XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx


Traffic snarls the city streets. They are back down in
the valley, in the main part of the San Salvador, on a
wide thoroughfare lined with storefronts and gas stations.
Octavio weaves through traffic aggressively but not
overly so. Mulder watches the city pass outside the
window, committing the route to memory, trying to 
square it against the map he studied on the plane ride
here.

"So," says Octavio conversationally. "Fox. Unusual
name."

"Actually I hear it's about to edge out 'Brandon' any
day now."

"They musta teased you a lot when you were a kid,
huh."

Mulder turns from the window, not in the mood. "Just
chock-full of original observations, aren't you? Have
you spoken to anybody about your own name issues?"

"Hey, say what you want, but there were about twelve
other Octavios in my high school. I don't think you
can say the same about 'Fox.'"

Mulder doesn't answer, but returns to the view of the
passing city streets.

After several minutes of driving in silence, Octavio
says, "You know what 'Fox' is in Spanish? Zorro." He
pauses as they swerve to avoid an elderly man on the
side of the street. Another moment of silence. "Maybe
I should call you 'Zorro.'"

"Maybe I should pull my gun on you again."

"Touchy."

They turn from the main road and begin to climb into
the hills again. The road passes above a soccer
stadium and through progressively more exclusive
neighborhoods. Here the stucco walls around the houses
are higher, their tops wrapped with razor wire and
flowering bougainvillea. No other cars on the steep
streets, no walkers on the sidewalks.

At the top of a particularly steep slope they turn
into a small cul-de-sac. A pink stucco house is at the
opposite end, mostly concealed by a pink stucco wall -
only the red tiled roof is visible. A small guard
shelter stands next to the gate.

Octavio parks on the street within sight of the
shelter. A man comes out and watches them intently.
Mulder steps from the Jeep with his badge out and in
his hand. Best not to make any sudden moves for his
pockets. Octavio follows Mulder as he strides toward
the gate.

The man is not tall, but hard. His face is deeply
seamed and his black eyes coldly appraising. Like
Octavio, he wears a military khaki vest over a polo
shirt. "Senor," says Mulder politely. Carefully he
keeps his hands out, where the guard can see them.
Mulder feels more eyes watching from behind the smoked
glass of the shelter windows.

"Que quieres?" the guard asks.

"Senor Ramon Guerrero...es aqui?" asks Mulder. "Soy un
agent Estados Unidos. Quiero...quiero hablar con Senor
Guerrero. Por favor." 

The guard's expression does not change at Mulder's
mangled phrasing. Octavio says something in bullet-
fast Spanish that Mulder can barely follow.

The guard glances at Mulder's badge with flat,
unimpressed eyes. "The Captain is not in," he says at
last in heavily accented English. He moves his arm so
that the vest gaps away from his body, revealing his
holster and the thick black barrel of a semiautomatic,
gives them a hard stare. "Senor Guerrero, he cannot
talk to you today." He nods once in he direction of
the Jeep. "And you cannot park there, I'm sorry."

In response, Octavio shifts as well, his vest opening
to reveal his own weapon. 

Mulder sighs. "All right. Now that we all know what
bad-asses we are..." He looks narrowly at Octavio
before turning back to the guard. "Sir, a colleague at
the American Embassy, Paul Fautz, suggested that he
might be able to give me some information about an old
case that he investigated. This won't take much of his
time."

"Senor Guerrero is not home now," repeats the guard.
"He is in the country."

"Maybe I could leave my card and he could reach me
later," suggests Mulder. Slowly he pulls an extra card
from a pocket, the new one with his new cell phone
number. "Or he can reach me through the Embassy." 

The guard looks at the card without interest. "You
need to move your truck," is all he says.

Octavio pulls away, makes a three-point turn in the
cul-de-sac, and starts back down the steep, winding
streets. The guard watches the Jeep until they turn
the corner and pass out of sight. "He was really
impressed with your little badge," Octavio says.

Mulder ignores him and chews on his lower lip. He can
understand the guards' caution, but the undisguised
hostility and obvious lies feel excessive and wrong.
And suddenly it all feels wrong. Mulder glances behind
them and sees a maroon Bronco about a block behind
them, hugging the curves as they climb down the hill.
Following them. 

"Hey Octavio." The street is otherwise empty.

Octavio glances up through the rear-view mirror. "I
see it."

No other streets turn off. Blank stucco walls on one
side, a steep, grass-covered hillside on the other.
They speed up and the Bronco behind them keeps pace,
maintaining the same careful distance between them.
Mulder pulls out his cell phone. The little icon says
that service is available, but when Mulder dials he
only hears a frustrating beeping sound. "Shit.
Octavio, give me your phone." Octavio hands it back
without hesitation. Mulder tries again. Same beeping
sound. "Shit," he says again. "I don't like this at
all."

"I don't think I do either."

Another sharp turn and ahead they see a side street
curving away from the main road. A black Bronco pulls
out swiftly onto the main road, effectively blocking
them.

"It's a trap," says Mulder, at the moment more weary
than afraid. He thinks of Fautz back at the
restaurant, earnestly writing the address in his
notebook and tearing out the page to hand to Mulder.
Shit, not again, he thinks. "We've been set up."

"You think?" says Octavio. The maroon Bronco behind
them skids to a stop, also stopping lengthwise across
the road, blocking any possible turn. Tires squeal.
Octavio pulls the Jeep sharply to the right, onto the
scrubby grass-covered slope. They stop with a jolt.
Mulder doesn't remember drawing his gun but the
comforting solid weight is in his hand now. They both
try to crouch down in the seats, as low as two tall
men can go.

The clang of opening doors, feet on the pavement.
"Come out of the Jeep," calls a voice. Mulder risks a
look. Men emerge from both Broncos, four from the
maroon and five from the black. One of them is the
guard from Guerrero's house. All of them are hard-
faced men with empty eyes - most of them look Latin,
but several are probably American - stringy tough guys
with sunburned faces and bad haircuts. All are armed.

"Maybe they just wanted to tell us that one of our
taillights is out," says Mulder.

"Yeah, that's it," answers Octavio. They both slide to
the side of the Jeep closest to the hillside and away
from the road. Can't get trapped in the Jeep. The men
begin to flank the Jeep.

"At three," whispers Mulder. "One...two...three."
Simultaneously they open their doors and spill onto
the grass. The sound of the approaching feet quickens.
Mulder and Octavio crouch behind the Jeep. Well, this
isn't much better, thinks Mulder in the heavy waiting
silence, broken only by the sound of distant birds and
faraway traffic.

"No one wants to hurt you," says their spokesperson.
"We just want you to come with us."

"Keep back," yells Mulder sharply.

Everything is suspended for a moment. Then it all
happens at once. A brown-haired man edges closer to
the slope. Octavio puts his head up to get a better
look. And everything explodes.

Later, Mulder can never be certain who fired the first
shot. Now he is all adrenaline and instinct, and
everything happens too fast to register. The brown-
haired man jerks and falls on his side. Octavio falls
back with a hiss. Deafening gunfire in Mulder's ears.
The windows of the Jeep shatter and they are caught in
a shower of broken glass. Mulder shields himself with
a forearm, ignoring the small cuts. Blood everywhere,
but not all his. Octavio is hit high on his chest,
almost a mirror of Mulder's old wound. Blood streams
onto the ground but Octavio ignores it.

In his peripheral vision Mulder sees a figure dive
around the side of the Jeep, a weapon pointed at him
and he fires until the figure falls back. They have a
good position, but there are too many of them and they
keep coming.

"Put your guns down now," shouts the voice. It sounds
like the guard again. "Give it up!"

Two more men edge around the Jeep, surrounding them.
One is small and thin, not much more than a teenager.
The second is rangy and blond. Their guns are leveled
on Mulder and Octavio. "Put your weapon down," orders
the blond in a thick Texas accent. 

There is no choice. Mulder raises his hands and lets
his empty weapon fall to the dust.

The teenager comes closer and kicks away Mulder's Sig.
Mulder looks up at him with burning eyes. "You too,"
the blond says to Octavio. 

Octavio does not respond. He clutches his own gun in
his substantial fist and looks up unblinking. His
breathing is labored and a little dark blood runs from
the corner of his mouth. Mulder is reminded, crazily,
of the climax of a bullfight, the massive bull pierced
with spears, staggering to its knees.

"Put it the fuck down!" orders the blond.

"Hijo de puta," Octavio says. He raises his gun.
Another explosion. Octavio slumps and falls. Blood
from his shattered skull splatters Mulder's arms and
face.

"You son of a bitch," says Mulder. He is pulled
roughly to his feet. Someone grabs his wrists behind
him as if to bind them. Mulder pulls free and lashes
out, hitting the thin teenager in the jaw hard enough
to make him fall and drop his gun. Several others move
to take his place, trying to take his arms. His fist
catches the blond man's nose and he falls back with a
shout.

But there are too many of them and Mulder is cornered.
They take him by the arms but stupidly, futilely, he
struggles anyway. The blond man steps up, blood
streaming down his angry face, and hits Mulder hard in
the jaw, once, twice. The pain makes Mulder dizzy.
"You fuck," the blond man hisses. His eyesight is
blurry but Mulder can see two bodies on the ground
besides Octavio's.

Mulder takes another hard one in the face. He
collapses and they let him fall to the dirt.
Everything spins wildly. He can't open his eyes. His
hearing is muffled from the gunfire. He is furious at
himself. He thinks of Scully to try to anchor his
spinning thoughts, but it only makes him angrier.
Dimly he feels someone kick him in the ribs. He
struggles to get to his hands and knees.

"No lo mate," he hears the guard say. "El doctor lo
quieres vivo."

Someone grabs his arm and Mulder feels a needle being
pushed none too gently into his forearm. Still he
struggles, not so much against the men any more but
against the encroaching blackness. Oh shit, Scully,
I'm sorry, he thinks. Then he loses the fight and the
blackness swallows him whole.


XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX


Morning light begins to creep into the room that
Scully shares with Janoski and the others. She sits
crossed-legged on her cot as she types a report, the
notebook balanced precariously. The other women,
exhausted, snore through the light tap of her
fingertips.

Frohike's icon pops up on her screen, but not his
voice - she managed to turn that off. Mulder, she
thinks with a rush of gladness, and clicks to read.


___________________________


Don't you want to understand the miracle
that cured your cancer?

Don't you want to understand what
happened to you when you were gone all
those months? Don't you want to reclaim
your own memories?

Don't you want to bear your own children
someday?

Don't you want to be whole?

Don't you want the answers?

I can help you with all of these, Dr.
Scully. 

___________________________


Scully feels her blood run cold. This is not Mulder.
Carefully she types a message in reply.

___________________________


Who are you? What do you want with me?

___________________________


I am a friend, of sorts. And I want to
help you.

There are others that want to learn the
secret of the device implanted in your
neck. They want to study it. In return,
they will restore you. They will show
you all of their secrets. Everything
will be revealed to you.

You are very important to them. And to
me. They wish you no harm. Neither do I.

By the way, your partner is well.

___________________________ 


What do you mean? What do you know about
my partner? Where is he? Who are these
"others?" 

___________________________ 

I think you know who they are, Dr.
Scully, even if you will not admit it.

Agent Mulder is safe for now. I cannot
promise how long he will remain that
way, however. The others I speak of grow
impatient. If they cannot have you...
then I must give them your partner. He
is also important to them, but in a
different way. I am afraid that they
will not be as reverent with him. They
will destroy him in order to learn what
is inside him. 

You don't want him to be taken in your
place, do you? 

You recognize the truth in my words.
Please consider what I have said. I
believe you know how to contact me if
you want to learn more.

___________________________ 


The link goes dead. Scully leans back, ill. How are
these messages reaching her? Has someone been able to
hack the Gunmen's work? Has someone taken Mulder's
device?

Whoever is on the other end is a liar. She knows this,
logically. But something about his words hits her in a
vulnerable spot, confirms her worst suspicions about
Mulder.

They will destroy him in order to learn what is inside
him. 

I don't think you want him to be taken in your place,
do you?

A soft knock interrupts Scully's thoughts, making her
jump slightly. Hershman opens the door a few inches
and peers in. "Agent Scully," he mouths.

This can't be good. Scully's dread grows. She climbs
off the cot, pulling a long-sleeved shirt over her
tank top. She walks swiftly to the door and steps into
the hallway.

Hershman is there waiting, along with several other
agents, and a small group of UN personnel and
Salvadoran soldiers. There is also a tall, lean man
with a mustache and gentle eyes, distinctly American.

"This is Paul Fautz, from the American Embassy,"
introduces Hershman, tapping the man lightly on the
arm.

"What's going on?" asks Scully, looking from one grim
face to the other, fearing the worst. "What happened?"

"We have some bad news, Agent Scully," says Hershman.


XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX


Scully reflects briefly that she ought to be used to
this by now. She should be used to this after all the
times she has watched over Mulder in a hospital bed,
or wondered where he was and was powerless to help
him. She thought nothing could be worse than seeing
him howling in that white room, pacing in his hospital
gown, stripped of clothes, dignity, and sanity. But
that was before she found him bound and abandoned in a
dark room, and was sure that he was dead. Or worse.

She never can get used to it. She feels like she's
been punched in the stomach.

No time for this now. After the initial shock, a
fierce sense of purpose takes over and Scully
concentrates on the task at hand. She stands straight
with her arms crossed protectively in front of her,
staring unseeing at the tile floor. "What do we have?"
she asks. 

Fautz pulls his chair closer. "Not much. The Jeep was
found pulled off the side of the road in a pretty
exclusive district. It looks like he was ambushed and
forced off the road. Evidently he put up quite a
fight. Three men were found dead - no one's been
identified yet. Ballistics will tell us whether any of
the bullets came from Mulder's weapon. His cell phone
was found crushed near the Jeep."

"Just his phone?" asks Scully, looking up sharply.

"That, and lots of blood." Fautz hands Scully a series
of Polaroids. "But it remains to be seen whether any
of it is Mulder's."

Scully swallows as she studies the photos. Yes, there
is a lot of blood. "And the embassy driver?"

"Carlos Ventura. Claims to know nothing about it. He
says he was taken off the duty roster for the
afternoon. He's been employed by the embassy for four
years and has an exemplary record. But this looks
really, really bad for him. He's being questioned by
the Salvadoran police now. I have to think he knows
more about this than he's saying."

Scully nods but says nothing. They are gathered in the
hotel restaurant again. Morning fog obscures the view
of Izalco. Breakfast is laid out. No one touches the
food, but everyone downs cup after cup of strong
coffee. Hershman, Janoski, and the rest gather around,
faces dark and serious. Even Dunlap's face is grim - a
fellow agent has been brutally abducted in a foreign
country and for the moment it doesn't matter whether
it's Spooky Mulder or J. Edgar Hoover.

Skinner's voice comes through the speaker phone. "No
witnesses, of course." He sounds hoarse and tired.

Fautz shakes his head. "Broad daylight and no one saw
anything. About what you'd expect."

Kersh's hectoring voice comes over the speaker phone
and echoes in the room. "Yes. This is about what I
expect when Agent Mulder is involved. I'm afraid I
still don't understand what he was doing in El
Salvador to begin with."

Skinner's voice again, harder. "Agent Mulder was - "

"I've already heard *your* version, Walter,"
interrupts Kersh. The assembled agents look at each
other uneasily. "I'd like to hear what Agent Scully
has to say."

All eyes turn to Scully. She doesn't meet any of them.
"We have hard evidence that links this incident with
an ongoing investigation in Washington."

"In other words, an X-File."

She ignores Kersh and continues. "Several of the
victims found here have been identified as women
reported missing from the DC area two years ago. Agent
Mulder thought it would be fruitful to pursue possible
leads in this country. A complete report will be
forwarded to you shortly, sir."

A moment of disconcerted silence. "Exactly what
'leads' are you referring to, Agent Scully?" Kersh
asks. This news about the bodies seems to take him off
guard.

"That information will be detailed in my report, sir,"
says Scully obstinately.

"All right," says Skinner. "When are you meeting with
the Salvadoran officials?" 

"We have a meeting set up in about..." Hershman checks
his watch. "Two hours. We'll be talking to officers
from the state police and the army."

"Good. Keep us informed at all times," says Skinner.
"Hershman, you have command of the American side of
the investigation, and you will coordinate with the UN
personnel. The Bureau will be sending down additional
agents to supplement your team. Fautz will continue to
provide liaison with the Salvadorans. We've enjoyed a
good working relationship - I want it to stay that
way. And Agent Scully...you will forward us your
report with all due speed." He shakes off his
tiredness and speaks with stern command. Only Scully
can hear the way his voice changes when he speaks to
her, the tinge of concern.

"Yes sir," she answers.

After the group breaks up, Scully makes her way to the
abandoned lobby of the hotel. She stands in front of
the complicated pay phone, deciphering the Spanish
instructions, wondering if she's doing the right
thing. E-mail may be more secure, but she needs to
talk to someone *now.*

It takes an unbearably long time to get to the right
operator. "I'd like to place a collect call please,"
Scully says, and gives the number.

"Who shall I say is calling?"

Scully grimaces. "Jade Blue Afterglow."

"Please hold." Clicks and whirs, then ringing.

"Lone Gunmen." Byers' gentle, slightly officious
voice.

"Collect call from Jade Blue Afterglow, will you
accept the charges?"

"Certainly." More clicks and whirs, and the operator
is gone. "The line looks clean, Dana. I'll have
Frohike double-check." Minutes pass, slowly.

"Byers, next time can we use a better code name?"
Scully asks. 

"Sorry. Wasn't my idea." She can almost hear his
apologetic wince.

"Prude." Frohike's voice cuts in, rough and sleepy.
He's not a morning person, and this is early for him.
"Confirmed. The line's clean. Good morning, Scully. I
get the feeling this is more than a normal tech
support call. "

"Hey Frohike, how many bugs has she found so far?"
Langly, a smart-ass in the background. 

"Pipe down, Goldilocks," answers Frohike.

"I thought you were still in El Salvador," says Byers

"I am," Scully says. "I hope Mulder is too."

"What do you mean?" Worry in Frohike's voice.

"I mean that Mulder's been kidnapped. He came to San
Salvador the day before yesterday. Someone forced him
off the road and took him. It looks like there was a
lot of gunfire."

"Holy shit," mutters Frohike.

Scully rubs her tired, swollen eyes. She fights down
the fresh panic that rises in her throat like bile. "I
need your help."

Byers says, "We'll do anything we can."

"They found his cell phone at the scene, nothing else.
They say there was nothing left in his hotel room
except some clothes. I can only assume they took his
gun and the Palm with your reader. I think someone's
figured out how to use it and send me a message - and
it's not Mulder." She will not reveal what the message
said. "Is there any way we can track it?"

"I think so. Hang on." Scully leans against the wall
and listens to their muted, urgent talk. Soon Frohike
comes back on the line. "Okay. It looks like we can
get some coordinates. They're not going to be exact,
though - you have to think of them as the centerpoint
of a radius. And there's another problem. To get this,
we have to send a signal to the device, and then the
device will respond with its own signal. There's a
risk that someone could notice that. Someone who's not
Mulder. And then you might as well send an engraved
calling card announcing your arrival."

Scully thinks of the dusty ground soaked in blood. "I
think it's a chance we have to take."

"Okay. Hold on."

An hour later, Scully, Fautz, and Hershman are
gathered in Hershman's room in another wing of the
hotel. The speaker phone has been hurriedly set up on
the stone fireplace.

Scully takes a deep breath. "I have reason to believe
that Agent Mulder is being held very close to our
present location," she says. Hershman's eyebrows raise
into high comic arches. Fautz just blinks. Silence
from the speaker phone. Scully walks to the map of El
Salvador tacked to the wall and traces the latitude
and longitude with her fingers. She recites the
coordinates. "There's a chance he may be within a ten
kilometer radius." She marks the centerpoint with a
red pin.

"Holy shit, that's practically under our fucking
noses," says Hershman. The centerpoint of Scully's
radius is at the far end of Coatepeque, the lake at
the base of Cerro Verde and Izalco. Fautz says nothing
but strokes his mustache.

"Agent Scully, what exactly are you basing this on?"
asks Kersh, his voice tinny over the speaker.

Scully stands in front of the map, her eyes never
leaving the red pin. She sighs before speaking. "When
Mulder was kidnapped he carried a hand-held device,
similar to a Palm. He was beta testing some secure
remote communications software. According to my
source, this device can also be used to send back
approximate coordinates of the sender's location."
Scully keeps the disturbing message to herself for
now. She turns back from the map to face the phone as
if Kersh and Skinner are in the room. "I can't reveal
any more at this time without threatening our source's
confidentiality."

Kersh replies, "Was this cleared with the Bureau? Let
me understand, Agent Scully - you're asking us to
direct our resources, and the resources of the
Salvadoran government, based on flimsy,
unsubstantiated information from an unknown source?"

"This source is well known to us, and has provided
both Agent Mulder and me with solid information in the
past." Scully wishes then that she could make eye
contact with Skinner, so they could see each other's
faces. "I'm asking you to trust this and to trust me."

Kersh starts to say something, but Skinner's voice
cuts him off. "Agent Scully is correct about this
source," he says. "This is our best - hell, it's our
only lead up to now. We need to act on this. Agent
Hershman, you will work through Fautz to coordinate
with our Salvadoran colleagues." Ridiculously, the
assembled agents all nod in response, as if Skinner is
in the same room and not in his office in Washington.

"The UN personnel and the Salvadorans are ready to
deploy," says Fautz.

"Good. I want you to accompany them. You will offer
your full cooperation and you will keep me informed at
all times of all developments. And AD Kersh," Skinner
says.

"What about me?" asks Scully.

"Agent Scully, you are returning to Washington on the
next available flight."

Scully blinks at this. "Sir...I'm involved in this.
This case belongs to Agent Mulder and me. As long as
he's missing, I belong here. There's nothing I can do
back in Washington. I request permission to join the
search as well."

"Ooh, I don't know if that's such a hot idea," says
Hershman.

"Out of the question," says Kersh. "We have no idea
what this is about and I have no desire to put any
more agents at risk."

"I agree with AD Kersh," says Skinner. He doesn't add
"for once." He continues, "Too risky. We don't know
why Mulder's been taken. If he's been specifically
targeted, then there's a chance that his partner could
be in danger as well."

"Sir, as Agent Mulder's partner, I have a
responsibility - "

"As Agent Mulder's partner, you have a responsibility
to be out of harm's way. Request denied." Skinner's
tone is almost apologetic, but final.

Fautz clears his throat. "Fautz here. If I may jump
in. Agent Scully may have a point. This could be a
matter of protocol. Our agreement with the Salvadorans
specifies that any joint investigative efforts liaison
with a Special Agent with direct knowledge of the case
at hand. I am technically not a Special Agent."

"Use Hershman."

Fautz shakes his head. "Problem one, this whole case
evidently belongs to the X-Files division to begin
with. Problem two, we'll be basing this search on
Agent Scully's information. I'm almost positive that
the Salvadorans will insist on her direct
involvement."

Surprised, Scully studies Fautz as he talks - she
doesn't yet have a handle on him. Soft-spoken, self-
deprecating, and now an unexpected ally. She doesn't
know him enough to trust him. And privately, she
agrees with Skinner about the risk.

But right now she doesn't see any other options if she
wants to find Mulder alive.

"All right," says Kersh after a long grudging pause.
"Walter?"

Skinner sighs loudly. "Oh Christ. Fine. But you will
take no unnecessary risks. Fautz and Hershman, I want
your assurance that Agent Scully's security
arrangements will be impeccable."

"You got it," answers Hershman.

Fautz looks levelly at Scully. "You got it," he
echoes.


XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx


Mulder opens his eyes slowly, blearily, his mind at
first empty of thought and memory. He takes in his
surroundings and he can't remember where he is or how
he got there. Panic wells up and he sits upright, now
very much awake. His stomach lurches queasily with the
sudden movement and his head aches. 

Full memory floods back now: San Salvador, the
embassy, the plate of pupusas, the hard-faced men in
the Broncos. The gunfire ringing in his ears, and
Octavio's dead body. The needle in his forearm.
Absently Mulder rubs it, wondering what they injected
in him. He thinks of his lunch with Fautz. Fucking
bastard, Mulder thinks with dull fury. That fucking
bastard set us up. When will I learn.

He surveys his surroundings, wincing a little from the
pain in his head. He lies on a firm bed in what seems
to be a one-room cabin, with red brick walls and a
brown tile floor. A bright hand-woven cloth covers the
bed. No other furniture.

Mulder swings his legs off he bed and gingerly stands.
His stomach lurches again, not so badly this time. He
heads for the door. Locked. Two windows in the room.
He staggers toward the closest one. No glass, just a
screen. And iron bars - recently installed, to judge
by the drill marks in the brick.

The first window looks out onto tangled foliage. The
second opens onto an empty patio. Mulder can only see
a few potted plants. "Hey!" he yells. "Hey!" His voice
echoes but there is no response except for the cries
of nearby birds.

His thoughts are beginning to come more clearly. Shit,
how long have I been out? he wonders. The light looks
like afternoon but it's hard to tell. His watch is
gone. His panic rising again, Mulder pats down his
pockets. His phone is gone and Frohike's device is
nowhere to be found. He thinks of Scully then, and
wonders if she knows. Wonders where she is.

In the corner is a small bathroom with a high window.
The door has been removed from its hinges. Mulder
looks at himself in the sink above the mirror and is
appalled. He looks like a train wreck. His face and
his clothes are covered with dust and blood - most of
it probably Octavio's. He has a black eye and stitches
on his chin. Mulder frowns and leans into the mirror,
touching the wound just beneath his chin. Who the hell
sewed him up? Not Scully, he thinks dryly. He'd know
her stitches anywhere.

Clean clothes hang from a hook near the shower -
boxers, slacks, and a shirt. Huarache sandals sit in
the corner. They all look big enough to fit him and
Mulder understands that he is supposed to clean up and
put them on. Fine, he thinks. I'll play along for a
little bit.

Mulder strips, leaving his own ruined clothes wadded
up on the floor. He closes his eyes as the cool water
hits his back, the physical pleasure letting him
forget his current problem for just a moment. A recent
morning with Scully comes back to him, a morning when
he stepped from her shower in a cloud of steam and she
watched him with that new expression of hers. With the
memory comes pangs of fear, worry, and regret. Please
let this end well, he thinks. Please, after everything
we've come through to be here.

After Mulder gets dressed, he looks at himself in the
mirror. Tropical-weight gabardine slacks, sandals, and
a guayabero shirt. Jesus, he's dressed for a
retirement community in North Miami Beach. A knock on
the door. Mulder tenses. From the nearby window comes
a barked command: "Keep away from the door." Mulder
can see the gleam of a weapon pointed at him between
the bars of the window.

A rattle and the door swings inward. Mulder recognizes
the blond man pointing an impressive rifle at him - he
owes him the black eye and the cut on his chin.
"Outside," the blond says, gesturing with the barrel
of his rifle. The other gunman is still at the window.

"You want me away from the door, now you want me
outside," says Mulder. He walks out onto the patio.
"Are you familiar with the term 'cognitive
dissonance?'"

"Up to me, I would have killed you," drawls the blond.
Now Mulder can observe him more closely. His deeply
sunburned face has the texture of leather. The tattoo
of an eagle shows from the sleeve of his t-shirt. "But
they want you alive."

"That's very comforting," says Mulder. He recognizes
the other gunman as the slight teenager he hit
earlier. Like Mulder, he has a black eye, and he
stares at Mulder with undisguised venom.

The door shuts behind them and Mulder absorbs his
surroundings. It isn't a regular house, not in the
typical American sense, but rather a collection of
single-room buildings connected by a covered patio. A
high wall surrounds the compound, and through a gate
Mulder can glimpse water and heavy trees. A breeze
ruffles his damp hair. Maybe this was built as a
vacation getaway - in another time, in other
circumstances, this could be a pleasant place.

They lead him down a short passageway leading to
another, larger patio. The blond pushes Mulder
forward, catching him off balance and sending him into
the middle of the patio. Resentment surges in Mulder's
chest and he spins around, eyes wild, fists clenched,
anger temporarily overriding common sense. "You touch
me again..."

"Wilson." A voice comes from the corner, mild but
commanding, with a pronounced Spanish accent. "Wilson,
I see no reason to make this more unpleasant than it
already is." 

Now it is Wilson's turn to look resentful. He glares
at Mulder but backs down. 

"I suggest that you relax as well, Agent Mulder."

Mulder looks to the source of the voice. A man stands
in the opposite corner of the patio, emerging from the
shadows. He is Mulder's height, slim and elegant, with
silver hair and a trim mustache. His black eyes are
unfathomable, but he is under noticeable strain - his
gait is stiff and dark circles lie under his eyes. He
also wears a guayabero shirt. "I have wanted to meet
you for quite some time. I am pleased to see that my
old clothes fit you."

"Dr. Mendez," says Mulder quietly.

Mendez nods. "You are very perceptive, Agent Mulder.
You do not seem to be surprised."

"No. No, I'm not. People like you tend to hang on."

"'People like me.' It seems you have already made up
your mind about me. No doubt you have been speaking
with my eldest daughter."

Mulder does not answer. Mendez gestures toward Wilson
and the other guard, who have stood glowering during
the exchange. "The men are quite angry with you."

"That's a real shame."

"You and your companion killed two of their comrades."

"Well, first of all, my 'companion' is dead too," says
Mulder. He thinks of Octavio dying right in front him,
and his eyes darken with anger. "Your men executed
him."

"You should not have resisted."

"You put us in a situation where we didn't have much
choice."

Mendez turns to the younger guard and gives him orders
in fast, droning Spanish. The young man moves off
after shooting Mulder a final threatening glare.
"Please sit down, Agent Mulder," says Mendez.

Mulder sits at a wooden table, feeling Mendez's eyes
on him, studying him. In a minute the young guard
returns with a plate of yellow rice and what looks -
and smells - like chicken. Mulder's nausea is long
gone and his stomach rumbles now from hunger. The
pupusa lunch seems like years ago. The plate is set in
front of him along with a fork. "Gracias, Jaimalito,"
says Mendez. Jaimalito goes back sullenly to his post.
"I enjoy the local food, but I do like a Cuban dish
from time to time," Mendez says conversationally.

"I'd like a large daiquiri too, please. Frozen, with
extra paper umbrellas," says Mulder. No one is amused.
He hesitates only briefly before attacking the plate -
if they wanted to poison him, they've had plenty of
opportunity already.

Mendez sits down at the other side of the table.
Wilson leaves, returns with a glass, an ice bucket,
and a bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label. Mendez
pours himself a generous helping. With his mouth full
of food, Mulder asks, "So who was the man in the car?"

"The man in the car?"

"The man who died in your place," explains Mulder
evenly. "The man who died in the car with your wife."

"Oh," says Mendez. A private, bitter smile this time.
"My wife's lover. A bridge-playing fool from North
Miami Beach. Ironic. He was my height and weight -
they thought that he was me and I did not bother to
correct the misunderstanding. It was...convenient."

"Especially after all of your coworkers were
incinerated at El Rico," says Mulder, taking a shot in
the dark and seeing if it hits.

Mendez smiles and changes the subject. "I met your
father once, Agent Mulder. It was many years ago, in
Guatemala. A very intense and dedicated man. He may
have even showed me your school picture."

This makes the chicken and rice in Mulder's stomach
churn unpleasantly. He remembers the souvenirs his
father always brought back from his State Department
trips - little toys and dolls for Fox and Samantha,
knick-knacks for his mother. Long gone now. "Your
daughter Leda thinks that you had something to do with
your other daughter's disappearance," Mulder says
bluntly, pushing away the empty plate.

Mendez takes a long sip of whiskey and is silent. At
first Mulder is briefly reminded of Leda, sitting on
her white couch and drinking her rum. But then he is
overwhelmed with memories of his own father - the
rattle of ice, the smell of whiskey. The feel of
secrets. The mix of guilt and anger and blame. 

"Leda would not understand, even if I explained it to
her," Mendez says at last.

"No, I suppose not."

"At the time sacrifice was necessary, Agent Mulder,"
says Mendez, sharpness growing in his tone. "But
everything we worked for is in ruins now. There is no
longer any point. I have done their work for most of
my life. Now I will at least have my family together
again." He drinks again and his eyes grow distant.
"Loneliness is a terrible thing," he murmurs. Then he
looks up from his glass and focuses again on Mulder.
"You are a lucky man, Agent Mulder," he says lightly.
"Your partner is a beautiful woman."

"Huh. I hadn't noticed." Mendez is good at these
abrupt turns in the conversation. Mulder tries to hide
his discomfort and anger, but Mendez notices and
smiles again, avuncular now.

"Come now, Agent Mulder. We are both men here. Your
chivalry is admirable but a little silly at this
point, don't you think? They have known that you are
lovers for years. From the beginning."

For years. From the beginning. The words echo in
Mulder's head. Well, that's nice, he thinks crazily,
resisting an urge to laugh. Maybe they could have let
*us* in on the secret - huh, Scully? Would have saved
us some time.

And of course they were right, after all, he thinks.
Because we have loved for years, but we were always
too afraid, too fragile, too busy to do anything about
it. Too convinced that everything else was more
important. Until now, until now. And still the wolves
circle, and wait for us to let down our guard...

"Is there a point to this pleasant little
conversation, or do you just enjoy watching people
eat?" asks Mulder tightly. "Why don't you tell me
where I am, and what the hell you want with me. You
and your daughter both have a problem cutting to the
chase."

"All right. We cut to the chase then. Let me ask you
some questions." Mendez smiles gently, sadly.
"Wouldn't you like to see your partner whole again,
Agent Mulder?" he asks. Mulder goes very still. "The
cancer has been in remission for some time, but still
it hangs over her head. And yours. Aren't you tired of
wondering about it, wondering if it will return? The
object implanted in her neck is full of secrets. After
all of our work, we have still barely scratched the
surface. Agent Scully is a doctor and a scientist, and
she carries this priceless cure inside her that no one
understands. Ironic, isn't it? Don't *you* want to
understand? Don't you think *she* wants to
understand?"

"Something about this argument is sounding very
familiar," mutters Mulder.

Mendez continues. "We have tried to study its secrets,
but we have passed our understanding. I offer Agent
Scully a chance for knowledge and health. And more."
His voices turns sympathetic. "It is a tragic thing
when a woman is barren. It is tragic when the woman
you love can never bear your child. Wouldn't you like
to see her a whole woman again?"

Mulder is surprised to find that this hits him in the
gut like a sucker punch. A wild mix of fury and guilt
and grief rise up in him. The idea of Scully somehow
not being a "whole woman" because she can't bear a
child, much less *his* child, is disgusting and
repugnant. And yet doesn't he feel the same thing
sometimes in the darkest place of his heart? He feels
sure that pounding Mendez's handsome face into a pulp
will sooth his tangled emotions but he realizes the
futility of the gesture.

Not to mention the impossibility while two armed men
hover over him.

Mulder speaks very slowly, trying to keep his voice
from shaking in anger. "It is because. Of men like
you. That all of these things have happened to her. In
the first place. Why. Should I listen. To a fucking
thing. You say."

"Because things have changed. Agent Scully is more
important than ever. As are you, my friend."

"I'm not your goddamned friend. I'm losing patience
with your cryptic answers. What do you want with her?"

"*They* want her, Agent Mulder. Not me."

Mulder makes no sound for a moment. "Why?" he says
finally.

"Think about it, Agent Mulder. Dr. Scully has been
infected by the Virus, but she has also been given the
vaccine," says Mendez. "And in addition to this, she
carries the miraculous device in her body. We know so
little about their technology, even after all of our
work. Think about how all of these factors interact in
ways beyond our understanding."

Mulder is positively queasy again. These are things
he's always wondered and worried about. Nightmare
images from the past seven years play before his eyes:
Scully, pale and wasted in a hospital bed; Scully,
collapsing in his hallway, reaching for the bee sting
on her neck; Scully, frozen in a hideous tank, her
eyes round in perpetual horror, the tube that he
pulled from her throat, and kept pulling and pulling
and pulling...Mulder briefly buries his face in his
hands.

Mendez pays no attention. He shakes his head and
drains his drink. "They are very interested in you as
well, Agent Mulder."

Mulder looks up, his eyes deadly.

"You too have been infected with the Virus. And then
there is your remarkable mind," Mendez continues
thoughtfully. "But it is different with your partner.
I am sure it more than scientific curiosity that
drives their interest in her. They seem almost to
reverence her." He leans across the table then and
grasps Mulder's forearm. Mulder looks down at Mendez's
hand as if it were a snake. "You must see that it is
for the best that she goes with them again. They will
not harm her. They want to understand her. They want
to cure her. Think of the opportunity for her. She
will learn so many secrets. Help me." Mendez's eyes
shine. "Help me bring her to them."

Mulder pulls his arm away. "Oh, of course, their
motives are purely altruistic. Jesus, how naive do you
think I am?"

"It is different now. Agent Scully is important to
them. They will return her whole. Just like they will
return..." He stops abruptly, as if regretting his
revealing words.

Silence hangs between them for a long moment. The
connections come together in Mulder's mind, and
understanding and horror mingle on his face. "I think
I understand," says Mulder. "You're presenting this as
this wonderful opportunity for Scully, but you have
your own reasons. You think they have your daughter.
You want to exchange Scully for Iphigenia. And you're
using me as bait. You son of a bitch." He rises to his
feet and knocks his chair onto the floor with a crash.
Again the cold gun presses painfully into his neck.
"You son of a bitch. Did you e-mail me that report
too, to get us both down here?"

"You have me at a loss, Agent Mulder," the older man
answers, genuine confusion clouding his black eyes.

"And what the hell makes you think *they* have your
daughter anyway? Other *men* took your daughter, Dr.
Mendez. Not aliens. You should know that better than
anyone. Like the men took the others." Like the men
who took - and destroyed - Samantha.

Mendez shakes his head. "You are mistaken. Some were
taken by us or by our operatives, to assist in our
research, to resist colonization. But some were taken
by them, for their own purposes. Including my
daughter."

It all makes sense now. "Those people who were killed
on Izalco. *You* were responsible. That was your
little piece of the Project too, wasn't it? You
kidnapped those children back in the '80s and you used
them."

"The people in this region are descended from the
Pipil Indians. A very unusual genetic structure. It
was crucial to our research."

"And if you happened to find someone to take your
daughter's place, then all the better," says Mulder.
"Did you help kill those people too?" he asks
furiously. "Did you help clean up the evidence?"

"You take me for a monster," murmurs Mendez as he
pours himself another glass of whiskey. "The
Resistance destroyed those people so the Colonizers
could no longer use them. Just as they destroyed the
others in Kazakstan and at Ruskin Dam. Doubtless there
are more secret graves around the world. It is a
tragic thing, Agent Mulder, it was not what I wanted."

Mulder presses on. "You're out of your fucking mind.
Do you understand who you're even dealing with? I
mean..." Mulder spreads his hands. "Do you even
understand who or what you're dealing with? Even if
they took her, what makes you think she's even alive
after all these years?"

The black eyes blaze suddenly. "Because I feel it. I
*feel* it," Mendez says.

Mulder shakes his head, his lips curving in a bitter
smile. "It's not enough to *feel* it, Dr. Mendez.
Trust me." Mulder voice grows softer. "It's just a way
to avoid a painful truth."

"My daughter is alive," says Mendez, quietly, firmly.
"My little girl will be brought back to me, and my
other little girl will understand, and then I will be
forgiven." 

As Mulder watches, Mendez's calm surface has
momentarily broken to show what lies beneath: the
tenuous grip on reality, the incipient madness. Mulder
unconsciously steps backwards.

"They have kept my daughter all of these years,
because she is very special. But not as special as Dr.
Scully. Or you, Agent Mulder." Mendez sighs, and
presses the wet glass to his forehead. "I had hoped I
could reason with you, and then with your partner. It
could have saved us all more unpleasantness." Mendez
pauses. "I will give them your partner. And if I
cannot give them Agent Scully, then I will give them
you. Surely you of all men can understand me, Agent
Mulder. You can understand my desperation. I will do
anything to get her back. Anything." 

Mendez *is* a monster, thinks Mulder. A very familiar
monster. He has willingly sacrificed his daughter, his
whole family really, to a perverse greater good. And
now he will try to undo what he has done with the same
ruthlessness. Other human beings are tools to be used
in order to achieve his goals, to be discarded when it
is useful. Like Irma Vasquez, the smiling girl with
the silver cross, tortured and finally destroyed. Her
family caught in an unending loop of pain, a crushing
burden placed on the shoulders of a young boy.

The terrible thing is that the trait runs in the
family. Mulder thinks of Leda Mendez back in Miami,
obsessed with the search for her sister, as single-
minded and ruthless as her father. She had told
Mulder, "I'm not used to dealing with people I don't
pay." How will Leda react when she learns how Octavio
died in her service? Maybe she will fix herself
another stiff drink. And then she will find another
employee and continue her search.

Scully stopped me from becoming like that, Mulder
thinks.

At the thought of Scully another new idea comes to
Mulder, cutting through his dark thoughts like rays of
light. Despite his terrible situation he feels his
heart grow lighter. He leans forward to grip the back
of the chair, and a wide grin spreads across his face.
Wilson and Jaimalito look at each other, then at their
employer. Mendez looks up from his drink, puzzled.

"I just realized what it really means," says Mulder,
wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. Emotion
makes his chest tight, yet at the same time he feels
the giddiness of relief. "It means you can't control
Scully's chip any more. If you ever could. You want
her but you can't just snap your fingers and have her
show up like at Ruskin Dam." His eyes narrow. "And
apparently neither can they." Maybe that's why they
tried to cut the chips out of their necks at Izalco -
they wanted to know why they weren't working any more.

Mendez says, "Please take Agent Mulder back to his
room."

But Mulder continues, even when they take his arms and
drag him roughly away. "That's why you have to use me.
Something's gone wrong and you can't control her." His
voice rises to a shout. "You can't control her!"


XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx


Where the hell could he be, thinks Scully, scanning
the horizon with a hand shading her eyes. Dammit, this
country isn't that big. Trust Mulder to lose himself
in it.

Almost 24 hours since Mulder was taken and she is
beyond tired. Her hair is bound in a ponytail but
sweat has plastered stray tendrils to her forehead.
Impatiently she brushes them back. Her shoulder
holster rubs her uncomfortably through her thin cotton
shirt and she shrugs her neck to relieve the pain.

The day has passed in a blur. Scully and Fautz have
accompanied a mixed team of Salvadoran soldiers, UN 
peacekeepers, and investigators as they scour the
countryside around the lake and the volcano. They have
driven on a tangle of rough muddy roads, each more
difficult than the last. They have passed farms and
vacation villas, roadside stands and shacks. They have
questioned everyone they encountered on the way: a
group of solemn children startled from play. A group
of young women walking along the road carrying family
laundry, their laughter and gossip interrupted. A
young boy vending drinks by the side of the road, more
interested in selling orange soda and cold coconuts
than answering questions. An old women sitting in from
of her tiny cinderblock house, watching Scully and the
soldiers with a singularly unimpressed expression.

And all for nothing. The day has left Scully
increasingly irritated and uncomfortable, frustrated
and helpless - especially helpless, a feeling she
hates most of all. The soldiers are uniformly
courteous, but they still leave Scully uneasy. And her
Spanish is limited. Fautz translates, but she hates
the dependence, hates the barrier to communication.
She thinks back with irritation on the years spent on
Latin and Greek. They have come in handy in the past,
as has her faded German. But she'd be glad to give up
one dead language for a little more live Spanish.

Now they have halted in a small clearing between
canopies of trees. Soldiers with weapons at the ready
fan out along the periphery, scanning the underbrush
with sharp eyes. Evening sun tinges everything with
deep gold. And Scully feels the time weigh heavily on
her shoulders. Every minute that passes is another
minute of Mulder lost, hurt, hungry, sick, or worse.
Or worse. Resolutely Scully tries to banish the image
of Mulder strapped to the table, face deathly pale...

They will destroy him in order to learn what is inside
him. 

You don't want him to be taken in your place, do you?

Colonel Montoya, the officer in charge, breaks into
her reverie. He gives orders to the men in a rich,
commanding voice and they scramble in response. He
steps over to her then, his proud profile hawklike
against the glowing sky. "It is night soon," Montoya
says, choosing the English words carefully. "Necessary
now for you to return."

"No."

"Look, Agent Scully, the men have orders to bring us
back tonight before dark," says Fautz. He leans
against their jeep, looking somewhat wilted himself.
"So do I, actually," he adds.

"No," she says again. "There's still too much ground
to cover." She walks to the jeep and scans the map
unfolded on the hood. "We've barely covered any of
this. We're wasting time."

Fautz rubs his eyes. "I understand how frustrating
this must be. Believe me, I sympathize. But it's just
not safe to be out much later."

She looks down, nearly overcome with frustration,
struggling to keep the emotion out of her face. At
last she looks up. Oh, she is tired. Maybe she's not
much good to Mulder in this shape, anyway. "All
right." She nods reluctantly. "All right. But we
should at least take a different route, so we can
search a new area on the way back."

Fautz speaks to Montoya in Spanish. The colonel
responds in kind and Scully strains to keep up.
"What?" she asks, irrationally annoyed.

Colonel Montoya nods curtly at them both and walks
back to his own vehicle, radio in hand. "That was the
plan anyway. We're going back this way, along the
lake." Fautz traces the route with his finger. "You
just have to be patient, Agent Scully."

She narrows her eyes at him but says nothing. 

Soon they are careening down an even bumpier road than
before. Scully bounces in the back seat next to Fautz.
Their driver, Private Diaz, maneuvers the obstacles
with a mixture of recklessness and skill. He seems
barely out of his teens, with a struggling mustache
and a shy, confused smile when Scully says anything or
even turns her head his way. But now he is intent on
the rutted, muddy route before them. The others are
out of sight now, hidden by the thick trees in this
area. She knows the lake is on their left but the
trees and the darkness obscure the view. 

"Look," shouts Fautz abruptly above the roar of the
engine. Scully follows his pointing finger. Ahead, a
small track veers from the road toward the lake.

"Was that on the map?" wonders Scully.

"It's not marked." Fautz leans forward and shouts at
Diaz. "Izquierdo." Diaz nods and they veer left onto
the side road - if it can even be called a road. A
particularly sharp bump nearly hurls Scully from her
seat. A kernel of doubt forms in her mind.

"I don't think I like this," she shouts at Fautz.
"Where are the others?

Fautz is already working the hand-held radio.
"Sagitario, Sagitario, Libra aqui. Come in
Sagittarius." He listens intently, then shakes his
head. "Nothing but static."

"Try again," says Scully. The evening is suddenly
oppressive and they seem very alone right now.

"Sagitario, Sagitario," Fautz says again into the
radio. 

Diaz looks back at them over his shoulder as he
drives. "Nada?"

"Nada."

A sharp lurching turn and they are in another tiny
clearing. Diaz brings them to an abrupt stop. The sky
above them is violet now, lined with gold from the
vanished sun. In front of them is a high brick wall.
The top is covered with razor wire, like so many
places they have visited today. Through the gate
Scully sees a shady garden and a cluster of small
buildings. Beyond, the water gleams. Three men are at
the gate. They wear the ubiquitous khaki vests and
they are obviously well-armed. Scully feels the weight
of her own gun in her holster, comforting now instead
of irritating. The three men stand and smoke and look
at the jeep and its occupants with hard eyes. Diaz
leaves the vehicle running and returns the look in
kind. A wiry man with an empty face steps forward. The
other two step back deferentially. He tosses his
cigarette down and steps on it. "Que quieren?" he
asks.

Fautz steps from the jeep and walks toward them with
his hands empty. "Buenas," he calls.

"Que quieren?" asks the man again.

In answer Fautz comes closer. "We are searching for a
missing man," he says. He moves to stand very close to
the wiry man and their conversation falls out of
earshot. Scully surveys the clearing, looking behind
and around and feeling the darkness close in. At last
the conversation stops and Fautz walks back to Scully. 

"What the hell was that about?" she asks.

"I asked to speak to the owner. See if he knows
anything. He's in tonight, apparently."

His eyes are oddly distant, focused not on her face
but somewhere over her shoulder. Small sounds from the
trees around them, rustling leaves and breaking twigs.
Prickles, prickles on the back of her neck but Fautz
doesn't seem to feel them. Her desperate need for
information, for anything that will get Mulder back,
wars with her common sense and her sense of
self-preservation. "I don't like this," she says.
"We're alone. We're out of radio contact. Something's
very wrong." Diaz listens to her, not understanding
the words but catching her unease.

Fautz turns his head to look at the men, then looks
back at Scully. "I don't think you understand, Agent
Scully," he says quietly. "This isn't an invitation."
As he speaks, the men at the gates walk toward the
jeep with their weapons raised. In the front seat Diaz
raises his rifle. Scully turns her head wildly, her
heart racing, her body poised to flee. Another group
of men, heavily armed, come up behind them, emerging
from the shadows. She reaches for her weapon.

"Please don't do it, Agent Scully. It's not worth it,"
says Fautz sadly. "They outnumber you. I advise you
not to do anything foolish." 

He speaks in Spanish to Diaz, who licks his lips and
watches the approaching men with wide eyes. In
response to Fautz's instructions, he tosses his rifle
to the ground and raises his hands. He looks up at
Fautz. "Mentiroso. Traidor," he says.

"A liar and a traitor," muses Fautz. He laughs
joylessly. "Well, I guess that's me, all right. How
does that expression go? If it walks like a duck and
talks like a duck..."

They are trapped between a brick wall and men with
guns. Scully feels the weight of her gun again,
useless now. And instead of anger or fear, a metallic
coldness settles over her. "Why?" she asks.

"You too, Agent Scully. Please hand me your weapon."

She stares at Fautz a long moment, then pulls the Sig
from its holster. He takes it from her and tucks it
away. "Come on out."

Diaz steps out of the front seat. His young face is
white and taut with fear and strained bravado. Scully
climbs out of the Jeep, shrugging off Fautz's hand on
her elbow. "Why?" Scully asks Fautz again. Her voice
is thick with contempt. "The radio was working fine,
wasn't it? It was all your doing. You never even tried
to contact the others."

Fautz shrugs.

"You did this to Mulder too, didn't you?" She looks
around at the silent men surrounding them. "You sold
him out too." 

"No, it's not like that." The gate to the compound
swings open. "I don't expect you to understand me or
forgive me," Fautz says, but his eyes say otherwise.
The men watch the conversation expressionlessly.
"Just...just know that I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry.
For all of this." Scully studies Fautz's face for
moment and he flinches from her gaze. Then she looks
away, and she will not look at him again.

Four of the men usher them through the gate and into a
small courtyard. Most of them look like Salvadorans,
but one, rangy and blond, looks American. The gate
closes behind them with a heavy clank and the darkness
outside the gate is complete. Their feet echo in the
paved courtyard. A single electric light casts their
crisp black shadows on the tile. The men take them
between low brick buildings into a larger covered
patio. There are chairs, a table, some potted plants,
a hammock slung between two posts. No electric lights
here - the only illumination come from torches on the
wall. They sputter fitfully in the humid air.

The leader stops Scully with a heavy hand on her
shoulder and she shrugs him off. Fautz sits down and
hides his face in his hands. One of the men grabs Diaz
roughly by the arm and begins to lead him away.

"Wait a minute," Scully says, "Where are you taking
him?"

No answer. Diaz looks back plaintively at Scully over
his shoulder before he and the guard vanish into
another passageway on the other end of the patio.
Scully spins to face her captors.

"You heard me, where the hell are you taking him?" she
demands.

"Please do not be concerned, Dr. Scully." A new voice
comes from the shadows and Scully strains her eyes to
see its source. "No harm will come to the young man."

"Who are you?" Scully asks.

"No one of importance," answers the voice mildly. A
gray-haired man with a trim mustache and haunted black
eyes steps into the flickering light. "It is a
pleasure to meet you in person, Dr. Scully."

"You're the one who sent me those messages, aren't
you?" she asks.

"I consider you a colleague of sorts."

"You must use a different definition of the word
'colleague' than I do," Scully says. She takes several
steps in the man's direction. "I demand to know who
you are and what this is about. You are illegally
detaining an agent of the United States government as
well as an soldier in the Salvadoran military.
Hundreds of men are searching the countryside around
this place right now. I suggest you answer my
questions now because you don't have much time." She
hopes her voice carries more conviction than she
feels.

"Spirited and forthright," says the man. Fautz ignores
them both, still huddled on the chair.

"Dammit, answer me," Scully says, hating the fear and
querulousness creeping into her voice. "What the hell
do you want with me?"

"They want you back," says the man simply. "And I
intend to give them what they want."

Scully feels the bottom drop from under her, a sinking
horror. Then the welcome coldness returns. "Who? Who
wants me back?" she asks distantly.

"I think you know."

"No, I don't know." And right now she's not sure she
even really wants to know. She changes the subject for
the moment. "Where is Agent Mulder?"

The man gives her a reassuring smile. "He is well."

"I'd like to verify that independently," says Scully
icily. "Let me see him."

"I cannot do that. It will make things more difficult
for all of us."

"LET ME SEE HIM."

"There is no time, Dr. Scully. The exchange will take
place shortly."

"Exchange?" Scully asks. "Am *I* the one being
exchanged? What exactly are you *exchanging* me for?"

"Let me tell you a story, Dr. Scully," says the man.
He sits in a nearby chair. Wordlessly one of the men
sets a glass of ice and a bottle in front of him. 

Scully quivers with impatience, but she seems to be
the only one. He pours himself a drink and as he
speaks in his soft, pleasant, cultured voice, the time
seems to thicken and then stop like hardening
molasses. They all stand as if hypnotized by his
gentle tones.

"Once there was a group of men who wanted to save the
world. They were not brave and they were not strong
and they even collaborated with the enemy. But they
thought they were doing the right thing, even when
they did terrible things. And then they were asked to
do something even more terrible - to sacrifice their
own children." The man's eyes close in pain. "And they
did, because there was no choice. Some of the children
were...studied by the other men. To see if there was a
way to resist their enemies. Some of the children
died." Cold, sick horror washes over Scully, and she
wraps her arms around herself. "But some of the
children, very special children, were given to their
enemy as hostages. Including one very special little
girl. And her father did this because, although it was
painful, there was no other way to save the world."

"This is insane," interrupts Scully, but the
silver-haired man pays no attention.

"Over the years, the man worked and worked. The father
of the little girl worked especially hard, because he
hoped he could bring her back. But nothing came out of
the work except for more pain and death. So one day the
father said to himself, 'Why should I do this? All of
this work is for nothing. Perhaps I should try to learn
what our enemy really wants. Then, perhaps, if I give
them what they really want, they will return my little
girl.'" His voice takes on a sing-song quality. "And
the father was right. Because there was something -
someone - that the enemy wanted, more than anything. A
very special, very important woman."

Scully swallows. "And this woman...this woman is me."

"If you only knew how valuable you are to them," the
man murmurs. "Even more than your partner."

Scully does not often make the same leaps of logic
that Mulder does. But right now she doesn't have to. 
The facts line up neatly, tidy and horrifying,
allowing Scully to form a hypothesis. "You're Dr.
Fernando Mendez," she says, remembering what Mulder
told her about this tragic family. "This 'special
little girl' is your daughter Iphigenia."

Dr. Mendez stands and comes close to her. His eyes
reflect the flickering torchlight, giving him the
impression of madness. "They call you the One," he
says. Scully shrinks away instinctively when he
approaches. She backs into one of the guards, and his
hands close on her shoulders. "If they can have this
One, then they will no longer need the little girl."

"You can't possibly believe this," says Scully. "You
think you're going to give me to - to aliens," she
says, barely able to say the word. "You're exchanging
me for your daughter."

"Please do not be afraid." Dr. Mendez studies her face
sadly. "They will unlock the secret of the object in
your neck. They will restore your health and your
unborn children."

"You lie," Scully finally manages to say. "What...what
makes me so 'special?'"

Dr. Mendez signals the men. "It is time." He sets his
empty glass on the table. Firm hands grip Scully from
behind and instinctively she struggles.

Fautz still sits in his chair, his eyes hazy and
unfocused. Mendez turns to him. "You too, Mr. Fautz."

"No," says Fautz. "I've done my part. You give me what
you promised me. I'm done here."

"*I* tell you when you're done," replies Mendez. One
of the men points a gleaming gun at Fautz. "It is time
to go."

"What the hell is this about, Mendez? You promised me
my pictures. I want them now." Fautz's voice cracks.

"You will receive them when this matter is resolved,"
says Mendez sharply. "No fear, Mr. Fautz. Your...shall
we say, youthful indiscretion will remain concealed
for now." Fautz looks down in numb defeat.

The blond man behind Scully is a foot taller, with
hands like steel cords. Uselessly she tries to writhe
out of his grip. "You hold still now, gal," he says in
a surprising Texas twang. He binds her wrists with
plastic handcuffs, cheap but effective.

"Where is Agent Mulder?" Scully asks loudly as they
pull her away from the patio into a small passageway.
Mendez ignores her struggles. "Goddammit," she mutters
as she tries to twist away and the cuffs bite into her
skin. Then, desperately, she shouts, "Mulder!" Her
voice sounds high and strange with panic, echoing off
the tile and the brick.

"Scully?" Mulder's voice echoes back to her. He's
somewhere in the compound. Scully resists the hands
pulling her forward and looks around wildly for its
source. Hope and fear surge.

"Mulder? Where are you?"

"Scully! What's happening?"

"That's about all for now," says the big Texan
genially. His hand wraps around Scully's face,
muffling her shouts. The short wiry guard steps up to
gag her with a strip of cotton. Mendez and Fautz both
stop and turn to watch the small struggle. Fautz's
face full of shame, while Mendez is calm, even serene. 

"Wilson, please go back to take care of our other
guest," he says. The blond Texan nods and moves off.

Mulder continues to shout. "Scully, answer me!
SCULLY!"

But she can't answer. They start to move again,
dragging Scully along. Mendez opens another, smaller
gate and they step out of the compound. Flashlights
turn on, cutting into the oppressive night around
them. A small path winds through the trees and
underbrush. 

They plunge into the forest, forming a small
procession - Mendez, Fautz, three of the guards, and
Scully. As the forest engulfs them, she listens for
Mulder's voice again. But all she can hear are the
sounds of insects and birds, the heavy strange sounds
of a tropical night.


XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx


"Scully, answer me! SCULLY!" yells Mulder.

No answer. Shit, shit, shit. Mulder rattles the bars
futilely. He had heard voices from the other side of
the compound and had strained to listen. Then he
recognized Scully's voice, faint but distinct, calling
his name.

But now he can't hear her any more. Helpless rage and
fear overwhelm him.

"Shut the fuck up," says a familiar hated twang.
Mulder looks over to see Wilson.

"What's going on?" shouts Mulder. "Where are they
taking her?"

"Rusty's going on a little trip," answers Wilson. "Too
bad. Damn fine looking woman," he adds.

Red fury clouds Mulder's brain and eyes. "I'll kill
you when I get out of here," he hisses.

Wilson smiles in the night. "Welcome to try." Then he
walks off leisurely, lighting a cigarette.

When he is out of earshot, Mulder goes back to the
small bathroom. He stands on the toilet seat and
starts to work on the shower rod again. He's been at
this all afternoon with single-minded patience,
gradually trying to work it loose from the wall. The
mortar and caulking is soft and crumbly from the
humidity. Now he tries to pry it loose with renewed
fervor.

One end comes out finally, but the other is stubborn.
Sweat beads on Mulder's face and back, soaking through
the guyabera. He grunts and tugs with all of his
strength. The rod comes out completely and Mulder
falls backward off the toilet and onto the tile with a
crash.

He lies back, momentarily stunned. That was graceful,
he thinks. He rises to his feet with some effort. He
feels deep bruises all over his body, in addition to
the pounding in his head.

"What the fuck is going on in there?"

Mulder grasps the steel rod in his hand. Just like an
aluminum bat. It feels good and steady in his hands.
"Why don't you come take a look, you raggedy-ass
redneck dickless Soldier-of-Fortune reading poser son
of a bitch?" He winces as he says this. "You wanted to
kill me, you got your chance." He waits.

In answer the door to the cabin slams open. "Big
mistake, asshole," says Wilson. "The doctor wants to
keep you alive, but I can always tell him you tried to
escape."

Mulder waits in the shower, listening to the footsteps
crossing the room. They come in front of the bathroom
door, then hesitate. Mulder's hands tighten on the
rod, every muscle achingly tense. Home run, home run,
home run, he thinks crazily. Then a sudden movement
through the bathroom door. Mulder swings. 

Wilson grunts as the rod catches him in the windpipe.
He staggers, raises his gun, gasping for breath, and
Mulder swings again before he can recover. Wilson's
weapon falls to the tiles with a crash. Mulder steps
over him as he lies bloody and gasping and picks up
the gun.

He steps out of the bathroom to find the kid,
Jaimalito, aiming a shotgun at him. His black eyes
have the hard, dead look of a teenage killer who feels
no fear and has nothing to lose. Mulder fears him more
than ten Wilsons. They stand there for a minute
pointing their weapons at each other.

"Jaimalito," says Mulder at last, not sure how much
English the teenager understands. "You work for a bad
man. You have to believe me. He kidnapped girls from
their families. He tortured them and used them like
animals. And now these girls, these women, are all
dead. Their bodies are on Izalco now. Dr. Mendez is to
blame." Still nothing in the black eyes. Mulder takes
a chance. "One of them could have been your sister.
These girls were *somebody's* sister, or daughter, or
wife. And now he's going to destroy another woman."
Mulder moves closer and lowers his gun. "Please help
me stop him."

Jaimalito stares at him for another minute,
motionless. Quiet night sounds come through the open
door. Without taking his eyes from Mulder, Jaimalito
lowers his own gun. In a swift movement he pulls a
thin knife from his belt and tosses it on the floor at
Mulder's feet.

"Go now," he says.

Mulder nods, stoops to pick up the knife. As he heads
out the door, Jaimalito stops him with a hand on his
arm. "They go to the lake."

Mulder nods again, face tight. Then he heads left,
towards the open gate and the twisting path to the
lake.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX


Thick foliage tugs at Scully's feet as they pull her
along, and low branches slap at her face. The path is
overgrown and evidently unused for years. Her heart
pounds crazily and she tries to think. Mulder, here?
Is he all right? Did they just use him to lure me
here? 

Or is Mendez telling the truth? Do they - whoever
"they" are - want Mulder too?

They emerge from the path as if from out of a tunnel.
They are on a muddy lake beach, illuminated with their
flashlights and with the faint light from a quarter
moon above. Black water laps at the shore. Izalco is a
shape against the night sky, dark against dark. They
begin to trudge along the shore.

Scully looks up at the sky and thinks of Penny
Northern and Cassandra Spender. She thinks of the
people on Ruskin Dam and Izalco, the picture of Irma
Vasquez in her cross and best dress. And she is
afraid, but she is also angry. This has to stop here,
she thinks. I won't let this happen again, to me or to
Mulder or to anyone else. I refuse. I goddamn refuse.

She lets her body go slack, as if fainting, and falls
to the ground. The guard dragging her along is stopped
by her dead weight and momentarily confused. When he
bends to look at her she kicks at his legs. Surprised,
he loses his balance and topples to the ground. Scully
struggles up and dives into the undergrowth away from
the path and the lake.

She runs, ducking low, awkward and off-balance with
her hands bound in front of her. The gag cuts into the
corners of her mouth and makes it difficult to
breathe, but she keeps running. Shouts behind her and
the sounds of pursuit. She trips on a root and is
briefly airborne before landing hard on the mossy
ground. Scrapes sting her hands and face but she pulls
herself awkwardly to her feet and keeps running.

A slight dip in the ground and she falls again, this
time with an involuntary "Oof!" Goddammit. She lies
still and listens for a moment. The shouts have
stopped. Heavy silence weighs over everything. Even
the insects are silent. Panting heavily, Scully gets
to her knees - 

- and then the white light, strangely familiar but
brighter than anything she has ever known, blazes
around her, and cuts into her, and she looks up and
sees it huge above her, huger than the thing from her
nightmares of Ruskin Dam, blindingly white but she
can't look away, paralyzing her paralyzing her,
draining her of all thought as she waits on her knees
and stares up, and then there is nothing but the
consuming blind whiteness all around.


XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX


On the muddy beach Mendez and Fautz stand and watch as
three of the guards dive into the forest after the
fleeing woman. "Aqui, aqui," calls one of the men. And
then they are out of earshot. 

The remaining guard shifts uneasily, moving his weapon
from hand to hand. He scans the lake, the shore, the
faint outline of Izalco with nervous eyes. Mendez
turns slowly to look at Fautz.

"Well, don't look at me," snaps Fautz after an
uncomfortable pause. "This isn't my fault." The two
men stare at each other for a minute until the voice
of the guard breaks the silence.

"Doctor. Mira." Fautz and Mendez turn their heads
toward him. The guard points at the lake with a
shaking finger.

A shape emerges from the water ten feet away from the
shore. It comes closer and the faint light shows it to
be a man's head. Slowly but purposefully it moves
closer the lakeside. Gradually the rest emerges,
revealing thick neck, wide shoulders, massive frame.
In his plain black clothes he blends into the night
except for his face and hands. The man strides out of
the lake and towards the others, ignoring the water
rolling down his face and body. 

"Dios mio," whispers the guard as he backs away. 

"Oh my God," says Fautz. Mendez says nothing but
stands firm as the man approaches.

Finally the stranger comes to stand just a few feet
away from them. He stands easily, his powerful arms
resting at his sides. At this distance his strange
face is heavy and twisted and absolutely
expressionless. The eyes fathomless and cold like the
black lake behind him. He waits in perfect stillness
while Fautz and the guard shrink away. But Mendez does
not move.

"I have brought you what you wanted," Mendez declares
finally. "I have brought you the woman, just as you
wished." The stranger looks from side to side. He
moves stiffly, rotating his entire head on his neck
like a reptile searching for prey. "She is close,"
Mendez says quickly. "I assure you."

Still no answer. The man from the lake simply stares.

Mendez licks his lips. "Now I have done my part.
Now...now you will give me what you promised in
return." His voice shakes. "My daughter."

The stranger finally speaks. His voice is a deep
monotone, his words strangely slurred. "You are
mistaken. It is not the woman we want," he says.

Mendez's eyes go wide and his jaw slack. "But...but
you said she was important. You said she was the One."
A feverish, desperate brightness comes into his eyes.
"Wait. I understand. It's the man you want. He's the
One. I can bring Mulder to you as well."

An expression like contempt forms in the stranger's
face. "You have understood nothing. The woman is not
the One. The man is not the One. It is only in tandem
that their potential is realized. Only then will there
be the One." 

"I have them both. I can give you both!" Mendez's
voice raises to an ugly shout.

"My God, Mendez," hisses Fautz. The guard turns
abruptly and runs into the forest, away from the lake,
stumbling in panic.

"It is not their time yet," answers the stranger.
"Soon. Not now."

Mendez sinks to his knees in the mud. His face is
overcome with numb horror and disbelief. "Iphigenia,"
he says brokenly. "My daughter. What about my
daughter?"

The stranger looks down on him with curiosity. "You
have never understood," he says. "Despite your
promise, the understanding of your race is very
limited."

"You promised me," Mendez whispers.

"We promised you nothing," says the stranger. He
closes his eyes. The eyelids melt into his face and
vanish, leaving nothing but smooth skin. The lips turn
thin and join together, and the mouth disappears. The
nostrils close. The ears go flat and meld into his
skull. The stranger stands before them faceless.

Fautz screams and turns to run. But he can only take a
few steps before fire swallows him, fire brighter and
hotter than anything he has ever known. He falls to
the ground and screams again, this time in pain, as
the fire consumes him.

Mendez watches, motionless. The fire is all around -
even the black surface of the lake seems to be on
fire. Mendez looks back up at the faceless stranger,
then closes his eyes and lets the blazing heat take
him.


XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX


Mulder races down the path, branches thwacking him in
the face and overgrown foliage tugging at his feet.
>From time to time he stops to listen, but he hears
nothing but his own panting breaths and the sound of
insects - 

A sudden chill goes down Mulder's spine. There is no
sound of insects. Deathly quiet has fallen over
everything.

Mulder tries hard not to panic. He spins around
frantically, looking around him. Nothing. 

He's not sure how long he stands there. The silence is
broken by footsteps coming up the path and heavy
breathing. One of the guards - Mulder recognizes his
thin scarred face from the group that kidnapped him -
bursts from the underbrush.

"Stop right there!" Mulder shouts, raising his weapon.
"Where's Agent Scully?"

The guard runs past Mulder, completely ignoring him
and his gun. He crashes away, gasping as he runs.
Mulder watches him go, blinking in surprise.

Then a burst of bright orange light comes through the
trees.

Fire. Goddamn fire. Mulder bends double for a moment,
his hands on his knees. Oh, anything but fire, he
thinks. Oh no. Oh shit. Oh God. The rows of burnt
corpses and the sickening smell. 

Impulses and fears war in him, but only briefly.
Scully overwhelms everything else.

He pulls himself together and runs toward the fire.

In a few minutes he emerges on a flat muddy beach. A
few trees and bushes have caught fire. And something
else burns, a small huddled something on the mud that
crackles and smokes and hisses and gives off a
terrible terrible smell. Mulder stops, catches his
breath, feels his gorge rise, looks away in horror...

Then he spots a small figure further down the beach,
wandering aimlessly at the edge of the water.

"Scully!" Mulder yells. He sprints down the beach. She
does not seem to hear him. "Scully, Scully!" He nearly
crashes into her as he runs up to her and takes her by
the shoulders. She swings around passively. It's
Scully and she looks a little scraped up but none the
worse for wear. His brief elation vanishes as he looks
into her vacant face and hazy eyes. She doesn't
recognize him.

He murmurs her name over and over, taking her face in
his hands. "Scully, Scully, Dana, it's me, please talk
to me, are you okay?"

And suddenly she looks at him, really *looks* at him,
and her gaze sharpens and the haze dissipates.
"Mulder!" Concern darkens her blue eyes. She reaches
up to his face, studying his wounds. "My God, what
happened to you? Are you okay?"

Mulder leans into her touch. "I am now," he says, and
brushes hair from her face. "What happened? What do
you remember?" he asks.

Scully shakes her head as if to clear it. "He...Dr.
Mendez...he thought he was going to trade me for his
daughter. He thought...he thought aliens had her. It
was Fautz! Fautz was working for Mendez." Mulder nods
grimly. "We were going down the path, and we reached
the lake. I managed to get away. I was running, and
there was a light..." Scully shakes her head again.
She looks down, confused, at her hands, at the red
marks around her wrists. "I was cuffed. I don't
remember what happened after that, Mulder." She looks
into his eyes, her own round with growing alarm. "I
don't remember."

He says nothing but draws her to him, burying his face
in her hair. Scully clings to him and her breath is
hot and damp against his neck. After a moment she
pulls back a little so she can observe him again. The
small worried crease appears on her forehead and
Mulder knows she's all right. "You look like you've
been hit by a truck," she says. Her eyes travel down.
"And what's the deal with the shirt, Mulder? What have
you been doing, sipping martinis and playing canasta?"

"That's just typical," says Mulder. "I come flying in
to rescue you like the white knight that I am and all
you can do is make fun of my shirt. I like it, I think
it's a good look for me."

"*You* came to rescue *me.* Huh. Interesting spin,"
mutters Scully.

Suddenly new shouts in the woods, a mixture of Spanish
and English. Scully turns in Mulder's arms and looks
back, panicked, at the sound. Grimly Mulder pulls the
gun from his waistband and gets ready to meet them. He
prepares to shield Scully's body with his own, a
ridiculous gesture that will no doubt infuriate her
but it will make him feel much better...

Soldiers crash through the trees and bushes onto the
narrow strip of beach, pointing their rifles at Mulder
and Scully. 

"Mulder, put it down," Scully says sharply. "That
won't help us."

"Get behind me," Mulder says.

'Mulder, FOR CHRIST'S SAKE - '

A commanding voice bellows orders in Spanish. The
soldiers comply instantly, lowering their weapons but
do not take their eyes off Mulder. A tall man with a
handsome hawklike profile and officer's stripes pushes
his way through the men. "Agent Mulder, lower your gun
if you please. We are sent to find you."

Mulder hesitates, but he feels Scully relax. "It's all
right, Mulder. This is Colonel Montoya. He's in charge
of the search operation. It's okay."

Mulder lowers his gun but does not drop it. Another
figure comes out of the trees, an obvious Norte
Americano with Coke-bottle glasses and a pudgy figure,
a familiar Sig Sauer in his left hand. Mulder does not
recognize him, but Scully calls out, "Agent Hershman!"

"Agent Scully! Goddamn, but it's good to see you in
one piece. Agent Mulder, you okay? You look like
you've been hit by a fucking bus."

"It was a truck, actually," Mulder replies. "But yeah,
I'm okay."

Montoya shouts more orders to his men and they begin
to fan out along the beach. "When they couldn't make
radio contact with you, they pulled out all the
stops," Hershman says. "We found your vehicle out
there in the clearing. And we found your driver in the
woods nearby. He's in bad shape but they're working on
him now." Hershman looks back down the shore to the
small smoldering pile. "Oh Jesus. That was Fautz,
wasn't it?"

Scully nods. "It was him," she says, and sags against
Mulder. Her face is suddenly gray with exhaustion.

Hershman needs no more explanation. "The bastard," he
says, wiping his forehead. "Oh, that sorry, sorry
bastard."

In this distance they hear the buzz of approaching
helicopters. They stand and they wait. A searchlight
skims the water, a shaft of blazing white light, and
falls over them, and they look up with dazed faces
into the glare.


XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX


"...the federal probe continues today into the
abduction of two FBI agents on assignment in El
Salvador. A staffer at the American Embassy in San
Salvador has been implicated in what is being called a
'far-reaching conspiracy' by an unnamed source within
the Federal Bureau of Investigation. The staffer is
question, Paul Fautz, was assigned to the American
Embassy as a liaison with the Department of Justice.
His body was found immolated on the shore of a remote
lake in what some sources are describing as a suicide.
The investigation continues amidst allegations of
atrocities and scientific experiments upon human
subjects during the time of El Salvador's civil war in
the 1980s. A Senate subcommittee - "

"Oh God, Scully, please turn it off!"

"The radio's right next to you, Mulder. Turn it off
yourself."

Mulder opens his eyes and flails at Scully's clock
radio until NPR switches off in mid-sentence. Then he
sighs and covers his face with his forearm. He lies
stretched out on Scully's bed in his boxers, late
afternoon light spilling into her bedroom. They came
straight here from the airport - Scully leapt into the
shower to wash the smell of airplane from her hair.
She leans against the door, arms folded, wrapped in a
terrycloth robe, her damp hair tucked behind her ears.
Watching him as he lies on the bed with his eyes
closed.

"So, who do you think the 'unnamed source' is?
Skinner?" she asks.

"Likely suspect."

"I don't like that we never found Mendez's body,
Mulder."

"I don't either."

Scully frowns as she remembers Fautz, his shame-filled
face. "Fautz was being blackmailed to cooperate. He
kept asking about pictures. Mendez had something on
him, something ugly. I don't suppose we'll ever know
exactly what." She bites her lip and looks down at her
bare feet, vulnerable on the wood floor. "I keep
thinking that we'll touch bottom but we never do.
Where does it all stop, Mulder? How far back does it
go? Who e-mailed that report to you and Leda Mendez to
begin with? Why did they agree to send me El Salvador?
Too many questions, Mulder. Too many coincidences."

Mulder's eyes open and then narrow suspiciously. "Are
you channeling my thoughts again?"

Scully rolls her eyes and smiles a little. Then her
expression grows serious again. An ugly, insistent
thought at the back of her mind. "You don't think...
you don't think Skinner's in on it, do you?"

Their eyes meet. Mulder shakes his head. "No. I don't
think so, Scully. Maybe I would have thought so once.
But not now, not after everything. I think we can
trust him."

Scully thinks of Skinner confessing to her as he lay
in agony, both of them knowing that he was dying. How
she wanted so damn much to believe what he said. "I
think so too," she says softly.

"I have to wonder about Kersh," says Mulder as he sits
up in bed. "I just don't know what to think about him.
I can't read him. Do you think he's dirty."

"Maybe. Or maybe he's just a narrow minded asshole,"
Scully suggests.

Mulder nods sagely. "Or maybe someone has something on
him too. Maybe someone has some pictures of Kersh
performing an especially deviant sex act."

She winces. "Thank you, Mulder, for that very
appealing mental picture."

"You're very welcome."

Scully crosses the room and sits on the edge of the
bed, facing away from Mulder. He reaches out for her,
running his fingers absently up and down her back. She
shuts her eyes for a moment, trying to ignore the
disquiet in her heart. "I'm just so tired of not being
able to trust my memory," she says at last. "I hate
having these...these gaps."

"Would you at least consider hypnotherapy again?"
urges Mulder gently.

"I'll think about it."

"That's all I ask."

Scully sighs heavily. "I want answers, but sometimes
I'm afraid to hear them," she confesses.

"I understand, Scully," Mulder says. "You know I do."
She tilts her head back over her shoulder to look at
him. His fingers still trace light patterns on her
back but his eyes are momentarily distant. Mulder has
told her his theory about the chip in her neck. He
thinks that it - and Scully - can't be controlled any
more. But Scully doesn't know what to think.

"How did those women get from Washington to El
Salvador without any help, Mulder? I suppose we'll
never know that either." Again she shuts her eyes. "I
get tired of hearing these same stories, over and
over, and not being able to do anything," she says.
"All of these stories..." Her voice trails off as she
thinks of all the same sad stories repeating
themselves. Irma Vasquez and Penny Northern and
Cassandra Spender. Samantha's story, and Emily's. And
Mulder's. And hers.

"I've been thinking about Mendez, trying to understand
him," says Mulder at last. "I think it's pretty clear
what happened. Years ago, he was forced to turn his
daughter over as a hostage, like the others did. Like
with Samantha." Scully looks at him, concerned, but he
continues. "He couldn't deal with what he had done. He
very likely knew what was being done to her, but he
thought he was justified. Like he thought he was
justified in performing those experiments on those
other girls. So he withdrew from reality. He
constructed a fantasy world where nothing was his
fault and his daughter was with aliens and everything
was going to be hunky dory if he just gave them what
he thought they wanted." He pokes lightly at Scully's
arm. "Mendez tried to deal with the Colonizers, but he
never really understood who or what he was dealing
with." His eyes go distant again. "It's easier to
think that way, I guess. Easier to think that a girl
would be abducted by aliens than turned over to evil
men by her own father and subjected to experiments and
torture.

Scully blinks at the pain in Mulder's voice and
reaches for his hand. They sit that way in silence as
the light dims. After a few minutes Scully asks, "So
what did happen to Iphigenia, Mulder? Do you think
she's dead?" Like your sister, she thinks, but does
not say. She doesn't need to.

Mulder lays back down. "I don't think so. I have some
ideas."

"What?" Scully asks curiously.

Mulder shakes his head. "Later." He pulls at her arm,
gentle but insistent. "Come here, Scully."

She turns around and kneels on the bed, straddling
him, her robe falling open. She presses her hand
lightly against his navel, then runs her hand up to
his sternum and over his pectoral muscles, the coarse
scattered hair raspy against her fingers. Mulder
closes his eyes in sleepy pleasure.

But Scully has a sudden vision of Mulder as he was
that night when she found him in that hospital,
bandages around his head, eyes closed in imitation of
death. And all the other times she thought he was
gone. All the other times she felt him slipping away. 

They will destroy him in order to learn what is inside
him. 

You don't want him to be taken in your place, do you? 

No. He's here beneath her, alive and safe. He's fine.
She continues to touch him, reassuring herself of his
warm alive presence. And something inside seems to
snap and release and it is absolutely necessary that
she touch him everywhere, everywhere with hands and
mouth. Absolutely necessary to reassure herself with
the evidence of all her senses.

Her breath becomes labored and the thing inside snaps
again and she releases a gasping sob of relief. 

"Hey. Hey, Scully." Mulder suddenly stills her frantic
hands, his fingers around her wrists. Blearily she
raises her head and meets his gaze. Surprise, desire,
tenderness in his face. "Scully, shh. I'm here. It's
okay." He pulls her to him, arms tight around her, her
cheek pressed against his chest. "I'm okay. I'm not
going anywhere."


XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx


Epilogue


Wednesday night. Emilio Vasquez pulls up in front of
the Faith Redeemer Evangelical Church of Silver
Spring. Spanish service every Wednesday, 8PM,
proclaims a hand-lettered sign. Servicios en espanol
todos los miercoles. Light spills from the open doors
and windows onto the patchy lawn.

Emilio leaves the little Honda running while his
mother pulls on her sweater and gathers her purse.
Before she opens the car door, she looks imploringly
at her son, as she does every Wednesday. Please come
with me tonight, the look says.

Usually this just makes Emilio angry. But not tonight.
"No, mama," he says, shaking his head slightly. "Otra
dia." Maybe another day. He smiles, just a little, in
the light from the church and the streetlights. She
returns the sad smile and steps out of the car. Emilio
watches her as she speeds up the sidewalk into the red
brick church where the music is already beginning.

He pulls away from the curb then and starts down the
street. But he doesn't head for the bar to meet his
boys, like he usually does these Wednesday nights
after dropping off his mother.

Instead he drives home. He parks carefully in front of
the house, then walks to the park across the street.
He passes under trees just starting their spring
flowers, their pale blossoms reflecting in the glow
from streetlights and moon and stars. Emilio walks
across the park, sniffing the cold spring night air.

Soon he reaches the middle of the wide soccer field,
far away from the street and the houses and the trees.
Here the stars are clear and distinct and the moon is
a slim, bright crescent. Emilio stops, his hands in
his pockets, and looks up, watching the stars glitter.
He feels emptied of something, but can't decide what
it is. It could be anger, or it could be hope.

After a while Emilio eases himself down to sit cross-
legged in the grass. He leans back and looks up again,
watching the stars and thinking and waiting.

He waits there for a long time.


XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX


Leda Mendez leans over her balcony, watching the wind
whip across Biscayne Bay. Small boats dot the water.
The sun shines, but lofty thunderclouds build on the
horizon. On the other side of the bay lies the narrow
strip of Key Biscayne, and then beyond that the vast
indifferent Atlantic.

She holds a letter in her hand - quality white linen
stationery, firm black handwriting. She doesn't look
at it any more, she doesn't need to. She has read it
at least twenty times and she has memorized every
word, every part of its long and impossible story.
Especially the last part. The words scroll in front of
her eyes:


...so Leda, I hope that you can respect my
decision. I simply can't see you now. I'm not
emotionally ready for this. Please don't try
to contact me or find me. You can't, because
I know how to hide. I know this sounds hard,
but please understand. Someday soon, I hope,
we'll be able to meet.

I just wanted you to know that you didn't
have to look any more.

Your sister
Iphi


Leda stares ahead unseeing, her face white and her
black eyes empty. Then slowly, methodically, she
begins to tear the letter into tiny pieces. When she
is done she scatters the scraps on the wind.
Disinterestedly she watches them flutter away like
confetti. No one will notice, she thinks.

At last Leda opens the sliding glass door and walks
back into the immaculate white living room.
Automatically she straightens some throw pillows on
the couch. Then she walks toward the small bar on the
opposite wall with purposeful feet.

Halfway there, Leda's legs weaken and give way beneath
her. She crumbles gracelessly to the floor, sinking to
her knees and curling onto her side. She holds her
head fiercely and begins to weep. She does not cry
silently. Huge, painful sobs wring her small body and
she gasps noisily for air.

She lies there for some time on the floor in the empty
white room, seized again and again by fresh spasms of
grief, and she is helpless to stop them.


XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX


"Well," says the gray man as he takes a deep drag on
his Morley. "I'm certainly glad I could help bring
about this touching family reunion."

Marita Covarrubias looks at him stonily and says
nothing.

"You will, of course, be flying to Africa for that
small errand. As we agreed."

"Yes."

"Good." He adjusts himself in his wheelchair. "You
took a risk, sending Mulder that report. Very
foolish."

"It worked," she says tightly.

"The ends don't justify the means," the man says. Then
he smiles, as if at a private joke. "Well, most of the
time, at any rate."

Marita just looks at him.

He glances at his watch. "We can discuss your methods
later. If you want to do this, now is your
opportunity." She nods and rises. As she turns to go
he grasps her wrist with a cold dry hand and she
flinches from the touch. "You don't have much time."

She pulls away and walks down the hospital hallway,
her heels clicking methodically on the tile. He stays
in the smoking lounge and watches her until she turns
a corner. Then he takes another deep drag and releases
it, and the smoke twists around his head.

She opens a door to one the rooms and steps in. A man
lies under a transparent tent, hooked to a series of
machines and tubes. The body is twisted, the face
destroyed, the skin red and hideous. The fire seems
almost to have melted him alive.

Marita pulls a chair next to the bed and sits, never
taking her eyes from him. At the slight sound of the
scraping chair he opens his eyes, and the dark eyes
are the only familiar thing.

"Mija," he whispers through scarred lips. He struggles
for breath. "Mi amor. You are here."

"Hello, Papa," says Marita carefully. There is no
expression on her handsome face.

"You are so beautiful," says the ruined man. He tries
to move his hand, but fails. "Gracias a dios. They
have returned you to me, like they promised. They
returned you from the stars."

Marita does not move. "Please, Papa. Don't make this
any harder. I was certainly never in 'the stars.' Stop
lying to yourself."

"What...what?"

"You knew where I was the whole time, Papa. All that
time. You helped them take me. You helped them perform
the, the tests yourself. I remember you watching as
they strapped me down. I remember you pushing the
needle in yourself."

"No."

"And then you had my foster parents killed. Nico and
Maria Covarrubias, do you even remember them? They
tried to save me. They got tired of watching me
suffer. They cared about me and they didn't want to
see me go through any more tests. So you had them
killed." Her expression does not change, but her eyes
begin to spill. "They said it was just another
terrorist attack. They said it was an Islamic Jihad
suicide bomber. But I know better now."

"No, no," says the ruined man, writhing a little as if
in agony.

"Yes, Papa. I was there. I remember. For years I
couldn't remember anything. There were things that
didn't make sense but I tried to push them away.
Then...about two years ago I was...I was sick. The
tests began again. And it all came back to me. All of
it. I remember everything now. *Everything.*" She
wipes her eyes impatiently with the back of her hand.

"Iphigenia," he whispers, confused. "Iphi. No."

"No one's called me that for years," Marita says, a
flicker of smile on her face. It vanishes quickly. A
last tear streaks down her cheek. Her eyes are rimmed
with red. She rubs her face one more time and reaches
for her purse. Efficiently she pulls out a syringe and
checks its contents against the light from the window.

"Por favor, Iphigenia," says her father in a whisper.
"Por favor, perdone me."

She reaches under the tent and takes one twisted arm.
With great care she pulls out a small tube going into
a vein near the inside of his elbow. Then she aims
with the syringe and pushes the needle in.

"I'm sorry that this seems like mercy, Papa," she
says.

The dark eyes in the ruined face flutter shut.

Marita watches him for a moment, studying the monitors
surrounding him. His chest stops rising and falling.
An alarm begins to shriek.

Briskly she puts the syringe back in her purse. She
looks at him one last time and her tears are gone.
Then she turns and walks out the door, heels clicking
on the tile, and she does not look back.


End


XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX


Thanks and notes:

Muchas gracias to Alicia K for her speedy beta reading
services, her encouragement, and her good advice.

Thanks to my husband for his constant support, his
good ideas, and his help with Spanish.

I'd also like to thank my husband's Cuban and
Salvadoran family for introducing me to a place and a
people. Much of this story was inspired by a trip to
visit my husband's cousin in El Salvador in 1997. The
hotel on Cerro Verde with the view of Izalco is a real
place, with an appalling restaurant.

Not to sound too much like an after-school special,
but...

To learn more about Izalco, including pictures:
http://www.geo.mtu.edu/volcanoes/central_america/el_salvador/izalco/

For more info on El Salvador:
http://www.lonelyplanet.com/destinations/central_america/el_salvador/
http://www.cia.gov/cia/publications/factbook/geos/es.html
http://www.usinfo.org.sv/

El Salvador is recovering from severe earthquakes
earlier this year:
http://www.unicefusa.org/alert/emergency/elsalvador/

Why am I obsessed with Mulder in a guyabera, and
what's a guyabera anyway?
http://www.locostyle.com/blue2.html
http://www.supplycurve.com/cgi-local/SoftCart.exe/online-store/scstore/mexic
an/g

Please let me know what you think about this strange
story! I'd love to hear from you.
Elanor G, September 2001
ElanorG@yahoo.com
http://www.geocities.com/ElanorG