eyes still squinting: ....'I sew an endless suit to 
clothe the mist and keep it warm and give it any shape I can. My son, my son, 
here, please put it on.'" --Irving Feldman. "Family History."

 



Thursday, May 19, 1988. 2:22 PM. J. Edgar Hoover Building. Freight Elevator to 
the Basement Level.

"Aw, come on. She's gotta be kidding..." 

Sauceda peered from the open elevator into the gloom of the corridor stretching 
beyond. The overhead fluorescents were the economical low-watt variety, great 
for the national economy, no doubt, but not good for much else. And only half of 
the lights scattered down the hall were even on at all. The air conditioning 
didn't seem to be operating on this floor, either; the basement was sweltering. 
Humidity weighted the heated air, and Sauceda's lungs labored to draw it in. He 
patted his pocket for the key Dorothy had handed him, trying to reassure himself 
that she had made no mistake. 

Dorothy Bahnsen had been with the Bureau even longer than Sauceda. By a few 
years, anyway. She'd worked records when every file in the Bureau could be 
housed in cabinets along the walls of the bullpen. And she'd developed the 
records system to keep track of those files when they'd grown too cumbersome for 
simple alphabets. Through the years, Dorothy had supervised the transition of 
records from handwritten index cards, to computer punch cards, to microfilm, and 
now into massive databases. Her current project was the installation of a 
computerized scanning system, guaranteed to render every file in the Bureau 
instantly accessible-- from anywhere in the world-- with the touch of a button. 
And the proper password, of course. The Bureau's case files were Dorothy's life, 
her children, and she boasted that she had touched-- at least once-- every 
record ever filed in the Bureau Headquarters. Few people disputed the claim.

Sauceda had contacted her the morning before, slipping off to Mulder's bedroom 
and keeping his voice low. He needed anything, he'd explained, that might shed 
some light on the disappearance of Samantha Mulder and the subsequent 
investigation. But he didn't want a trail of file requests that could be traced 
back to him. Dorothy assured him that she would fulfill the request herself, and 
set to work immediately, discreetly sending data searches into every file system 
and database at her disposal. 

Most turned up zilch. The National Center for Missing and Exploited Children 
coughed up a file on the case but it was far from the usual NCMEC standards. The 
Center hadn't been founded until 1984, but they'd done a fair job of developing 
files on earlier cases, in an attempt to centralize records. Still, the Mulder 
report was unusual in its brevity. You'd think when a man worked for the State 
Department there'd be a little more interest shown when his daughter vanished 
from the face of the earth, leaving her brother on his knees in the middle of 
the living room, completely catatonic. Maybe Purdue had been onto something. 
Maybe Skinner's cigarette-smoking friend *did* have something up his sleeve--

Sauceda's only other reference had brought him here to the basement. It wasn't 
anything Dorothy had discovered, though. Yesterday afternoon, still locked up 
tight in apartment 42, Mulder's unrelenting stare devouring the television, 
Sauceda had pulled out his much-thumbed copy of Baez' report. He had the paper 
all but memorized by now, but he was desperate for some kind of help, some 
glimpse, however brief, into the working of Mulder's mind. Or at least someone's 
intelligent attempts at interpreting it. The psychological analysis had to hold 
some kind of key. Something they had all missed.

Sauceda was proud of his version of the report-- but secretly. He kept it hidden 
in a pocket of his suitcase, squirreled away like miser's gold, fingering it 
occasionally to reassure himself of its reality. His copy, after all, was not 
the pristine, sanitized, officially-sanctioned summary submitted to Blevins and 
Skinner and filed so methodically into Mulder's personnel records. No, Sauceda 
had obtained his copy directly from the source-- "borrowing" Baez's draft from 
the man's motel room in Shreveport and availing himself of a copier at the 
pharmacy up the street. His partner's life duplicated in blinding pulses of 
light at five cents per page. 

There were discrepancies between the draft and the final report. Concerns 
carefully edited, a few minor points added, but for what reasons, Sauceda had no 
clue. Baez had pages of notes from his sessions with Mulder, a kind of 
fact-finding question-and-answer procedure that had surely done little to help 
the young man come to terms with the escalating body count in Shreveport. From 
what Sauceda could tell, most of the questions attempted to document childhood 
memory lapses-- Mulder could remember birthday parties, but not those who came. 
He recalled men visiting with his father at all hours, but never seemed to have 
seen their faces. He could remember sports scores, games played before he was 
even born, but his entire senior year of high school was a blank-- The subject 
seemed to fascinate Baez. For that matter, it fascinated Sauceda and he'd been 
furious when Baez failed to comment on the subject in his official report. Had 
the man simply decided that the subject was irrelevant? That the young 
profiler's carefully veiled anxieties were moot? Perhaps Baez had attempting to 
curb his own personal curiosity in favor of a more balanced assessment. Maybe he 
decided that detailed documentation of dream states, Mulder's astounding leaps 
of logic and the mental shorthand that generated them, were beyond the scope of 
law enforcement and bureaucrats.

Sauceda couldn't ask, of course, not without revealing his own duplicity, his 
theft. But the report had burned into his brain over the past several months, 
intruding at odd times during cases, and even during his sleep. He'd found 
himself reciting whole paragraphs whenever he'd glanced over to find Mulder 
staring out the window of a plane or a car, dark eyes bright but distant, that 
formidable brain arranging and rearranging the world fleeing past his vision. 
The unedited report was cramped, handwritten notes lining all margins, mostly 
indecipherable. But even the legible ones were couched in language that shed 
little light on the man entrusted to watch Sauceda's back, who shared his meals 
and slept in the next motel room.

This time, however, in Mulder's apartment, one notation had suddenly become 
quite clear. So clear that Sauceda marveled that he hadn't noticed it before. 
But there it was on the left margin of the third page: a letter and a dash 
followed by a short string of numbers. The standard format of a Bureau file 
number. Sauceda'd called it in to Dorothy that afternoon, just on the dubious 
hope that it might mean something to her. 

She'd laughed at him. "And just what kind of hocus pocus do they have you 
investigating, Dr. Sauceda?" 

She always called him by his title-- on duty at least. Always so proper. Always 
so carefully professional when other eyes were around to notice, other ears. It 
was the *way* she said the words that was seductive as hell, like the way she 
had of glancing at him over her glasses. She could still make his southern 
hemisphere burn, even after all these years and he'd been grateful she couldn't 
see his blush through the phone. 

"I dunno, Dot. I was hoping you could tell me."

"Well, sir"-- again that warm purr-- "when they send a man of science to pull an 
X File, I think maybe it's time you retired."

And then she'd explained it to him. X Files. Paranormal psychobabble and UFO 
baloney. For years she'd filed them under "U" for "Unsolved/Unexplained" until 
she'd simply run out of room in the file cabinet and moved on to the mostly 
unused letter "X." Her own personal contribution, she'd confessed, and Sauceda 
could hear her pride through the line. But in recent years, the files had been 
banished to the basement despite her objections, a reflection of the high regard 
the Bureau brass held for this nonsense. 

Now, standing in the poorly filtered basement, Sauceda wondered why the brass 
even bothered. Why keep track of cases that didn't even warrant a decent share 
of the electric bill?

He sighed, eyes aching in the flickering fluorescents, his head pounding from 
lack of sleep. This was a wild goose chase and he had only himself to blame. His 
partner was locked down in a hotel room like some caged animal, and here Lenny 
stood: fiddling around in the basement looking for crap so ridiculous no one 
even wanted to admit it existed. Still, it was the best lead he had at the 
moment. 

Talk about a sorry state of affairs-- 

"Third door," Dorothy had told him solemnly. "Third door on the left from the 
elevator." 

Actually locating a third door, however, was quite another matter. File boxes 
and office discards littered the corridor on both sides, some of the debris 
stacked to the ceiling. Sauceda found the first door blocked by cases of copier 
paper, no doubt hoarded away by some over-achiever department head. He almost 
missed the second door, noticing it in passing only as a knob sticking out 
beside some oversize file cabinets.

The third door, however, was just past a short corner, unblocked. Sauceda 
grinned at his good fortune. Apparently, not many people bothered to come this 
far down the hall, not that he could blame them. An old oak desk had been pushed 
against the wall across from the door. It was littered with boxes of unused 
folders and envelopes, an ancient stapler. There was a rather foul looking 
coffee cup on the desk's one free corner, someone's ash tray still filled with 
cigarette butts. Either the rats were getting bigger or some hardy soul had made 
himself a quiet break area.

Dorothy's key slipped into the lock easily enough. The odor of dust and old 
paper, sulfuric in the heat, burned down his throat as he pushed the door open. 
Sauceda laid his hand over his mouth and nose but it didn't help much. Within 
seconds, he was sneezing convulsively; he left the key in the lock to dig for 
his handkerchief. Dorothy had warned him: the basement was the deep dark hell of 
filedom, where bad files go to die. Sauceda hadn't thought it wise to laugh at 
that bit of information. Dorothy had an odd way of being serious when he least 
expected it.

The lighting, when he found the switch, wasn't much better here than it had been 
in the hall. An old drafting table dominated one corner of the room, along with 
an even more ancient typewriter. Another ashtray, used, sat beside it, along 
with a neat stack of typing paper. The room rambled on disjointedly to his 
right, a few dusty tables shoved together piecemeal in another corner, shelves 
disappearing into the darkness beyond the scope of the light. 

Two file cabinets sat alone against the wall facing him. Sauceda's brows drew 
into a single concentrated line and he peered into the darker recesses of the 
room. Nothing. He regarded the cabinets again, thoroughly disappointed. Hell. 
Two lousy cabinets and they went to the trouble to shove them way off down here? 
These were just files, for crying out loud, not harbingers of a plague. Sauceda 
had dealt with bureaucracy for the better part of his life-- it just never 
seemed to get any clearer to him.

He fumbled in his pocket for the scrap of paper with his file number: "X-40253" 
and began his search with the left-hand cabinet, the top drawer. The cabinet was 
full, the folders packed in so tightly he could scarcely get his fingers in to 
search the file tabs. He jerked his hand back several times as the folders bit 
in defense-- damned paper cuts-- but persistence paid off soon enough. He found 
the file in the third drawer and cursed the dim light, squinting to verify the 
number.

Well. It looked like his number but the stamp was faded, and his own shadow made 
it even more difficult to read. That "0" might be an "8." That "3" might be 
another one.... Sauceda struggled with the file, trying to pull it free from the 
crush of the surrounding folders. He managed to get it halfway loose before his 
knuckles cramped up. He massaged the offended hand, frowning at the label, head 
held awkwardly to keep from blocking the light. If this wasn't what he'd come 
for he was going to be *very* pissed. 

"X-40253: Subject: Samantha T. Mulder. I.D. 378671." Hey. All right, then--

Then Sauceda frowned in earnest. He'd come down here expecting to simply find 
another slim folder, a duplication of the information filed with the National 
Center for Missing and Exploited Children. But this file was a thick one, 
several inches deeper than the NCMEC's. 

So what the hell was it doing squirreled away down here with all the crap files? 


Sauceda blinked, trying to adjust his eyes as he fanned through the papers in 
the folder-- and then he grinned. Well, of course this file was thicker-- there 
was another folder tucked inside it, creating the bulk of the paperwork. No 
doubt just someone's careless filing. Yep. A wild goose chase.

His headache was getting worse. Hell, it was time to get back to Marty. He 
didn't like the idea of being away too long, he didn't care what Purdue said 
about keeping an eye on the kid himself. No one knew Marty like he did and-- 

Sauceda yanked the file free, but lost his grip just as it came loose from the 
drawer. The folder thumped to the floor, the shock of its impact echoing in the 
tombed silence, papers and contact sheets and glossy x-ray film skittering free 
across the concrete. 

*Clumsy old man...*

Sauceda knelt, gathering papers guiltily. Dorothy was going to have his hide. Of 
course, he could always tease her about her sloppy file clerks. He glanced at 
the misfiled folder, trying to determine which papers went where. "X-71009." My. 
Someone really *had* been doing some shabby filing. 

Sauceda's eyes traveled further down, however, just a scant inch, to the name 
below the number. The faded letters knocked the air from his lungs. His knuckles 
slammed down hard against the concrete as he struggled to remain upright.

"Subject: Fox William Mulder. 10-13-61. I.D. 292544."

And such a nice thick file, too-- 

Sauceda's hands trembled as he scrambled for forms and photos, trying to view 
them in the miserable lighting, unable to wait until he could see adequately, 
unable to trust his legs to stand. He flipped the folder open, scattering its 
contents into a collage around his knees.

It was the oddest case file Sauceda had ever come across. There were no police 
reports, no crime scene photos, no witness statements or search warrants. 
Instead, the papers seemed to document a series of rather oddly divergent tests. 
Sauceda settled on his haunches, flipping through pages hesitantly, recognizing 
the significance of scarcely half of what he perused: EEG's, Rorschach 
psychological evaluations, REM patterns, something labeled "Kirlian and ESP-er 
Data." He held a sheet of X-ray film to catch the light across the room and 
recognized the disjointed dashes of DNA imaging. 

Pages of them. 

And there were pages of other things, too, each with unfathomable labels: 
Ganzfeld, DMILS.... One page provocatively declared itself 
Precognition/Clairvoyance DAT. Sauceda noted a frequently recurring reference to 
something called MKULTRA and Project Ultra stamped along the upper right hand 
corners. The DNA film was labeled "PROJ. MRKURY," an unassuming stamp along the 
lower corner. Sauceda, lost in the overload of incomprehensible initials and 
terms, began looking for what he could understand and his eye focused on the 
dates of each report. His heart began to pound, banging in his ears as he 
scattered papers across the floor, scanning the forms, incredulous. 

The DNA testing was recent, covering a scant 3 years, but other dates went so 
far back, Marty must have been a toddler-- Sauceda wiped sweat from his brow and 
looked again. No. Younger, even. Some of them. Christ. The files chronicled a 
lifetime of tests conducted since birth. He noted a very recent date: Marty's 
trip to Georgetown for that gunshot wound last year.

God Almighty, but Marty hadn't said jack-- Sauceda pulled that set of papers 
loose: "REM Analysis" and "P/C DAT Followup." The subject, the report informed 
him dispassionately, had been dosed with Halcion following the testing. Sauceda 
shook his head, blinking to verify the dosage as the paper trembled in his hand: 
Halcion at that level was notorious for causing black-outs, short-term memory 
loss. There would have been no legitimate reason to subject a gunshot victim to 
that kind of drug, especially at that level-- 

Sauceda searched the papers again. There was a definite pattern: Mulder, younger 
and younger, tested, and dosed with various drugs that could erase the memory of 
that testing. These weren't physician's reports, he realized. They weren't even 
the credible records of researchers. The men who'd signed these forms were 
psychological rapists, vultures awaiting any opportunity to get Mulder in a 
medically fragile situation so they could perform a few more tests-- 

That was it, then. That was the reasoning behind the latest push to verify 
Mulder's stability. They weren't worried for him. The bastards needed some more 
blood. A few more EEG's-- 

A single name leapt at him from the page in his hand. It made his blood freeze.

"Rorschach Evaluation. Subject Age 12. Martha's Vineyard Hospital, Linton Lane, 
Oak Bluffs." Test results signed by a Dr. Heitz Werber, project psychologist. 
Followed by a letter requesting the assistance of a Dr. Emil Baez, psychiatrist.

He remembered the first meeting with Baez in Shreveport. The man introducing 
himself to Mulder, smiling, Mulder scanning him cautiously. With no hint of 
recognition. And Baez had said nothing. Like he hadn't *expected* Mulder to 
remember--

*Christ. God. Sacred Heart of Jesus--* 

"Drop something, Dr. Sauceda?"

Sauceda jerked at the silken voice from the door. He spun around painfully on 
his haunches and the hair stood up on the back of his neck at the sight of the 
man framed in the gloom.

Sauceda had never known his name but he recognized the craggy face well enough. 
That glacial gaze had been silent witness to Sauceda's assignment to Marty nine 
months ago, a solemn sentinel in the corner of Skinner's office as Patterson had 
detailed Sauceda's duties and rationalized Mulder's peculiar quirks. The 
stranger's silence, his snake-sure eyes, the way he flicked his cigarette 
ashes-- an overly finicky cat pronouncing judgment on some less-than-delectable 
morsel-- unnerved Sauceda even then. But neither Skinner nor Patterson had 
acknowledged his presence. It was as if he'd been invisible to all eyes save 
Sauceda's.

And the smoking bastard hadn't changed a bit. Sauceda wondered how long the man 
had been lingering in the shadows of *this* office.

 The man in the door smiled languidly. The action never reached his eyes, not 
 even to crinkle the wrinkles that much deeper. 

 "Find some interesting reading material, Dr. Sauceda?" The man sucked at his 
 drug of choice like it was some kind of oxygen delivery system. He took a 
 leisurely step into the room and Sauceda jerked to his feet, wiping his hands 
 on his jacket, seeking to be rid of whatever had attracted the attention of 
 this carrion-eater.





The smoking man continued to advance, however. Sauceda retreated steadily, 
uncertain why, but determinedly following his instincts, his training serving 
him well. His back hit the open drawer of the cabinet, slamming it shut. The 
noise was an explosion, echoing in the vaulted room and the other man stopped, 
one foot on a page of Mulder's file, an action calculated for casual accident. 
Sauceda didn't fool himself that anything this man did was accidental.

*He knew.* He knew about the file. Its contents. Its significance to Mulder-- 
Sauceda felt his blood rush to his feet as he accepted the realization, saw his 
comprehension register in the indifferent eyes behind the veil of smoke.

"Marty doesn't know." Sauceda's voice was small, he surprised himself that he 
had found his tongue at all. "He has no idea--"

The man smiled again; it looked like a gash in a death mask.

Sauceda's heart pounded ominously, his shirt sticking under his arms. He shook 
his head to clear it. It wasn't like he was being held at gunpoint, dammit-- "He 
thinks he's going crazy. And he's not. It's-- the spook--" he waved frantically 
at the scattered reports on the floor "--it's something that's been done to him. 
On purpose--"

Smokey clicked his tongue. It sounded vaguely obscene. 

"See here, Dr. Sauceda. You give us entirely too much credit." The cigarette 
waved the air, a lazy sweep, disregarding whole lives, executing nations. "Just 
what is it you propose we've done? Created some kind of mutant? A serial killer 
detector? A modern vampire slayer, perhaps?" Again, the self-indulgent smile. "I 
assure you that is all far from the facts. Still. We've had the occasional 
interesting side-effect, don't you think?"

Sauceda was breathing much too hard. "Just what the hell have you done to--"

"What we have or have not done is insignificant to this discussion, Dr. Sauceda. 
What *you* intend to do, however-- that would be the determining factor, now. 
Wouldn't you say?"

Another patient drag off the cigarette. The movement reminded Sauceda of a man 
delicately pulling the wings off a fly. Right now, he had entirely too much 
sympathy for the fly. The dark-suited man shrugged at Sauceda's silence, flicked 
ashes over the DNA data. 

"How's your wife, Dr. Sauceda? Imelda, isn't it? And that grandson of yours? 
Doing very well in school, I hear. Kindergarten, isn't it?" A tilt of that 
skullish head. "Such a bright young boy. So much promise."

Sauceda's knees buckled slightly but he refused to kneel. He heard the words 
well enough, though. Their meaning. And the words the man didn't bother to 
speak. 

"A shame," the stranger purred, "if something should happen to them... Tragic. 
And completely avoidable, of course."

Sauceda closed his eyes, opened them. Opened more than just physical eyes, saw 
more than just the day to day of his mundane life. Saw things too clearly for an 
old man just waiting on the bliss of a well-deserved retirement... 

The man regarding him noted that change as well and smiled contentedly.

"You needn't worry about your partner, Dr. Sauceda. Young Mulder will be just 
fine. I'll see to that." A slow solemn flexing of the mouth. The repetition of a 
vow. "I've seen to that for years."

Sauceda didn't remember the long trip back to his car, didn't remember even 
leaving the room, or what had become of Dorothy's key. And he didn't care. He 
was too numb to reason, too shaken to allow himself the luxury of concern. He 
stood shivering in the heat of the parking garage, laid a steadying hand on the 
hood of his car and vomited his fear beside the wheel.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

5:38 PM. Embassy Suites Hotel. Room 328.

Mulder woke to the sound of seed husks cracking in another room. He lay quite 
still, eyes closed under the crook of his arm, heartbeat lulled by the 
comforting noises of his dad in his study, calmly munching sunflower seeds. His 
own breathing echoed in the stillness-- silence so deep that the earth seemed 
uninhabited, only he and his father remained. Mulder smiled, reveling in the 
assurance that everything, finally, was okay. Everything would be better now.

Until he made the mistake of opening his eyes. And there it was waiting for him, 
as it did each time he woke: that gut-wrenching assurance that Samantha was not 
there, and that nothing was better and nothingwouldeverbebetteragain.

Sitting up was a struggle. Mulder was groggier than he would have expected 
following legitimate, undrugged sleep-- had just been too long without it, he 
conceded. The last vestiges of sunlight filtered through the drapes, heavily 
muted, the room one great shadow in the gathering evening. There was a blanket 
laying across him that he didn't recall having before. The discarded Mickey D's 
bag was gone from the dresser. His journal was untouched though, still on the 
little table, the pen exactly as it had been when he'd lain down, the photo 
beside it. Mulder shrugged himself free of the blanket and wobbled to the 
bathroom to rid himself of excess soda.

Finished with that necessity, Mulder spent a few extra minutes washing his 
hands. The water was cool and oddly comforting as it flowed across the scabs on 
his knuckles: old injuries from his impact with the mirror, new ones left by his 
struggle with Purdue. The memories of the encounters stung and he flexed his 
hands, concentrating on the sharp pangs of protest as the skin stretched, popped 
open. Rivulets of water tinted just the barest shade of pink. 

The persistent if irregular rustle-crack-silence in the next room was 
distracting and entirely too intriguing. He could hear the television again, 
too, muted voices, the occasional swell of mood music. Mulder splashed water on 
his face, moaned softly as the liquid flowed across his eyelids, cooling their 
incessant burning. More water-- he'd kill for a shower right now-- and his 
fingers found the barest hint of stubble along his jaw. Mulder glanced up to the 
mirror, to check the circles under his eyes, the pallor of his face. 

He glanced up into blank wall.

"Well. Fuck me."

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Purdue glanced up from the sofa as Mulder entered. The young man stumbled 
blearily, scrubbing his face dry with his hands. It might have been an amusing 
sight: Mulder with a serious case of bed head, his shirt askew and spotted with 
water-- Amusing, if the profiler didn't look like total hell otherwise: pale, 
ghost-gray, and about twenty pounds too damned thin. One knuckle oozed the 
barest bit of blood-- 

Mulder pulled his hands from his face, combing his finger through his hair, then 
reaching back to massage his neck. He glanced up into Purdue's eyes and the ASAC 
nodded and looked away quickly. Cats, Purdue had learned, don't like being 
stared at. It was a sign of aggression, inciting antagonism, and Mulder was as 
bad as any cat he'd ever met. The ASAC cracked another peanut and popped it into 
his mouth, content to resume his television viewing. He sat comfortably, big 
feet propped on the coffee table, big bag of roasted peanuts in his lap. A big 
plastic bowl was at the far end of the sofa and he tossed empty shells at it as 
he munched. He missed, though. A lot. Not that he cared much.

Mulder stood a moment, wavering slightly on the balls of his feet. Purdue took 
him in peripherally, Mulder's hazel gaze boring holes through his thin veneer of 
indifference. The profiler was probably considering giving Purdue a piece of his 
mind. It'd serve the ASAC right, no doubt. Taking mirrors off walls-- 

Mulder plopped into the nearest chair, however, without so much as a grunt. 
Purdue covered his surprise by readjusting the remote balanced on his knee, 
cracking another peanut. Mulder was to his right, slightly ahead, well into the 
ASAC's field of peripheral vision. The back of Mulder's chair curved just 
slightly though, and when Mulder leaned back, Purdue would be visible only as a 
pair of shoes propped on the coffee table. Mulder might even convince himself 
that he was just as invisible to Purdue-- if Purdue was careful. The ASAC wasn't 
out to be deliberately deceitful but every man needed at least the *illusion* of 
privacy. And right now, unfortunately, illusions were about all that Mulder 
could afford. 

Purdue's chosen channel had dredged up an old Humphrey Bogart movie, one where 
he had Lauren Bacall and a boat. Purdue couldn't quite place the film, but it 
seemed to have some semblance of a plot, a poor man's "Casablanca" as best he 
could tell, right down to the French Resistance and some of the cast. Mulder 
stared at the screen for a while. He even managed to focus on it occasionally. 
Purdue kept to his casual tranquility, and the profiler slowly relaxed into the 
confines of his chair, the muscles in his shoulders loosening, eyes half-closed, 
breathing slow and restful. Purdue realized that the silence between them was 
surprisingly comfortable. He blinked slowly, trying to determine when this state 
of affairs had developed. 

Mulder's eyes focused again. Bacall was trying to sing. She looked all of 
eighteen-- but in that provocatively mature way Hollywood seemed to paint all 
females back in the 'forties. She was sultry and leggy and built like a ton of 
bricks, but her singing voice was remarkably masculine, deep, and slightly 
off-key, with a husky, nearly monochromatic delivery that managed to be sexy as 
hell. Bogie was awfully impressed with it, too. Him and about half a bar full of 
sailors. Mulder leaned his head back as she droned, lost, apparently in the 
warmth of that impossible voice. His hands, lax upon the arms of his chair, 
trembled sporadically but he didn't seem to notice. Purdue didn't allow himself 
to stare. He'd hoped Mulder's nap had done the young man more good than this, 
though--

Bacall's lullaby was short-lived. Now she was lighting Bogie's cigarette-- and 
getting the same look from him that Mulder had given Fowley when she'd lit his 
this morning. Purdue tossed another peanut shell at his bowl. It hit the lamp on 
the end table and he didn't bother to retrieve it. 

"Sauceda's on his way back," the ASAC mumbled around his peanuts, sociable as if 
they'd been chatting all evening. "He's stopping off to get some dinner. Thought 
you might like some Chinese. Tso's chicken okay?"

Mulder nodded, not really focusing as he scanned the litter of Pepsi cans and 
candy wrappers on the coffee table. He didn't ask where Sauceda might be coming 
back from, Purdue noted. And why should he? They were in town, after all. Mulder 
probably figured Sauceda had gone home for a while.

"Where's Diana?"

Purdue glanced up, eyeing Mulder a little more sharply than necessary and 
mentally kicking himself for the reflex. Hell, it was just a question. Mulder 
ignored the look, and the ASAC concentrated on actually hitting his bowl with 
the next shell. 

"Diana's taking a nap. I asked her to take shift with you tonight. Hot Sauce 
sounded pretty well beat when he called in--"

"I meant what I said this morning," Mulder's growl was soft, still sleepy. "I 
don't *want* her here."

Purdue shrugged, refusing the challenge. "Fine. Then you got me."

"No!" 

Purdue paused, peanut midway to his mouth. Mulder had jerked to the edge of his 
seat with the word. Now he clawed the arms of his chair, pushing himself back 
behind his upholstered shield. 

"Sorry, Mulder. It's one or the other--"

"This place is lousy with agents," Mulder's voice was calculatedly calm. "And 
Sisyphus doesn't climb walls. I don't need anybody camped out in here with me."

"That's not the game plan--"

"The hell it isn't." Mulder was sitting forward again, fists clenched, but his 
focus resolutely on the television. "I'm a grown man, I don't need a freaking 
babysitter."

It wasn't babysitting, of course. It was policy. But Mulder had policy overrun 
his life too often lately to appreciate it much and they both knew it. Purdue 
wasn't playing the game of averted eyes and lackluster interest anymore, though. 


"You don't get left on your own, Agent. And you know damned well why."

Mulder blushed deeply, retreating into the confines of his chair. "Goddam--" he 
hissed.

"No, goddam you." Purdue slung his shell at the lamp without bothering to remove 
the nut. "You want me to treat you like a child? Lock your butt up someplace and 
stick someone else out here as bait to catch her with? I'm doing you the 
courtesy of letting you take an active part in your own defense, dammit. You 
want out of the loop altogether? Just open your mouth one more time. I'll slap 
you clear to Canada and we'll take this bitch without you." 

Mulder's jaw worked a minute, grinding over the words and Purdue suddenly 
reconsidered. The situation was clarifying itself to Mulder rapidly, that much 
was obvious. Purdue could see the gears turning from across the room. How could 
Mulder have been so clueless, though? Purdue had explained the plan to the 
profiler himself--

But that had been yesterday. And yesterday, Mulder hadn't even known his own 
name, let alone been able to appreciate the intricacies of their little trap. Or 
even remember there was a trap.

"Shit," Mulder glanced away, licking his lips. "You mighta told me we weren't 
just running," he whispered. It was a poor defense but apparently the only one 
he had at the moment. It was an admission, too, if Purdue needed one.

Purdue didn't, although he appreciated the gesture. The ASAC held his tongue, 
offering no defense for himself, no reprisals for Mulder. He rolled his current 
peanut across the inside of his cheek, sucking the salt from it, allowing the 
man in the chair time to recover. On the screen, Bogie was chatting with some 
fat man and not enjoying it much. He seemed to like it even less when Fatty's 
pal took a slap at Bacall. 

"Hell," Purdue shrugged finally, face solemn. "Who knows? Maybe we *are* just 
running. Sisyphus doesn't seem to want you directly, anyway. Just whoever 
happens to be around."

"And that's why I don't want Fowley here." The belligerence was back, but wary 
now. 

"And you'd say the same thing about anyone else I'd pair you up with." He spit a 
bit of stray shell off his tongue, wiped his hand across his mouth. "Problem is, 
Mulder, you just don't want anyone in the line of fire. Sauceda told me you're 
trying to get *him* off the case, too." He shook his head, watching the profiler 
grit his teeth. "You know, personally, I think we need Patterson on this case. 
Sisyphus'd be doing the Bureau a favor taking out that one." Mulder blinked at 
him owlishly and Purdue glanced away. The ASAC couldn't bring himself to 
apologize for the words, though. And he didn't particularly like what that said 
about him.

Mulder swore, still finding himself at square one. He combed at his hair again 
with frustrated fingers. "Okay. Fine. I can't be trusted. I deserve that. But I 
want Lenny here. No one else." Purdue shifted uncomfortably and Mulder's brows 
furrowed. "I want my *partner,*" he repeated obstinately.

The ASAC scrounged in his bag for another peanut, his tone carefully neutral. 
"You know, you might as well get used to the idea of a new partner--"

"He doesn't retire for another four months, dammit. You send him with Imelda or 
you leave him with me."

The ASAC chewed his peanut solemnly. It was a bitter little bastard but he 
swallowed it anyway. "Sauceda's tired, Mulder. You scare him. You know that?" 

Mulder looked away. He was breathing hard, suddenly, eyes wide like he was 
fighting some kind of impending hysteria. Purdue bit his lip. Great. Now the kid 
was on to panic attacks. Well, hell-- 

Mulder laid a fist against his chest, every pore in his body breaking out with 
sweat. Purdue hadn't expected the reaction and watched him numbly. Mulder hadn't 
expected it either, apparently, and was working hard to control it. Scooted 
tight against the back cushion, he leaned his elbow on the arm of the chair and 
rested his head on his hand, effectively shielding his face from Purdue. His 
hand shook violently. He swore under his breath, desperately focusing on the 
television: Bacall slamming doors and Bogie grinning like a Cheshire cat. Purdue 
chomped his peanuts furiously, allowing Mulder the illusion that his reaction 
had gone unnoticed. 

The attack passed within minutes. Mulder relaxed by degrees, cautiously 
releasing muscles held too tightly controlled, and Purdue's heart subsided back 
into its usual position in his chest. Purdue reached for another peanut, winced 
as the salt rubbed into cuts in his palm. He contemplated his hand dully: he'd 
been squeezing his fists so tight, his fingernails had bitten into the skin. He 
wiped the salt onto his pants leg.

"You okay, now?" 

Mulder nodded, still not removing the shield of his hand. 

Bogie's rummy pal was asking Bacall if she'd ever been bit by a dead bee. 
Jeezus, who did they get to write this crap? Purdue forced himself to crack 
another nut. There was soft *ping* across the room as the nut shot free and 
ricocheted against the television screen. Mulder glanced over at the sound, 
quickly away, then back again as he realized Purdue was watching the screen 
rather than staring at him.

"You know," the ASAC informed the television, "I used to have the damnedest 
nightmares as a kid." Mulder had no overt reaction to the statement other than 
to hold his breath. Purdue continued his confession without glancing at him. 
"I'd wake up shaking, vomiting sometimes. Just like you." That got a blink from 
the profiler. Purdue lick salt off his lips. "Used to... used to terrify me. I 
thought something was wrong. That I was losing my mind." He stared down into his 
peanut bag a minute, trying to re-orient himself. "I never told anyone, 'cept 
one night I screamed so loud it woke my dad." He grinned sheepishly up at the 
screen again. "My old man slept like a log most nights, but--" Purdue caught 
himself, sobered. "Anyway, he told me that dreams were just the answers to 
questions we didn't know to ask yet, you know? Just the mind turning things 
over. I think it's why I went into law enforcement. Because of the terrible 
things I would see in my dreams. I didn't want anyone to have to live through 
them. Maybe--" He glanced at Mulder, that calm, impenetrable face, too pale, one 
cheek, one eye lit blue by the glow of the television, the other in shadow-- 
Purdue jerked his head away, flushing furiously. "Shit. Look. I just-- Oh, hell, 
just forget it."

Mulder hadn't laughed though, had made no smart-ass remarks. It took Purdue a 
moment to register that fact. He glanced up to find the profiler watching him 
solemnly.

"What do you want?" Mulder asked.

Purdue shook his head. "I don't want anything from you, Mulder. I just need to 
know you're okay."

"I'm okay."

The ASAC nodded. "Yeah. I noticed that."

It was Mulder's turn to look away. God, but Purdue hated this tactile-less 
dance, this overly-polite psychological slaughter. Mulder's confrontation in the 
parking lot had been honest, at least: aggression, understandable under the 
circumstances, played out to a logical conclusion-- the impact of fist against 
bone. Reassuringly simple. So how had they wound up here? Purdue grunted. They 
were here because, despite all Purdue's assurances, the ASAC had simply become 
another Patterson in Mulder's life. The realization burned like the salt in his 
palm. The move to Violent Crimes had changed nothing-- not for Mulder. Purdue 
had no right to sit here like this, desperate to get into the young man's head, 
the one place on earth Mulder held sacred. It'd serve him right if Mulder pulled 
another gun on him. 

Still, reading human nature was the brick and mortar of Mulder's profession. If 
he didn't want to talk, then dammit, he wouldn't-- and he wouldn't let Purdue 
make him feel guilty about it, either. Purdue could respect that. 

"Look, son. I told Diana about your dreams. It'll be no surprise--"

"She thinks I've got some kind of ESP-er ability or some such crap. Is that what 
you think of me? That I've got some kind of microchip tuned into Mars, and 
little green men are feeding me clues from Serial Central? What did you do, Reg? 
Pull my records just to figure out how I passed the psych test to get into the 
Academy?"

"I don't think you're insane, Mulder--"

"No. You just think I'm subject to hallucinations and emotional breakdowns--" 
Mulder face altered as he spoke the words, as he recognized the proof in the 
trembling of his own hands. Purdue didn't answer and watched him fall back 
against his chair without actually bothering to scoot back in it. The profiler 
sprawled there, panting silently, eyes wide, furiously reordering his 
perceptions. 

"You're not insane, Mulder." Purdue was using his Special-Agent-In-Charge voice, 
calm, certain, every word authorized by God. Mulder didn't even blink. "Mulder." 
Finally, the hazel eyes focused on him. "I've got no problems with your 
abilities as an investigator, son. Or as a profiler. Personally, I think you're 
better than *you* think you are. Diana isn't here to second-guess your 
judgment-- or your method of getting there. And just between you and me, I 
seriously doubt she knows *what* she thinks. Baez, on the other hand, seems to 
believe you have a, ah--"

"Gift?" Mulder almost spat the word.

"Yeah. A gift." Purdue's voice was extraordinarily careful. "Do you?"

"Sure, I do." Mulder's face was impassive. "My dad sends me aftershave for my 
birthday every year." 

On the screen, Bogie tough-talked a line and everybody jumped. Purdue wondered 
vaguely why it never seemed to work for him. "Look, you're under enough stress 
as it is. You've got a problem with Diana being here, I can understand that--" 

"No, you don't. You have no idea."

"Fine. So explain it to me."

Purdue had Mulder biting his lip now. They were silent by mutual consent, 
watching Bacall walk across the black and white room and slam a door. Woman 
could be arrested for walking like that. Having legs like that--

"Diana's a good agent," Purdue insisted. "She's done some fine work. Sure, she 
comes at things from an odd angle sometimes, but so do you. Most times." He 
raised a hand as Mulder scathed him with a glance. "Okay, so maybe not from the 
same *kind* of angle, but she's had some good result. She's trained to handle 
herself--"

"She trained to handle me, too?"

Purdue frowned. "I know you better than to expect that kind of machismo crap 
from you, Mulder. You're doing it on purpose. It's not working."

"She tell you about that?"

"Tell me about what?"

Mulder shook his head and closed his eyes, passing a hand across his brow like 
he was trying to wipe away some pressure there. "Nothing," he said. 

Purdue's frown deepened. So, Mulder had Fowley holding out on him, now, too. 
Nice trick, that. And it hadn't taken the little punk a day-- Purdue felt his 
blood pressure rising but he didn't bother to work out why the situation should 
bother him so much. "You listen up, Agent. Diana Fowley walks into this case 
with my permission to knock you on your ass if she so much as wants to--"

"Oh. So she needed your permission to do that?"

"No, she doesn't. And that's exactly why I chose her."

Mulder chewed the inside of his cheek, refusing to answer. 

"Look Mulder, let's just cut the crap for once. I brought Diana in on this 
because I thought she might be some help to you in getting a handle on this 
thing." 

"*What* thing?" 

Purdue fisted up his bag of nuts. "Okay, fine. You wanna play twenty questions? 
Let's do it." Purdue was on the edge of the couch now. "You told me in Wheeling 
that you couldn't just dream this stuff on demand. That you couldn't just *make* 
it happen. So tell me this: can you make it stop?"

Mulder's face flushed hot again. He jerked forward, but his hands clawed into 
the chair, refusing to let go. 

"Yeah." Purdue nodded slowly. "I didn't think so."

Mulder swore but said nothing further, surrendering his struggle abruptly. He 
sank back in the chair, like he could become small and invisible at will.

"So where was the spook last night, Agent?" Purdue demanded. "No dreams? No 
psychosomatic hemorrhaging?"

Mulder shrugged against the flint in the ASAC's voice, impervious, suddenly, to 
Purdue's attack. "How much did you have Lenny give me?" Anger kept his gaze 
unblinking as he regarded the ASAC. "How much Thorazine to make sure I stayed 
down while she waltzed in and butchered two men?"

Purdue tossed the bag on the coffee table. Watched it lie there. Why did he feel 
so responsible for this man? Hell, it wasn't his job to hold him together. To 
pick up the pieces as Mulder threw them down.

Deep within his chair, the profiler shook his head. "If I dreamed, I don't 
remember," his voice was mournful, and he refused to glance at Purdue, instead 
watching Bogie tell Bacall to take her bottle and go to bed. She did it too. 
"Maybe it was too close this time. Like Kay--" He strangled on the word and 
looked away, back to the bedroom. "Nothing like a good night's drug-induced 
coma," he managed.

"So what was all day yesterday about?" Purdue held very still. "Who was walking 
up behind you then, Mulder?"

Mulder shook his head, this time almost imperceptibly, his eyes closed against 
the room. Purdue watched the anguish constricting Mulder's forehead, waiting for 
it to ease before he whispered, "Yesterday was just you, wasn't it? Shutting 
down from too much..." He didn't finish the sentence and Mulder didn't deny the 
words, too busy pressing his fist into his left thigh. 

"Goddammit-- stop that!" Purdue cleared the distance between them, one hand 
jerking Mulder's wrist up to relieve the pressure on his leg, the other hand 
capturing the profiler's fist before he could take his swing. "You son of a 
bitch!--" 

Mulder endured a long string of profanity, apparently too surprised to resist. 
Purdue paused finally, vaguely aware that he was repeating himself and that he 
was gasping. Mulder's eyes on his were wide, dark, and frightfully transparent. 
Flecks of gold gleamed in the irises, mingled with browns and blues and violets. 
The colors moved, swirling, mingled, and paled as Purdue watched, blurred as 
Purdue's gaze penetrated deeper, drawn to the unfathomable depths below-- 

Purdue inhaled suddenly, the gut reaction of a man just as he hits the water 
that will surely drown him. Mulder blinked then, slowly, terminating the vision, 
releasing him. The irises, when Mulder opened his lids, were an unassuming gray. 
The ASAC dropped the young man's wrists and paced across the room, seeking some 
place safer.

On the screen, Bacall was trying to teach Bogie how to whistle. And doing a 
pretty good job. God, but he needed a drink. The wet bar was across the room, 
however. He'd have to pass Mulder-- 

And Mulder was watching him. Those impossible eyes, body perfectly motionless. 
Mulder didn't even look like he was breathing. 

Purdue shook his head. Damn Fowley. *He* should have taken the nap. He leaned 
against the wall, crossed his arms, crossed his legs at the ankles, physically 
boarded up nice and tight while psychologically trying to look so nice and 
casual. Yeah. Like Mulder was buying it. 

Purdue bit his lip. "Okay. Gift or not, I realize that this stuff doesn't come 
cheap. Profiling is easy for you, a talent, but only at a cost." He waved a 
hand, indicating the room, Mulder's carpeted prison. "So now you're paying for 
it. *I* expected it at some point. I think you did, too. And this is where it 
happens, where you get it worked out. I'm just trying to make it easier on you. 
That's all."

Mulder took a slow breath. He seemed to be pondering the statement, shrewdly 
seeking the ambush he was certain awaited. 

Purdue nodded under the regard, ignored the shirt sticking to the sweat on his 
chest. "I told you before, son: I've been where you are. Still drop in for the 
occasional visit." He pushed himself free of the wall but kept to the far side 
of the room, safely out of Mulder's sphere. "All I'm saying is if you need to 
talk I'm here. If you'd rather talk to someone else, that's fine, too. But you 
can't keep pretending it doesn't hurt--"

Mulder set his jaw and shoved his body to the far side of the chair, a wounded 
cat seeking a burrow-- or a wall from which to launch himself. "Okay," his 
response was low and slow, tightly controlled, "I admit it. It hurts. Gee, Dad, 
I feel tons better. Can I go home now?" His brows descended abruptly. "Or is 
this where you tell me I should spill my guts because it's what *Kay* would want 
me to do?"

Purdue resisted the urge to slam his fist through the wall. "I'm not going to 
lie to you and tell you I'm sorry for what I said on the parking lot. But, yeah, 
I didn't know the woman and I won't presume to tell you what she would and 
wouldn't want for you. I just know what *I* would want for you. For whatever the 
hell that's worth."

On the television, Bogie had Bacall walking around him, checking for strings. No 
one was paying attention though, not even Mulder who was watching without 
seeing. 

"She deserved better than me," Mulder confessed, apparently not realizing he'd 
spoken aloud. "She deserved better than a lot of things she got, I think." He 
spoke from a weary bewilderment, the blunted sensibility that overtakes the soul 
worn out by tragedy and grief, when the first glimmerings of objectivity begin 
to color memory and experience. It hurt just listening to him, to hear the 
certainty in his voice.

 "You didn't kill her, Mulder," Purdue's voice was cautious, treading carefully 
 on the space that Mulder had allowed him. "I know Patterson sent you on so many 
 guilt trips you had frequent flyer points, but it's not your fault she's dead. 
 You've got to know that."

 "Yeah."

 Purdue didn't quite know how to interpret that weary monosyllable: whether it 
 was evidence of Mulder's failure to be fully convinced, or simply an expression 
 of exhaustion. There probably wasn't that much difference. Guilt was not about 
 intellect; it's about emotion. And emotions, unfortunately, have a logic all 
 their own. 





Purdue tried again, still steadily wary. "You will heal, Mulder. I know it's 
hard for you to believe, but you will. Eventually. It'll feel like betrayal and 
you'll hate yourself for it, but you'll do it."

"In spite of myself?" Mulder glanced up finally, his voice bitter. Purdue took 
in the image: Mulder white as a ghost, bones too-prominent beneath his skin, 
circles under his eyes-- eyes as penetrating as a cobra's. Mortally wounded, 
Mulder would go down fighting. Even wanting death, it wasn't in him to give up. 

"Yeah," Purdue nodded, certain now. "In spite of yourself."

Mulder sat forward, sick of the conversation. "The condition you're describing 
is popularly known as survivor's guilt. And I really don't need the refresher 
course on psychological theory--"

"Funny, isn't it?"

"Pardon?"

"How knowing the name of something doesn't mean jack when you're trying to live 
through it."

"Shit." 

Purdue resumed his place on the couch. Mulder watched him, sliding back just a 
bit more to the far side of the chair. Shadows crept across his face as Bogie 
pistol-whipped Fatty with gusto. The action on the screen was cartoonish and had 
no place in their reality. Purdue scarcely registered it. He'd been with Violent 
Crimes too many years to take the Hollywood ideal seriously. Hollywood had no 
idea how bad it got. The horror show that was every day life for the men and 
women who worked the scenes, who dealt with the carnage left behind when the 
perpetrators had fled. The fallen bodies, locked in unnatural positions. The 
insects, just hatching or fully grown, that gave the coroner an approximate time 
of death. The smell. The families, wives, husbands, children who answered the 
doors and stared up at you, innocent, unaware that you had arrived to shatter 
their lives with a few sympathetic words. 

The work was hard. Hard on the nerves, on the heart. If you wanted to survive, 
you learned to shove your emotional involvement into a hole in your soul and 
simply ignore it until you had time to deal with it. And even time was taken on 
the run: sitting in the back of a car, riding in a plane, long sleepless nights 
in unfamiliar motel rooms. Just like Mulder now. 

The truth was that the work was often so bizarre that you needed some external 
source of emotional stability. Something, someone else, that could provide a 
sense of normalcy. You didn't just need it. You craved it, the reassurance that 
someone close held the sense of true north even when you didn't trust yourself 
to know. Maybe Kay had been that for Mulder, just like Olivia had been for him 
for so many years. 

And now here they both sat without a compass. The blind leading the blind-- and 
there were dragons in the ditch. It was kind of pathetic when you thought about 
it. Purdue refused to think about it, though. He didn't like being pathetic. He 
*wouldn't* be pathetic. And he'd be damned before he saw Mulder in that 
condition, ever.

"Sometimes," Purdue chanced, one foot on the coffee table, "I wonder if God even 
knows what the hell he's doing. He always seems to be taking the wrong ones. 
Killing the strong, the ones who enjoy life and leaving the rest of us to deal 
with it." He pulled his peanut bag back onto his lap, stared into it. "Lousy way 
to run the world, if you ask me. Hell. Not that anyone *is* asking."

"Is that why you didn't have me arrested?" Mulder demanded from his corner of 
the chair. "'Cause you feel *sorry* for me?" Purdue's brows raised. Mulder was 
watching him, both hands on the near arm of the chair, clenched tight. "This 
morning, you son of a bitch," Mulder growled. "The parking lot? Or am I 
hallucinating on top of everything else?"

Purdue shrugged. It was becoming a chronic gesture. "As far as I'm concerned 
that stunt you pulled was just so much psychological hyperventilation." His eyes 
narrowed, a warning. "And I *don't* feel the least bit sorry for you, sir. You 
try it again and I'll kick your ass. We clear on that?"

"Psychological hyperventilation?" Mulder repeated the words, rolling them across 
his tongue. "I was mad enough to kill you--"

"No, you weren't."

The profiler's brows climbed up into his hairline. "I pulled a *gun* on you, 
dammit--"

"I noticed. Nice try at suicide, Mulder. Not terribly subtle, but it could have 
been pretty effective." He slung the bag of peanuts back at the coffee table. "I 
mean, if it works, you get to die and don't even have to waste energy pulling 
the trigger, right? Just wave your pistol around and wait for me to pull my gun 
and do your dirty work for you." Mulder's mouth opened, closed as he turned away 
abruptly. Purdue slammed a fist into the couch cushion. "Look me in the eye, 
damn you!" Mulder obeyed, reluctant, but holding the ASAC's gaze determinedly. 
"That's what you wanted, wasn't it?" Purdue demanded. "For me to put you down 
like a goddam dog in the street? Wasn't that your plan? Well, here's a little 
advice for next time, Mr. Mulder: number one: try for a place not quite so 
public. And number two: find yourself another goddam executioner."

Mulder dropped his gaze and seemed grateful for the television to focus on, the 
Vichy shooting at bystanders, the clandestine meetings, the imagined tragedies 
that bore no resemblance to his own. His eyes were too bright in the dim light, 
profile reflecting the garish red light of a sudden commercial. His right hand 
rubbed a small comforting circle against his chest.

Purdue was registering every emotion fleeing across the young man's face, and 
finally understanding. Mulder hadn't consciously intended a suicide at his 
hands. Hadn't planned it. The very thought seemed to amaze him, maybe even 
frighten him, eyes widening hollowly. But what the unconscious mind desired-- 
that was often a very different story. One that Mulder, for the moment at least, 
didn't seem able to discern as he sat there, struggling with the economics of 
doubt.

Purdue shook his head, tried to make his voice light. "Just between you and me 
and the door post, I tried it myself once. Lucky not to be in Leavenworth, right 
now." Mulder's eyes sought out Purdue's general direction but his face remained 
in profile, listening but not trusting himself to look over. Purdue shrugged his 
brows. "A word of warning if you ever feel the need to take Skinner down a few 
notches: watch your aim. The man's got a jaw like concrete." 

Mulder seemed to have registered the words, the easy smile in Purdue's voice, 
the reassurance. He was unable to reconcile the information with the 
conversation running through his own head, however. Elbow on the chair arm, he 
propped his temple against his fingertips, his palm once more an ineffective 
shield. Purdue waited for the onslaught of yet another panic attack. It didn't 
come, though and Mulder simply sat, eyes down, unfocused, jaw lax as he breathed 
through his mouth. He looked like he seriously needed to lie down. Purdue 
wondered how he might suggest it, sans affront to Mulder's self-esteem. The 
young agent surprised him, however, and spoke, his voice distant.

"She doesn't kill at random any more," Mulder noted the fact, as if this had 
been their topic of conversation all evening. "She kills by a common thread. 
Me."

"Mulder. You're not responsible--"

"It's like the observer in Einstein's theory: the observer changes what he 
observes by the fact that he is there observing it. I *am* responsible at some 
level. Her choice of victims proves that."

Purdue opened his mouth, closed it. It was becoming an old argument, one he'd 
run out of ammunition for. He pulled a baggied paper from his pocket, unfolding 
it. "Is that the explanation for this, then?" He handed the slip over and Mulder 
removed his hand from his forehead, accepting the item gingerly: standard 
printer paper, like he used on his Epson at home, the edges rough where the 
tractor-feed strip had been torn away. 

"Sauceda found it tucked inside a picture on your desk," Purdue explained. "I 
asked him not to mention it until you'd had some time to rest up." He watched as 
Mulder read, face completely without expression, voice flat.

"*It must be an old photograph of you, out in the yard, looking almost afraid in 
the crisp, raking light that afternoons in the city held in those days, 
unappeased, not accepting anything from anybody. So what else is new? I'll tell 
you what is: you are accepting this now from the invisible, unknown sender, and 
the light that was intended, you thought, only to rake or glance is now directed 
full in your face, as it in fact always was, but you were squinting so hard, 
fearful of accepting it, that you didn't know this. Whether it warms or burns is 
another matter, which we will not go into here. The point is that you are 
accepting it and holding on to it, like love from someone you always thought you 
couldn't stand, and whom you now recognize as a brother, an equal. Someone whose 
face is the same as yours in the photograph but who is someone else...*"

Mulder glanced up, offering nothing in response. No flicker of emotion.

Purdue licked his lips. "So she really has moved onto prose. Like you thought 
she would. She--"

Mulder shook his head. "Same book," he said quietly. "Page sixty-four."

The stillness of Mulder's face was unnerving. Purdue mouthed an "Oh" but 
couldn't seem to locate his own voice. Mulder surrendered the sheet of paper, 
apparently unconcerned.

"What she did to Seilman," Purdue struggled with the words, "is that what she 
intends to do with you?"

Mulder shrugged, very distant and just four feet away. "She's like the moon's 
child," he lisped. "Trying her wings."

"That's crap, Mulder. Answer the question."

Mulder looked away to the television, an act of defiance or confusion. Purdue 
couldn't determine which.

"It's an invitation, isn't it?" the ASAC tried again. "She's inviting you to 
join her, to become what she is."

"She wants what she's never had: someone thinking about her, anticipating her, 
not taking her for granted."

"Killing eleven people. That's a hell of a cry for attention." Purdue chewed his 
cheek, wondered when that had become a habit. "When did the sex bit come in?"

Mulder shrugged. "It's always been there at some level. It's the intimacy she's 
after. The need to share who and what she has become."

"So it's not just the physical act."

"It rarely is for women," he grimaced. "Not any *I've* been with, anyway."

Purdue shook his head, trying to follow the logic. "And she thinks what? That 
you're just going to sit up and perform for her when she gets around to you?"

Mulder smiled languidly, hollowly. "We don't have that kind of relationship, she 
and I. We're engaged in intellectual intercourse."

Purdue watched the eyes bleeding green almost to clear. "Yeah," he said. "You 
hope."

"She'll make her move tonight, you know." 

Across the room, Purdue sighed deeply. "Yeah. I figured."

"Probably just as well," Mulder picked at a loose scab on his knuckle. "I need 
to get back to my apartment before the neighbors start complaining about the 
smell."

Purdue shivered, suddenly. *Someone trompin' on your grave,* his Granny would 
have said. He was left with the oddest sensation when it had passed, the instant 
awareness of heightened senses: the give of the upholstery against his back, the 
solidity of the table against the sole of his shoe, the coolness of the air on 
the skin below his rolled up sleeves. The air was tinged with the faint odor of 
Diane's cigarette and barbecued chicken wings. Purdue had experienced the 
sensation many times: rushing a suspect, thundering into the lair of a wanted 
fugitive, shotgun in hand, a flack jacket the only barrier between him and 
mortality. It was the type of thing that happens when a man is certain of death, 
aware that each second could be his last. Purdue wondered why it would be 
happening to him now specifically. 

"I got someone cleaning up your place." He shrugged at Mulder's surprise. 
"Thought it might help. Not trying to get into your personal business or 
anything."

Mulder shrugged back. The motion said, *Yeah, like I have any personal business 
anymore. Like I even have a *life* anymore.* There was no animosity in the 
gesture however, just a quiet resignation. Purdue couldn't say that he liked the 
implication.

"Don't suppose you want to keep the table..." Purdue waited patiently.

"Table, mattress. Hell, tell them to haul off the whole damned bed." Despite the 
profanity, the words were spoken lightly, a quiet abandonment. Mulder stared at 
his knuckles, studying his handiwork. "Christ." He sank back further into the 
chair like living itself had become oppressive. "I'm sorry," he said without 
glancing up. Purdue was silent and he clarified: "About the parking lot." 

Purdue nodded, his face a mask. Not that Mulder ever looked over. Purdue himself 
concentrated on the television, unwilling to intrude further on the man crumpled 
in the chair. He spent a minute watching Bogie convince some guy that he wasn't 
much into kissing Frenchmen. Strange film.

"So," Mulder licked his lips, watching the screen himself, "when you slugged 
Skinner, this was *before* he was an AD, right?"

Purdue waved a hand vaguely. "Skinner was born an AD. Slapped his mother when he 
popped out and reassigned her to an obscure regional office to avoid 
embarrassment." Mulder grunted softly, a concession of good humor that didn't 
reach those lifeless eyes. Purdue's voice was softer. "Just give yourself some 
time, Mulder. That's all I'm asking. Hell, between the stress and the spook--" 
Purdue choked momentarily. "Just let me help you. Stop fighting me."

"I don't know how to stop." The words were scarcely a whisper and Mulder's brows 
drew to a frown, not entirely certain he'd spoken aloud. He looked away from the 
ASAC, apparently not wanting confirmation one way or the other. His eyes grazed 
the coffee table again, focused on the Whitman's Sampler box, its lid open, the 
candy untouched. 

Purdue sat in silence, struggling with words that didn't seem to want to form. 
He'd already said everything he'd known how to say; it would be just as 
pointless to repeat it. He noted the direction of Mulder's gaze and nodded at 
the Whitman's. "Go ahead," he offered, "Help yourself."

Mulder looked up from the box of chocolates like Purdue'd just offered him the 
key to Fort Dix. Purdue glanced away, embarrassed suddenly, confused, staring at 
Bogart.

"It was my wife's favorite," he explained finally, "I'd-- I'd buy her one for 
our anniversary every year. I didn't think and did it again yesterday. Habit, I 
guess."

Mulder was silent too long. Purdue struggled to follow the action on the screen 
through the haze over his eyes. *The blind leading the blind--*

"It was Sam's favorite, too." Mulder finally found words. He frowned, apparently 
wondering why they should have been those words exactly.

"Sam?" Purdue blinked, vision clearing rapidly.

"Samantha. My sister."

Purdue took a good long look at his agent. *Finally. The sister. The one that 
disappeared--*

The brother's eyes refocused on the box and he leaned forward slowly to receive 
a chocolate. He held it carefully, as a man would regard a gem brought up from 
the belly of the earth, a rough jewel, encrusted with magma and graphite and the 
blood of those who died to bring it forth to daylight. "My mom buys me a 
Whitman's every year," he said the words with some amazement. "In memory of 
Sam." His voice was old and tired, flat. Purdue almost didn't recognize it.

Purdue whispered, "Like putting flowers on a grave."

Mulder nodded. "Only we don't have a grave. We just have Whitman's Samplers." He 
placed the chocolate in his mouth and chewed solemnly. Purdue's tongue had dried 
up completely, swollen with salt suddenly, too wearied with pointless words. 

"I loved her," Mulder whispered, an escaping thought, "as much as I could." 

Purdue bit his lip, but the words would not remain unspoken. "Samantha? Or Kay?"

The rattle of the door and Mulder glanced up. Glanced up to find Sauceda there, 
Chinese wafting from the bag in his hand, Diana over his shoulder. 

Diana, Purdue realized, withhereyesthatlookedlikeKay's.

Mulder didn't answer the question.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX