Dana Scully. My heart is pounding. Dana Scully. She exists. She is an FBI agent. She knows Agent Fox Mulder, who until now had just been an unusual name on the end of an exceptional report. There is no time to rejoice at this discovery for Sam, because the lights in the kitchen flicker and go dark just then. The woman on the speaker phone is still trying to reach through to Sam. "Mulder, please, answer me. Are you okay? Where are --" I become aware of the creak of floorboards out in the hallway. The careful yet clumsy step of someone trying artlessly to be stealthy. I look frantically for the gun. Damn! It is still in the duffel bag, and the duffel bag is in the parlor. The voice of Dana Scully has been cut short. The line is dead. Sam looks at the useless phone in his hand as if just awakening from a dream. "This is not good," I say nervously. I reach for the cell phone that Lucille left for us. "We have to call Edel. Now." My voice is quaking. "No. Don't bother our dear Edel, Deanna. He's been so touchy today." Antoine Judice's voice. He is standing in the doorway, a gun trained on us. Smiling, he ambles forward to Sam and pulls him roughly back in the chair. Sam loses his grip on the phone he had been clutching as if his life depended on it. It clatters to the table, and Antoine laughs. "Who was that, Gary? Calling the governor for a reprieve? A waste of time. This is the end of the road for you, mister." "You're making a mistake, Antoine," I tell him with as much warning in my voice as I can muster right now. "It's just like he's been telling you: he isn't Gary Redmond. If you take him away, you'll spend the rest of your days in a federal prison for the kidnapping of a federal agent. Sam is most probably an FBI Agent by the name of Fox Mulder." "Oh? Says who? I've got 100,000 crisp new dollar bills that say he IS Gary Redmond, Deanna." He pulls his prisoner back further, gripping him fiercely by the neck. Gun in hand, Antoine pulls a folded piece of newspaper from his suit coat pocket, shakes it in front of Sam and slaps it on the table for us to see. The handsome visage of Sam -- no, Fox Mulder -- stares out from the printed page. It is a copy of an obituary, dated three weeks ago. Carefully worded. The kind of vague, delicate prose written for victims of suicide. Unexpected Death. A cliffside tumble into an uncaring ocean. No body recovered. I'm sure Fox Mulder didn't expect this death. Fox Mulder. Alive, but still cut off from his life. And they have come to make sure he remains buried. Antoine is leaning over his prisoner with a malicious grin. "See there? Fox Mulder is D-E-A-D -- DEAD! Understand? Listen up, boy -- if I say you're Gary Redmond, then that's who you are. If I say you're Elvis, then that's who you are. If I say you're Hillary Clinton, then that's who you are. Do you get the point?" he hisses into Sam's ear. The young man is almost unable to nod; Antoine has him in a murderous clinch. He shoves Sam forward onto the table, sending dishes and food crashing to the floor. Sam's face is coloring over with anger as the heavy man leans onto him, pinning him and cuffing his hands behind his back. "There," Antoine puffs, pushing himself off of his prisoner. He then gives Sam a patronizing pat on the head and laughs, "Your warden is waiting for you, boy. And, my-oh-my, is he anxious to see you!" He looks over at me. "I have a set of bracelets for you, Deanna Darlin'. We got a bit of a ride ahead of us. Will I really need to use them? Or will you and your young stud behave?" Anger. Despair. Weariness. I feel lost in this struggle. I feel ineffective and powerless. Sam is going to be returned to "them" -- the makers of his nightmares, the thieves of his memories, the creators of his mind-prison. "I won't fight you, Antoine," I say quietly. "Will you listen to reason?" Antoine gives me his hideous gap-toothed grin. "Did I tell you I have a 'bonus' coming to me if I bring you along, babe?" "He may be a federal agent," I keep talking, ignoring his words, looking him in the eye. "He's a very wanted man, Deanna," Antoine insists, the smile on his face stiffening angrily. "This here boy is the Brass Ring, and I grabbed him. He's my ticket to Paradise." "They'll never let you live after you've done this for them," Sam growls. "Shut the fuck up!" Antoine snaps at him, batting Sam across the back of the head viciously. He pulls his prisoner roughly up off the chair and pushes him toward the door. Waving the gun at me, he demands, "Where are his medicines? I was told to find the 'medicines'? Get them!" Fearing for Sam, I hurry to obediently retrieve the black duffel bag from the parlor without further comment. I can feel the heaviness of Mackey's gun still inside it and pray fervently that Antoine is sloppy enough and lazy enough not to check the bag. I needn't have worried. He is a predictable fool. He is preoccupied, busy manhandling Sam, who had begun a struggle. Judice has pushed him to his knees and is bracing him against the hallway door, paying little attention to me as his prisoner fights against his cruel grip. I keep silent. As long as Sam's resistance is occupying most of Antoine's attention, I may have some chance to look for a moment, an opening, an opportunity. An opportunity for another escape. "Get those papers!" Antoine's order is shrill. He is clearly growing angrier with his prisoner. Waving his gun at me, he indicates the files still on the table. He is grunting with the effort of keeping his hold on Sam. "Hurry! Hold still, you little fucker... We'll be taking my car, Deanna. You'll be driving. Gary -- here -- has to be delivered on time. We're on a strict schedule." As I unzip the bag, I see the glint of the hand gun Mackey had given us that night we left him behind in his Jeep. My knees almost buckle at the sight, but there is little opportunity to grab it. I know full well that my limited knowledge of guns is now suddenly a liability. And Antoine Judice would know that, too. My eyes fall on Lucille's cell phone, resting on the table near the FBI report. "Hurry! Goddamn it! We have an appointment!" Antoine roars at me. At Sam, he fumes, "Settle down, you prick! Or I'll put a bullet in your girlfriend!" I see Sam freeze at that, ending his struggle abruptly. Now Antoine is free to turn his attention to me. He is too close. I sweep the papers up, hiding the mobile phone in my hand. As I make a pretense of struggling with loose papers, I feel around the keypad for what I think is the number "1" and the "send" button. There is no way to see if I have successfully dialed Edel's number. I use the file to cover the gun and the phone at the bottom of the bag. Maybe there would be a chance, an opportunity to use it. My heart begins to beat a little faster. "Hurry, damn you, woman!" Antoine is pulling Sam roughly to his feet and wrenching him toward the porch door. Sam hazards a glance back at me and suffers a punch from his captor for it, bringing him down to his knees for the second time. "You are a sadistic son of a bitch," I say hotly, as I lean over to help the young man to his feet again. Judice's only reply is a short derisive laugh. He pushes Sam forward and waves his gun at me, silently ordering me to follow. Edel, where are you, I think to myself as I obediently get into the driver's side of Antoine's big, black Lincoln. How long before we will be missed? My stomach sinks as Antoine orders me to start the engine. I can only hope that Edel has gotten my call. I can only hope that he is listening now as Antoine growls orders at me. I can only hope that help is on the way. Minutes later, we are headed out of the Garden District and toward the frayed, decaying edges of the city. Blocks of abandoned buildings. Deserted streets. Broken pavement. Every time I risk a glance in the rearview mirror to check on Sam, his face looks unreadable. He spends much of the trip staring at the floor, thinking perhaps, about the woman's voice on the phone. Dana Scully. The woman who heard his voice and recognized him as Fox Mulder. The woman whose voice was full of terror and grief and concern for Fox Mulder. Maybe Dana Scully... She was an FBI agent, wasn't she? Is Sam her missing comrade? Partner, perhaps? She must have realized by now. She must have guessed. Maybe she had started the search the moment the line was cut. She has resources. Oh God, Dana Scully. He needs you now. WE need you now. "Over there!" Judice is pointing down an alleyway. A nondescript white utility van is at the far end. I stop before it, and Judice snaps the engine off, taking the keys out. "Just sit. Don't move." I watch the van door open and see a familiar figure get out and turn toward us. I hear Sam's nearly inaudible gasp. I know what he is feeling, because I'm feeling it, too. My own stomach roils, and I almost gag, nearly losing my breakfast. Nausea is more welcome than what I feel now: sheer terror. It is Eddings. Sam's tormentor. Victor's assassin. He survived Victor's attack with only a minor injury, it seems. His left arm is cradled in a sling. It takes nothing away from his dangerous aura though. If anything, he looks meaner, angrier. And he is looking right past me to the back seat -- where his prize sits. Eddings' Specimen 51: Sam. With his jaw set, he starts toward the car. I am almost too scared to think. I wonder uselessly if I could reach the duffel bag at Antoine's feet, but the door is already opening, and I can feel Eddings' rough hands on me, pulling me out of the car. "Well, we meet again, Doctor Branson!" Eddings says, squeezing my arm painfully. Antoine has gotten out of the car and retrieved something from the van. He shows Eddings a cotton rag. It hangs limply in his hand, damp, reeking of some kind of chemical. A drug, I realize. Chloroform, probably. "That bastard of yours is in a fightin' mood. We'd better put him to sleep for the trip, or there'll be hell to pay." Eddings seems to consider it as he peers in the car window at Sam. Taking the rag from Judice, he hands it to me and smiles through the window at Sam, who has remained quietly seated, as if resigned to this fate. As if he expected this horror. "I'll let you do the honors on my little lab rat, Doctor. He was always more cooperative for you, wasn't he? And I just don't have the time for his games." He opens the back door and smiles again at his prisoner. "Hello again, Number 51. Did you enjoy your time out? Did you find yourself a name? Did you find a name like -- Fox Mulder?" Eddings' smile gets broader. "Well, I'm about to take that name away from you again, and they've only given me twenty-two more hours to do it in. So don't get used to it." He pushes me at Sam. "Put 'im to sleep, Doctor Branson." Sam. Fox. I don't want to do this to him. He looks up at me, eyes dark and fathomless. He nods slightly, silently assuring me he'll be okay. Giving me permission to assist again in his imprisonment. Forgiving me, I hope. I press the cloth gently to his face with a trembling hand. He has an almost involuntary reaction; he tries to pull away, but relaxes into it when I place my other hand gently behind his head and stroke his hair. I watch as his eyes lose their brilliance and his lids close over them. He leans toward me, limp, unconscious. Nothing said. No struggle. This submission is the awful price of his trust in me. I feel ill. I just want to hold him, to pretend for a second that this isn't happening, to will away all this insanity. Eddings is laughing again. "Aw, ain't he just an angel, Doc?" He pulls me away and motions to Judice to bring Sam as he tugs me toward the van. "Hope you enjoyed your few days of freedom, too. It's gonna cost you and my adventurous Specimen 51." In the van, Eddings shoves the cloth in my face, not nearly as gently as I had done with Sam. I panic. It feels like death. How could Sam have suffered this without a struggle? Suffocation. Nausea. Where is he? Where is ... ? Sam? whataretheydoingtohim... ******************* Chapter Fourteen ************** >From the blackness into... The blackness? I blink my eyes experimentally. No change. I can't see a thing. To be sure I am opening and closing my eyes, I put my hand up to them and blink again, feeling my lashes against my palm. The darkness is total. I am on a cold, tiled floor. Smooth. There are familiar smells, but I can't place them. I feel hung over, and my mind is working far too slowly. "Sam?" I whisper. No answer. "Fox?" I whisper. No answer. I roll onto my hands and knees, feeling into the blackness all around me, hoping I will make contact with his body. Praying that he is alive and unhurt. Nothing. My fingers have only told me I am in a small empty room. There is a door, well sealed, enough to keep light and sound out. I sit for a long time, huddling at that door, with my ear pressed to it, straining to hear something. Anything. Nothing. This is frightening. This darkness. In such blackness, it is hard to keep fears from becoming large. Hard to keep them from becoming real. I feel blindly around the entire room again, if only to reassure myself that Sam is not dead and that his corpse has not been thrown in here with me as imagined visions of his torture or execution at Eddings' hands keep swimming back into my mind. The vision of Sam, imprisoned once again. I check the room again, stumbling blindly, recklessly seeking Sam, wanting to touch him again. Wanting the reassurance of his presence. I have gone over the walls and floors three times before I am even aware that my cheeks are damp with tears and the soft keening sound I hear is coming from me. Time to stop. Time to huddle by the door again and try not to think. I have no idea how much time has passed. Sometimes I move away from the door. Find a corner. Doze. But I am wakened by a dream: Sam screaming. Begging me. I am back at the old house in St. Gabriel again. Beside the angry, swollen river. Sam is struggling against the killing currents. I can see his face quite clearly this time. I look around. Grand Marraine Solange is nowhere to be seen. My heart skips. Has she abandoned me, too? So much has happened. It seems so long since she left this life, left me. I think I can hear Edel's voice, calling my name as if searching for me. I look around for him in the storm. I cannot see him. I feel tears running down my face. I am unable to reach Sam. Not unwilling this time. Not afraid this time. Just -- unable. My own sobs startle me into awareness. Footsteps. I hear footsteps. Someone is at the door, fumbling with keys. The door opens to spill in painful light, shattering the blackness. It is merely the soft glow of lights from the hallway beyond, but it still feels like knives in my eyes. I can't even see who is pulling me to my feet, but I can smell him. "Don't touch me, Antoine," I snap, wrenching myself free from his grasp. I hear his familiar laugh as I struggle to adjust my eyes to the new light. Oh my God. I look out onto a very familiar hallway. We are in the old Primate Research Lab. Pinck Pharmaceuticals. We are back where this ghastly adventure began. And where is Sam? I stumble forward, Antoine close behind me. The air is heavy, close, as if the air-conditioning has been turned off. The lights are soft, I realize, because only a few emergency lights are on. Something has happened. Something is different. I stop at the door housing the primate cages. Sam's cage is still there, shrouded and locked as before. It is dark and silent, but I sense he is in there. Around his prison, all the other cages and fittings have been stripped away. Across the hallway, I can see Eddings, standing in the pared down remains of the treatment room. Much of the equipment is gone; just empty cabinets and that damnable treatment table. I can feel an icy stab in my gut. The table has been readied for Sam. Eddings means to complete his assignment: the annihilation of a man's mind. No interference this time. "What do you think of our little operating arena?" says Eddings, pointing at the table. "Seem familiar, Doc?" He sweeps his arms open in a grand gesture, indicating the nearly deserted lab. "W-What are you doing? What has happened here? Where is Sam?' My voice sounds too fragile for my liking. I hate these men with all my soul, and I despise showing them any weakness. "Aa-aa-aa. One question at a time," Eddings says with a smirk. "Although, all of the answers should seem obvious." He tugs at the black restraining straps on the treatment table, as if testing them. "After your little joyride, Dr. Branson, I was given an ultimatum by my superiors. I was to retrieve Number 51 or pay with my own life. As you can imagine, such a high, high bounty was an incentive for me." His lips twitch angrily. Glaring at me from across the room, he continues, "But their threats weren't really necessary. It's kind of 'personal' with me now, if you know what I mean. When they received confirmation of Specimen 51's whereabouts from Detective Judice, over there, well, they agreed to let me have time -- 24 hours to be exact -- to finish my assignment." He smiles tightly. "That was 20 hours ago. So here we are -- almost back at the beginning. Except, you may have already noticed: there are fewer amenities I can offer you. It seems that all the uproar you and my prisoner caused several days ago resulted in the immediate shut-down and evacuation of this site for PPC. Not a real nice thing to do to your former employers, I'm afraid." He moves slowly around the treatment table and approaches me. Instinctively, I step back, bumping into the firm belly of Antoine Judice, standing directly behind me. "It's 'showtime', Doctor Branson. In less than two hours, I expect to deliver Specimen 51 into the hands of those who want the bastard back, mindless and drooling all over himself. Clueless. No memory. A blank slate for them to write on." "You can't do this," I rasp uselessly. That amuses Eddings. "Of course, I can't, my dear doctor. But, hey! -- you were Victor Kent's partner, weren't you? You should have a passing familiarity with the procedure, shouldn't you? How about this: we set it up so you can help Specimen 51 meet our goals and expectations? My superiors will be more than grateful. Might even be a reward in it for you. Maybe they'll let you keep your life -- minus a few superfluous events and people they might not want you to remember." I feel a wave of dizziness that has nothing to do with the drug they used on me. I must have looked faint because Eddings grabs my arm again, roughly. "Whoa, there, Doctor. Wouldn't want you falling down and breaking your neck just now. Number 51 is going to need you and all those skills you have learned from your work with the late Doctor Kent." He says this through clenched teeth, his eyes glittering malevolently. ohgodohgod. Me? Do a procedure on Sam? Take his mind away from him with my own hands? I feel sick to my stomach again. Eddings reels me around and drags me back into the hallway, snapping orders at Antoine at the same time. "Bring that black bag with the medicines in it. She'll need it." He addresses me, "Well, let's go see your pretty traveling companion, all right? You'll have to make sure you give him those shots. It will help it go better for him. I'm sure he'll cooperate this time: He and I have had some time together to -- well, let's just say 'discuss' -- his delinquent behavior. He's been very contrite -- very, very contrite." Eddings smiles that smile that is more like a death's head grin. Fear for Sam overwhelms me, and I practically run across the hall to get to his dark prison cell. The older man just smirks and takes his time unlocking the door. I peer into the darkness inside, wondering at first if I had been duped and that Sam was not here at all. The padded cage is dimly lit as always. Gray and black shadows. Sam is here, looking like a shadow himself. He is sitting on the floor, pressed back against the far wall, legs drawn up, with his arms resting over his knees. His head is bowed, and he does not look up when I am shoved through the doorway. He seems different. Something has happened. Something has changed. Eddings strolls past me and crouches beside Sam, arrogantly confident of his prisoner's docility. He lifts Sam's chin and directs his face toward me. "See, Number 51? I'm as good as my word!" Eddings chortles as he addresses Sam. "I've brought your lady doctor to you. As promised." Sam carefully pulls away from his touch and avoids looking at me. He says nothing. Which seems to amuse Eddings. The stocky, older man rises back up to his feet with a grunt and ambles past me. "He's stopped fighting me, Doctor Branson." His voice is oily and obscene. "He has become a model prisoner. I'll miss our little sessions." Eddings draws closer to me. I'll gag on the smell of him. I can feel the hate I harbor for him and all inhuman pigs like him -- I merely lock my eyes on his. To let him see the sheer horror I feel for Sam would be to give him what he wants. To let him see this getting to me -- tearing at my naive sensibilities, making me sick to my stomach -- would delight him. And I am not interested in giving this monster any pleasure or satisfaction. He has stolen too much from Sam. If he has a soul, I want it damned to the hottest corner of hell. Eddings spits in Sam's direction and says to me, "Give him the shots ASAP, Doctor. I want this business over with as soon as possible. Judice and I are going to do a quick perimeter check, and then we'll get started." He leaves just as Antoine appears at the door, clutching the black duffel bag. It is hard to tell in this light, but it looks as if they hadn't opened it yet. I pray he will just drop it and leave. I pray hard. But Antoine has to press his advantage. He pushes against me suggestively. "If you hurry, Deanna, you will still have time for a quickie with the kid over there. Mind if I watch?" Angered, I strike out with clawed fingers, deliberately reaching for his eyes. He is surprised and moves just a little too slowly. My fingernails scrape along his puffy cheek, and he squeals like the pig he is. I prepare for a backlash, but there is none. Antoine just mutters a curse under his breath and presses his hand to his bloodied face. "You'll pay for that, Deanna. I promise you." He backs away from me, scowling. He is cartoonish in his evil; a foolish, inept figure. And I hate him for that, too. No honor. Nothing remotely redeeming about him. I hope the one thing he does read in my eyes is my utter contempt. The door slams. I hear his curses as the lock turns and his heavy footfalls fade down the hallway. "Sam? Are you okay?" What an absurd question. He lifts his eyes to meet mine for a quick moment. In this half- light, he looks like a lost child. "H-he wouldn't tell me where you were. I wanted to m-make sure that..." He glances away from me. "...they hadn't hurt you," he finishes in a whisper. I kneel in front of him and put my hands over his arms where they rest on his knees. He seems to flinch at the sensation of my touch and swallows hurriedly, but his eyes will not meet mine now. He keeps them fixed on my hands. I ask him again, gently. "Are you okay?" The absurdity deepens; of course he is not okay. Yet, he only answers with a question of his own, tinged with fear, words tumbling over his tongue in a rush, as if he were desperate for reassurance. "D-did they hurt you? He said th-they would hurt you. He said he w-would unless I -- I stopped fighting him." "Oh God, Sam. Shhh. I'm fine!" I hurry to calm him. "I was locked in a room. I didn't see anybody until just now. I was so worried about you." The words die on my lips. Even in this dim light I can see the dark stripes of welts over his bare shoulders. He is half-naked; his clothing, torn and hanging on him. If he had stopped fighting Eddings near the end of his torment, he had put up a hell of a fight in the beginning. Until Eddings had threatened him with my safety. Shocked, I reach out to touch a particularly vicious injury, tracing it along his neck and over his jaw. He pulls a shred of his T-shirt over one shoulder, uselessly hiding another sign of abuse, saying nothing. His T-shirt is as shredded as his sense of hope. He still won't look at me, pretending to be suddenly focused on drawing his torn clothing back into some semblance of wholeness. "I just wanted to be sure you were okay." he murmurs again. I would scream if I didn't sense his fragility, his vulnerability right now. He has been changed. What is it that I sense radiating off him? Futility? Powerlessness? Grief? Surrender? "I j-just had to be sure. I needed to know that you were okay. He said that they... He said that you were ...," Sam repeats, his soft voice fading to a choked whisper. He is still dwelling on his excuses, making them for himself, it seems, not for me. He draws me close to him suddenly, hugging me. I feel it now. In this embrace. He has surrendered. When he gave over his will to fight, he had given over his soul as well. On the very day he may have discovered his true identity, he has had the urgency of the search for himself beaten out of him. He has given it up, along with the battle against his enemies. I pull out of this useless embrace and take his face in my hands, forcing his eyes to mine, trying to search them for an answer. Is he using his concern for me as his excuse? Has he truly surrendered? "Sam?" He smiles sadly, his dark eyes brimming, glittering in the shadowy half-light. He shakes his head. Not Sam. "Fox, then." He closes his eyes and a single tear slides out from under his long lashes. He shakes his head again. Not Fox, either? "N-no one. I am no one," he says softly. "He's been t-telling me that, you know. All this time, h-he has been teaching me: I am no one. He's right. I hate it. I h-hate him -- but he's right. I can't fight this any longer." I can feel another shudder pass through him as I lay numbly within his arms, watching him in horror. He is giving in to the dark river, the killer currents that had caught him in my dreams. "What have they done to you? Why? Who are you?" He actually laughs aloud at my questions, looking at me through bright unshed tears. "Don't you see, Deanna? Don't you understand? It doesn't matter now. As far as I am able to see into my brief, so- called 'past' or into my future, there is nothing but pain. Pain and struggle." He hesitates for a moment and then gently strokes my face with the back of his hand. Again, I have the eerie feeling that he is looking for something -- or someone -- that he is missing. "I've been having thoughts, daydream-like. I don't know if they are memories," he whispers. "I don't know... They seem familiar and not familiar. Everything is becoming so confused. So hard to cope with -- and he is going to turn me into a 'no-one', a 'nobody'." His hand drops away dejectedly. So. He has given up the search. No, dammit! Not now. I pick up his hand and press it back to my face. I am surprised to feel my own face wet with tears. "You ARE someone," I insist with a mix of anger and fear in my voice. Dear God. If he gives up, that means I must, too. "Fox Mulder. You are Fox Mulder. An FBI Agent. A man with enemies, certainly, but a man of courage. Passion. Determination. I have seen all of things in you as 'Sam' -- They are as much a part of your being -- perhaps more -- as your real name. I have seen these things in you and much, much more. Don't you understand that that is why you can never be a 'nobody'? They haven't taken that away from you. They can't. And that is what scares them about you, isn't it? They are terrified of Fox Mulder and what he is." He is listening to me. He has stopped sinking into the dark river of abandonment. Maybe this is the lifesaver I am meant to throw to him. "Why would you let them have this last bit of you? Why would you give in?" He is staring at me. "Don't do it." My voice deteriorates into a childish plea. "Don't give yourself to them. Please. Even if they take every last memory in your head, don't let them have your soul, Fox." True confession time, Deanna. I know why this man and his struggle has come to mean so much to me. "You've been the strong one through all of this. Do you realize that? Do you know how much that has meant to me? I have clung to your strength of spirit to get me through a time when my own soul was dying. Sam -- Fox -- whoever you are -- you have been the catalyst in this part of my life. Don't make this a useless gesture for me." "But they will take your memories, too, Deanna. You won't even know I've been a part of your life." My turn to laugh. "You are more than just a memory, now, Fox Mulder. You are a part of me. And as foolish as this sounds, considering our present circumstances, I need you to keep fighting for yourself; I need your strength; I need someone to trust in." He looks alarmed. "How can you trust in me?" "Because I have seen how hard it was for you to trust in me -- under impossible circumstances. Like now. And yet you did. Your trust was like a gift to me. It gave me the courage to do things that I never dreamed I would be capable of. Whether this has come to me too late or not -- or whether God will grant me the chance to live with this new strength, Fox -- I have you to thank for helping me discover who I am." I smile at him and kiss his lips gently. "And -- too late or not -- we have discovered who you truly are. Don't let them take that away. Who you are -- truly are -- isn't a function of memory, Fox. You will rise like the Phoenix, no matter what they do." Looking into his dark eyes, I ask, "So soon after he found his life, does Fox Mulder deserve to lose it again?" He returns my embrace, suddenly and fiercely. Clinging to me like a lifesaver. There is no resignation in this touch. There is need and gratitude. I sense the return of his determination, as if he had never really lost it, just loosened his grip on it for this moment. Eddings will not win this round with this young man, either. The mysterious Sam is the mysterious Fox Mulder. And the eyes that look back at me now are growing steelier. "I won't -- can't -- submit to that procedure again, Deanna," he says with quiet resolve. "That makes me afraid for you. This may be a suicidal gesture on my part. That man won't let me live, and I don't want you to suffer the consequences of my choice to die fighting." ******************** Chapter Fifteen ************** Those should be terrifying words, but they do not affect me. "I will not become your liability, Fox Mulder. I would never wish a living death on you, either. You can't worry about me if you are going to give them the fight they deserve. And if you are really Fox Mulder -- an FBI agent -- maybe what I have in here will be more useful to you than it is to me." I pull the black duffel bag between us and unzip it. The metal is cold and heavy. I hear him gasp when I press it into his hand. Even in the dark shadows between us, he can tell what it is. I see a weak smile of disbelief and relief on his face. "Mackey's gun? You still have it? Mackey's gun!" His voice is almost giddy with joy. He presses a quick fierce kiss to my lips. "Is the other clip still in there?" he asks anxiously. I can hear him checking the gun in the dark: automatic gestures, as if he had done this a million times before. The FBI training and instincts are apparently still in his head, and I wonder for a second whether his vague returning memories are being helped by the few attempts Victor had already made with the Genera injections. We may never know. And right now, I don't care. It is wonderful to see this man struggle to come alive again, no matter the cause. I feel around in the bag for the second clip. "I didn't know how to use this. I could have stopped Antoine at the house if only I knew. I-I should have..." "Deanna, don't. There is no time for could-have's and should- have's." He is taking the second clip from me and stuffing it in the pocket of his jeans. He takes a ragged breath and looks at me, saying grimly, but with an odd, wry humor, "Well, let's both hope Fox Mulder is an ace shot, huh?" The distant sound of a burst of automatic gunfire and the sound of breaking glass startles us both. Nearer, down the hall perhaps, a heavy door opens and slams, and I can hear someone running toward us. Heavy breathing. The sound of keys in the lock. Antoine Judice's big bulky shadow in the now-open doorway. He has a gun, and it is trained on us. Still huddled close to Sam -- no, Fox -- I am blocking any chance he has to draw Mackey's gun on Judice. "Get up!" Antoine is puffing. He looks scared. What is going on? Have Eddings' superiors arrived early to collect their goods? "GET UP! Goddamn you!" Antoine is screaming. "I need hostages, and you're it!" I rise slowly and carefully, pulling clear of Fox. Antoine does the predictable thing; his eyes follow me. It is a satisfying moment when I see him glance down at his prisoner and freeze in shock as he realizes there is a gun pointed at him. Antoine's face goes nearly purple with rage. "Son of a --," he starts to hiss. Fox Mulder has not moved a muscle. He is poised. Ready. Waiting. Antoine does the next predictable thing. He laughs at me. "What's this? You gonna tell me this mind-fucked moron can shoot a gun?" He sneers at the man in front of him. "How about it? Gonna shoot me, idiot? Think maybe you really are a fed?" He lifts his own gun slowly. "If you're really a fed, then you won't shoot. Honor. Justice For All. The American Way." He grins. And then Antoine Judice does the unpredictable thing: he foolishly raises his gun to fire on Fox Mulder. The blast is deafening at this close range. I fall to my knees, throwing my arms over my head and ears, squeezing my eyes shut, not daring to breathe. I jump at the touch of a hand on mine. Who? "Deanna. Come on. We have to get out of here." His voice. Sam. Fox Mulder. His voice. He has survived. I am stupefied with relief, hardly able to move. He is pulling me to my feet and over the corpse of Antoine Judice. I don't know if my hate makes me feel no remorse, or if I am too scared and numb right now. I look at Judice's lifeless stare as I step over him, tugged by my companion, and I feel nothing. No joy. No hate. No sorrow. Judice has been served his rightful sentence by Fox Mulder. In the dim hallway, Fox pauses and looks to me. "Which way?" he asks anxiously. He doesn't look well. For the first time, in the weak lights of the hallway, I can see how much Eddings' beatings have taken out of him. He is struggling to stay steady on his feet, probably feeding off his own adrenaline to keep moving. The gunfire starts up again, coming from the back door, the loading dock area. I hasten to pull Fox toward the door going into my old lab. If these are Eddings' superiors, coming to exact their bounty from that cruel bastard and to collect their prize specimen, we can at least lead them a merry chase through the abandoned halls of PPC. The door is unlocked, but before we can push through it, the knife- like sting and the simultaneous crack of a bullet ricocheting against the metal door and brick walls drives us apart. On my knees again, arms thrown protectively over my head, I can see Eddings at the far end of the hall. "You're MINE, you little bastard! You're mine! No one will have you!" He is screaming as he raises his gun again, pointing to my right, aiming at his former prisoner. Happily, he has no chance to fire. Delayed responses or not, Fox is able to swing Mackey's God-sent gift to us around in time to send a volley of three shots in Eddings' direction. I don't think any of those bullets were stopped by Eddings. Fox has had too little time and too little stamina for a true aim. I see Eddings drop to the floor and roll, lifting his gun again. But Fox is on his feet and dragging me through the door before the next spray of ammunition comes at us. On familiar ground again, I take the lead, pulling Fox through the dark, toward the next door and a labyrinth of hallways that will keep us safe for the time being. I can still hear the sound of engines and occasional breaking glass near the common entryway of the building. Without knowing who is trying to break in here, it won't be safe to chance going that way. My fears are confirmed when I see two heavily armed men in black fatigues round the corner ahead. I gasp and freeze in my tracks. Fox does the same. For an odd, almost comical moment, we all gawk at each other, until one of the men raises a gloved hand and points our way. "Hey!" he starts to shout. We are not about to wait to hear what he has to say. I pull Fox down another dark hallway and round a corner, running and testing doors as we stumble down another long, nearly-black corridor. I realize, with cold terror, that Fox is lagging, weakening. There is an exchange of gunfire behind us, and I hear footsteps, running, trailing -- hunting for us. Eddings? One of the doors gives under my experimental shoves, and we stumble into... What? Where are we? I am frantic to get my bearings. Fox Mulder sags against the door frame. At first, I think he is just leaning on it, listening for our pursuer. Then I realize he has been hurt. He weakly slides along the wall until he is on his knees. Oh no. Please. Not now. "Fox?" I pull him around to face me. His forehead is bloody. It's hard to tell in this light, but the wound looks superficial, perhaps inflicted by shrapnel from the lab door. He is conscious, lifting his hand to gesture that he is okay. But he doesn't seem okay. We can both hear the distant hurried steps of someone at the far end of the hallway. Doors are being tested, kicked; some forced open. He is looking for us. They are looking for us. I am finding it hard to breathe. Even harder to think. I look frantically around me. It seems familiar. This is an old chem lab. I can see the last vestiges of it: the tell-tale sink wells, titres and pipettes, half-filled jars of chemicals, tagged and awaiting disposal. There are doors on either side of this lab, I realize with alarm, connected to other lab rooms. Easy access for anyone who wants to corner us in here. Fox Mulder is breathing raggedly, and it looks as if he's struggling to stay alert as he gingerly pushes the last round of ammunition into the gun he holds in his shaking hands. I pray his injury isn't more serious, but as the person out in that hallway draws nearer, I realize I am going to have to find a quick hiding place for us. I tug Fox along with me, heading toward a tiny glassed-in office. I know this office: This was Perry Marcus' domain, Queen of the PPC labs. Long gone now -- but her office has a huge metal desk, big enough to conceal one wounded FBI agent, at least. He is groaning softly as I am urging him to get under the desk. Damn! The door lock! With that sudden thought, I pull myself erect and stare out into the lab. The door is still unlocked; I can see it, even from this distance. It still seems to be open a bit. A marker. A flagrant sign to our stalker: Come 'N Get Us. I am scared to death, but I think if I can get to that door and quietly lock it, it may serve to serve to cheat the Death Angel seeking us. Like the Passover, he might steal by this doorway, leaving us safe and alone. When I start to step away, Fox's hand is immediately on my leg, clutching at me urgently. "Deanna! What in the hell are you doing?" he gasps. "Shhh! Stay still!" I whisper, brushing him away. "I have to try to lock that door. Otherwise, he'll know we are in here." It is a bad sign that he is too weak to argue with me. I am halfway across the dark lab when the breaking of glass in the next room freezes me to the spot. What in the hell... WHO in the hell is that? Half-turning, I can see a dark figure in the east doorway, in the short hall that connects this lab with another. His gun is trained on me, held at arms' length as he moves with a slow, calculated grace toward me. I think I can see others behind him, in the murky shadows. He steps slowly into the room, peering into each of the shadows. But as he nears me, he cannot see the one thing I can: Fox Mulder, rising slowly to his feet and pulling up his own gun. "Dr. Branson? Deanna Branson?" the figure says softly as it draws nearer. Oddly, I sense no malice from this man. He seems concerned. A dark-eyed serious professional. And behind him, a much smaller figure, helmeted and rigged in black fatigues, too. It is a woman. A woman about my size. And even in this dimness, I think I can see the glint of red hair under that helmet. Behind them, in the next room, ready and waiting, more trained guns. I can make out the bold lettering on the jacket of one of them that is turned away from me: F. B. I. Mother of God. They've come! They've found us! I don't know how. I don't care how. We are... The next thought is ripped from my brain. I see the dark man launch himself at me, just as I hear that woman shout: "Mulder! NO!" I am only aware of the sound of more gunfire and shattering glass. And the heavy weight of the dark man as his body impacts mine, taking me down to the floor. Stunned, I realize he is not moving. He feels unnaturally heavy on me. I am having difficulty keeping my thoughts clear. I think I see Eddings' bloody body on the floor near me, and I am puzzled by that. I think I see bursts of bright lights. I think I hear that woman's voice again. Shouting. Commands. Names and instructions being called out. A curious mix of blurred images and distorted voices in my head. "Get the medics in here." The dark man's dead weight being lifted off of me. "Jesus, it's Skinner. Two down. Maybe three. One dead, for sure. Let's get a move on. Secure that hallway." "Search the rest of the building." I hear his name as if from a distance. Fox Mulder. She is calling to him. "Mulder? Mulder? Can you hear me? Mulder? Medics! I need medics in here!" I just can't stay in this struggle to remain conscious. I can feel myself slipping into oblivion, aware only of the dull ache in the back of my skull where I had struck the floor. ******************** Chapter Sixteen ************** Ludicrous images of eggshells. Humpty Dumpty. Fell down and broke his crown. I awake to the echoes of that silly nursery rhyme in my head and the vise-like grip of a headache the likes of which I have never experienced. Soft light around me. Antiseptic smells. Clean crisp linen against my skin. Soft signal bells and the muted voice of a hospital intercom system beyond the closed door on my right. And to my left... I smile, even though it hurts to do so, at the sight I see. Edel. Slumped back in a stiff leather hospital lounger, reading glasses slid down to a precarious point on his patrician nose, the New Orleans Times-Picayune scattered over his lap. He is snoring softly. He must have been here a long time. Beyond him I can see the lights of this city, pre-dawn, through the window. A big institutional clock on the far wall tells me it is nearly 5 a.m. 5 a.m.? Means nothing. My sense of time and date has been so seriously askew for so long that I might as well have been living in an alternate universe. I look at Edel again. And smile again. Funny I never noticed how long his lashes are. I'd always thought he was handsome, but now, without my silly schoolgirl crush of years ago filtering my sensibilities, I realize how really genuine my affection for this man is. Why hadn't I seen this before? Why hadn't I thought of him before this? I knew the answer. Because of my fear. Because of my denial of life. But not any more. I think I've found myself. I think I know what I want. "Deanna? You're awake?" Edel's voice is gravelly with the light sleep he is trying to shake off as he slowly straightens in the chair. His reading glasses clatter to the floor, but he ignores them to come closer to my side. He smiles that brilliant Terrebonne smile, genuine joy. "Hey there, Sleeping Beauty. Are you okay?" His voice is softer, with a hint of concern. I have not said a word yet, and that worries him. I am not sure I can trust my voice, however. I am so happy to see him. So happy to be safe. So happy to be alive. Then, I remember. "Sam? Where is he? Is he all right?" I sound panicky I'm sure, because Edel hastens to take my hand. "Hey, lie still. Shhhhh. The Pup is okay. He's in the Intensive Care Unit with..." "Intensive Care! Edel! What happened? Is he...?" "Shhh. Shhh. Shhh." Edel is being too gentle with me. "Deanna, you have a bad concussion. You are supposed to take it easy." "What about Sam?" "Your 'Sam' is an FBI agent named Fox Mulder." "I know that, Edel," I say, too excitedly. "We -- he and I -- found that out at the house yesterday when we --" "That was four days ago, Deanna." What? Four days? I have lost four days? That thought alone makes my head swim. I feel even more disoriented. Edel must notice, too, because he leans over me and presses the nurse call button. He smiles at me for a moment and then leans down to kiss me gently. "It's good to have you back, Little Sister. You scared me too much with this 'adventure' of yours." "How did they find us?" "A bit of science, a bit of luck and a whole lot of artillery," Edel laughs with delight. "Your phone call to the FBI in Washington was traced by Dana Scully the moment she lost contact with her 'resurrected' partner. As for finding where that bastard Judice had taken you, it was your secret phone call on the cell phone that was the biggest help." His eyes are sparkling as he talks. "I knew enough to keep contact with the open signal from the phone. When I got the call, I was downtown, four blocks from the police station. It took an hour to get all the cops and feds involved and talking to each other." He squeezes my hand gently as he continues, "Deanna, it was so hard to know you were out there in danger, and yet I had to sit on my hands in a hall in a damn police station waiting for OTHER people to find you. They used the signal for as long as they had it to figure out which direction you were moving in. By the time the signal gave out, it was pretty clear that Eddings and Judice were taking you back to Lobdell. It wasn't too much of a leap of logic to figure that they were heading to Pinck Pharmaceuticals. By that time, the Washington FBI were in town and suiting up for the raid. And STILL I had to wait. I felt so damn helpless. The 'not knowing and doing nothing' was hell. I've done nothing for the past four days but wonder how I am ever going to be able to let you out of my sight again." He kisses me again, not so quickly this time. I can feel my smile against his lips. God, this feels good. It feels right. With a heavy sigh, he pushes himself off the bed. "There is a lot to tell you, Deanna. But for now, I'm sure you want to know how Sam -- ah, I mean, FOX -- is doing. Pete deBroca has been overseeing his care." He stops and smiles broadly before he remarks, "Along with that red-headed firecracker, Dana Scully. You know, she kind of reminds me of you. She's a doctor, too! Forensics. Maybe you two could talk test tubes and specimens sometime." Specimens. I shudder. Gone is Specimen 51. Welcome back, Fox Mulder. A nurse comes in, and after a brief conversation with Edel that I find too difficult to follow, she begins helping me clean up and get ready for a brand new day. ************** By the time I am ready and able to get into a wheelchair, the roar between my ears has dulled along with the pain, courtesy of some colorful pain pill whose name I did not inquire after. It was pretty. It was pink. It was powerful. That's enough to know right now. All I am focused on is the ride to ICU and the need to see Fox Mulder with my own eyes. Edel accompanies me with a nurse for the trip. Two floors down and tucked away in a far corner of the hospital, ICU is like a separate world. Quiet. Subdued. Despite the pinging of monitor alarms, the hiss of respirators, the hum of machinery. The still bodies of these special patients are almost lost in the web of complicated equipment that stand sentinel around them, documenting their every second of struggle back to normal existence. I can see him. Hanging helplessly in his own web: IV's. EEG wires. ECG cables. Cloth restraints, loose around his thin wrists and ankles. He is still. Seemingly asleep. No. Unconscious is the better word. I roll my wheelchair toward his bed as Edel talks with the nurse at the desk. The restraints are soft, I note when I touch them. Good. He would hate to know they were on him, I think sadly. I slide my fingers between his long ones, remembering the first time I had looked upon this hand and wondered about the man to whom it belonged. It is hard to look at his face, even though he seems to be resting and peaceful. His dark hair is clean, shiny. But the black wires and leads from the EEG monitor are an ominous disruption, snaking through his silky long hair, a reminder that deep within, Fox Mulder is still fighting for himself. Here we are, safe for the first time in days, and he is still trapped in his private battle to break out of the prison in his head, where he was lost weeks before we met. Fox Mulder is still a mystery to me - even after we had shared so many intimacies. "Doctor Branson?" The deep voice startles me. I look over to the far corner to see a man I think I recognize, but I just can't place where I might have... He steps forward and offers me his hand politely. "I'm Walter Skinner. We... uh.. met the other day. Briefly. Before I knocked you senseless. I'm glad to see you up and about. I feel a need to apologize." Ah, yes. NOW I remember. A flash. The dark man hurtling himself at me in that lab. I can feel my eyes widen as I remember the moment. He smiles, a bit bashfully. "I am an assistant director at the Washington DC offices of the FBI." Dressed in a trim business suit, Assistant Director Skinner is a good-looking, if not somewhat professionally severe, man. His brown eyes are intense, evaluating. Nodding toward the young man in the bed beside us, he continues, trying awkwardly to fill in for my silence. "I was trying to get you out of the line of fire. Agent Mulder was able to..." He is searching for some "delicate" term, I realize. "Uh... 'terminate' the threat. The man you knew as Eddings is dead. Luckily -- for me, anyway -- Agent Mulder was a bit low on his first try." I am slow to realize that Mr. Skinner is leaning on a cane. Still not having uttered a word of greeting to this man, I find myself staring at the bulky bulge evident around his left thigh, covered by his impeccably-creased suit pants. A bandage over a wound? Fox Mulder did that? Fox Mulder shot his... "Are you his boss? Did you know Fox Mulder?" I ask. "His 'boss'?" Walter Skinner echoes with a slight rise in his brow. "Well, yes. As much as anyone can be Fox Mulder's boss." That latter remark seems to be more of a personal aside. He pauses and looks as if what he said was somehow inaccurate, but seems momentarily at a lost to describe his relationship. Merely given what I knew of Fox Mulder and his unseen enemies, I suspect that Walter Skinner's job was probably a difficult one. I shake his proffered hand quickly. "Well, hello, Assistant Director Skinner. Forgive my lack of manners. I'm just a bit vague on everything that has occurred since..." I glance over at the still form of Fox Mulder, leaving my sentence unfinished. "What has happened? Is he going to be okay?" "Thanks to you, Doctor Branson, his prognosis is good." A soft feminine voice this time. From behind me. I twist in my chair too quickly. My vision blurs at the sight of a tiny redhead, dwarfed by the lanky figure of one person I DO recognize, Pete deBroca. The red-headed woman is by my side in an instant, steadying me with her arm over my shoulder. "Maybe it was a bit too early for you to get out of bed," I hear her saying as I fight off a swoon. Pete is crouched before me, looking a little worried. "Deanna? Are you all right? Maybe I shouldn't have let you do this, but I knew you would want to see Fox before he leaves here." "Leaves?" I gasp. I am thunderstruck. It never occurred to me that we might be separated now. That I might not be able to talk to him -- to have him tell me that he is okay. That I might not have the privilege of watching him re-discover himself. But, I should have known. I look at the pretty face of the red headed woman near me and ask numbly, "Where are you taking him?" Pete answers, not her. "He needs to start a recovery program, Deanna. You know that. We have been keeping him heavily medicated to give his brain some R & R. Dana has been with him night and day, and she says he seems to have already begun processing old memories, dreams, names -- calling out in his sleep. The few tests I have been able to do on him here, like the transcranial Doppler sonography I did when we brought him in and the comparison test done last night, indicate his brain is making a comeback, but he will need a prolonged period of evaluation, therapy and recovery with someone who knows more than me about what may have been done to his brain and what influence Victor Kent's few Genera treatments may have on his mind and memories." "Will I be able to talk to him before he leaves, Pete?" I ask, feeling a little frightened. Pete shakes his head, sorrowfully. "Deanna, I wasn't even sure you would wake up in time to see him now. He is scheduled to be transferred to Johns Hopkins in just about an hour. Dr. Neil Radamacher, the fellow Victor Kent recommended to you, is readying an 'environment' for him that will aide in his complete recovery. The Air Transport team will be here soon, probably before breakfast." I must look stunned, because everyone around me looks worried. Emotions are flooding through my aching brain at an incomprehensible rate. I don't think I can talk -- again. Another face floats into my vision. The pretty red head. She is cradling our hands - hers and mine - in my lap. "Deanna, we haven't been formerly introduced. I am Dana Scully. Mulder and I have been partners for about four years. I just wanted to thank you. Personally. You helped bring him back. I never thought I'd see... I mean, I thought Mulder was..." I am paying closer attention to this woman. She is struggling as much as I am. I suddenly recognize her pain had been greater than mine. She had lost him once already. And she had had no chance to say good-bye either. Fox Mulder meant something to her, too. Her eyes were wet, but I would hesitate to describe them as tear-filled. This woman is controlled. She grips my hands, and while I may not be able to read the depth of her emotion on her face, I can feel it in her grip. "I... he... WE owe you a debt of gratitude that I am not sure can ever be repaid." Now I can smile. I look over at the handsome face of Fox Mulder, linger a moment, and then search the other faces in the room for Edel. He is there, quietly watching me from the corner. "Fox Mulder has repaid the debt already, Dana. He gave me a new life -- one that I think I'm going to enjoy." I watch Edel's dark eyes crinkle up in a secret smile, and then I turn back to the silent friend I was about to lose, taking his still hand in mine again. All but Dana Scully file out of the small room. She pulls a chair beside me and stays respectfully quiet for a moment. "Your name was the first word I heard him speak," I tell her. She looks startled briefly and then allows herself a quiet smile. "I'll have to file that little fact for later reference -- and use it on those inevitable days when Fox Mulder is acting as if he'd rather forget he'd ever met me." "He's a remarkable man, Dana," I say softly. "I have never suspected anyone could be capable of such will power, such strength -- against such impossible odds." "From what I've been told of your story, Deanna, you are possessed of a remarkable amount of will power and strength yourself." It is a compliment that I am going to accept gracefully. I certainly worked for it. "I wonder, though, if I would have ever discovered that if Fox Mulder hadn't been dropped into the middle of my life." "I think he'd tell you that those are characteristics that aren't learned overnight. I think Mulder certainly didn't come by his abilities by chance, and neither did you." I smile at the young lady beside me. There are questions I must ask. "Are you and he... Uhm. May I ask? Are you romantically involved?" I am a bit surprised to hear myself asking, cursing my lack of sense as I watch Agent Scully blush a shade darker. "No. No, we are not," she answers a bit too quickly. "The FBI, like any other high-profile career opportunity for women, is tough enough without adding an office romance to the mix." Ah. The old "women's lib and responsibility" argument. I nodded ruefully. Romance with a co-worker is hard -- as I well knew . In a job with as many dangers in it as they faced, it must be nearly impossible. I am somewhat ashamed to have asked her that question. But "Sam", as I knew him, had seemed so needy. So hungry for love. Was Fox Mulder as needy, as hungry? We both fall into an uneasy silence. And for a moment, I expect that to be the end of her commentary on my question. I am surprised by her soft voice a few minutes later. "He means a lot to me, Deanna. I just never stop to define what our relationship to each other is. There just never seems to be a time..." I see her look away from her partner and begin playing restlessly with her hands in her lap. "Even when I thought he was dead, I just never took the time to ask myself. I couldn't allow myself..." She stops and starts again. "I don't have much time -- or energy -- for 'romantic involvements'. With anyone." Her smile is weak, and she seems to be asking for a kind of understanding from me. "You know... My work. My career." It was a fragile answer meant to cap the subject closed. I understand more than she may wish. She doesn't finish. And I feel some pity for her along with my total understanding. Dana Scully and I are similar to each other in many more ways than in hair color and height. I recognize the fear in her, too. I guess I am a bit shocked. She had seemed so much stronger than me, more resolute. Her outward strength must be her defense. I don't get a sense that I should attempt to breech that wall and tell her that she was not living her life as fully as she might. I feel ill-equipped to give advice as I have just begun taking my own tiny steps toward a new personal freedom. I look between her and her partner. Could Fox Mulder have a lot of "walls" in his real life, too? Is that why they are so well and tragically matched? "Who is 'Sam'?" I ask suddenly. "Mackey called him 'Sam' because it was a name he called out often during bad dreams. Is Sam a son? A brother?" "A sister, actually. Samantha. She was -- taken -- when she was just eight years old. Mulder was twelve at the time -- and present at the time it happened. He repressed the memory of the event for years afterward. The search for his sister was -- is -- a driving force behind everything he does." Dana Scully sighs and brushes at an imaginary wrinkle on the coverlet over her partner's leg. "Ironically, his present condition may be because of that constant, relentless need he has to find the truth... about his sister's disappearance." She stops herself short again. "The men who did this to him? Who are they?" "Deanna, if I knew who they were I would herd them into hell barefoot over a broken glass highway," she says with surprising vehemence. Then she looks slightly embarrassed by her outburst and stands up abruptly to straighten her partner's blankets again. "It's a long and complicated story, Dr. Branson. It is a story that has affected Fox Mulder's life deeply. And seemingly, everyone who gets close to him. Even me. And now, you." Affected life, indeed. But I am not melancholy like Dana Scully. I sense, with my new trust in my instincts, that now was the time to quit asking questions of her. And now was the time to say good-bye to "Sam" and to send prayers and good wishes with Fox Mulder as he works his way back to his own life. "I think I should go, Dana. I don't want to see them take him away," I say apologetically. "Before I go, though, could we take these restraints off? I'd hate to remember him still tied down like some kind of lab animal." She is eager to help me untie the soft cloth strips. She even lowers one bedrail and smiles with a silent understanding so that I may lean over and place a quick kiss on his warm lips. "Good-bye, Sam" I whisper into his ear, "Forget-me-not." ******************** EPILOGUE ************** February Federal Courthouse Baton Rouge, Louisiana I shiver and pull my wool coat closer to me. Edel notices and places a protective arm over my shoulders, gently steering me up the steps of the Federal Courthouse as I huddle into my coat. This is an uncommonly cold winter, or perhaps it just seems that way because I am in the first queasy trimester of a surprise pregnancy. Edel has hovered protectively -- well, at least since he recovered from that nasty bump on the head that he incurred when he passed out in the doctor's office just as she pronounced us "aging, but certain" parents-to-be. That shock came amidst ten months of changes wrought at a furious pace. I had YEARS of living to catch up on, after all. Edel had proposed to me before the ink was dry on my release papers from the hospital after my misadventures last summer. I was married, employed at Loyola University, and moved into a new home in the Garden District within three breathtaking months. And even amidst all that, there was time to wonder daily about Fox Mulder. In the beginning, I was called often by Neil Radamacher at Johns Hopkins for Genera Project information and consultation. Dana called religiously every Wednesday for weeks, detailing with almost breathless surprise and happiness the smallest bit of progress her partner made in the reconstruction of his life. At first, I felt a distant envy. She was able to watch over him, and now, I could not. Our lives, which had touched so closely and so briefly, were moving so far away from each other. I wondered if we would become virtual strangers. My life was changing as dramatically for the new as his was regaining the familiarity of the old. And soon, the business of my new life gradually faded my notions and preoccupied thoughts. Eventually, I longed for the nightmare that was Pinck Pharmaceuticals to be wiped from MY memory. But at the indolent pace of the American Justice system, PPC and the questions over its illegal, mysterious activities -- including the imprisonment and deliberate torture of a federal agent -- were to keep haunting me and my family in the form of investigators, depositions and, like today, subpoenas to appear before committees "looking into the matter". It hadn't taken Edel and I very long to grow weary of the process of having our lives and business interrupted by the endless questions and summons when, in fact, no visible signs of censure of PPC seemed to be taking place. Dana Scully had warned me that it might be this way. She had told me months ago not to expect answers, not to expect justice. The deaths, the violations, the unknown directors of all that horror -- It may mean nothing in the end. It could all be relegated to the pages of fringe conspiracy newsletters and tall tales. She spoke as if she were used to this. As if she and Fox Mulder understood the insanity of living in a country like this where a shadowy group could still command lives and events as if the Constitution was never written. So, it was with a bit of resentment and frustration that Edel and I were here, again, walking into the church-like marble halls of the Federal Building in Baton Rouge. Summoned for yet another hearing. But I feel the resentment melt away like cotton candy on my tongue when I think I see a familiar figure at the far end of the hall. Pacing nervously outside the door of the conference room to which we are summoned. I stop just as he stops. And looks up. And sees me. Caught in the weak ray of winter sunshine that is streaming through tall windows, Fox Mulder seems to glow. And when his brilliant smile breaks over his handsome face, he seems almost unearthly to me. He strides toward me on long legs, powerful, self-assured. And healthy. Oh, Mother of God. He looks healthy! Strong. No longer the tormented creature caught in a nightmare. He looks like the suited warrior I thought I sensed within him all along. I don't even notice that he has quickly covered the distance between us. Now, just a few feet away, he seems suddenly shy, hesitant. He lifts a small bouquet of blue flowers in offering to me. "Forget-Me-Nots?" is the only greeting my stupefied brain can come up with. He half-shrugs, looking boyish, and smiles. "I'm known for my inspired gift-giving." His voice still has that velvet-and-smoke quality to it. Still soft. "I'm sorry if they look a bit wilted. I had hoped I'd see you before all this nonsense." He waves vaguely in the direction of the hearing room. "I guess I crushed them while sitting through two hours of grilling in front of that useless committee... My 'memories' today are their LOST paperwork tomorrow." My speechlessness seems to confound him, so he turns to my husband. "Edel. How are you? I hear congratulations are in order for you. You're a lucky man. I'm -- I wish -- Damn. It's just really great to see you." I watch with amused detachment as Edel easily pulls Fox into a brotherly Cajun hug and holds him tight for a long moment. The men hug each other shamelessly. "So -- the 'Pup' is a 'Big Dog', eh?" Edel laughs, holding Fox at arm's length and surveying the business suit, tie and badge. Fox Mulder blushes a bit and makes a disgusted sound, shaking his head. "No... Not big enough. They are going to get away with this, Edel." His voice sounds sad and weary, and for an instant, I can see the tormented creature I knew appear in him again. He turns and looks at me for a long time before he steps forward to take me in his arms. Suddenly, ten months are dissolved, and I am adrift in the familiar feel of his arms again. I rejoice in how much stronger he feels. And how much stronger he looks. We hug, without words, for a long time. "Fox? Are you truly okay? Have you gotten everything back?" I ask, my voice fogging into a husky whisper, overwhelmed with emotions and memories. "Everything -- and then some," he says softly, holding me tighter to his chest. I can feel him kiss the top of my head and smile. "Memories I'd be happier without -- and memories I'm glad to have forever." With that he tilts my chin up to give me a tender kiss. "Thank you, Doctor Deanna Branson-Terrebonne. You saved me." Our bittersweet reunion is over before it has begun. Fox is pulled away from me by the growled commands of Assistant Director Walter Skinner, who has suddenly appeared from nowhere with Dana Scully. Plane schedules and waiting assignments prevent any further visiting. Dana and I hurriedly exchange greetings and news while Skinner and Edel exchange pleasantries and discuss the poor outlook for any results from these endless "hearings". I am aware of Fox watching me quietly. He is all smiles when Edel and I announce our impending parenthood, nodding approvingly when I tell him I know from tests that the baby is a girl and will be named after Edel's grandmother, Solange Terrebonne. There are no opportunities for emotion-filled good-byes. For which I am grateful, and so, I expect, is Fox Mulder. Edel and I are called into the hearing room by dour-faced marshals. I cling nervously to Edel's hand, just as Fox and Dana are ordered in the opposite direction by their boss, who is impatiently tapping his wristwatch in a clear but unspoken signal. But there was time enough for one glance back. And I see him there -- framed by the empty marble hallway. Standing alone. Watching after me. He half lifts his hand in one last good-bye before I lose sight of him. Good-bye, Fox. I'll forget-you-not. ************************ **FIN** "Specimen 51" by WestShore June, 1997