Title: Any Means Necessary
Author: Ophelia
E-Mail: OpheliaMac@aol.com
Rating: R -mature themes, language
Category: X, A
Spoilers:   General third season
Keywords: Mulder/Scully friendship/UST. Rape.
Summary:   Mulder suffers a brutal sexual attack, which unexpectedly puts him and the Consortium on the same side.
Archive: Please don't just now.  Depending on reader response, this may or may not be a final version.

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Disclaimer: (Sung to "All things Bright and Beautiful:") All things dark and horrible, each hidden evil plot, all things weird and miserable, Chris Carter owns the lot. Aaaaaa-men.

Other Disclaimer: This story was inspired by Amperage's "Mistress," which while it is *very* adult-oriented, is an excellent piece of fiction.  The story also benefited tremendously from the generous help of my beta readers: Nonie Rider, WPAdmirer, and Youneek, and to my consultants, AmandaY (German customs and law) and Dawson Rambo, (telephony and security issues).  Thanks to all of them!
     
Note: the name "Moernicke" ought to end just like "Frohike," i.e., in "icky."   The beginning three letters should be pronounced like the sound a real cow makes--not "Mooo," but "Muuuuh."   Stick an R-N in the middle, and you've got it.   I promise never to write about German people ever again.   : )
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46th Street
New York, NY
     
"He's done *what?*" demanded the Well-Manicured Man.  For a few moments the only sound was the soft ticking of the mantel clock.  The Cigarette Smoking Man paused a moment, to show he wasn't intimidated, and took another drag from his Morley.  The room was already thick with smoke.  The room's blinds split the pale morning sun was into bars. 

"You heard what I said," the Cigarette Smoking Man replied.  

"This is unconscionable!  You told us the situation was under control," the Well Manicured Man said.  

"I told you that I'd spoken to him and that he understood the situation.  And so he does," said the Cigarette Smoking Man.

"And yet he doesn't care," the Well-Manicured Man said, bitterly.  "He's worse than that other protégé of yours . . . Mr. Krycek."

"I never trusted him," the First Elder said.

"No one asked you to," the Cigarette Smoking Man replied.  "The issue was one of utility, not trust."

The Well Manicured Man sat with his fist clenched upon the table.  He glared at the Cigarette Smoking Man, who looked back with an expression of mocking calm, his Morley dangling from his lips.

"Well, do you have any suggestions?" the Well Manicured Man snapped.

"Clearly, he will have to be removed from the field," the Cigarette Smoking Man replied.  "He's demonstrated that he's outlived his utility."

"And he couldn't have picked a worse person to draw into his particular web of . . . pathology." The Well Manicured Man spat out the last word.  The Cigarette Smoking Man raised his eyebrows, but did not respond.  

"Is he dangerous to us, as well?" asked the First Elder.

"Not if we get to him first," the Cigarette Smoking Man said.

"I never thought I'd hear myself say the words," said the Well Manicured Man, shaking his head.  "Poor Agent Mulder."
********

Mulder curled up on the gurney on his side, his eyes squeezed shut.  They wouldn't let him take anything for the pain.  He'd already been drugged, they said.  No medicine until they "identified the substance."  Right.  He could handle that, couldn't he?  He tried to focus on his breathing, to master the pain through concentration.  It didn't work very well.  You'll get through this," he told himself.  "You've gotten through worse."

No--he wasn't sure he had.


He'd awakened on the floor of his Cincinnati hotel room, naked, wrapped only in a tangled sheet.  He'd felt sick and lightheaded.  The cloth around his legs and buttocks was cold and wet, and at first he'd wondered what in God's name had made him wet the bed.  Then he'd looked down and seen that the sheet was soaked in blood. Blurred images of the night before began to flash before him.  He'd cried out, he must have, because Scully burst through the adjoining door between their rooms and gasped

She was here with him now.  She ran her hand over his hair again and again.  He knew he must be in terrible shape, because she never touched him like that unless she was terrified for him.  Mulder wondered if he were going to die.  He wondered if he had AIDS.
********

Scully sat in a plastic chair by her partner's bedside, stroking the hair from his forehead.  As soon as she did so his bangs would flop over again.  The poor guy had been complaining that he hadn't had time for a haircut.  The floppy bangs had annoyed him a lot yesterday.  She doubted he cared at all today.

She'd listened to the ER doctor as he explained that Mulder had been exposed to at least one, possibly two, depressant-type substances, and that medical and forensic necessity prevented the hospital from giving him painkillers.  Someone had given him a rolled-up towel to squeeze instead, which quickly ended up on the floor.  Scully tried giving it back to him but he pitched it away.  

She understood the doctor's position.  Had she been in his place, she would likely have done the same thing.  However, she'd also seen Mulder's injuries.  She knew he had to be in agony.  

"You won't need surgery," she told him, giving him what little good news there was.  "Your bowel was badly lacerated in places, but not perforated.  There wasn't any semen inside you, either.  If this son-of-a-bitch has anything, he hasn't given it to you."  A shudder went through him and she thought he relaxed a little.  She didn't have anything else positive to offer, so she just went back to repeating the words she'd said for hours, "It's all right.  It's okay."  They sounded empty, even to her own ears.


Mulder's permission had gotten her into the examining room with him, although God knew if he knew what he was approving her to see.  He'd still been pretty dazed.  It had been over an hour since she'd found him and he was still bleeding badly from his rectum.  A lamp and a speculum revealed deep, cruel cuts inside, which looked as though they'd been made by something pointed.  Mulder caught at her hands during that terrible 20 minutes, holding her fingers in a white-knuckle grip.  "Almost done," the doctor said, over and over for what seemed like an eternity.   Mulder withstood a quarter of an hour without complaint, then suddenly half-stifled sobs wracked his whole body.  Scully had wanted to kill somebody.  The rapist, the doctors, anyone stupid enough to get in her way.  She'd forced herself to push that feeling aside.  There was nothing she could do for Mulder but hold his hands and keep telling him that he was safe, that he'd be all right.  

Anyone who looked at him would know that was complete bullshit.


No one had been able to ascertain a specific time for the attack.  Scully had seen Mulder last at about 11:30 p.m.  He'd been fine, then.  "The Exorcist" was on TV, and they'd watched in their respective rooms.  Mulder stuck his head through the unlocked suite door during the last commercial break and announced, "I can't believe we're watching this.  It's too much like work."

She'd shrugged and said, "So count it as research experience and demand a promotion."  He'd laughed.  The movie ended around midnight and she'd gone to sleep.  She'd heard nothing, seen nothing.  Just before four she'd stirred, and heard him crying for her.  She'd opened the door to find him sprawled on the carpet, bloody and disoriented.  


Scully lifted one of his hands to look at the skin beneath his fingernails.  It was turning a purplish-blue.   She put her hand to his forehead and found it clammy.  "Mulder," she said, "how are you doing?  Do you feel nauseous at all?"

"Yeah," he said.  He still kept his eyes closed.

"Think you're going to throw up?" she asked.

"Maybe," he said.  She stood and pulled a trash can to the side of the gurney.  

"I'm going to go find your doctor and tell him to give you something," she said.   

"Okay."

Mulder was going into shock from blood loss and prolonged agony.  If the doctor still refused to prescribe pain meds she'd have to strangle somebody.

She caught Dr. Keller by the ER nurses' station.  "He's cold, he's nauseous, and he's starting to go cyanotic.  You damn well better do something for his pain."

Keller was a youngish man and Scully's tone backed him off a little.  She felt she could bully him if she had to.  "I'm going to do that," Keller said.  He turned to one of the nurses and said, "Could you get one of the warmed blankets for Mr. Mulder?"  The woman nodded and left.  "I think I found out part of the reason the rapist wore a condom, and it wasn't out of concern for your friend's health," he told Scully.  "It looks like he mixed something with a water-based lubricant and spread it over the surface of the condom.  I can't swear to it until we get some tox people to look at the sample, but my guess is it's chloral hydrate.  There's a characteristic irritation of the rectal wall.  My guess is the attacker wounded Mulder in the way he did to speed up membrane absorption."

"Chloral hydrate?" Scully asked, surprised.   That was a very old drug, not much used anymore.  

"I wouldn't have thought of it, except that I spent a few months in Algeria with the World Health Organization.  Chloral hydrate's cheap and it's still a common sedative in some countries.  It's often given rectally, because it makes such a mess of the GI tract.  For what it's worth, that's the most common way it's prescribed in both Europe and Africa," Keller said.

"Mulder went to school in England," Scully said, putting her hand to her forehead.  It was important that she try to think, now, instead of just react.  

She walked with Keller toward Mulder's bedside.  "You think this is someone he knew?" Keller asked.

"He hasn't said so," she replied.  "But I suspect that if this crime had happened to someone else, he would say that the rapist and the victim probably knew each other."  It was a high-risk crime and a low-risk victim.  In other words, the attack was so risky that it was damn unlikely to be random.  Keller looked at her with an expression of mild surprise.  "He's a profiler with the F.B.I.," she explained, "although he doesn't do that full-time anymore.  He's considered to be one of the best."

"Sounds like you're going to need the best," Keller said.  "I haven't been able to make much of the substance Mulder says he was forced to inhale.  Probably some other CNS depressant.  Maybe the FBI people can get something off the bed sheets."

"Maybe," Scully said.

Keller ordered acetaminophen and caffeine injected into Mulder's IV, and had a nurse give him a dose of Coke syrup and some ginger ale for his stomach.  These were simple, conservative remedies which the physician in Scully approved of, even while the worried friend in her wanted to shout at Keller to do something more.  Mulder did seem better within minutes--probably due to the caffeine.  Scully appropriated a nurse's thermometer and found his temperature was 98, up from 97.2 a half hour ago.   "Doing better?" she asked, as she shot the plastic thermometer cover into the trash.

He nodded.

"Want to talk?" she asked, as gently as she could.  He hadn't been very coherent since the time she'd found him.  She hadn't even been certain that his injuries were caused by a sexual assault until the ER staff examined him.  He shut his eyes and slowly shook his head.  "It's okay," she said.  "You don't have to."  

For a few moments he didn't answer, and she began to wonder if he were dropping off to sleep.  Finally, he said, "I will."  His voice was low and hoarse.

"You will what?" she asked.

"I'll have to talk.  To the police."

"Not until you're ready," she said.

"I'll never be ready," he said.  He opened his eyes.  "Have you got a pen?" he asked.

"A pen?" she repeated, startled.

"I don't think I can talk about it.  Not the way they'll need for an investigation.  If I get it on paper now, before I have to think about it, it'll be easier. I'll sign it when the police are here "

"Okay, sure," she said, and rummaged in her purse until she found a pen and a small notebook she often used to jot down field notes.  She gave them to him and he pushed himself up on one elbow so he could write.  Of course he couldn't sit up.  Oh, Mulder . . .

"You going to be all right like that?  You want to dictate?" she asked.  The position he was in did not look comfortable.  He shot her an impatient look that made him seem nearly his usual self.

"If I wanted to dictate, I wouldn't be writing this down," he pointed out.

"You're right," she said.  "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," he said, then curled up around the notebook and began scribbling.  Reluctantly, Scully left him alone, thinking that it might do her some good to get caffeine into her, as well.
*****

Mulder wrote it up like it was any other profile.  He had to do it that way.  He wrote across the top:


CRIMINAL INVESTIGATIVE ANALYSIS
Analyst--F. Mulder, X-Files Unit

UNSUB
Cincinnati, OH
Breaking and Entering
Battery of a Federal Officer
Forcible Rape


He had to stop for a moment after that.  "You can do this," he told himself.  "They're just words.  They're not going to bite you."  He managed to jot down the obvious stuff:

SEX:  M
RACE: W
AGE: 35 -45
IQ: Above average
CRIMINAL RECORD: B&E, burglary, rape, drug possession/intent to deliver 

When he got to the part labeled "Victimology," he stared at the block-printed word for some time before he was able to write anything.   Then he released his breath slowly and wrote down:

WM, 35, unmarried, F.B.I. agent.  
Blitz-type attack as victim slept in locked hotel room.

Deliberately, he printed out the words, "use of depressant-type inhalant," and then he couldn't write any more.


He'd been wakened by something cold and wet on his face.  Something vile-tasting, caustic, in his nostrils and mouth.  He gagged on it.  Cloth over his face, a forearm crushing down against the big vein in his neck.  His lungs begged for air but every desperate gasp sucked in more of the poison.  He heard rushing in his ears and the room spun.


He'd fought, hadn't he?  There were moves you could use against the joint of an assailant's thumb, holds you could break by shifting your center of gravity.  The guys from the Hostage Rescue Team could get out of anything on the training floor at Quantico.  Mulder wasn't so bad at hand-to-hand himself.  Some of the tactical types had said so--although they'd still kicked his ass.  

None of the regular agents lasted long against the special ops/tactical guys.   

With shaking hands he added a heading under UNSUB, "OCCUPATION."  He wrote down, "military, private security.  If Military: has disciplinary record.  Dishonorable discharge."   Under the Victimology section he wrote, "victim resistance: low/none."  Mulder closed his eyes and lay down again.  The attempt and/or success of resistance wasn't supposed to reflect on the victim.  During the course of his psychological studies, Mulder had interviewed countless crime victims as well as perpetrators.  Over and over again the question, "Did you struggle?" while necessary to understanding the crime's dynamic, had brought rape victims to outrage or to tears.  They all seemed to hear a hidden question: "Did you want it?"

He'd gently told the women--and they'd all been women--"Whatever happened, it wasn't your fault."  He'd said it a dozen times to some of them and they still hadn't seemed to hear it.  Not all interviewers were as compassionate as Mulder was.  What in God's name was he going to tell the police when they asked, "Did you struggle?"  If he broke down under the questioning, would they tell him it wasn't his fault?  Would he believe them?

Closing his eyes turned out to be a mistake.  Images flickered across the darkness there.  He'd tried to fight, half-conscious though he was, when the rapist started hurting him.  Oh, God . . . it had been worse than Ellens Air Force Base, worse than any beating he'd taken from the Syndicate's operatives.   The closest thing to it he could imagine was a coat-hanger abortion.  Why had the man done that to him?  Mulder had tried to get his arms loose -- couldn't; they were caught in some kind of stretchy web.  Bindings of some sort.  

"No physical force until he knocked you out, then bound you," said the quiet, sane profiler voice in his head. "He knows how to fight, but he prefers to fight dirty.  Assassin-type personality.  He's probably smaller than you are or significantly older."

Stretchy bindings, something like nylons, which held but didn't bite.  Why did the rapist choose a relatively gentle means of bondage?  He could have used anything he wanted.  Clearly, he hadn't had Mulder's comfort in mind when he'd . . . technically, the term would be, "committed symbolic rape with a sharp object."  

Mulder curled up like a wounded animal.  He heard the pen hit the floor, and the sound had a strange finality to it.


When Scully returned with her coffee she found Mulder's half-finished profile lying on the floor, and Mulder himself huddled in bed, crying.  He lay on partly on his stomach, his forehead resting in the crook of one elbow, and he did not look up or acknowledge her.  His sobbing had a terrible, desolate sound to it.  It made her think of a wild creature with its underbelly ripped open, abandoned in a lonely place to die.  It was the sound things made when they were mourning the loss of themselves.  Scully put her hand on the skin of his back and stroked it with her thumb.  Mulder startled at the contact, then after a moment seemed to relax.  She kept caressing him.  There was nothing else she could do.
*****

"I think you should stay with me tonight," Scully told him as they exited the plane in D.C.  She hadn't been overly sorry to leave the Interagency Law Enforcement Co-Operation Seminar a day early, but she fervently wished it could have been for a different reason.  

Mulder shook his head and said, "I want to go home."  His face was pale and he had dark smudges under his eyes.  

"Well let me go with you, then.  I don't think you should be alone just yet."  It had been less than 24 hours since the rape.  The hospital had discharged him that afternoon with a supply of antibiotics and painkillers, along with instructions to contact his personal doctor the next day.  Since Scully basically *was* his personal doctor, this wasn't a problem.  Dr. Keller had also sent Mulder home with various accouterments given to patients who'd had rectal surgery.  Those had enabled Mulder to make the plane ride home, but it was clear that he was far from comfortable.

"Do whatever you want," he said.  She did not like the exhausted, apathetic sound of his voice.   He walked slowly toward the baggage claim area and she followed.  

"Mulder, what do *you* want?" she asked.  She hoped to God he'd let her help.  No one should have to go through something like this alone.  

He stopped suddenly and looked down at her.  "What if I said a .38 to the head?" he asked.

"That does it -- I'm going with you.  That, or I take you to the hospital right now."

That got a sardonic half-smile out of him.  "You gonna pick me up and carry me, or you gonna get a judge to call the nice men with the butterfly nets?"  Scully felt her body tense, gearing up for a battle.  She needn't have bothered.  "Sure, come with me," he said finally.  "I haven't had a woman beg me to take her back to my place in months."

Under other circumstances she would have snarled something caustic at him, or at least slugged him in the arm.  As it was, she was relieved to hear Mulder sounding like his usual, arrogant self.  All she said was, "Must be your lucky day."


Back at Mulder's apartment, Scully knew she was hovering.  She knew she should stop even as she did it, but somehow she couldn't seem to quit.  Dr. Keller had strongly recommended sitz baths as cold as Mulder could stand, to help keep inflammation down, and he'd understandably balked at the idea.  She'd kept at him, however, until he finally shouted, "Fine.  I'll do whatever you want.  Just give it a rest, okay?  I don't want to hear any more about it."  The neighbors probably thought they were having a lovers' spat.  Perhaps in their own way, they were.

He shut himself in the bathroom for 20 minutes, doing whatever.  Scully could hardly check up on him.  Every so often she heard him blow his nose, and she wondered if he were crying.  Who could blame him, she thought?  She cried, too, on the other side of the bathroom door.  

At least he wasn't so surly later, when she told him to go sleep in his bed, rather than on the couch.  He'd looked at her with red-rimmed, exhausted eyes and said, "I should be chivalrous and argue with you."

She'd said, "You should go to bed before I drag you there and sit on you."

"Oh, baby," was his response, but there was no life in the words. 

"Go on," she said, shooing him.  The bed was already made, which told Scully exactly how often he slept in it.  Quite possibly not since the last woman had begged him to take her back to his place.  

He let her pull the covers back and tuck him in once he dropped into bed.  Oddly, she was grateful for this small opportunity to show care.  Mulder was very picky about how he let people be fond of him.  "You've got your antibiotics and your pain pills?" she asked.  She knew she couldn't ask if he'd taken them.  He was a grown man, she reminded herself.  If he felt like making himself suffer then there was nothing she could do.  He nodded.  "Good," she said.  She stroked his hair back from his forehead -- something her mother used to do, when Dana was little.  "If you want anything during the night, you just call me, okay?" she said.

He smiled and said, "You'll be my number one call girl."  Scully picked up the extra pillow and hit him across the chest with it.  Mulder laughed -- he was probably relieved.  There was only so much fussing-over he could stand.  Only after she flicked off the light and left the room did she hear him say, "Thank you."
******

Despite how tired he was, Mulder couldn't sleep.  He stared at the glowing red numbers of his clock as they flicked to 11:21.  Usually, that wasn't late, but he'd had so little sleep.  He was overtired, and who knew when he'd finally manage to pass out.  

His body hurt.  Even worse, some of the emotional shock seemed to be wearing off.  He hadn't really been serious before when he said he wanted a .38 to the head.  Now, he began to consider that option.

It wasn't as if he didn't have enough problems already.  Lying curled up in bed, frightened and in pain, reminded him of too many long-ago nights -- when angry adult voices echoed downstairs and stuff got broken.  Sometimes little Samantha would creep into his bed and say, "I'm scared, Fox.  I wanna stay with you," and they'd go to sleep clinging to each other.  

Then one night she was gone, too.

"If I blow my brains out, I won't have to feel this," he thought.  "A lot of people wouldn't blame me for checking out early."

He considered this plan.  He had a will.  If he died suddenly, things would be taken care of.  Financially, his mother would be all right.  

Emotionally, she would never be the same.  She'd already lost one child.  

Scully probably wouldn't take kindly to seeing his brains splattered across the headboard, either.

Fuck.  "Thus conscience does make cowards of us all," Hamlet had said.  Fox's eyes flooded and the numbers on the clock swam.  He did not bother wiping away the tears as they ran down either side of his nose.

The dry, quiet voice in his mind pointed out that if he didn't kill himself, he could find the rapist and blow *his* brains out instead.   He found this to be a plan worth considering.  

For a while he just stared at the clock.  It was 11:30, flicked to 11:31 as he watched.  He'd seen what rape survivors went through.   He'd once spoken to a woman who hadn't left her house for three years after she'd been raped.  

He decided that if he was going to live, it wouldn't be like that.  Afraid to go out, afraid to stay in, walling himself into smaller and smaller circles . . . being controlled by fear would be worse than suicide.   

The problem was that if he wasn't going to shoot himself, he would insist on going through this on his feet.  He would have to keep going to work.   If he sat at home with nothing to do but think, he would go insane.  Still, he was not going to be chasing suspects down alleys or jumping on top of freight trains for a while.  He hurt -- somewhere he didn't want to talk about, for a reason he didn't want to discuss.   Skinner, at least, would have to know.  "Jesus fucking Christ," he whispered, putting his hands to his eyes. 

He told himself not to think about it.  He wouldn't be able to stand feeling like this for months and months, but just for tonight it wouldn't kill him.  If he had to, he could shoot himself in the morning.  He could re-evaluate his decision to live on a day-to-day basis.  All he needed to worry about right now was making it through tonight.   What did he need to do?  How could he tolerate the time before he could finally fall asleep?  

The clock said that it was barely twenty to midnight.  It hadn't even been 24 hours since it happened.  Oh, God.
******

Scully wasn't sleeping either.  She lay curled up on Mulder's couch, listening to the soft burble of his fish tank aerator.  

She'd had a friend who'd been raped in college, by a boy who offered to walk her home from a party.   Scully recalled that her own initial reaction to the news was shock.   She'd seen Lisa a few hours before the attack, and the girl was her usual bright, bubbly self.   Lisa seemed to be one of those charmed people whom the storm clouds of life just drifted by.   Dana thought later, "If it could happen to her, it could happen to any of us."  

In a way, dozens of young women had been victimized by one drunken goon.   After January, 1984, none of Lisa's girlfriends went outside at night without their hearts beating faster.  Many of them -- Dana included -- did not sleep well at school, after that.  A kind of innocence had been destroyed. 

Mulder was not Scully's idea of an innocent.  Lisa Curran had been open and friendly and trusting, everything the All-American Girl was supposed to be.  Although she'd never blamed Lisa, Scully the F.B.I. Agent could pinpoint those naive qualities as ones that might make a person a target for a rapist.  

Fox Mulder possessed none of them.  He was Lisa's antithesis -- paranoid, angry, aloof.  It really *could* happen to anybody.  Poor Mulder.  She didn't think she would ever forget the sound of his tortured sobbing in the Cincinnati ER.  Her arms ached to hold him; to . . . what?  Nothing she could do would eradicate that pain.  "Let him sleep," she told herself.  "Let him find any relief he can."

About the time her breathing became slow and even, she heard the door to Mulder's bedroom creak.  She opened her eyes and saw him walk in, silhouetted against the faint light from the crack beneath the front door.  He wore a T-shirt and boxers and moved slowly, as if very sore.

"What's going on?" she murmured.  "You okay?"

He stopped beside the couch.  "Can I, um . . . can I curl up over here a while?" he asked.  She heard the faint tremor in his voice and sat up at once.

"Yeah, sure," she said.  

Resting one hand on the couch's back, he lowered himself to a position lying on his side.   She coaxed him into scooting over so that his head and shoulders lay in her lap.  "You all right?" she asked.  She got no answer at first, but she didn't press him.

At last he said, "I don't know if I can do this."  His voice was choked with tears.

"You can," she encouraged.  "You can do it.  You're a fighter -- I've seen how hard you can fight."

"I'm scared."

"I know."  

Fox's whole body shook as he cried, although his sobs were breath-quiet.  On impulse Dana wrapped her arm around him and rubbed his belly.  He gasped, stiffened at the touch, then at last relaxed.   "You're all right," she said.  "You're all right."  

"I'm not," he said.

"You will be."

Despite his protests, he eventually twisted onto his back, giving Dana easier access to his tummy.  "You're safe," she said, again and again, "you're safe."  She felt the warmth of his tears run onto her stomach and her thigh.

 "Scully?" he asked, after a while.

 "What?"

 "If -- if I get really messed up over this, will you let me come to you first?  I mean, instead of you doing the doctor thing and ordering me around before I even tell you something's wrong.  I've just . . ."  His voice faltered and he fell silent for a few moments.  When he continued he said, "I've just had enough forcing, you know?"

 Dana felt her own tears warming her cheeks.  "Of course," she said.  "I won't make you do anything you don't want to do."

 "Okay," he said.  "Good."

They fell asleep huddled against one another, like lost children on a park bench. 


F.B.I. Headquarters,
Washington, D.C.
Two Days Later


Skinner just sat and looked at her, his expression somewhere between shock and revulsion.  Scully stood ramrod straight in front of him, her hands clasped in front of her jade-green suit coat.  

"He asked that I tell you, sir," she said.  "He felt that he couldn't."

Skinner seemed at a loss for words at first.  Finally he managed, "This is . . . this happened?"

"Yes sir," she replied crisply.  She kept her gaze focused on a spot just beyond the back of Skinner's skull.

"I don't understand," Skinner said.  "The doors were locked, Mulder was armed.  How did this happen?" 

"Sir . . . I believe that the metal latch on my door was off," she said.  She hadn't even said this to Mulder, yet.  She hadn't remembered it at first, and now she was afraid he'd hate her for it.  "There was a knock on my door . . . I don't know what time or who it was.  I was half-asleep.  I guess I assumed someone went to the wrong room by mistake.  I think I got up, opened the door, spoke to whoever it was, and then went back to bed.  I'm not certain that I shut the latch again.  There was an electric lock on the door, but that won't keep an experienced criminal out."

"You think this attacker walked right by you into Agent Mulder's room?" Skinner asked.  She didn't know what to make of the incredulity in his voice.  Perhaps he was only shocked that a sexual predator would ignore a lesser physical threat and deliberately engage a greater one.  Maybe Skinner, as a heterosexual man, couldn't understand why a rapist would pass Scully up in favor of Mulder.  She tried not to react at all, to keep her stance and gaze fixed.

"Mulder swears that he threw the latch in his own room," she said, "and we didn't lock the suite door that separated us.  It seems the only likely explanation."

"All right," Skinner said.  He looked as if he was trying to process this information.  

"The assailant appears to have used two chloroform-related substances to subdue Mulder during the attack," she said.  "The first was an industrial solvent called tetrachloroethane.  Its fumes produce unconsciousness ten times faster than chloroform. It's been  seldom used in the U.S. since other, less toxic, solvents were introduced.  The other was a very early synthetic sedative, called chloral hydrate.  Dashiell Hammett would have called it a Mickey Finn.  It also has fallen out of favor in this country.  Unlike true barbiturates, chloral hydrate has a depressant effect without any analgesic properties."

"I'm sorry, that means . . .?" Skinner asked.

"It reduced Mulder's ability to defend himself without dulling any of the pain," she said.

"Ah," was Skinner's response.  His eyebrows quirked upward, and for the first time, Scully saw compassion in her supervisor's face.

"The use of these substances supports Mulder's theory that his attacker is older, and possibly foreign-born."

"He's profiling this guy?" Skinner asked.

"I don't think he could keep from doing it if he tried," Scully said.  "It's part of the way Mulder thinks."

Skinner nodded solemnly.  "What has he got?" he asked.  

Scully sighed.  She wished that Mulder wasn't trying to work his own rape case, even in an unofficial capacity.  However, no one could blame him for taking control the only way he knew how, and his analyses were usually brilliant.  "He says that his attacker knew him, at least by sight.  He believes this person has an interest in law enforcement but was kept out of that field by a criminal record.  The attacker may work in a related field, such as private security.   Mulder wants us to check with Interpol, Immigration and Nationalization Services, and the military.  He thinks the rapist has a special ops background."

"That gives us someplace to start," Skinner said.  "Who's handling the case?  The Cincinnati PD or the Field Office?" 

"The police handed it over to us, in deference to the fact that Mulder's an F.B.I. agent."  In some ways the Bureau hadn't changed at all since the Hoover era.  It still liked to take care of its own, even an outcast like Spooky Mulder.  She hoped that Mulder could accept that interest as a show of support.  

"Good," Skinner said.  "Have they shown him pictures of any suspects?"

"Yes," Scully said.  "They've been communicating with Mulder through e-mail and fax.  He hasn't been able to positively ID anyone.  He was drugged . . . it was dark," she said, shaking her head.  

"How is he?" Skinner asked.  His tone was one of genuine concern.

"About as well as you'd expect," she said.  She didn't bring up the things Mulder had told her in confidence: that he had nightmares; that he cried over almost anything; that he was having panic attacks for the first time since he was a boy.

"Is he going to be okay?"

Scully thought about this.  Mulder had talked about getting back in touch with Heintz Werber, the therapist who'd helped him uncover the memories of his sister's abduction.  Scully didn't think much of psychologists who hypnotized people and made them "remember" evil space aliens, but at least Mulder was willing to reach out for help.  For him, that was a step forward.  "I think he'll do what he needs to do, sir," she replied.

"All right," Skinner said, seeming satisfied with that.

"He wanted me to tell you that he'll be out for a few days, although he plans on coming back to work as soon as he can.  He told me . . ." she paused, trying to think of the best way to put this.  "He said that he doesn't want special treatment; he doesn't want people fussing over him."

"I understand," Skinner said.  He sounded as if he did.  "Let him know that he'll have anything he needs." 

"Yes, sir.  Thank you, sir," Scully said.  Finally, she felt able to relax.  For the first time, she acknowledged how much she'd feared that Skinner would reject Mulder for what had happened.  It would have felt like a rejection of herself.


Mulder's Apartment
Same Afternoon

Langly brought the blowtorch and the wire wheel, and Byers had a pager of uncertain origin.  Frohike showed up grinning, carrying something heavy in a black bag.  "I'm glad that you finally took us up on our offer," Frohike said.  

Langly turned off the torch, lifted the black welder's mask from his face and looked up from what he was doing to the doorknob.  "We've been concerned since the liquidation of your last informant.  And the death of your father," he added.  "They're onto you."

"You're a good man," Byers said.  "We'd hate to lose you."

"I'm deeply touched," Mulder said, giving them a sarcastic half-smile.  Actually, he *was* rather touched.  There weren't a lot of friends a guy could ask to boobytrap his door who wouldn't demand to know the reason why.  The Lone Gunmen had simply accepted his statement that the need for added security was something he was "not at liberty to discuss."  

"What's in the bag?" Mulder asked Frohike.  

"Transformers," Frohike said.

"'They're more than meets the eye,'" Langly quoted, deadpan.

"Guys, you're dealing with a layman," Mulder said.  "Spell it out for me."

Frohike unzipped the bag and pulled out a black, rectangular box.  "This is a photocopier transformer," he said.  "It'll be a drain on your electricity, but boy, does it deliver a jolt."

"Extra Crispy Style," said Langly.

"That'll kill an intruder?" Mulder asked. 

"Not necessarily," Byers said.  "It depends on his physical make-up."

"Whether he has a heart condition, what kind of shoes he's wearing," Frohike added.  

"I was kind of thinking 'discourage,' not 'kill,'" Mulder said.

"Why?" Frohike asked, looking startled.  

"Because if my doorknob kills somebody, I go to jail for manslaughter, and you go to jail as an accessory.  If it just seriously injures somebody, the best he can do is sue my landlord," Mulder said.

The Gunmen seemed to think about this.  "I've got a television transformer," Frohike said.

"Let's go with the television transformer," said Byers.
******

Scully was driving home when her cell phone rang.  She'd balanced it on the dash, thinking that Mulder would probably want to talk to her.  He'd known she was going to speak to Skinner that day.  She picked up the phone and punched the "talk" button.  "Scully," she said.

"Hey, it's me," Mulder said.

"How are you?" she asked.

"Same as usual," he said.  "How did it go?"  

"It went okay," she said.  "He's all right about it.  He says he'll get you anything you need."

There was no response for a moment.  "*How* did he say it?" Mulder asked, sounding suspicious.  

"Like he meant it," Scully said.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."  Nothing but static over the line for perhaps a count of three.  

"Can you come over?"

"Sure," she said, glancing up at the road signs.  She hadn't hit the Beltway yet, and she could take that around to Mulder's place.  It was 5:20 and the traffic would be a nightmare, but under the circumstances she'd do it.  "What's going on?"

"I want to show you how to open my door," he said.

She found she didn't like the sound of that.  "Mulder . . ." she said.

"It's all right," he said  "It's not dangerous if you know how to do it.  I'd rather not discuss it over the phone though -- security issues."

"All right," she said.  She looked up to determine the next exit.  "I think I can be there in 20 minutes." 

"Great," he said.


Scully had a key to Mulder's door, but she knocked anyway.  The doorknob's lock core had clearly been removed, ground down, wrapped in insulation tape and then replaced.  She had a bad feeling that Frohike was behind this.  Mulder answered almost immediately, wearing loose jeans and a white T-shirt.  "C'mon in," he said, smiling at her.  He almost seemed his usual self.  

She noticed that his apartment was cleaner than she'd ever seen it.  The stacks of magazines, both professional and filthy, were gone from the corners where they usually gathered dust.  No heap of unanswered correspondence lay on his coffee table, and the wooden floor actually looked shiny from recent sweeping.  

"You been going so stir crazy you needed to clean?" she asked.

"No--I just got rid of a bunch of stuff," he said.  He sounded like he didn't much want to talk about it, and she let the subject drop.  He led the way into the living room and then shut the door.

"What do you think?" he asked.

The back of his door was covered in a mass of wires duct-taped to the wood at irregular intervals.  The wires led to an unidentifiable pile of equipment sitting on an end table.  A thick electric cord led from the equipment into the wall.  "What is *that?*" Scully asked.

"This is a television transformer," he told her, pointing to a small black box.  "It's hooked up to this pager over here.  When you call it and leave a certain number -- which I'll give you in a minute--it closes a connection that sends current into my lock core.  Anybody tampering with it's gonna get a nasty surprise.  Then if you want to disarm the system you call the pager, leave the same number, and that turns it all off.  You can turn it on or off from anywhere.  Langly even installed this little light, so I can tell if it's on or not."  He pointed to a small LED bank that had been taped to the top of the transformer.

"Mulder, this isn't a good idea," she said.  "How do you know that the insulation around the lock core will work?  You could kill one of your neighbors if they accidentally brushed against the doorknob."

"It wouldn't kill them," Mulder said.  "It's sort of set on 'stun.'  Frohike did leave a photocopier transformer, though, in case I felt a need for a greater deterrent."

"You're going to hurt an innocent person, maybe yourself," she said.  "What if Frohike wired that thing wrong?  You could electrocute yourself trying to get in."

"Well, I got these electrician's gloves, too," he said, turning to grab something off his kitchen counter.

"Oh, God . . ." she said.   He held up two pairs of gloves coated in black rubber.  "Mulder, I am not wearing those." 

"Sure you are.  Black latex is every woman's ideal accessory," he handed the gloves to her and she accepted them as if they were something that might bite.  

"You're insane," she said.  "This is not going to make you any safer."

"It'll make me *feel* safer," he told her.  "Scully, that first night back here . . .  you know -- after, I really wanted out.  I wanted . . ."  He mimed putting a gun to his head and firing. 

"Mulder . . ." she said, distressed.

"I decided not to do it," he said.  "I decided that I wasn't going to do the Consortium any favors by killing myself.  But I figured if I was going to live, I had to be able to do it without fear.  If every sudden noise scared me out of my skin, I'd go crazy.  Maybe the boobytrapped door won't help very much, but it'll help a little.   It's some kind of action I can take, instead of just sitting around, being paranoid."  He paused a moment and then muttered, "Maybe it'll at least let me sleep."

"Jesus, Mulder, why don't you come stay with me?" she asked.  It was the only thing she could think of to suggest.

He gave her a half-smile and said, "Don't think I'm ungrateful, but remember how much good your presence did last time."

"You think he's going to try and get at you again?" she asked.

He looked away and did not answer immediately.  "You ever read my article, 'A Taxonomy of Rapists?'" Mulder asked.

A little startled by the question, she replied, "That one must have gotten by me."

"You should look it up sometime.  They're teaching with it at Quantico, now."

"I'll have to see if I can find it."

He sighed, as if very tired, and she waited until he felt like talking.  At last he said, "This guy's got characteristics of a couple different types of rapist.  One type sometimes contacts his victim after an attack, and the other type almost never does."

"And you don't know which type this person is," she said.

"He may be both," Mulder said.  "There was some stuff I wanted to ask you," he added, but then fell silent again.   Apparently, whatever was coming next was difficult to say.  "When, um, when they had me in the examining room . . . what did the cuts inside me look like?  You know, length, depth, made by what sort of instrument . . . the stuff you'd put in an autopsy protocol.  It'll help me understand this guy," he said.  He glanced up at her, his expression almost pleading.  Her reluctance to give him such information must have shown on her face.  

"Are you sure you want to know that?" she asked, as gently as she could.  "I know it's hard, but if I were you I'd seriously consider letting someone else do the profiling work on this case."

"I don't want the people at the ISU to do it because I know them," Mulder said.  "And I don't want the Cincinnati PD to do it because I *don't* know them."

"I see," Scully said.

"It's my body," Mulder said.  "It's my goddamned rape case.  I have a right to know."

She supposed he had a point.  "All right, but I didn't do the exam," she warned him.  "Most of the time I wasn't in a position to see."

"You were in a better one than I was," he pointed out.

"I'd say there were . . . ten to twelve lacerations to the last six or seven inches of the bowel," she said.  She tried to speak as if she were reciting information about somebody else.  It would probably be easier for both of them that way.  "All seemed to be scoring marks made by a pointed, but less than sharp, object.  There were no splinters or shards of foreign material in the wounds, so I'll guess the object was metal, maybe screwdriver-like.  The cuts appeared to be of a fairly uniform depth, although I can't give a depth measurement exactly.  There were no hesitation marks.  The wounds were narrow and straight and there was a great deal of blood, perhaps as much as a half-pint from the time I found you.  That would be consistent with several, quick thrusts with a foreign object, applied with a lot of force.  There was also . . ." she paused.  Mulder seemed too still, and he had a far-away look in his eyes that she didn't like.  

"You sure you want to hear this?" she asked, gently.  He nodded.

"I need to know," he said. 

She continued with reluctance, "There was extensive bruising and tearing of the anal and rectal tissues, suggesting a violent sexual assault, in addition to the penetration with the object," she said.  "No semen found in the body cavity, although there was some on--" she stopped herself before she could say "the victim's."  There was really no point in going too deep into denial.  "There was some on the back of your thigh and on the sheets, probably left after a condom was quickly removed.  The UNSUB's got type O blood, and he's a non-secretor."  The last part wasn't good--it meant that the seminal fluid was missing the enzymes necessary to test for DNA.  Still, that trait was limited to 15 percent of the population, which was something.  "There was also some inflammation and irritation of your rectal wall, probably caused by a reaction to the chloral hydrate.  You had a bite mark on your left shoulder.  There was an incised fabric weave pattern in the bite, and it was likely made through a couple layers of sheets.  You could see the general mouth shape, but I'm not sure even a skilled forensic dentist would be able to get an ID from it.  That what you wanted to know?"

He swallowed, still avoided her eyes.  "I sent a profile of this guy to the ASAC in Cincinnati," he said. "I think he thinks I'm a nut, but he's humoring me.  He said it was the damnedest victim's statement he'd ever seen.  It's pretty good, as profiles go, but they won't catch him with it.  This is the kind of guy who doesn't get caught, unless he screws up.  I, um . . . one of the reasons I want to find out if he's the type who'll  contact me again is I think we might be able to get him that way.  We could set up a kind of sting."

"With you as the bait," Scully said.

"Yeah," he said.

"Is that something you could stand, emotionally?  I know you're struggling as it is.  Do you really need to put yourself in additional danger?"

"I'd be willing to be terrified for one night, if it meant I wouldn't have to worry about this son-of-a-bitch again.  Anyway," he said, "I'm not even sure he'd go for it.  I don't *know* that he'll try to recontact me.  I just . . . I have this feeling."

"Can you pinpoint why?  Do you have any impressions?" she asked.  Mulder's hunches sometimes seemed spooky, but when he explained them there was usually some subtle piece of evidence that tipped him off.

He shook his head. "Nothing definite, but I'm pretty sure he spoke to me when it happened.  I've tried, but I can't remember what he said.  I don't know if I'm blocking on it or if I was just too drugged to know what was going on.  I figured I could give hypnosis a shot.  Werber's done it with me before."

"I'm not a big fan of hypnosis-induced memory recovery," Scully said.  "It's hard on the patient and there's often so little return.   Please don't push yourself like you're some . . . suspect being interrogated.  Be gentle with yourself.   You've taken enough abuse." 

When he glanced up at her his expression was very sad.  "Why did he do it, Dana?" he asked.  "He didn't have to do it the way he did.   Most guys would use a garrote or a club to the back of a victim's head if they wanted to keep him from struggling.  This guy used drugs, soft restraints . . . almost as if he didn't want to hurt me, except for -- well, there was the notable exception.  You said you found no hesitation marks.  He tore me up without a second thought.  The method's not consistent at all.  Why?" 

She shook her head.  "I don't know," she said.  "I wish I did.  Mulder, there's something else . . ."  It was her turn to look away.  She chewed her lower lip, ashamed and anxious.  "I'm afraid the attacker got in because of me."  She explained to him what she'd already told Skinner, that a late-night visitor had caused her to undo her door's latch.  "I'm so sorry," she said, when she was finished.  "I didn't even remember it at first.  I must have been half asleep -- or more than half, to be so stupid."  She glanced up at him, afraid to find him furious.  He wasn't.  Instead, he looked interested, almost like his usual Spooky Mulder self, catching the scent of a new lead.

"Can you describe the person who came to your door?" he asked.

"God, I've tried and tried to come up with something useful," she said, "but every time I imagine distinct features on this person I can't be sure I'm not making them up.   I have a general impression that it was a man, taller than me, maybe not quite as tall as you.  But that describes almost everybody in the hotel, at the time.   I don't know his hair color, eye color, what he was wearing, anything."  Actually, Scully reflected, it was she who was furious at herself.   She was supposed to be a forensic scientist, trained to observe minute details, and she'd noticed practically nothing about a stranger who'd come to her door in the middle of the night with no good explanation for being there.  

"Do you think you knew him?" Mulder asked.

"What?" she asked, startled.

"His presence didn't surprise or frighten you.   He must have seemed very ordinary and non-threatening.  Was he someone you'd seen around the conference?  Spoken to, maybe?" he asked.

"I guess . . . I don't know.  Really, it seems almost like a dream, except I remember closing the latch when I went to bed, and I don't think it was on when I got up.  No, I know it wasn't---because I undid the latch in your room when the paramedics came and I went out to the ambulance with you, then I ran back to get my purse and used the electronic key to get back into my room.  If the latch had still been on, I couldn't have gotten in.  I definitely undid it at some point during the night."

"It was our guy, Scully, it had to have been," Mulder said.  "That's good -- that's the first real lead we've had.   I'll bet anything he spoke to at least one of us that day.  He knew we were partners, that we were sharing a suite and that the door between the rooms would be unlocked.  Don't feel so bad about not noticing much about him.  I'm sure I've seen him, probably spoken to him, maybe even several times.  He went to a lot of trouble to target me specifically, so he knew me, even if I can't place him."

Scully tried to recall the people she'd met that day.  There had been so many--cops from everywhere inside the U.S. and some from other countries, who'd nodded to her or shook her hand or tried to peer down the front of her blouse in the elevator.  And there had been one who hadn't been a cop at all, but a predator.  It was like a sick game of "Where's Waldo?"  She shook her head.  "I can't picture him, Mulder.  It feels like I spoke to half the world that day, and nobody stood out."

"That's useful information, in itself," Mulder said.  "He's intelligent, sophisticated, average-looking.  He knows enough about the law enforcement world that he can pass himself off as one of us.  Hell, if we got a hold of the registration info from that conference and crunched the numbers, we'd probably have a pretty good profile of our UNSUB."

She looked up at him uncertainly.  He was sounding like his usual, manic, brilliant self, and that worried her.  Somehow it was much less fitting than the broken sobbing of two days before.  It did not seem to square with the elaborately boobytrapped door.  "When were you going to see Heintz Werber?" she asked.

The change of topic seemed to surprise him.  "Tomorrow," he told her, "bright and surly.  He says that he rearranged his schedule for me, so I guess I better haul my sorry ass over there on time."

"I guess," she said.  There were a lot of things she would have liked to say to him, but she let the silence drag on and he began to look embarrassed.

"Let me get you that pager number," he said, turning away.  He headed for the kitchen, and as he entered it she heard the sound of his shoe crushing glass.

"You all right?" she asked, following him.  When she looked up she saw a brief flash of something: shame?  Fear? in his eyes.  

"Oh, yeah," he said.  She didn't buy the nonchalance in his voice.  She crouched to examine what he had stepped on.  From what she could see, it looked like the smooth, white shard of a ceramic plate.  She'd eaten Chinese food and "Garbage of Eden" pizza off those plates uncounted times.  

"I dropped it," Mulder said, lifting his foot to pick the slivers out of his shoe.

"On purpose," Scully countered, standing.  He shrugged and did not contradict her.  "How many did you break?" she asked.

He didn't respond at first.  Finally he said, "What if I said all of them?"

"I'd believe you." she said.  "That's why your floor's so clean, isn't it?"

"Yeah," he admitted.

"You get in trouble with your neighbors?" 

"Shit, Scully, my neighbors don't complain when Consortium goons come in and ransack my apartment.  I think some of 'em sit behind their doors and get off on it.  It gives a whole new meaning to the phrase, 'Neighborhood Watch.'" 

Scully didn't let him use humor to change the subject.  "You have every right to be angry," she said.

"I don't want to talk about it." he replied. 

She knew what the problem was.  He was trying so hard to stay in control, and he'd been out of control.  He didn't want her seeing the evidence of that. 

"Okay," she said.  "If the time comes when you do want to talk about it, you let me know."  He turned his gaze aside, and before long she saw grimace lines starting around his mouth and forehead.  He'd told her he wanted to be permitted the dignity of asking for comfort, so she didn't offer it.  Finally, he stepped forward and caught her in his arms, holding her in a crushing grip.  She hugged him back.  He didn't cry openly, but he pressed his face hard into her shoulder.  She rubbed his back and was silent.

After a while he released her, and she saw that he had indeed teared up.  He smiled at her, though, and said, "Thank you."  

"Sure," she replied.

He made a quick swipe at his eyes with forefinger and thumb, then grabbed a marker from his kitchen counter.  He wrote out his secret, boobytrapped door number on a paper towel and gave it to her, advising her to "Commit it to memory."  

She thought about kissing his cheek as she left, but did not do so.  As she entered the elevator and turned, something in her was gratified to see that he watched from his doorway.  He lifted his hand in farewell and gave her a sad, sweet smile.  "See ya," he said.

"See ya," she responded, as the elevator doors closed.


Later that evening, Mulder lay curled up on his couch, repeatedly punching the button on his remote control.  The only things on were reruns, and as he occasionally remarked to people: for a guy with an eidetic memory, reruns were a drag.   He settled for the episode of M*A*S*H* where Winchester talks about the death of his brother.  It *would* have to be a depressing one.  

He thought he'd feel better when he was able to return to work.  Physically, he was doing better, but he still wasn't in any shape to chase mutants though the sewers, or even to sit at his desk for eight hours.  He slept poorly at night and took cat naps during the day.  

Emotionally, Mulder was on very shaky ground.  Scully had only asked about the dishes, not the bottles or the glass-covered photographs he'd inherited from his father, who died just over a year ago.  He'd broken all of them.  

He hadn't smashed his windows or his fish tank, though, and he'd been glad about that.  "Even when everyone else wants to do me in, my fish still like me," he'd thought at the time.  Now, he glanced over at the tank and wondered, "If they *did* decide to reject me, where would they go?"  

The thought was both a little funny and a little sad.  Mulder grinned and wiped his eyes with his fingertips.  He wished, not for the first time, that he was involved with someone who would sit with him and hold him and make love with him until he could drop off to sleep.  Fox's last relationship had ended with the woman leaving the country entirely.  She'd become a legal attaché in the newly unified Germany, which was a plum assignment that no one in their right mind would turn down.  Diana's pulling up stakes and moving several thousand miles away probably had nothing to do with the fact that she'd been dating Fox Mulder.  Probably.  As usual, he was suspicious.

That relationship, and others like it, were among the reasons Mulder had never tried to seduce Dana Scully.  She was cute, she was smart, she cared for him, and he felt she deserved more than he could give her.  She needed a good, solid, sane guy who could give her stability and lots of chubby, Catholic babies.  What could Fox offer her but paranoia and danger?  

His reverie was broken by someone banging on his door.  He wiped his eyes on the sleeves of his T-shirt, then got up slowly and peered through the peephole in the door.  The person outside was not who he wanted to see.   It was the man he knew only as "X," who sometimes gave Mulder information on the doings of the Consortium.  Often, it was useless or inaccurate information.  Although the temperature outside was over 80 degrees, X still wore his tightly-belted trench coat.  Every so often he'd glance over his shoulder toward the elevators, as if afraid of being seen.  Mulder sighed and went to grab his gun off an end table, then he unplugged his door boobytrap mechanism.  He opened the door a crack and peered out.  "I don't want any," he said.

X looked at him with the burning-eyed gaze of a fanatic or a madman -- his usual expression, as far as Mulder could tell.  "I'd rather not speak to you here in the hall," X said. 

"Well, that's one thing we agree on," Mulder said, and started to close the door.  It stuck, and Mulder looked down to discover that X had actually stuck his foot in it.  

"Mr. Mulder," X said softly, but with precise enunciation, "I know what happened to you."

Mulder transferred his gun from his left hand to his right and pointed it through the crack of the door.  "Get out," he snarled.

X didn't even blink.  "The man who assaulted you has a name," he said.

"Yeah, but you're not going to tell me what it is.  You'll tell me his shoe size and the first letter of his mother's maiden name in return for me risking my neck for you.  Thanks, but no thanks."  He tried pushing the door shut, pinching X's foot, but X never budged.  Mulder had to admit, the guy was persistent.

"It's in your best interest to speak with me," X said.  "Consider yourself lucky that I got to you before your former assailant did."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Mulder demanded.  "Keep calm," he mentally ordered himself, "He's trying to play on your fears.  It doesn't take a Sherlock Holmes to guess that you're scared your attacker will come after you again."

"There are too many ears and eyes in this hall," X snapped, in a hissing whisper.

"Are you kidding?  I think my neighbors are all deaf, blind and mute," Mulder answered.  X just glared at him.  Something about that steady, furious stare made Mulder uneasy.  "They're not deaf," he said slowly, "they're afraid.  Your people have been threatening them."

"I'm going to ask you one last time," X said, "Will you let me in to speak with you?"

Mulder looked at him hard for a moment.  He did not trust this man.  However, it was possible that he needed to know what X knew.  "All right," he said at last, "but keep your hands where I can see them.  And *don't* touch anything."  He opened the door wide enough to let the other man enter, hoping that he wouldn't regret this.  

"I feel like a battered girlfriend," Mulder said, as he shut the door behind his informant.  "Every time I talk to you, I let you convince me that *this* time it'll be different."

X looked annoyed.  "I give you the most accurate, up-to-date information available to me," he said.  "It's hardly my fault if you're not competent to make proper use of it."

"Why don't you find yourself a new FBI contact, then?" Mulder asked.

"Why don't you find yourself a new informant?" X countered.  Mulder had never really "found" any of his informants.  For obscure reasons of their own, they had found him.  He chose not to pursue the subject further.

"What did you want to say?" he asked.

X took a step closer and said softly, "There's a man dead in Berlin."  He looked at Mulder intently, as if this information should mean something to him.

"There's dead men lots of places," Mulder said.

"He wasn't supposed to die," X said.  

"Okay . . ." Mulder said, running his fingers through the short hair at the back of his head.  "This was an unauthorized hit?" he guessed.

"Yes," said X.  

"Well, that's the most definitive information I've ever gotten out of you," Mulder said.  "The same guy who . . . attacked me, killed this guy in Germany?"  He found he couldn't say "raped."  

"Yes," X repeated.  

"And the dead man was a--" he frowned a moment, trying to think of the correct phrasing, "an 'associate' of the Syndicate?'"

"Correct," X said.  For once, the double agent looked pleased.

Mulder was silent a moment, allowing himself to consider what X had told him.  The profile he'd sent to Cincinnati had predicted that the attacker would be in private security.  Within the Shadowy Syndicate, that job description would provide a lot of latitude.  "He's an assassin," Mulder said.  "He's worked for your bosses for years.  He's always been a sexual predator, but they had no problem with his activities until he started doing damage that they didn't order."

"You're doing well," X said.  "I'm beginning to understand the interest my predecessor took in you."

"Why didn't your superiors just bump this guy off, when their man turned up dead in Berlin?" Mulder asked.

"He has proven difficult to locate," X said.  

"You can't *find* him?" Mulder exclaimed, incredulous.  "I thought you people were supposed to be all-knowing and omnipotent."

"Even men who handle snakes for a living sometimes get bitten," X said.  

"All right," Mulder said, trying to process this information, "Okay.  So we've got an uppity hit man whose bosses can't control him.  One day he takes out a least-favorite boss and then up and vanishes.  No chance one of your own people got him, or else some rival assassin?"  Mulder couldn't quite keep the hopeful tone out of his voice.

"Unlikely," X said.  "This man is known as the assassin's assassin.  He kills his rivals, not the other way around."

"He's that good, huh?" Mulder asked, feeling unhappy.

"It has been suggested that his success is due to more than skill," X said, "He has had a history of luck which seems . . . hardly natural."

Mulder just looked at him a moment, trying to interpret that remark.  "What are you telling me?" he asked, "That this guy's a fucking mutant?"

"No one has ever done a genetic analysis of him," X said.

"Oh, great.  This is just fucking great.  What does he do?  Shape shift?  Squeeze himself though heating vents or the cracks under doors?"

"No, no, and no," X said.  "To be honest, there is someone else who would be better able to answer your questions." 

"Whose name you won't give me," Mulder said.

"Whose name I wouldn't give you if I knew it, but who is willing to speak with you," X said.

Mulder looked at him hard.  "Why?" he asked.

"You may find this difficult to believe, but this incident is being taken seriously at the very highest levels.  Others besides yourself want this man off the street.  Even my 'superiors,' as you call them, would not have wished on you what happened."

"They don't give a shit about me," Mulder said, "they're scared for themselves.  None of them lifted a finger to stop this guy until he killed one of their own."

For some reason, X looked amused.  Mulder wondered if he'd warned his bosses that Mulder would never fall for the, "We're from the Syndicate, and we care," line.  "Let's just say that there are many men whose chances of survival would be enhanced by an alliance between this assassin's foes, whatever those foes think of one another," X said.

X's offer sounded plausible, which made Mulder feel uneasy.  "What assurance do I have that this wasn't all engineered, that I'm not walking straight into a trap?" he asked.

"You don't," X said.  "Life is a series of calculated risks.  However, if it makes you feel better, I can give you this."  He lifted a hand toward the inside pocket of his trench coat and Mulder dropped back, pointing his gun at X's chest.

X looked thoroughly disgusted.  "If I were going to shoot you, I'd have done so before now," he said.  Then with exaggerated courtesy he asked, "May I reach into the inner pocket of my coat?"

Mulder didn't answer immediately, but after a moment he said, "Yeah."  He didn't take the gun off the man, however.

X removed a small, white piece of paper.  "It's not even poisoned.  See?" he said, making a point of handling it with his bare fingers.  He held the paper out to Mulder, who considered a moment before accepting it.  Once unfolded, it turned out to be the wrapper from a pack of Morley's cigarettes.  Inside were the words, "Safe Passage," written in large block letters. 

"I told them it wouldn't impress you," X said.

"It doesn't," Mulder replied.

"It's the best assurance you're going to get."

Mulder thought hard.  He'd told Scully that he didn't think the police were going to get his attacker.  He also knew that he wouldn't sleep well until the guy was locked up, or preferably dead.  An alliance with the Consortium, even if it were one of Mutually Assured Destruction, might well be his best bet.  "All right," Mulder said at last.  "But if I'm going with you I get to know where we're headed, and I'm going armed to the teeth."

"Be my guest," X said, still with that false politeness.  "Charming door, by the way."  He waved a hand at the electronic nightmare wired to Mulder's lock.

"Fuck you," was all Mulder could think to say. 


Contrary to Mulder's expectation, there was no windowless black van parked by the curb with its engine running.  Instead, X pulled a cell phone from his trench coat pocket and called for a cab.  One arrived with what Mulder considered to be suspicious swiftness.  "Where we going?" Mulder asked, as X opened the cab's back door.

X slid onto the seat and told Mulder and the cab driver at the same time, "Washington National Airport."

"Oh, no we're not," Mulder said, taking a step backward.  The cabbie glanced up, but seemed only mildly surprised.  Perhaps he saw people argue with their Shadowy Informants all the time.  

"To the airport, and no further," X said, looking irritated.  "We're meeting someone who's come to see *you.*"

"Since when did I rate such consideration?" Mulder asked.  He got into the cab, but with a sense of trepidation.

"Tell me, is there any state of affairs about which you don't complain?" X asked.

"Yeah, when I'm minding my own business and I get left alone," Mulder said.

"You haven't minded your own business in years," X replied.  Mulder glared at him a moment and then turned to look out the window.

It was a quiet ride.  

The rush hour traffic had dissipated and the drive to the airport was quick.  Before long, 747's were roaring low over the roadway, their landing lights flashing against the apricot sky of evening.  The cab driver pulled up to the curb near the airport door and X settled the fare.  Mulder hoped he wouldn't be expected to pay his own way home; he had no cash on him.  Both X and Mulder got out, and Mulder asked, "Now what?"

X just strode past him and Mulder followed.  X did not enter the building.  Instead he walked a few yards beyond the crowded section of drive where taxicabs idled and skycaps hauled luggage on wheeled carts.  He stopped, apparently waiting, and Mulder stopped too.  "Your contact knows to meet us here?" Mulder asked.

"He requested that I bring you to this place at this time," X said.

"And if I'd refused to come?" Mulder asked.

X's gaze never wavered; he seemed to be looking at something away on the horizon.  "Then I would have had to tell him that I'd failed," he said, without emotion.

Mulder found that he would not have envied X in that position.  They stood silent for a few minutes.  Although the air temperature had fallen, the asphalt still radiated the warmth of the day.  Mulder thought that X looked extremely improbable in his trench coat.  No one else seemed to notice, however. 

Mulder looked up at a low-flying plane, and discovered that the first stars were peeping though the light-polluted sky.  Under any other circumstances, it would have been a lovely night.  "Jesus, why aren't I out here with a girl?" he wondered, "Or with anybody else besides a bad-tempered informant named after a letter of the alphabet?"  He glanced over and saw that X was gazing up at the sky, too.  Was he thinking of someone?

"You married?" Mulder asked, on impulse.

X looked annoyed at the question.  "Is that a come-on?" he asked.  Mulder responded with a barrage of  abuse that probably said too much about his anxieties over his recent attack.  It was only as he began to calm down that he realized how easily X had dodged the question.  The informant looked smugly pleased.

Further conversation was forestalled by a limousine with tinted windows sliding soundlessly to a stop beside the curb.  Fox's heart was beating hard.  Something about the slowness of the limo's approach, the way that X eyed it, told him that some species of predator was in that car.  Against all his instincts, Fox stood his ground.  

"You've been assured safe passage, Mr. Mulder," X said softly.

"I trust your people about as far as I could kick them," Mulder replied.

The corner of X's mouth quirked up in a smile.  "You're a wise man," he said.  "Perhaps you'll survive, after all."

The limo's back door opened.  A well-dressed, elderly gentleman sat in the forward-facing seat.  "Good evening, Mr. Mulder," he said.  The investigator in Mulder noted a forced cheerfulness, a British accent -- terribly upper class, old boy.  High Church, West End or South of England.  

The part of Mulder that was a frightened, injured man wanted to run.  "Good evening," he managed.

"It's all right," the Well Manicured Man said, with a thin smile.  "Consider this situation a temporary truce."

"I'm armed," was Fox's terse reply.  The Well Manicured Man's eyebrows lifted and he looked to X.  

"It was on this condition that he agreed to meet with you," X said.  If the informant was nervous about presenting this information, he gave no sign.

The Well Manicured Man seemed less than pleased, but his gaze shifted back to Mulder and he said, "Very well.  I have no plans to harm you.  Please feel free to enter the car."  

Mulder glanced at X and back at the old man, then got into the car.  He slid over on the seat as X got in after him.  The informant closed the door.  "Where are we going?" Mulder asked.

"Nowhere, just yet," the Well Manicured Man said, looking at his watch.  "It seems our associate is running late."  He looked out the tinted window and pressed his lips together.

"Do we need to wait for this guy,  or can you fill me in  about  what's going on?" Mulder asked.

"I suppose I shall have to fill you in," the Well Manicured Man said.  "After all, I do have a schedule to keep.  How much has he told you?" he asked, nodding at X.

"Not much," Mulder said.  The Well Manicured Man looked pleased.  Apparently, only those at "the highest levels" were qualified to give this information the correct spin.

"The man who attacked you is a German citizen," said the Well Manicured Man, "although he was born in Johannesburg, South Africa.  His legal name is John Knowlton.  I don't believe he goes by that any longer."

Mulder nodded.  This was the most concrete information he'd ever gotten out of a member of the Consortium.  "I hear this guy killed someone in Germany.  When did this murder take place?" he asked.

"Between 4 and 8 this morning, Berlin time," said the Well Manicured Man.  

"Berlin's--what, six hours ahead of us?" Mulder asked.

"Correct," said the Well Manicured Man.

Mulder thought about this.  According to Scully, he had been assaulted between 11:30 on the night of the 8th and 4 a.m. on the morning of the 9th.  John Knowlton had allegedly been in Berlin committing murder by 2 a.m. on the 11th, Eastern Standard Time.  "He took a commercial flight?" Mulder asked.

"Most likely," said the Well Manicured Man.

"That's just over 48 hours between attacking me and killing this other guy,"  Mulder said.  "Knowlton would've spent about 14 hours in the air --more than that, probably, since I don't know of any non-stops from Cincinnati to Berlin.  You almost never see a criminal cycle that fast.  Not unless he's really starting to lose it, anyway, and I don't remember him acting particularly crazy.  Are you sure this is the same person?"

The Well Manicured Man was silent a moment, rubbing the tips of his long fingers together.  He seemed to be considering what information he was willing to give up.  "Knowlton has a certain . . . MO, I believe you'd call it.  He was known to be near you at the time of the attack, so the connection wasn't too difficult to make.  And as for Moernicke," he said, shaking his head, "Knowlton as much as took credit for his death.  He left a note at the scene, announcing that he intended to break his contract with our organization."

"What do you mean, 'MO'?" Mulder asked.  "He's done . . . what he did to me before?  To how many people?"

The Well Manicured Man avoided Mulder's gaze as he said, "Only once, that we know of."

"I'll need to know about it," Mulder said.

Suddenly the car door opened.  Mulder recognized the person standing outside as the Smoking Man who sometimes lurked in Skinner's office.  His face was deeply lined and impassive, and a half-smoked cigarette dangled from his lips.

"Put that out," snapped the Well-Manicured Man.  

The Cigarette Smoking Man raised his eyebrows, but removed the cigarette from his lips.  "My my, aren't we touchy?" he asked.

"Why are you late?" the Well Manicured Man demanded.

The Smoking Man looked at him with half-lidded eyes, like a lizard's.  "Unavoidable circumstances," was all he said.  He dropped the cigarette onto the street and ground it out with a deliberate twist of his foot.

"Get in," said the Well Manicured Man.  The Smoking Man got in and sat next to him.  "Knock on the window, would you?" the Well Manicured Man asked X.  The informant did so, and the limo slowly moved out into traffic.

"Where are we going?" Mulder asked, again.

"It doesn't matter," said the Well Manicured Man.  "This situation was chosen for convenience and relative security.  Once we're through speaking, you can go anywhere you like."

"Take Washington Memorial south," Mulder said.  "If we're not done by the time we get to my apartment, we can circle the highways around Alexandria."

"Very well," said the Well Manicured Man.  He hit an intercom button on the arm of his seat and relayed these instructions to the driver.

"Where were we?" asked the Well Manicured Man.

"We were discussing the sexual habits of your former associate," Mulder said.

One of the Smoking Man's eyebrows raised a fraction.  "Moernicke?" he said.  "Moernicke was a pig."

"Not him--Knowlton," said the Well Manicured Man.  

"You mean our Invisible Man?" asked the Smoking Man.

"Is that what you call him?" Mulder asked.

"People call him a lot of things," the Smoking Man said.  "Knowlton is *not* one of them."  Mulder was aware that an exchange of looks passed between the Smoking Man and the Well Manicured Man: disapproval; apathy; contempt.  He glanced over at X but found the informant's expression blank.

Mulder decided that if he didn't grasp control of this situation then and there, he was never going to get it.  "Look," he said, "I want to make something clear right now.  I *might* be willing to help you investigate this guy, but I'm *not* going to be used as a pawn in some operation I know nothing about.  If I work with you on this, then I get treated as a partner.  I'm going to need whatever information  you've got--times, places, dates. "

The well Manicured Man  looked at Mulder hard  for a moment, then said,  "Very well.  Give me a list of what you think you will require."

Mulder had been gearing up for a fight, and this response took him a little off-guard.  He dug through his pockets for a pen and paper.  X wordlessly produced these items from the inner flap of his trench coat, and Mulder wondered if he had an entire stationery store in there.   Mulder accepted the items offered and began to write down the materials and information he would need, just as he would have at the start of any investigation.  When he was done, the entire front of the palm-sized paper was covered in his small, angular writing.  He handed the paper to the Well Manicured Man, who raised his eyebrows as he looked it over.  

"Well, that certainly seems comprehensive," he said.  "Any more demands?" 

Mulder ignored the hint of mockery in his voice.  "Other than that your people refrain from sneaking up and shooting me during the night?  No," he said.

"I believe that can be arranged," said the Well Manicured Man.  "As it happens, I asked my associate here to be present so that he might provide you with some of the information you request.   He's spoken to Knowlton far more often than  I.  Why don't you explain some of Knowlton's . . . peculiarities to Mr. Mulder?"  He asked the Smoking Man.   

The Smoking Man shrugged.  He'd appeared rather bored throughout the conversation, as if these matters hardly touched him.  Mulder didn't buy the facade.  The Smoking Man reminded him of a snake, lazy-seeming until he struck like lightning.  "Our Invisible Man doesn't show up on film," he said.

"What?" Mulder asked, startled.

"He doesn't show up on film,"  the Smoking Man  repeated. "You won't find pictures of him, you won't find videotapes." 

"How can that happen?" Mulder asked.  "How does he get all over the world without a passport photo?"

The Smoking Man shrugged again.  "How should I know?  He has a strange effect on all electrical things.  He tells me he can't wear a watch; he wears some special wristband to use a computer.  Otherwise, he shorts everything out."

"Is this effect voluntary or involuntary?" Mulder asked.  This information was ringing an alarm bell in his mind.  It made him think of Darin Oswald.

"Both, as far as I can tell," said the Smoking Man.  

Mulder slowly released his breath and leaned back in his seat.  "He's telekinetic?" he asked after a moment.

"I don't know what he is," said the Smoking Man.  "I doubt he knows.  He once told me that he was fourteen when he discovered he was 'different from other men.'  I didn't press him about what he meant by that.  I don't think I wanted to know."

"Tell him the rest," said the Well Manicured Man.  "Tell him what he looks like."

This got a low chuckle out of the Smoking Man.  "I haven't the faintest idea," he said.

"And how often have you met with him?" the Well Manicured Man asked.

"Dozens of times," said the Smoking Man.  "Good light--bad light, it doesn't matter.  Nobody can give a good description of him."

Well, thought Mulder, that explained how the rapist had gotten through Scully's door.  "You said he's done this once before?" he asked the Well Manicured Man.

The old man did not ask what 'this' was.  "To a young gentleman named Christopher Harwood," the Well Manicured Man said.  "Harwood was a promising Labour Party MP.  Some speculated that he might be Prime Minister one day, but there was one significant hurdle.  He was a homosexual.  Since Knowlton was familiar with that lifestyle, he was assigned to observe Harwood."

"You mean he was supposed to pick Harwood up, so that you could get compromising photos.  You wanted to be able to blackmail the guy if he attained some real power," Mulder said.  

"What a vulgar thing to say," the old man said.

"What happened to him?"  Mulder asked.

"Mr. Harwood began to deteriorate, mentally," said the Well Manicured Man.  "He was in the hospital quite a lot between . . . I believe 1986 and 1987.  He finally checked himself into the psychiatric ward."

"Is he still there?" Mulder asked.

"No," said the Well Manicured Man.  "He was found dead in January of 1988.  He'd hanged himself, apparently."

"'Apparently?'" Mulder quoted.  "No one can say for sure?"

"The institution he was in is not known for its suicide rate," said the man.  "The best families send their troubled members there.  It's considered to be quite secure."

"I see," said Mulder.  

"I believe we're nearing your exit," said the Smoking Man.

Mulder thought, "Of course he'd know what my exit is."  He glanced around at the other men in the passenger compartment and found their expressions blank.  "Take me home," Mulder said.

"Of course," said the Well Manicured Man, mildly.  Within minutes, they were at the door of Mulder's apartment building.  The limo slid up to the curb and Mulder heard the lock pop.  Hardly believing his luck, he got out and stepped onto the sidewalk.  No one stopped him.  

The Well Manicured Man started to shut the door, and Mulder called out, "What if I need to contact you?"  The three men inside seemed to confer in low voices behind the mostly-closed door.  At last, the Well Manicured Man opened it again.  X leaned out, holding a folded piece of paper in his hand.  

"For the duration of this investigation, I can be reached at this number," he said.  Mulder accepted the paper, and the door shut once more.

He was uncertain whether he'd just pulled off a major coup or whether he'd been the fall guy in the scam of the century.  He watched the limo's taillights recede down the street, and felt a shudder go through his body.


Jefferson Memorial
Next Evening

Dana stood at the edge of the Memorial's cement plaza, gazing across the tidal pool toward the Potomac.  Mulder had called about an hour ago and asked her to meet him here.  He was a little overdue, but she waited. 

At least there was a breeze off the river, she thought.  It stirred her sweat-soaked hair and mitigated some of the heat.  Even in May, Washington's temperatures could easily hit the high eighties.  She thought about the time, more than 200 years ago, when this was wild country, covered in cool, dense forest.  Dana sighed.  Her scratchy navy suit made her long for those days.

"'This, too, was once one of the dark places of the earth,'" quoted a familiar voice.  Dana startled, looked up, and found Mulder standing next to her.  He was wearing running shorts, a T-shirt and sneakers, and carried an incongruous-looking briefcase.

"Oh, my gosh," she said, "I didn't even hear you come up."

"I always told you I was good," he said.

"Yeah, I just never figured out at what," she teased him.  "How are you?"

He shrugged.  "I've been worse," he said.  He started a leisurely walk toward the river and she accompanied him.

"How did the appointment with Werber go?" she asked.

"We did the hypnosis," he said.  

"Were you able to remember the things you wanted to remember?" she asked, and he nodded.  Dana felt her heart sink.  She hadn't wanted him to put himself through that horror a second time.  "Was it worth it?" she asked.

"I think so," he said.  He lapsed into silence until they entered the stand of trees just off the plaza.  Once in the grove's relative solitude, he began, "The guy who attacked me's got a name.  Knowlton--or at least that's one of his names.  And he did speak to me.  I knew he did."

"What did he say?" she asked.

"Most of it's not anything I'd want to repeat," Mulder said.  "Some rapists have kind of a script they recite.  They get into their head-trip and they don't really respond to anything their victim says or does.  That was what Knowlton was like.  He was talking to me as if -- I dunno, as if he expected me to like what he was doing.  That's one of the hallmarks of the kind of rapist who recontacts people."

"Oh, God," Scully said.  Her first instinct was to hold him, but she restrained herself.  Unwanted touching was about the last thing Mulder needed.  "And you saw Janet after that?" she asked.   Dr. Janet Graham was the M.D. she'd referred him to.  Graham volunteered time with recent rape victims, admittedly female ones at a women's shelter, but Scully felt she would be gentle and understanding with Mulder.

She didn't even like to think about what that exam would be like after a therapy session like he'd described.

"Yeah," he said.  

"You could have put it off, said you weren't ready," she said.  "She would have understood."

"No, I wanted to see her," he said.  "I practically had my insides ripped out, Scully.  I wanted somebody to see if I was healing all right.  The not knowing would have been worse."

"Was she able to reassure you?" Scully asked.

He nodded.  "She says that if I can keep from getting infected, I should be fine.  The VD battery they did in Cincinnati came back negative."

Scully allowed herself a sigh of relief.  "Good," she said.  "You really will be all right," she told him.  They'd reached the bridge that separated the tidal pool from the river, and he stopped.  He looked down at her, seeming sad and unconvinced.  

"Werber wants me to see a psychiatrist," he said.  "Somebody who'll give me medication for the anxiety and the depression.  You know . . . even yesterday I would have told him to forget it.  Drugs are a real last resort with me.  But man, Scully," he said, shaking his head, "I can't take feeling like this much longer.  I was always paranoid, but now I'm terrified all the time, and I cry over any little thing.  When I can't find my shoes . . . when the knob fell off my dishwasher . . . it's just stupid.  I've got to stay at least marginally functional, or Knowlton will take me out.  He hounded his last rape victim to death."

"How do you know that?" she asked, more sharply than she'd meant to.  She hadn't wanted Mulder to be involved in his own rape investigation, and after what he'd said about Knowlton, she liked the idea even less.

"My informant contacted me last night," he said.  "Apparently, Knowlton bumped off the wrong guy in Berlin the other day."  He explained to her what he'd learned from the Syndicate members the previous night, which horrified Scully.

"You can't seriously be thinking about working with these people," she said.

"What alternative do I have?" he asked.  "The guy doesn't show up on film, so I can't exactly put his picture on a milk carton next to the words, 'Have you seen me?'"

"How do you know anything this informant told you is true?" she countered.  "He's lied to you before."

"His bosses seem too worried for it to be a lie," Mulder said.  "That old British guy didn't come all the way out here just to show me his fancy car.  Besides," he said, resting his briefcase on the ground and snapping open the latches, "This afternoon I got these."  He opened the case and removed a stack of papers.  Some were covered in text, others displayed what looked like grainy, re-copied photographs.  He handed them to her and she took a good look.

Rorsach-like, the images made no sense until they suddenly snapped into focus for her.  "Oh, my God," she said.  They were crime scene photos.  A slightly overweight white male sprawled dead in the corner of a shower, with what appeared to be four bullet-holes in his upper chest.  "This was the last rape victim?"

"No," said Mulder.  "His name was Josef Moernicke, a former Stasi boss, from what I gather.  This is the guy Knowlton killed in Berlin.  I suspect that Moernicke was some kind of former patron or lover, although I can't get much out of the police reports.  They're all in German."

Mulder knew Scully could read German.  "I'm beginning to see why you called me," she said.  She could not quite keep the irritation out of her voice.  She didn't want Mulder to work this investigation, and she felt he'd put her in an awkward position by implicitly asking her to help him with it.  

"I called you for moral support, too," he said.  She glanced up at him suspiciously, and he insisted, "I did.  You've been really good to me through this whole thing, and I appreciate that.  A lot of people would have refused to get involved in my problems."

He seemed sincere, and she began to relent a little.  "You want me to translate this," she said, holding up the stack of papers.

"Ideally, yes," he said, "but if you feel you can't, I'll find someone else to do it.  It's more important to me that you be my friend.  I need all the friends I can get, right now."

She shook her head.  "The master manipulator," she said.

"Scully, I'm serious," he protested.

She looked up at him and saw he seemed truly upset at her accusation.  She sighed.  "I do care about you, you know," she said.  "You're suffering already, and I don't want to help set you up for more.  I don't like seeing you hurt." 

As she spoke, his expression took on a far-away look.  He nodded and turned his gaze from her.  "Okay," he said softly. 

Scully could tell his eyes had flooded.  "Hey," she said, "Hey, don't.  I'm sorry." She put her hand on his arm, looked up into his averted eyes and saw a tear spill.  He pulled her close.

She soothed him as best she could, but felt sure she was doing everything wrong.  If she treated him as if he were fragile, it made him furious.  If she treated him as if he were as tough as he pretended to be, it made him cry.  His misery made her miserable and she did not know what to do.

A lone bicyclist came whizzing through the trees but politely pretended to take no notice of them.   Mulder released her then, probably feeling embarrassed.  He used the sleeves of his T-shirt to wipe his eyes.  "Sorry," he said, "I told you I cried over stupid things."

She dug a tissue from her purse and handed it to him.  "I don't think it's stupid," she said.  "Most people would cry if they'd been through what you have."

He blew his nose and asked, "Do we have to stand here?  Can we go sit someplace?"

"Yeah, sure, come on," she said, and led the way over to a bench by the bridge.  Maple trees provided welcome shade.  Scully thought that Mulder still looked a little uncomfortable sitting, but she wasn't about to comment on something that personal.   If he felt like standing up again, he would.

"The other thing I wanted to ask you about is Darin Oswald," Mulder said.  He still hadn't quite recovered his composure, and the sudden transition took Scully off guard.

"What about him?" she asked.

"He had that -- that electricity thing, too, didn't he?  He could turn traffic lights on and off, call lightning . . ."

"Well, *he* thinks he causes those effects, but he's a few fries short of a Happy Meal," she said.

The expression got a smile out of Mulder.  "Maybe so," he conceded, "but did you ever come up with a better explanation?"

"No," she had to admit.  

"Oswald showed up on film, didn't he?" Mulder asked.

Scully thought about it.  "I never thought to ask," she said.  "My guess is that if the police had been unable to get  a mug shot we'd have heard about it."

"I was thinking of contacting that teacher of his -- Mrs.  Kiveat," Mulder said.  "I'd try to talk to Oswald himself, but he's always been completely uncooperative.  That, and as you said, he's a few fries short of a Happy Meal."

"What do you think the teacher could tell you?" she asked.

"Whether Darin showed up in his school yearbook photo, for one thing, and how much human biology he knew."

"Well . . . if you believe what he says, he knows enough biology to restart Mr. Kiveat's heart with electricity," Scully said.

"Yeah, because he saw them do that on 'Rescue, 911.'  He might not have known that the brain works on electrical impulses, too."

Scully was silent a moment, considering what he'd said.  "You think that Knowlton does what -- he causes seizures?"

"You can have seizures like that, can't you?  Where there are no visible convulsions, but a person gets disoriented, or his mind goes blank for a few seconds?"

"Yes," she said slowly, " you can.  Actually, that's a common form of seizure activity, especially in children."

"Could that explain how someone came to your door in the middle of the night and it hardly registered with you that he was there?" Mulder asked.

"Mulder . . . even if it were possible for Knowlton to somehow cause seizures, the best neurologist in the world couldn't predict exactly what location in a specific brain to target in order to produce the result he wanted.  Everyone's brain is organized a little differently, just like everyone's fingerprints are unique."

"I'm not sure he 'targets' any area in particular.  Cancer Man told me that he thought some of Knowlton's effect on electrical systems was involuntary.  Maybe he can only cause one type of seizure.  Maybe he couldn't turn the effect off if he tried."

"Okay," Scully said, trying once again to follow her partner's unusual sense of logic, "even if what you say is true, what do we do about it?  

"That's . . . a good question," he said.  "For what it's worth, I disconnected my door boobytrap."

"Good," she said.

"I was trying to think, what kind of non-electric boobytraps can you use in an apartment?"

"Mulder . . ."

"Pungee sticks were the first thing that came to mind, but I don't think my neighbor downstairs would let me dig a pit through his ceiling."

"Seriously, Mulder, what are you going to do?  Whether this guy can control electricity or not, he's dangerous.  And you're afraid," she added.

Mulder didn't deny it.  "I've been giving it some thought," he said, "although my plan of action would be clearer if you could decipher that crime scene report for me.  One of the Syndicate members told me that Knowlton formally broke his contract with his employers after Moernicke's death.  He's a freelancer, now, semi-retired, or whatever else you want to call it.  What do guys do when they make a name for themselves at something and then go out on their own?  They specialize, they focus on doing the stuff they're really good at, the stuff they like.  I didn't point this out to the Syndicate, but the more I think about it, the more I think the hit on Moernicke was a one-time deal.  I'm pretty sure that there was some kind of tie between them, some arrangement that Knowlton found inconvenient.  Moernicke needed to be dead before Knowlton could walk away.  I doubt he has any feelings one way or the other about Moernicke's 'associates,' and so long as they don't bother him, he'll leave them alone.  What Knowlton's going to want to do is a lot more of -- of what he did to me.  That's where he gets his satisfaction.  I don't think staking out any of the Consortium members would be effective or even necessary.  He doesn't want to see the old farts again.  But if I found a way to contact him, if I tried to sound . . . I dunno, interested, I guess, I might be able to draw him out so we could nab him."

"God, Mulder, that sounds so dangerous," she said.

"You know what my informant told me last night?  He said, 'Life is a series of calculated risks.'"

"Calculated for him or for you?" she asked.  

That got a sardonic smile.  "Calculated against everybody, as far as I can tell," he said.

"Please be careful," she said.  

"Sure," he said.  Somewhat to her surprise, he put his arm lightly around her shoulders as they walked back toward the Memorial.


Mulder's Apartment,
That Night

For the second night in a row, Mulder curled up in his bed.  He'd installed a chain and a deadbolt on the bedroom door, as a second line of security in lieu of the boobytrap.  The fact that the lock core had been loosened on his front door did not make him happy, but until his landlord got around to replacing it, that's the way it was.  

Dana had once told him that she had self-comforting rituals she went through when life got hard.  She wore flannel shirts that felt good against her skin; she listened to the Indigo Girls; she read Danielle Steel novels in the bathtub.  Fox had confessed, a little shyly, that he had self-comforting rituals of his own.  They involved reading things like "`Salem's Lot" and going to sleep listening to radio static.  She'd thought he was full of it, and had told him so.  Actually, it was true.

Fox had been about ten when an older cousin let him borrow "'Murders in the Rue Morgue' and Other Stories."  Fox's mother had not wanted him to read it.  He did so anyway, under his bed covers by flashlight.  After that, tales of horror, suspense and gore had been an escape for him.  Worrying about the fate of some hapless wanderer, lost in the woods where It was lurking, utterly absorbed his attention and let him forget his own problems for a while.  

He'd also liked to listen to the Boston Red Sox games, which often ran past his bedtime when he was small.  His parents let him keep a radio by his bedside, however, so through all the summer nights of his boyhood, he dropped off to sleep hearing the sound of stadium crowds and sports announcers, filtered through the very poor radio reception of his island home.  

At the moment, Fox was re-reading H.P. Lovecraft's "The Lurking Fear."  His clock-radio was purposely turned slightly off-station.  The Red Sox were not playing that night, so he had to make do with the staticky murmurings of NPR.  He had a glass of water and a Smith & Wesson 9 mm by his bedside, in case he needed them.  It was only 9:30, but he was beginning to feel sleepy.  Crying and panic attacks took a lot out of a person.  That was all right, though, because sleepy was a warm, comfortable feeling.  He let the book fall open onto his chest and closed his eyes.  His bedside lamp was still on.  That was okay, he told himself, even 35-year-old men were allowed to sleep with the light on, if they wanted to.

He was half-asleep when the phone rang.  He startled and groped for it out of habit.

"Yeah?" he mumbled into the receiver.  No response.  Awakening more fully, he became aware of background noise on the other end of the line.  Voices, a dull roaring -- a highway?  An airport or train station?  "Hello?" Mulder said, more clearly.  Who would call him at 9:30 at night from a pay phone?  "Scully?" he asked.  He heard the sound of the other phone being slowly replaced.  

Wide-eyed now, he hung up, dialed *69, then hit the speed-dial button he'd dedicated to his phone company's call tracing service.  The operator gave him the answer he usually got--the call had been from "out of the area."  He thanked her and hung up again.  Mulder's heart started hammering and he sensed the beginning of a nasty panic attack.

"You will not die from fear," he told himself firmly.  He had to submit to periodic physicals to prove he was fit enough to be a field agent, and he hadn't flunked one yet.  He might *feel* as if he would have a heart attack if his resting pulse hit 160, but he would not actually have one.  

Unfortunately, Fox knew the drill.  He'd begun having panic attacks when he was 12, after his sister disappeared.  He ordered himself to breathe deeply and evenly.  Hyperventilation would only make things worse.  He wrapped his arms around his spare pillow, which had always provided a surprising amount of comfort in the past.  In this case, however, it didn't help much.

"Why did that call scare you so much?" he asked himself.  "People call you and hang up all the time.  What is it about *that* phone call that sets off warning bells?"  These were the types of questions he'd been taught to ask in the ISU.  Mulder's former supervisor, Reggie Purdue, had once explained that the distinction between a hunch and an analysis hinged upon a profiler's ability to back up his gut feelings with facts.   

"Most wrong numbers don't stay on the line that long," he thought, "they hear the wrong voice and hang up.  Either that, or they start asking you if this is such-and-such a number.  People who call you and then sit there not saying anything are doing it to harass you."  He also found he didn't like the rumbling, public noise he'd heard in the background.  People who called from pay phones were on the move.  Whether or not it was true, Fox was probably supposed to assume that the caller was considering a 'visit' and wanted to see if Mulder was home.  And then there was just the creeping, gut feeling that it had been Knowlton.  

"What now?" he asked himself.  A little regretfully, he rolled out of bed and grabbed his gun.  It was the inability to sleep, the inability to ever feel relaxed and safe, that had triggered most of Mulder's rage and grief.  In a way, that violation had been worse than the violation of his body.  He undid the locks on his bedroom door and went over to his desk to fire up his computer.  

Although he'd received little information as yet about Christopher Harwood, Knowlton's last rape victim, he was pretty sure he could get data on him over the Internet.  Also, if he tied up the phone with an on-line connection, nobody else could call him.


Most of the documents he found were devoted to Harwood's political career.  Apparently, Harwood had strongly encouraged Britain's membership in the European Economic Community and had vigorously condemned the U.S.'s use of Western Europe as a site to base nuclear arms fortifications.  However, a few pages were tabloid articles with titles like, "MP Goes Mad -- Tries to Bite Housekeeper!"  Or: "Acclaimed Psychic Says: Harwood Family Sins Come Home To Roost!"

Between the politics and the mudslinging, Mulder got a sketchy profile of what Christopher Harwood must have been like.  He'd been an intense young man, considered brilliant by some and mentally unbalanced by others.  He'd apparently had a difficult relationship with his father, who was also a distinguished politician.  

Mulder could see parallels between Harwood and himself.  It would appear that Knowlton had a "type." 

By 3 a.m., Mulder was in pain and far past exhaustion.  He had the bug-eyed, frantic feeling that he associated with cross-country redeye flights.  In the past, he'd made some of his stupidest decisions in this state.  

He logged off his computer and reached for his phone.  He punched in the number X had given him.  The phone rang, and Mulder counted the rings up to eight.

Finally, someone picked up.  "What?" X demanded.  

Relieved that he hadn't been given the number for the County Morgue after all, Mulder said, "I need to know about the relationship between Knowlton and Moernicke."

"At 3 a.m.?" X asked.

"If I don't get to sleep, then you don't either.  Under any other circumstances, I'd sue the Syndicate's ass for criminal negligence."

"I don't know anything about Knowlton and Moernicke," X said.

"Then tell me who does," Mulder said.  "I said at the beginning that I'd work with your people as a partner or I wouldn't work with them at all.  Tell me where I can get my information, or I walk."  

Silence over the phone line.  Mulder wondered if X had hung up.  Finally, the informant said, "Well, you've settled the question of whether you have more balls or brains."

"Maybe I'm not at my most rational," Mulder conceded, "but I'm still packing a 9 mm semiautomatic with a 16 round magazine.  I'd be cooperative, if I were you."

He heard a sound over the line that might actually have been a chuckle.  "Your megalomania knows no bounds, does it?" X asked.

"Megalomania within bounds is a contradiction in terms."

Again, no response for some seconds.  At last, X said, "I can only repeat rumors."

"Then I'll take the rumors," Mulder said.

"Very well.  Rumor has it that Knowlton was Moernicke's 'Liebling,' his 'Ganymed.'"  Mulder knew enough Greek mythology to interpret that.

"Then Knowlton started to grow up, and they argued," Mulder said.

"Correct," said X.  "He quickly made himself valuable to the Consortium and thus was less dependent upon Moernicke.  He left the old man years ago."

"But Moernicke couldn't let him go," Mulder said.

"That is my understanding," said X.  "There were . . . unseemly tales of Moernicke's pursuit of Knowlton, across many countries and several years.  Some men only desire what they can never have."

The words struck a chord with Mulder, but he pretended indifference.  "Did Moernicke keep tabs on the activities of his . . . Liebling?" he asked.

"I suppose he must have, to hound him the way he did," said X.

"That's probably why Knowlton killed him.  In order to disappear, he had to get rid of the nosy old SOB.  Did the Berlin police come across any diaries belonging to Moernicke?  Any notes that detailed where Knowlton might have hid out?"

"I have no idea," X said.  "You've had the police report sent to you."

"Yeah, but it's in German," Mulder said.  "Even my translator wouldn't be able to pick up what alias Knowlton went by, how Moernicke would have referred to him."  He was careful not to mention Scully by name.  He didn't want her drawn into this any further than necessary.

"What exactly do you intend to do with this information?" X asked.

"I want a way to contact Knowlton.  He went after Chris Harwood at least three times, so it's pretty certain that he's planning to pay me another visit.  I'd just as soon find him before he finds me."

"That may not be possible, since his entire career has been based upon his ability not to be found.  However, I'll see what I can do," said X.

"Good," said Mulder.  "There's something else.  I think he called me, about 9:30, sounded like it was from a pay phone.  The operator couldn't trace the call.  You might want to tell your bosses that he's been sniffing around."

"Why didn't you tell me that at once?" X snapped.  "Why did you wait six hours, until the middle of the night?"

"Because I wanted to drive you nuts," Mulder said.  Actually, he'd been feeling too emotionally fragile to deal with the informant at that time, but X didn't need to know that.

"You are by far the most obnoxious individual I have ever had the misfortune to run across," X said.

"I love you, too," said Mulder.  X hung up. 


At 9 a.m., Mulder's phone started ringing.  He'd finally collapsed in bed and succumbed to exhaustion at about four.  He startled awake at the sound of the phone, then squinted at the clock and groaned.  After what had happened last night he wasn't sure he wanted to answer.  He groped for the phone anyway, hoping it was someone who had useful information.  "If this is a telemarketer, somebody's going to die," he thought.

"What?" he said, into the receiver.

"Good morning, Agent Mulder," came X's falsely cheerful voice.  "Wakie-wakie."

"Shut up," Mulder said.  In his opinion, turnabout was not fair play.  "What do you want?"

"Maybe I just wanted to drive you nuts," said X.

"God damn it--"

X cut Mulder's incipient tirade short by saying, "I have a suggestion for you."

"Which is what?" 

"Have your translator check to see if Moernicke's wallet, cell phone and pager were found in his house after his death.  Apparently, Knowlton was in the habit of 'liberating' such objects from his recent victims.  He tended to use the pagers and phones as temporary contact devices, until he could steal others.  He would also use his victims' credit cards until they were reported stolen.  For the next few days, at least, he may be trackable as Josef Moernicke."

"Ah, hell . . ." Mulder said, unable to believe he'd been stupid enough not to think of that.  "Ok, great.  Have you got Moernicke's cell and pager number?"

X started to recite them, but Mulder had to ask him to wait while he found a pen.  Much to his relief, X hadn't hung up by the time Mulder found his only non-dry ball-point, which was wedged deep in the junk drawer of his desk.  He wrote out the numbers X gave him on the back of the electricity bill.  "Terrific.  Thanks.  I take back everything I said about you," Mulder said.

"Including the part when you said you loved me?" X asked.

"Especially the part when I said I loved you."

"Excellent.  My day is improving already."  X hung up.  


Scully's Apartment,
9:30 a.m.


Dana had not started life as a morning person. That had changed since she'd had to be up by 6:30 a.m. every weekday.  Snoozing until 8 was a sinful luxury.  So far this morning she'd done half her laundry and destroyed the kitchen making waffles.  

She always made too many waffles.  She'd learned to make them when there was a Scully family of six to feed.  At the moment she sat at her kitchen table, sipping her coffee and feeling glum.  She missed little Queequeg.  He'd have polished off some waffles for her.  

Someone knocked at her door.  She was tempted to ignore it, since the local Jehovah's Witnesses had been a bit over-zealous lately.  Then she realized she could probably palm waffles off on them.  She opened her door and found Mulder standing in her hall.  He wore jeans and a T-shirt that read, "The Meek Shall Inherit the Earth, But the Rest of Us Are Going To the Stars."  His jaw was unshaven and his hair stuck up in every direction.

"Can I come in?" he asked.

"Uh . . . yeah, sure."  She stepped aside to let him in.  "Want a waffle?" she asked, as he passed her into the living room.

He turned, as if surprised at the offer.  "What kind of waffle?" he asked.  She thought he sounded a little skeptical.

"Well . . . they're supposed to be blueberry, but actually the mix comes with these little purple pellets that contain 'natural and artificial flavors,'" she admitted.

He appeared to think about this.  "Works for me," he said at last, and went into the little kitchen to snatch a waffle from the warmer on the counter.  He sat on her couch and began munching the waffle, holding it in his fingers as if it were a piece of toast.  He finished it in a startlingly short period of time.  It occurred to her that he must be very hungry.  "Have all you want," she said.  "If I eat any more I'll explode."

"Whoa," he said, "sewer-dwelling mutants are one thing, but that would be too gross to watch." He started to get up, but she grabbed the whole waffle warmer, which had cooled, and handed it to him.  

"Do your best," she said.

He accepted it, and suddenly looked a little sad, as if he wasn't sure he deserved a whole waffle warmer.  "What's going on?" she asked, gently.

"I got a couple of calls last night and this morning," he said.  He described the anonymous hang-up call and the conversations he'd had with X.  "Did you find anything like a cell phone or a pager listed among the objects at the crime scene?" he asked.

"Well . . . no," she said.  She'd hesitantly agreed to take the German police documents home, but had given them only the most cursory attention. 

"Could you look?"  he pressed.

"Mulder . . . I really don't like this idea.  You've been through something terrible.  The Cincinnati office used questionable judgement in allowing you to do a behavioral analysis of this case.  Getting involved in some Syndicate shadow-investigation is even worse.  Those men don't care about you.  They've made it clear that they'd just as soon see you dead.  How do I know I'm not putting a gun to your head by helping you get involved with them?"   

"I may end up with a gun to my head if I *don't* work with them," Mulder said.  "At least this way I get to choose which gun."

Although she was unhappy about it, she could see his point.  "All right," she said, "but it'll take me a while to find my German/English Dictionary."

"I've got all day," he said.

A little annoyed at the assumption that she had all day, too, she went into her study and rummaged through the books.  Not all were on bookshelves.  Some were packed in boxes and shoved in the closet.  She had a bad feeling that this was what had happened to her German dictionary.  

There turned out to be more boxed books than she'd thought.  By the time she'd excavated half of them, she was watery-eyed from the dust and the study was pretty well trashed.  "Hey . . . uh, Scully?"  came Mulder's voice.

Startled, she turned to find him leaning in the doorway of her study.  "What?" she asked.

"Can I help you, or something?" he asked. 

She was tempted to tell him to leave her alone.  This whole plan gave ger a sick feeling, and she wasn't happy with him for talking her into it.  She wasn't happy with herself for being unable to come up with anything better.  Scully sighed and told herself to forget those thoughts.  It was the rapist who had turned both their lives upside-down.  She should save her anger for him.  "Sure," she said.  She scooted over to allow Mulder space on the floor near the box.

Mulder turned out to be a natural box-searcher.  He'd scoop up an entire stack of books, critically examine the spines, and then settle them back where they'd come from.  The dust did not seem to bother him.  Every so often he'd comment, "I've got this," - at the "Criminal and Civil Investigation Handbook," "Carrie," "The Once and Future King."  Within five minutes he'd located her dictionary.  

He curled up on her couch as she sat at the kitchen table, preparing her translation. She knew he was going to fall asleep by the way his eyes kept drooping shut.  He was dead to the world within a quarter of an hour, and she got up to spread a quilt over him.  He stirred a little but did not seem to wake.  Dana felt oddly protective as she watched him sleep.

Once Mulder was settled, Scully began to translate the report onto the pages of a notebook.  As the unwieldy German words began to take shape into a narrative, her resignation turned to interest.


Later

Mulder stretched--was surprised to feel a blanket over him.  He opened his eyes and experienced a moment of disorientation.  Dana's apartment--the living room in full sunlight.  As his mind cleared he recalled how he'd come there, that she'd fed him waffles.  

He looked over to find Dana herself sitting at the kitchen table, her glasses perched on her nose. She'd changed from her pajamas into a loose T-shirt and shorts.  She smiled at him -- a brilliant smile.  "Hey, sleepyhead," she said.

"Oh man," he said, rubbing his eyes with his fingertips.  "What time is it?"

"The crack of noon," she said.

"Shit," he said.  He rolled off the couch and got to his feet.  "You've been working all this time, and I've been sleeping?  You should have woke me up."

"So you could do what?  Hover over my shoulder and ask, 'are you done yet?'"

He smiled a little sheepishly.  "I dunno.  So I could do something."

"Don't worry about it.  I haven't been working that hard.  I took time out to shower and change."

"And I missed it.  What lousy luck," he said.  He pulled one of Scully's vacant chairs out from under the table and plunked down into it.  He immediately regretted this action.  The pain in his bowel had lessened from searing agony to a general, dull ache, but he still had to avoid any activity that was too sudden or vigorous.  The discomfort must have shown in his face because Scully looked concerned and started to get up.  

"Let me get you something," she began.

He waved her back into her chair.  "About the only thing I'd want is a fifth of vodka, and that wouldn't mix well with my Tylenol-3."  She frowned, and he said, more seriously,  "I'm just past due for my medication, is all."  In the excitement of that morning he hadn't taken anything.  Actually, he realized that he hadn't had any of his pain meds in more then 15 hours.  No wonder he hurt.  He stood and dug a collection of pills from his jeans pocket.  The drugs were there from laziness, rather than foresight -- he'd worn the same pants yesterday.  

Mulder went to Scully's kitchen and ran the sink tap into his cupped hand.  "You *are* allowed to use a glass, you know," she said.

"You sure?  I broke all of mine," he said.  He tossed back his Tylenol-3.  That left the antibiotic and the stool softener, neither of which he should have waited on.  He hoped he hadn't condemned himself to misery by forgetting them.  

After he took all his drugs, he settled himself cautiously onto Dana's kitchen chair.  Her expression was compassionate, and he wasn't sure if he was touched or humiliated.  He avoided the whole subject by asking, "So, are you done yet?"

That got a reserved smile.  "Mostly," she said. "You were right about Josef Moernicke being a former Stasi boss.  In fact, he worked for a GDR agency called 'Operative Personenkontrolle,' or Operational Person Control, between 1969 and 1989."

"That sounds ominous," Mulder said.

"Most of the Germans agree with you.  Apparently, Moernicke had a lot of enemies.  He reported several threats against his life after 1990, and he had a pretty impressive security set-up around his house.  Everything from motion detectors to trained attack dogs."  

"None of which worked," Mulder said.  

"Right," she replied.

"Any neighbor statements?" Mulder asked.

Scully shook her head.  "Nobody saw anything," she said.

He nodded.  That was what he'd feared, and expected, to hear.  "That's significant," he said.  "My experience of European cities is kind of limited, but I remember them as being more community-centered than American ones.  Neighbors there usually know each other and aren't ashamed to pry.  What about Moernicke's cell phone, wallet and pager?  Did you find any references to those?"

"No," she said, "although he wouldn't have had those on him if he died in the shower.  He also seems to have lived alone, so it's possible some thefts went unreported."

"Okay, all right," Mulder said, running his fingers through his uncombed hair.  "Was Moernicke a man of regular habits?"

"Doesn't say," she said.

"Jesus, this is the former East Germany," Mulder said.  "The Stasi supposedly turned one-third of the country into police informants.  Since when did they all start minding their own business?"

"Mulder, the man died Thursday morning and his cleaning lady discovered the body that afternoon.  You got a copy of this report yesterday.  This is a record of an investigation that was less than 24 hours old," she said.

"You're right," he said, "you're right.  Getting impatient won't help.  Still, the first thing *I'd* have done is canvass the neighbors."

"Well, you weren't there," she said.  "What if you focused on what you have, instead of what you don't?"

He realized that he must sound ungrateful. "I'm sorry," he said.  "Sometimes I forget to put the brakes on my mouth.  I've been pushing my luck with you, haven't I?"

"No," she said.  "No.  You've been having a tough time, and I understand that."

"Uh-huh," Mulder said, unconvinced.  He thought to himself, "This is where you say something sensitive and insightful and justify the amount of money you blew on a psyche degree."  Unfortunately, nothing brilliant came to mind.  Not one to let confusion keep him silent,  Mulder said, "Scully . . . I told you before that what I needed was for you to be my friend.  If I ever ask you to do something that jeopardizes that friendship, then tell me to go to hell.  I'd rather be told 'no' than to have you resent me.  I need . . ." he faltered a moment.  The words "I need" had always come hard for him.  He looked down and picked at a hangnail on his thumb.  "I need you to care about me," he said at last.  "You're one of the very, very few people I feel that way about.  Mostly, I don't give damn what people think of me.  That's how I got where I am today: a Supervisory Special Agent, working in the Hoover Building basement."  He glanced up and flashed her a rueful smile.  She looked sad now, as if ashamed.  That wasn't the effect he'd intended to have.  

He got up, his hands jammed in his pockets, and wandered over to the window.  From her apartment, you could see the Severn River glinting through the Annapolis skyline.  Mulder knew that had been a selling point with Scully.  A Navy captain's daughter, she'd always loved living near the water.  "Um . . . this may not seem relevant, but I dated this girl, once," he began.  The "girl" had been Diana, whom he'd very nearly married.  "When we broke up, she said I had a 'steamroller personality,' meaning I just ran over everything that got in my way.  She said she couldn't live with anybody like that, and I don't blame her."

"You do not have a 'steamroller personality,'" Scully said.  

"If *I* don't, then who does?" he asked.  He looked back at her and saw she appeared embarrassed, as if she couldn't answer that question with both tact and honesty.  "See?" he said.  "Anyway, it's important to me that I don't 'steamroll' you.  If I bug you, then tell me.  I don't want to make you mad."

"Mulder . . . it's not like that," she said.  "I do get mad, but it's not at you."  As she spoke the tension went out of her shoulders.  Suddenly she looked small and vulnerable.  "I don't know who I'm mad at."  She seemed to be having trouble expressing something, and Mulder decided to stay silent until she felt like elaborating.  "When you were in the hospital, in that examining room, you were holding my hands so tightly you almost crushed my fingers," she said.

"I'm sorry," Mulder said, embarrassed.

She shook her head and said, "It's all right.  You were so hurt, so scared . . . and I felt like I could just kill somebody.  I'm afraid I was a witch to your doctor."

"I thought you didn't go in for that witch doctor stuff," Mulder said.  It was a lame joke, and it got only the ghost of a smile from her.

"Please don't take this the wrong way," Scully said, "I don't want to minimize your experience.  But since this happened to you I don't sleep well, either.  I was there.  I'm your friend.  This person could have done to me what he did to you.  And I hate him for it, Mulder.  I hate him for hurting you, for making you cry the way you did in the ER.  It just tore at me.  I wish . . . I wish you wouldn't go putting yourself in any more danger.  I mean, I guess it's none of my business.  This is your life.  You can do what you want.  I just . . . I hate watching you suffer."

"Do you hate *me* when I do something dumb and get myself hurt?" he asked.  He had not expected the force of her emotion, and he didn't want that anger directed at him.

"As if I could ever hate you," she said.  She spoke so tenderly that it upset him.  If she kept being kind he was going to cry again, and he was sick of crying.  

"Okay," he said, looking down at the scuffed toes of his sneakers.  "Okay, I'm glad you feel that way.  Um, give me just a minute."  He went into her bathroom and shut the door.  He turned on the sink tap and the fan, to cover the sounds of sobbing, in case it came to that.  He bent his head, hands braced hard against the sides of the sink, until the cruelest edge of his sorrow passed.  

Once he felt calmer, he splashed cool water on his face.  It felt good in the sore, swollen hollows of his eyes.  He hadn't shaved or brushed his hair that morning, and when he glanced up into the mirror his image was frightening.  Embarrassed, Mulder cleaned himself up as much as he could, with the help of Scully's hairbrush and soap dispenser.  Afterward he went back into the living room and said, "My God, I'm amazed you let me into your apartment.  If someone showed up at my door looking like me, I think I'd call Animal Control."

"As your personal physician, I knew that you'd had all your shots," Scully told him.  He grinned and picked up some of the crime scene papers from her kitchen table.  Still a little self-conscious over their unaccustomed display of strong emotions, he quickly buried his nose in diagrams of the street outside Moernicke's house.  

"Aha," he said.  "Finally some evidence of the famed German thoroughness.  These circle things here are streetlights?"  He held up the paper so Scully could see.

She squinted at it and said, "I think so."

"Did the file say what time they're turned off in the summer?"

"Ah . . . 7 a.m.," she said, examining some of her notes.

"Right within the probable time of death," he said.

"That's about right, yes."

"See, I'm curious about this electricity-controlling ability that Knowlton's supposed to have.  Cancer Man said that the guy can't even wear a watch, but then he goes and steals things like pagers and cell phones, which run on electricity.  I wonder if Knowlton has a lot more control over this power of his than he wanted his employers to know about."

"Sounds possible," Scully said.

"It really pisses me off that we don't have better neighbor statements, but I guess I can work with what we've got.  Let's make the outrageous assumption that Moernicke's neighbors found it significant that they lived next to a hated former Stasi boss who sometimes received death threats.  If they weren't openly nosy, they probably had a general awareness of what went on around his house, especially if he had territorial dogs in his yard."

"Which didn't make a disturbance when their master's killer walked into the house," Scully said.

"Some guard dogs," Mulder agreed.  "Nobody noticed anything odd about the street lights, either.  There's one right out in front of Moernicke's gate.  If Knowlton was using his amazing mental powers to short out the dogs' brains, wouldn't the streetlight go out too?" 

"I don't know," Scully said.  "It would depend on how good his aim was.  Darin Oswald claimed to be able to telepathically change TV channels without shorting out the overhead lights."

Mulder drummed his fingertips on the armrest of the couch, thinking.  "Moernicke didn't have a security cam set up in front of his house, did he?" he asked.

"Actually, he did," Scully said, scanning one of her papers, "but it wasn't working."

"Of course not.  Did they pop the tape out?"

"Yeah . . . when they played it back they found nothing unusual on it.  No, wait--hang on," she said, glancing over her notes.

"What?" Mulder asked, sitting up straighter to try and peer over at what she was doing. 

"According to the time stamp on the tape, the camera stopped recording at just after 7 a.m. on Thursday morning.  That coincides roughly with the time of death."

"Also with the time the streetlights went out.  Maybe Knowlton doesn't have such great aim.  Maybe he waited for the streetlights to go out so he wouldn't call attention to himself by shorting one."

"Also, the periods around dawn and dusk, when it's just a little too bright out to have the lights on, would be the times of minimum visibility for that area," Scully pointed out.

"What about those motion detectors?" he asked.

She shuffled through the documents and pulled one out.  She read from it: "'Herr Wilhelm Ostkreuz informed police that he and his wife were often annoyed by the floodlights that went on around Herr Moernicke's house, every time someone walked past the front gate.  Herr Ostkreuz denied noticing any such disturbance on the morning of 11 May, 1996.'"

"What happened when the police examined Moernicke's motion detector system?" Mulder asked.

"It was turned off," she replied.  

"'Ve-ry intereshting,'" Mulder said, giving her his best "Laugh-In" Kommandant impression.

"'But schtoopid,'" she replied in kind.  He glanced up at her, grinned, and saw her answering smile.  He looked away again, bashful and pleased as a schoolboy.

"You know . . . I was thinking," he said, becoming serious again,  "Let's say Knowlton's powers act on any electrical object within a certain distance of him.  That would explain his waiting for the street lights to go out, as well as the simultaneous hit on the dogs and the motion detectors."

"All right," Scully said, sounding wary.  "If we accept that premise, then what?"

"My informant said that Knowlton liked raiding his late victims' wallets for ID and credit cards, but not whether he can use stolen ATM cards," Mulder explained.  "There's always a security camera around ATM's.  Knowlton might not be able to shut down a camera without shutting down the teller machine below it.  It defies logic that he could get all over the world and never use an automatic teller.  If God loves me, we can get a picture of him that way."

Scully smiled and said, "I'm sure God loves you, but I don't know about your explanation of how Knowlton's power works.  A surge of electricity could demagnetize the strips on any credit cards he was carrying, unless he wanders around with a grounding wire hanging out of his wallet.  Besides, I'm pretty sure that when I opened my hotel room door on Monday night the light was on in the hall.  It seems to me the man in the doorway was backlit, which was why I had so much trouble seeing him.  If Knowlton really does have power over electricity, he has enough control to disable my door's lock and 'short out my brain,' as you put it, without affecting the overhead lights."

"Oh," Mulder said, unhappy at this contradiction to his theory.  "Of course, we never did establish that he used any special powers to get into your room.  A smile and an official-looking badge might have gotten him a spare key at the front desk, and as you said, you were half asleep when you opened the door."

She sighed.  "I suppose," she said.  He knew she wanted to believe that her mind had been affected, so she wouldn't feel so guilty about leaving her door unlatched.  "I don't know why he came to my door first, anyway," she said, sounding very unhappy.

"Maybe because he didn't want me even half-awake before he immobilized me," Mulder said.  "I think he suspects I could take him in a fair fight, which is why he used such elaborate methods to keep me still."  He refrained from mentioning his other suspicion--that Knowlton had breezed by Scully to show what he *could* do to her, if he chose.  He probably knew that was a more effective control on Mulder than any combination of drugs and bindings.  "I don't blame you for what happened, by the way," he told her.

"It just seems like there was something I could've done . . ."

"That's a common feeling, in situations like this.  There's a name for it -- 'survivor guilt.'  I have a Great Uncle Max who saw some terrible things in Germany, during the war.  Usually he won't talk about it, but if you get him good and drunk around the anniversary of Krystallnacht, the 'night of the broken windows,' he'll cry and start saying, 'I should have been able to do something.'  Well, actually, he says it in Yiddish.  He was only about 16 or 17 at the time, but he's sure that he could have saved the whole neighborhood, if only he'd been brave enough."  Mulder smiled ruefully and shook his head. "My Uncle Max against the whole Third Reich."

"I guess I can see why you didn't ask him to translate your German crime scene reports," Scully said.

"He swears that his family was from Bonn and that he speaks only French and Yiddish, other than English.  I have to admit that his story doesn't sound all that likely, since he was living in Berlin when the Nazis smashed up the Jews' houses.  I don't press him on it, though.  If Uncle Max says he doesn't speak German, then he doesn't speak German," Mulder said.

Scully nodded.  "I'll bet," she said.  Then she added, "My grandfather was a Navy doctor in that war."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"He must be really proud of you," Mulder said.  

"He died when I was six," she said.  "I do recall him being very impressed that I could read."

"I'm impressed about that every day."

"Shut up," she told him, without anger.

Mulder grinned and said, "I was kind of thinking about going home to see the old folks for a couple days."

"I think that's a really good idea," she said.

"You just want to get rid of me."

"Always," she said, "but I'm sure your mother would like to see you, too." 

"Yeah," he said,  "I haven't spoken with her in a while.  I  ought to go see how she's doing."  Neither of them mentioned that Fox might need his mother's caring, as well.

"You need a ride out there?" Scully asked.  It was a generous offer -- Greenwich, Connecticut was between four and six hours away, depending on traffic and the sanity of the driver.

"I thought I'd fly," he said.  "I'm usually too stoned on Tylenol-3 to be safe driving that far."  After a moment he admitted, "And that's a long time to sit for somebody who's got a sore rear end."

"How are you about that?"  Scully asked, gently.

"Not great," he said, looking down at his shoetops.  "I mean, I'll live," he added, shrugging, "but it still hurts."

"Did Janet explain to you about how to take care of yourself?" she asked.  

He nodded.  In fact, Dr. Graham had given him a ten-minute lecture on everything from community resources for rape victims to how to go to the bathroom.  "She was nice," he said.

"Good," Scully replied.  "You can call her if your discomfort gets too great, or you can just call me.  I can prescribe within the state of Maryland."

"Like you couldn't have picked a bigger state," Mulder teased her.

"Would you be happier if I were in Alaska?" she asked.  

"Some days," he said.  

"Hey, buddy, be careful what you wish for."

He grinned without looking at her and held one arm out, inviting her to sit next to him.  She did, and they hugged for a while.  Fox rested his cheek on her shoulder

When he finally sat back he said, "Thank you."

"No problem," she replied.  

He stood, patted his pockets down for no other purpose but to announce he was leaving, and said, "I should probably go.  The flight I'm supposed to take leaves this afternoon, and I kind of wanted to shower before I got on it.  Well, actually I figured that whoever I ended up sitting next to would want me to shower."

"Probably a safe assumption," she said.  As she walked him to the door she said, "I'll keep looking over these reports to see if I can get anything more useful out of them."

"I appreciate that," he said.  The workaholic in him said that he ought to make a copy of Scully's translation and take it with him.  He refrained - partly because she'd told him what it said, but mostly because he didn't want to have to think about it for a couple of days.  He wanted to give in to the wicked luxury of being very incommunicado.  

In the doorway Mulder gave her a shy smile and said "Thanks," again.  

"Take care of yourself," she said.

"Yeah."

He backed up a few steps in the hall before turning, while she watched from her doorway.  It was nice to feel like somebody was waiting for him while he was gone.  In an unusually candid moment, Fox's father had told him that was one of the best parts of being married.  

After he entered the elevator and the doors closed, a corner of Fox's mouth quirked up.  "Mrs. Spooky," Tom Colton had called Scully.  Mulder's platonic wife.


Mulder had hoped to be able to sleep on the short flight to New York, but he found himself sitting next to a family with an inquisitive 3-year-old named Matthew.  He knew the boy's name because his parents said it every 30 seconds:  "Matthew, sit still.  Matthew, stop kicking the seat in front of you.  Matthew, don't stick your gum to the tray table."

Mulder was only mildly annoyed.  According to what he'd heard from relatives, he himself had been a child very much like Matthew.

"I've never been on an airplane before," Matthew informed him.  

"Really," Mulder said.

"I hope we crash.  That would be awesome."

"Matthew, you shouldn't say things like that," said Matthew's mother.

"Why?" asked the child.

By the time they landed at J.F.K. Airport, Mulder and Matthew had discussed the possible uses of toes and why God had invented air.  Mulder had also endeared himself to Matthew's parents, who for some reason thanked him profusely when they got off the plane.  

"You must have little ones at home," said Matthew's dad.

Mulder shook his head.  "I wish I did," he said, realizing only as he said it that it was true.  After a little more polite conversation he said good-bye to Matthew's family and went to rent a car.  His mom would probably have come to pick him up, except that he hadn't told her he was coming.  He didn't quite know why.  Probably it was because he didn't want to explain the reason for his visit.  He could have told her it was just to see how she was doing, but Fox's mother, more than anyone else, would have heard a half-truth in his voice.  He hoped she was home.  He had a key to the house, but he would feel really stupid if he came all this way and she wasn't even in.  

The drive out to Greenwich was nearly as long as the short plane hop.  Trained from adolescence, Fox parked on the left side of his mother's driveway, so as not to park her in.  The right side had always been Mom's side.  The garage was open and her dark green Lexus was inside.  The front door was unlocked.

"Hello," he called out, "Mom, it's me."  He didn't want to startle her.  He walked through the house out to the back yard, where Teena Mulder was working in her garden.  She wore a broad hat and work gloves, and she sat on a little stool with casters, which she could pull around with her.  "Hi, Mom," he said.

She looked up and smiled.  "Fox," she said, "what a wonderful surprise."  She stood and caught him in a hug.  She smelled like earth and soap and the ghost of Chanel No. 5.  

He must have held the embrace too long because she asked, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he lied, stepping back.  "I just wanted to see you."  Her green eyes, very like his own, scanned his face.  A worry line appeared between her whitened brows.  

"All right," she said at last.  There had been so many times when she'd refused to tell him what was distressing her that she probably understood his desire not to be pressed further.  That was just fine with Fox.

"So," he said, looking down at the garden patch were she'd been working, "Is this planting or weeding or what?"

She explained to him that she was picking early peas, and he settled himself down on the grass beside her to help.  Helping Mom in the garden had been very low on Fox's list of priorities when he was a boy.  He'd actually preferred homework, and would invent pressing assignments to avoid having to weed.  At the moment, however, the closeness and quiet activity of gardening fit the bill exactly.  

As they worked, Teena described the goings-on of local politics: "The City Board wants to change the zoning laws to allow more commercial development along the beaches, and of course, I was against that.  If I wanted to live next to a McDonald's I'd have moved to Boston."  She also detailed her recent volunteer work for the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children, and briefed Fox on the latest family news.  Cousin Sarah was pregnant again.  Uncle Max was scheduled for prostate surgery next Wednesday.

Fox just nodded and picked peas. The afternoon was hot and he wished he'd brought a hat.  So many afternoons of his boyhood had been spent just like this, usually with Fox smoldering with resentment that he couldn't go off and play with his friends.  However, he had no idea what any of those friends were doing now.  He thought it was funny how people's priorities can change.

"Fox?"  Mrs. Mulder prompted.

"Hmm?" he said, glancing up at her.  He realized she'd asked him a question.  "I'm sorry, could you repeat that?"

"Are you sure you're all right?"  she asked.  

"Oh, yeah," he said.  She looked skeptical.  As he plucked delicate pods from their stems, he sorted through the information he had, gauged her need to know.  Finally he said, "Mom, I got hurt."

"What happened?" she asked.  When he didn't answer immediately she slipped off one of her gardening gloves and ran her hand over his hair.  Fox kept his gaze on the pea pod he was toying with.  

At last he said, "I don't want to talk about it that much.  I'm going to be all right and everything, it's just . . . I dunno.  I wanted to come home for a while."

"Of course.  You were right to come home," she said.  An awkward silence followed.  None of the Mulders had ever been especially good at talking about their feelings.  Without looking at her, Fox scooted over and rested his head against her arm.  She stroked his hair.  They sat that way a long time without speaking.


Fox followed his mother around through her Saturday afternoon pottering.  She got the mail, she watered the lawn, he helped her shell the peas.  A Saturday afternoon like this would have seemed like so many hours in hell when he was a boy, but at the moment he found it very soothing.  

Teena let him shadow her and mope without telling him to go away or that he was driving her nuts.  Fox decided that it had been a good idea to turn to his mom, rather than Scully, when he was in a mood like this.  He suspected Scully would have strangled him.

As the heat of the afternoon faded into evening, Fox and his mother made the short walk to Long Island Sound.  Most of the local families were packing up and heading home as the Mulders arrived.  Fox slipped off his shoes and walked through the still-warm sand to the water.  He thought about how he used to stand on this beach and throw rocks into the sound, when he was angry as a teenager. 

He began wading through the shallows, and his mother, who'd removed her sandals, fell into step with him.

"It's a lovely night," she said, breaking the silence they'd held since leaving the house. 

"Yeah," Fox answered.  Then he added, "Don't they find medical waste washed up on this beach?"

"I've never found any," she said.

"You never do, until it's too late." 

"Hmm," she said, in the tone she used when she wasn't really listening.  She tended to ignore him when he got morbid.  After they wandered a little further without speaking, she asked, "Can't you tell me what's wrong?  I want to help."

"I know.  I know you do," he said.  He sighed.  He wanted to tell her, but it was hard to find the words.  He felt so ashamed -- about the rape, about his neediness, about being afraid to talk about what had happened.  "It's just . . . it was really bad," he said.  The Mulders had never talked about things that were really bad.  The unspoken message was that Mom couldn't take it.  

Fox looked across the sound toward the island, which was already a shadowy hump against an indigo sky.  Long Island's northern shore was sparsely populated along most of its length.  From here, an observer could almost imagine it was wooded Chappaquiddick, seen from the eastern edge of Martha's Vineyard.  

Feeling sad and awkward, Fox dug in the sand with his foot.  His toes brushed something jagged and he pulled away.  Frowning, he bent to pull a crushed beer can out of the muck.  "My God," he said, lifting the thing up and looking at its torn edges, "you're courting tetanus every time you walk on this beach."

"It's the boaters," Teena said, apologetically.  "They get drunk and throw things overboard."

"The next thing I step on will probably be Jimmy Hoffa," he said.  To his surprise, he was rewarded by her soft laugh, and the moment for serious conversation had passed. 


By midnight, Fox was wondering if it wasn't a mistake to come home.  He lay curled in his old, single bed, more depressed than ever.  Perhaps it was because he didn't have happy memories of this house.  He and his mother had come here after Samantha's disappearance, after the divorce.  Perhaps it was because he'd tried to geographically outrun his current misery, and it hadn't worked.  

Teena had tried to help.  She'd washed his sheets, saying she was sure they were too musty to sleep on.  Fox had to admit that the dryer warmth and smell of fabric softener was nice.  Still, the familiar surroundings seemed to provide more sorrow than comfort:  the heirloom clock ticking in the hall; the rustling of trees in the back yard; the sounds of his mother's cats pattering up and down the stairs; himself in bed, sleepless, lonely and close to tears.  He'd spent so many nights like that in high school.  However, back in those days, when Fox got too unhappy at Teena's house he could go stay with his father for a few days.   Now that was no longer an option.  He missed his father and sister terribly.  However, he suspected that even if they'd been there he wouldn't have felt any better.

Finally he gave up on sleeping and pulled the blanket off the bed, then went downstairs to curl up on the couch.  About three years ago his mother had finally gotten a decent cable system.  Fox punched the channel changer on the remote repeatedly, and discovered how many varieties of nothing were on TV.  Cubic zirconia jewelry on the Home Shopping Network, Sister Mary-Somebody teaching painting on the Catholic Education Channel, reruns of Senatorial speeches on C-Span.  Oh, joy.

 A light clicked on upstairs.  "Fox?" his mother called out.

 "Yeah," he said.  His voice sounded shaky and wretched, even to himself.  Teena came downstairs, belting on her bathrobe.  She sat next to him and rubbed his back with her hand.  The touch was warm and gentle.

 "Please," she said, "please don't shut me out.  The not knowing is worse."  Fox knew that his father had kept her perpetually in the dark, and that it had hurt her deeply.

 He turned and hugged her tight.  He told her, haltingly, leaving out the goriest parts, but he told her enough.  They were both crying before he was done.  Fox hadn't cried that hard in years, especially not in front of his mother.  She rocked him, she called him all the stupid pet names she'd used when he was little, and he sobbed until he gave himself hiccups.

 When he started to quiet down a little, Teena got up to get him some tissues and a glass of water.  He blew his nose and curled up against her, resting his cheek against the terrycloth shoulder of her robe.  Between exhaustion, codeine and an excess of stress, Fox was feeling pretty stoned.  Once he stopped crying, he stared glassy-eyed at the muted television, which displayed weather patterns for the Eastern Seaboard.

 Teena continued to weep softly, occasionally blotting her eyes with a tissue.  "I'm so sorry," she told him.

 "What for?" he asked.  He was currently mesmerized by the blue blob of a low-pressure front inching up from the Gulf Coast.

 "Your life's been so hard," she said.  "I feel responsible for that."

 He shrugged.  "You did the best you could," he said.

 "I should never have stayed with your father as long as I did . . ."

 He sat up a bit and turned to her.  "Mom, don't start that.  You thought you were doing the right thing."

"It was the weak thing," she said.  "I don't know how I could have let it get so bad. . ."

Fox knew what she meant.  There had been some terrible nights.  "You loved him," Fox said.  No response.  "Didn't you?"

 "There was a time when I thought I did," she said.  "He was so enamored of his principles, and I took that for goodness, for strength.  It never occurred to me that he'd put those principles before people -- before his own family."

 Fox thought about this.  He had never seen his father in that way before.  "I worshipped him, when I was small," he said, sadly.

"I know," she said.  "And he never had any time for you."

"That's not true," he said.  "We used to do stuff."

"According to his schedule and his convenience, not yours," she replied. 

"You know what his last words were to me?"  Fox asked, a little shakily.  "He said, 'Forgive me.'  I don't know if I can or should or even need to, but . . . I don't know.  He did try."

Teena pulled away from him.  "They took my little girl," she said, her voice rough with rage and grief.  

Fox kept his hand on her arm to calm her, to keep her close.  "They were supposed to take me," he said.  She looked over at him sharply.  "I've seen the file, Mom, they were supposed to take me.  I don't know why they took Samantha instead.  She was just little, and she was scared . . . I'd have gone with them, if they'd asked."

"I wouldn't have given up either of you," Teena said. 

She embraced him again, and Fox pressed his face against her shoulder and wept.  These tears went very deep.  He drank in the feel of her touch, the sound of her voice, the unique smell of her. He'd already lost his father and sister.  She was all he had.

Sheer exhaustion kept him from crying very long, but somehow the tears triggered a tremendous sense of relief.  He hadn't realized how afraid he'd been, for how long, that his mother would resent him because Samantha was taken and he was allowed to stay.  "Mama?" he asked.  Good God -- had he actually called her that?  He hadn't called her Mama since he was about five.

"What?" she asked, gently.  

"You know . . . you know the best memory I have of Dad?"

"What's that?"  She didn't seem mad at him for talking about good memories of his father.

"Remember when I hit that kid with the chair?  When they said I couldn't come back to school?"

 "Oh, God," she said, putting her hand to her forehead.  Eighth grade had been a low point in Fox's life.  

"I remember how mad you guys were.  I remember how you and Dad were yelling at each other over the phone about whether you were able to 'handle' me.  When he said he was coming out here, I was terrified.  I thought he was going to beat the crap out of me."

"I wouldn't have let him," she said.  "Not in my house."

Fox shrugged, uncertain why the change in location would have made a difference.  He didn't challenge her on it, though.  "When he finally got here, I was a nervous wreck.  But he didn't even scream at me.  I don't think he knew what to do with me.  We ended up doing that road trip thing kind of by default.  We drove down to Georgia and explored some of the limestone caves there."

"I don't remember that part," Teena said.

"Yeah, I know," Fox admitted.  "I think officially we were fishing, or something like that.  We kind of figured you might not approve."

"I see," she said.  She did not look at all pleased.

Fox picked at the lint pills on his blanket as he explained, "A cave wall was something physical I could master.  I could look back at the way we climbed up and think,  'Hey, I did that.'  It was . . . I don't know.  When we were done I felt proud of myself, for the first time in a long time." 

"You might have been killed," Teena said.  Her tears were dried, now, and she looked angry.  

"But I wasn't," Fox pointed out.  "In his own way, Dad was trying to do me a favor.  That experience did teach me to think on my feet."  Fox would have been the first to admit that Bill Mulder was not father-of-the-year material.  However, he had found a way to reach his son at a critical time, when no one else could, and he was grateful for that.

"Hmm," was all Teena said.  Fox knew he wasn't going to get any further comment from her on the subject.

Before long, he was close to dropping off to sleep.  Hearing him yawn, Teena pulled back from him and said, "You should get up to bed."

Fox shook his head and said, "I think I'll sleep here." The old bedroom upstairs was too depressing.

"Are you sure?" she asked, looking worried.

"Yeah," he said, and to his relief she didn't press him.  She kissed him on the forehead, then got up and walked over to the television.  She was about to turn it off when Fox said, "Don't.  I like it on."

"I don't see how you can sleep that way," she said.

"I like it," he repeated.  

"All right," she said, and left the TV alone.  He got himself settled as she went back upstairs.  He watched the blue low-pressure zone scoot across the TV screen until he couldn't keep his eyes open any longer.

Fox was not much happier on the following day, but he could tell that his behavior was getting closer to his version of normal.  Instead of following his mother wherever she went, he rummaged around in the attic, and when he got tired of that, he tormented the cats.  He'd found an old Slinky in a box, and was currently dangling it just above Twinkles' head.  Her shiny yellow eyes followed every movement the Slinky made, but every time she jumped for it, the spring would bounce out of reach.  just as the cat made a particularly heroic leap that caused her to smack her head into the wall, Mulder heard a familiar, piercing ring.  Someone was calling him on his cell phone.  He patted his pockets reflexively, but it wasn't in any of them.  Where had he put the thing?  He got off the attic steps and followed the ringing into his bedroom.  He found the phone on a chair, under his clothes.

He fished it out and punched the speaker button.  "Mulder," he said.

"I knew you couldn't have left it at home," came Scully's voice.  "You'd have gone into withdrawal."

"Cell phone detox is ugly," Mulder replied.  "They have to shut you in a locked room and watch you 24-7.  Some people go nuts.  Ever see a man talking to his calculator?  It's sad."

"You're sounding better," she said.

"Am I?"

"I think so.  Don't you feel any better?"

"Not really."

"I'm sorry to hear that," she said.  "Would you rather that I called back later?"

"No," Mulder said.  "What's going on?"

"I got hold of the on-call homicide detective in Berlin," she said, "and I asked him to check out any activity on Moernicke's credit cards.  He did, and he didn't find any, at least not after the day Moernicke was found dead."

"Damn it," Mulder said.  "That was the one real lead we had."

"Well, then I started wondering why Knowlton was in Cincinnati on Monday night anyway.  I called the police department there and asked if there had been any recent missing person reports.  There were three in the last week -- a teenager, an elderly Alzheimer's patient and a 50-year-old man named Robert Packard.  His ex-wife reported him missing on Friday, but no one had seen him for days before that."

"Since Monday?" Mulder asked, hopeful.

"The ex-wife said that Packard had an appointment with his lawyer on Tuesday, but that he was a no-show.  She wasn't certain of the last time anyone saw him."

"What did Packard do for a living?" Mulder asked.

"Apparently, he was an 'independent financier,' whatever that means.  When I hear that I think, 'drug lord,'" Scully said.

"Knowlton's last hit," Mulder said.  "Anybody run a check on Packard's credit cards?"

"They did when I asked them to.  The Cincinnati PD called back a few minutes ago and said that Robert Packard bought a plane ticket to Berlin, via New York, on the morning of the 9th.  There have been some other charges since then, mostly to hotels."  She hesitated a moment, and he guessed that she wasn't sure she wanted to tell him the rest.

"What?" he asked.

"The last hotel bill was charged yesterday, when someone calling himself Packard checked out of the Watergate in Washington, D.C."

"Shit," he said.  "Could you ask Cincinnati to call the credit card company, and have them monitor any calls about Packard's account?  If I were Knowlton, I'd want to check up periodically to see if the cards had been reported stolen.  When they are, we may be able to pick him up as Moernicke."

"All right, I can do that," she said. 

"Thank you," Mulder said.  "If you can get me the exact time of the transaction at the Watergate, I can call them and ask to see their security cam footage from around then.  Thanks, Scully.  It's terrific of you to do all this work over the weekend.  You're the best."

"Can I quote you?" she asked.

"Hey, if you want the public endorsement of the least-wanted agent in the Bureau, then you've got it," he said.

"How are you?" she asked, more seriously.

"Well, I get to mentally abuse Twinkles the cat, so life isn't all bad," he said.

"Why are you mentally abusing Twinkles the cat?"

"Because Twinkles is a fuzzy, four-footed waste of oxygen," Mulder said.  Like his father, Fox officially detested all of his mother's cats, although for both men, the antipathy was mostly talk.  

"Twinkles," he called out invitingly, and began to bounce the Slinky again.  Twinkles, who had not learned her lesson the last time, crept to the corner of the doorway and stared at the spring, fascinated.

"What are you doing?" Scully asked.  The characteristic "slink-slink" noise probably sounded bizarre over the phone.

"It involves a Slinky," was all Mulder would say.

"Never mind. I don't want to hear about it," she said.  "You take care of yourself."

"You, too."

"Talk to you later."

"'Bye."

Mulder hung up, then continued to frustrate Twinkles with the Slinky for a while.  When he thought about it, he decided Scully was right.  He was doing a little better. 

Watergate Hotel
Washington, D.C. 
Monday Afternoon

Mulder was wearing a suit for the first time in days. He found that he hadn't missed the experience much.  Still, he was asking a favor from the Watergate staff, and he needed to look as professional as possible.   A little polite badge flashing had gotten Doug Simons, the "Security and Loss Prevention chief of Staff" to allow him to look at the security cam footage from Saturday.  Simons seemed to be a nice guy, but Mulder couldn't help feeling amused that anywhere but the Watergate, Simons would have been a "hotel detective."  He supposed that the janitors were "Waste Management Engineers" around here, too.

There were other fine hotels in D.C., and some were less expensive, but none carried quite the aura of power that the Watergate did.  The Watergate was where diplomats gave parties for foreign ambassadors, where senators' children held their wedding receptions.   Staying at such a place on a stolen charge card was a glorious "fuck you" to the world of wealth and political might.  Mulder made a mental note that Knowlton probably came from an obscure and struggling family.

Currently, Mulder sat in an empty conference room where a TV and VCR had already been set up.  Simons had gone to find the correct tape.  Packard's charge card record showed a transaction to the Watergate at 11:06 a.m. on the 14th.  Mulder thought that if Packard turned out to be alive after all and was just toodling around the world's airports and hotels to avoid his ex-wife, he was going to have to kill him. 

Simons came back into the room holding a tape.  He was a tall man with silvered hair and a well-tailored suit, indistinguishable from most of the Watergate's patrons.  "Good thing we didn't let Maria tape her soap operas over this," Simons joked.

"I have to admit, that would have been disappointing," Mulder said.  

"What time were you looking for?" Simons asked, sticking the tape into the VCR.

"Start it at eleven o'clock," Mulder said.

"You got it," said Simons.  An image of the front desk area appeared on the screen.  There was the gleaming tile floor, the tastefully subdued wall art, the bored-looking desk clerk.  A white digital readout in the bottom corner displayed the time in military format.  After some dickering with the fast-forward, Simons got the tape to 10:99:74.  Then he hit "play" and the hundredths of a second sped forward.  The Watergate had a nice security camera system.  Unlike some footage Mulder had seen, this was in color, with sound, and mostly in focus.  

Unfortunately, nothing interesting was happening.  At 11:03:42 the desk clerk answered the phone, said something about housekeeping, hit a button, and hung up.  Then she went back to looking bored.  

"I'll have to tell Shawna to work up a song and dance routine," said Simons.

"A strip tease," Mulder answered.  Simons burst out laughing.  Shawna was only reasonably cute.  Mulder had made the comment because he guessed that Simons would be amused and begin to feel comfortable around him.

They watched Shawna be bored for another couple minutes, while Mulder got Simons to talk about the hotel's security policies and the placement of the lobby's video camera.   At 11:05:77 the image on the TV screen dissolved into static.

"Hey," said Simons.  He leaned over and smacked the side of the TV.

"Does that happen often?" Mulder asked.

"No," Simons said, "we keep those things in good repair."  He sounded irritated and a little embarrassed.  He got up as if to fiddle with the television's controls but Mulder waved him back to his seat, saying, "No, don't."

Simons gave Mulder a curious glance but sat back down.  The static lasted only a few moments, and then the screen went black.  Only the green light on the VCR indicated that it was playing at all.  Suddenly, the image returned.  The clock in the corner read 00:00:00.  "There -- he shut it off," Mulder said, pointing at the re-set time.  A man stood at the desk, perhaps thirty feet away, with his back facing the camera.  The picture clarity still wasn't good, but Mulder could make out a man of medium height and build, with short, dark hair, wearing slacks and blue shirtsleeves.  A small traveling case sat next to him on the floor.  He might have been almost anybody: a business traveler; a politician in after a long flight, even a member of the press.  

The one thing he wasn't was Robert Packard.  Packard's ex-wife had described him as being about 5' 8" and weighing nearly 250 pounds.  "That's our guy, it's got to be," Mulder said.  The man at the desk stood waiting for about 30 seconds -- approximately the time it would take for a credit card number to be approved -- and then the picture went out again.  

Mulder asked, "Has anybody spoken to Shawna?  What about the person who checked him in on Friday?  Do they remember anything?"


It turned out to be Shawna's day off, but Simons got Mulder her number.  She was clearly less than happy about being called at home, and insisted that she recalled nothing at all about Saturday morning except that a woman tried to check in while leading "three wiener dogs on a leash."  The best Mulder could do was get her to agree to look at the tape when she came into work tomorrow.  The man calling himself Robert Packard had checked in at 4:20 p.m. on Friday, but the lobby videotape taken at that time showed only static, and the afternoon desk clerk likewise remembered nothing.  

Simons agreed to let him take the original videotape from Saturday morning, promising to send him back a copy.  Mulder thanked him profusely, both for the tape and for allowing him to take up more than two hours of his time.  It occurred to him as he left that almost everyone he'd dealt with in this investigation had been cooperative.  That was unusual.  Suspicious, even.  He wondered if that was what happened when They decided they were on your side.

Paranoid musings notwithstanding, Mulder found himself feeling pretty good as he pulled out of the Watergate's parking lot.  He had something physical -- a picture taken with electronic equipment.  Knowlton's powers didn't make him invincible after all. 


Mulder's next stop was the offices of the Lone Gunmen.  After some debate, he'd decided to ask them to enhance the video image, instead of the agents at the FBI lab.  The Gunmen worked faster than the lab techs did, and they asked fewer questions.  The problem was that Frohike and the boys were more likely to get distracted and erase something.  Mulder figured that he'd ask them to copy the tape first, and if they screwed that up, then he'd kill them.  

Frohike opened the door before Mulder ever knocked.  He had some kind of bizarre helmet on his head, complete with wires and an opaque visor.

"Oh, my God," Mulder said.

"I feel the Force!" Frohike announced.

"I hope that's all you've been feeling," Mulder said.

"This visor gauges the tension in my eye muscles, allowing me to pick options from a list on its palm-sized screen merely by gazing at them for a certain length of time.  Without moving from my chair, I can read e-mail, turn up my stereo, or access the video feed from the camera monitoring the hallway.  I *am* my environment!"

"I am very, very scared," Mulder replied.  As he slipped past Frohike into the darkened entranceway he added, "I notice you still have to get up to open the door."

"Rome was not built in a day," Frohike responded, sounding a little hurt.

Langly got up from one of the front room's computer terminals and asked, "What can we do to help defend the cause of Truth today?"  He might have been either serious or sarcastic.  It was hard to tell with Langly.

"This one's easy," Mulder said, holding up the videotape.  "I just need to you enhance some video frames."

"Isn't that the sort of thing your people at the FBI usually do?" Frohike asked, flipping up his visor.  He seemed a bit testy, probably at having his new gadget mocked.

"You guys are better," Mulder said, trying to smooth his feathers.  Besides, in some ways it was true.  He had reasons for giving the tape to the Gunmen rather than the lab. 

"We have to be in order to stay alive," Langly responded.

It occurred to Mulder that they might also stay alive by being completely inept and harmless to the forces they claimed to fight, but he didn't say so.  After all, the Gunmen were basically good guys.  It didn't take Langly long to find and enhance the image of the man at the Watergate desk.  After he did so Byers leaned in and pointed at the screen.

"Have you got some scale here?" he asked.  "How tall is this desk?"

Mulder thought about it.  "I think it hit me about here," he said, resting his hand at the base of his ribcage.

"Looks like it hits him higher.  He's a couple inches shorter than you," Byers said.

"So we've got height: about 5' 10", medium build, straight brown hair cut short at the back of the neck . . ." Mulder began.

"It's thinning a little on top," Langly observed, selecting the portion of the screen around Knowlton's head and enlarging it.  The resolution was not spectacular, but when Langly pointed, Mulder thought he could see a light patch on the crown of the man's head.

"Any distinguishing marks?  Moles, scars, anything?" Mulder asked.  His hopes of getting such detail out of the grainy video weren't high, but perhaps the others could spot something.

"You really can't see much skin," Langly said, "just the back of his neck.  Even his hands are in front of his body."

"Go through the frames and see if he turns at all," Mulder said.  Langly shrank the image to a thumbnail and proceeded to flip through the video frame by frame.  After a few seconds he enlarged the image again.

"What's that there?" Langly asked, pointing to one side of the screen.  Mulder thought Knowlton had turned slightly to the left.  He stared hard at the image, but was unable to glimpse even the side of the man's face.

Mulder shook his head.  "Still no good," he said.

"No, I mean *that,*" Langly said, tapping the image of a vase of flowers on the reception desk. 

"Is that a reflection?"

"Hard to tell," Frohike said, "it's not a good one."  

"Can you enlarge it and sharpen it?" Mulder asked.

"Not at the same time," Langly answered.  "Actually, let me try shrinking it."  He downsized the image and the focus got a little clearer.  The black enamel vase resting on the desk *did* cast a faint reflection of the man's face.  "Well, you won't get a police sketch out of it," Langly said, "but I think that dark patch there might be a mustache."

"It could be an anomaly caused by a flaw in the vase's surface," Byers pointed out.

"It kind of looks like he's eating a mouse," Frohike said.

"Shut up," said the other two Gunmen.  

"Okay, great," Mulder interrupted, before the debate went any further.  "We've got a possible distinguishing characteristic.  That's better than we had before."

"What is this man wanted for, anyway?" asked Byers.

"He's a killer," Mulder said.  He sensed the others looking at him, but he kept his gaze fixed the screen.  "A killer and a rapist."

"Are you worried about Agent Scully?" asked Frohike.  Fox glanced sharply over at him, but Frohike seemed truly concerned and to intend no more than he said.  

"Yeah," Fox said, looking away.  Actually, it was true.  Knowlton had walked straight through Scully's hotel room in Cincinnati.  It was clear that he *could* hurt her, if he chose.  "Yeah, I'm worried."

"We'll do anything we can to help," Frohike said.  The other Gunmen nodded their assent.  

Mulder flashed them a grateful smile, but he couldn't help wondering what they would have said if they knew Mulder himself had been raped.  He didn't bring it up.  "Thanks," was all he said.


Exhausted and sore, Mulder reached his apartment building at about 6:30 in the evening.  He checked his mail and found ads, bills and a copy of "Babewatch!" magazine, which was labeled, "This may be your last issue!"   It always came labeled that way, so he wasn't terribly concerned.  He tucked the whole stack under his arm and punched the button for the elevator.  Normally, he took the stairs, but he didn't have that kind of energy today.  

When he exited on his floor he saw a yellow Post-It Note stuck to his doorknob.  He figured it was from his landlord, who would be pissed that Mulder had removed and tinkered with the lock core.  He contemplated the wisdom of ignoring it.  In the end he decided that it was better to get it over with, and tugged the note off of the knob.  When he unfolded it he saw one word written across the paper:

"Cute."  He did not recognize the handwriting.

Mulder backed off --  one step, two.  "Cute" doubtless referred to his abortive boobytrap.  His *electrical* boobytrap.  Shit -- he'd managed to make it easier for Knowlton to get into his apartment.  

Fox was armed; he had a little, snub-nosed .38 clipped to the waist of his pants.  Unlike his regulation 9 mm, he didn't have to account for every shot the .38 fired.  He drew it and reached toward the knob, then stopped.  

Was there current running through it?  He'd unplugged the trap days ago, but what would keep Knowlton from plugging it back in?  He ordered himself to stay calm.  Perhaps Knowlton hadn't even been here.  Perhaps "cute" referred to . . . well, he'd heard enough women say things like "cute ass" that the comment no longer made him blush.  Still, most women told him what they thought of him in person.  He'd never yet known one to stick a note on his apartment door.  

Okay, all right.  How do you test if your doorknob is electrified?  He glanced up and down the hall -- no observers, as usual.  He spat on the knob.  No sparks.  Gingerly, as if testing a hot frying pan, he tapped his forefinger against the knob.  Nothing.  Mulder gripped the knob and turned.  The door moved effortlessly; it was unlocked.  He *never* left his door unlocked.  

He turned the gun's muzzle down and away from his body, then kicked the door open.  Inside, all was quiet.  His heart beat hard for perhaps a count of five.  He entered the front room fast, flipping the entrance light switch with his elbow.  "I'm armed!"  He snapped at anyone who was listening.  

There was no one there.  

He stood in his entranceway a long time, breathing hard.  He sensed no movement inside.  He walked to the kitchen, hit the switch with his elbow there, too, and found nothing unusual.  He stalked back to his bathroom and bedroom, which looked just as he left them.

Fox checked under his bed and in his closet, things he hadn't done since his young boyhood.  Finding nothing, he sat down on his mattress.  He was alone in his apartment.  Because Knowlton chose to let him alone.  

When he finally felt comfortable putting his gun down, he wrapped his arms around his ribcage.  His whole body was shaking.  "I can't live like this," he thought.  

The attacks on Christopher Harwood had taken place over a year and a half, with months passing between each assault.  However, Knowlton had been employed by the Syndicate at the time.  Now he was free to go wherever, and do whatever, he chose.

Fox got up and quickly stripped off his suit, then pulled on some comfortable jeans and a T-shirt.  he would have liked to have taken a shower, but he'd seen "Psycho" way too many times.  He threw some essentials in a bag, fed the fish, and got the hell out.  

At least Knowlton hadn't killed his fish, he thought, as he headed down the stairs.  Then it occurred to him that he'd probably seen "Fatal Attraction" too many times, too.  He got into the car without knowing where he was going.  After what had happened, he was not going to feel safe in a hotel.  He hated to impose on Scully further, when she'd already gone above and beyond the call of duty for him.  He supposed he could crash on the Gunmen's floor, but they'd ask questions.  That plan also involved spending the night with the Gunmen.  He scratched that idea.  In the end, he got on the freeway to Annapolis.  


To his relief, Scully seemed glad to see him.  He supposed that having a couple days away from him had helped.  That was the way to use a support system, he thought -- annoy different people at different times.

She took him in; she fed him spaghetti; she left him alone while he sat at the kitchen table, drafting sketches of the Watergate's lobby.  When he was done he had a reasonably recognizable floor plan with a wide circle superimposed in it.  He sat back in his chair and Scully came over.

"What's that?" she asked.

"I'm trying to gauge the radius of Knowlton's power over electricity," he said, lifting a hand to rub his tired eyes.  "This is the front desk of the Watergate Hotel.  This is the security cam by the door, which is about thirty feet away.  The videotape came up blank until the moment the clerk ran Knowlton's charge card, then we got about a half-minute of footage.  That says to me that Knowlton can't direct his power with precision, and that it's effective up to at least ten yards."

She nodded.  "What are you going to do with this information?"

"I don't know," he said.  He sighed and leaned forward to rest his head on his folded arms.  There was only so much data gathering and preparation he could do.  The bottom line was that he was going to have to contact Knowlton, to try and catch the hunter before the hunter caught him.  And he was going to have to do it soon.  The thought made him feel frightened and desperate.  

Scully laid her hand on the back of his neck.  "Are you feeling all right?" she asked.  "You're a little warm."

"I'm still on antibiotics," he said.

"Which won't protect you from viruses," Scully pointed out.  "Let me take your temperature."   

"Don't do that," he protested, although the objection sounded unreasonable even to himself.   It would cost him nothing to sit for three minutes with a glass tube in his mouth, but somehow the suggestion bothered him.  He suspected that he'd used up his allotment of sanity for the day.  Actually, he felt like gearing up for a good bout of hysteria.  He thought that he should've stayed at his mother's.  At least she had a lot of experience with him acting like a child.  

Scully came back, shaking down her thermometer.  He made himself accept it from her and stuck it in his mouth, then moved to curl up on the couch.   When he closed his eyes for a moment the world seemed to swim.  How much sleep had he gotten last night?  He'd been up and restless until about two, then he'd awakened at seven to catch his flight home.  His mother had wanted him to stay, but he'd begun to find the Greenwich house confining.  Actually, he suspected he wouldn't be happy no matter where he went.  What was that line from Milton -- "Where I fly, myself am hell."

The next thing he knew Scully was taking the thermometer out of his mouth.  "100.5," she said.  "You've gone and made yourself sick, all right."

"Not on purpose," he said.  "I'm doing the best I can."  He'd worked so hard, and he'd felt as though he were gaining control.  The little Post-It Note on his doorknob had destroyed that false sense of security.  Now he felt just as helpless as before, but far more tired.  He began to wonder if Knowlton would run him to ground, after all.

"Of course you're doing your best.  You always do.  You're very brave," she said.

"No I'm not.  I'm scared shitless," he replied.

"Mulder, I want you to take some of your Tylenol," she said.  

Fox didn't like being prodded.  He thought about refusing on principle, but it was true that he was sore and overdue for his pain meds.  He finally grunted an assent and rummaged through his bag until he came up with the correct medicine bottle.  

 She brought him a huge glass of water and said, "I want you to drink all of this."

He glared at her.  He was trying to be sensible against his natural instincts.  She was pushing it with the mothering routine.  "If I drink all of that, I will have to pee every five minutes during the night."  He told her.

"Fine," she said.  "Don't drink it.  If you'd rather stay sick, then go ahead."

"God dammit," he said, but couldn't think of anything good to come after it.  One of the few things more annoying than having Scully boss him around was having her boss him around and be right.  He tossed back the Tylenol, then discovered that he was more thirsty than he'd thought.  He managed to put back most of the water before he set the glass down on the coffee table.

"You want to go to sleep right there, or do you want to take a cool shower first?" she asked.  "That would help bring your temperature down and might it make you feel better."

"I don't want to do either," he said.  

"Well, what do you want to do?"

"I don't know."  He was exhausted, frightened and in pain, and clearly was not going to be rational for the rest of the night.  He hoped Scully wouldn't end up strangling him.

"Why didn't you stay at your mother's, again?" she asked.

"Because I started to drive her nuts.  I got bored and cleaned out her kitchen cupboards.  I threw away stuff like her lemon peel extract, which she swore she really was going to find a use for, sooner or later."  Actually, Mrs. Mulder would have been happy to have him stay, even after he threw out her lemon peel extract.  But he sensed that his jumpiness was making her jumpy, and the last thing he needed was for both of them to be insane.  

"I see," Scully said.  "Well, whatever you're going to do, do it quietly, because I don't want to have to listen to you complain about every suggestion I make."

"Okay, fine," Fox said.  She was right to be firm with him, he thought.  She was right to set limits so that he didn't annoy the hell out of her.  He'd told her he wanted that.  Of course, now he felt wretched and unloved.  

She stood looking at him with her hands on her hips, as if wondering what to do.  "You're really on the edge, aren't you?" she asked.  Her tone was more kindly, this time.

"Yeah," he said, very soft.

"When do you go see your psychiatrist?"

"Tomorrow morning," he said.

"Are you going to take what he prescribes?"

"She," he corrected.  "Yes."

"Good."  The silence stretched on for a few seconds.  "Do you think you can sleep?" she asked.

He shook his head.  He was torn between the desire to start throwing stuff around and the desire to burst into tears.  If he'd been home alone he would probably have done both, but he couldn't do that here.  If he really lost it Scully would call the Nice Young Men in the Clean White Coats.  He didn't know what to do.  All his options seemed equally bad.

She grabbed his wrist with both her hands and pulled him to his feet.  "Where am I going?" he asked, as she led him down the hall.

"I'm sticking you in the shower," she said.

Fox tried to think of a lewd comment to make, but couldn't come up with anything good.  That alone was enough to convince him that he was really losing it.  Dana parked him on the bathroom mat, then started the fan and turned on the shower taps.  

Fox worked his feet out of his shoes and tugged off his socks.  The air felt wonderfully cool against his toes, another sign that he was running a fever.  When he pulled his shirt off over his head the chills started.  "Crap," he said, and hugged the shirt against himself.

Dana turned toward him.  Her expression was one of deep compassion.  He was glad she wasn't feeling frustrated with him anymore.  "God, you look miserable," she said.

"I am extremely miserable," he said.  

"Let me leave you alone," she said.  Apparently she'd interpreted his clinging to his shirt as a gesture of modesty.  Modesty was not a quality Mulder possessed a great deal of, but at the moment he appreciated the consideration.

"'S'allright," he said.  "Just gimme a second."  She turned away until he was in the shower with the curtain closed, but she didn't leave him, bless her.

As soon as the shower spray hit him he started shivering.  "Holy Christ," he said.

"That's about normal body temperature," she told him.  "You need to stay in there until it no longer feels cold." 

"It makes my skin ache," he said.  He wrapped his arms tight around his ribcage.  

"I know," she said gently.  "The Tylenol should start kicking in pretty soon."

He found that Scully did not have a washcloth and a bar of soap, like normal people.  She had a plastic squeeze-bottle labeled "Raspberry Body Gel" and a bizarre, nylon-mesh scrubby-thing that reminded him of what his mother used to wash the dishes in the Mulders' summer home.  He removed the scrubby-thing from the shower's towel bar.

"Why do you have a plastic tribble?" he asked her, between chattering teeth.

"A what?" she asked.  He held the scrubby outside the curtain so she could see.

"That's not a tribble," she told him.  "It's an exfoliant."

"Like Agent Orange?" he asked.

"Not really."

He squeezed some body gel onto the tribble and quickly washed himself.  Scully had weird shampoo, too, in a tiny bottle with kangaroos all over it.  It looked expensive.  "You want me to use this shampoo?" he asked.

"Go for it," she said. 

By the time he got out of the shower, the water no longer seemed so cold.  

Once he was settled beneath blankets on the couch, she ran her hand over his forehead and said, "Feels like your temperature's getting back to normal."  

"At least something about me is normal."  He caught her hand in both of his before she could move it, then pressed the knuckles against his cheek.  Fox shut his eyes and said, "Thank you, Scully.  I don't know why you're so good to me."

"You're a good person," she responded.  "You deserve to have people be good to you."  Fox's breaths came hard for a few moments.  He was uncertain if he were going to cry.  

Dana used her free hand to stroke his hair out of his face. 

"Stay with me," he asked, suddenly.

"I live here," she pointed out.  "Where would I go?"

"I dunno," he said.

"Go to sleep," she said.  "Go to sleep."  The last thing Fox was aware of before he dropped off was Dana placing his hand on his chest and kissing him lightly on the forehead.


At nine a.m. the next morning Fox was in the waiting room of Dr. Hana Najar, filling out an enormous intake form which contained questions about everything from his bowel habits to the names of his grandparents.   When he came to the part about listing all hospitalizations in the last five years he groaned.  The form only gave three lines and there wasn't enough room to write them all.  He had to use the back.

Dr. Najar turned out to be a petite Indian woman who asked him even more questions.  He was pretty honest with her, explaining that he'd been referred by Heintz Werber because of depression and suicidal thoughts.  He mentioned the rape but not the part about the Shadowy Syndicate.  Then again, she didn't ask.  She made out prescriptions for Zoloft and Xanax and then proceeded to give him the side Effects Speech: do not drink alcohol, take all your medication as directed, do not pass "Go" do not collect 200 dollars, etc. etc.  During his psyche internship Mulder had heard the same speech made to patients too many times to count.  

After he was through seeing Najar he went straight to the pharmacy, to make sure he didn't get cold feet and pitch the scripts into the trash.  He'd come perilously close to losing it last night, and he couldn't afford to lose it.  If anything, he needed to be sharper than ever.  Zoloft was supposed to start working within days of the first dose, so with any luck he'd soon be suffering fewer crying spells.  The Xanax worked immediately, but Dr. Najar had warned him it would probably make him sleepy until his body adjusted to it.  For this reason, he didn't quite dare take it now.  It occurred to him that if you were too afraid to take your anti-anxiety medicine, you were probably screwed.  

He went back to Scully's place after that.  She was at work, but she said it was fine with her if he let himself in.  He filled up a glass with water and then opened the bottle of his anti-depressants.  He set one of the pills down on the kitchen table and looked at it.  It was an innocuous-looking yellow tablet.  it represented a lot of painful things -- an admission of being ill, a kind of psychic defeat.  He recalled a quote from the Bible: "If it is Your will, let this cup pass from my lips."  However, Mulder failed to receive any signs from above.  

He stuck the pill in his mouth, took a sip of water, and swallowed it.  

Well.  He'd crossed a line.  

It had been the intelligent thing, the responsible thing to do.  Scully would be proud of him.  He still felt a sense of shame and loss.  

Now what?  He ought to call X, to make arrangements for a sting on Knowlton.  He had as good an idea of Knowlton's location, powers and intentions as he was going to get.   Waiting around longer would only result in someone else -- or maybe himself -- getting raped or killed.  He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and looked at it.  He did not want to have to do this.   He wanted somebody else to take care of Knowlton.  That's what the police were for, wasn't it?  To protect and serve, and all that?  Of course, the police weren't going to catch him.   The Consortium would have turned to anyone else but Fox Mulder for help, if they could.  The fact that they'd chosen him showed that he was their only realistic hope of getting Knowlton off the street.  "I'm the champion of the Shadowy Syndicate," Mulder thought.  "Just what I always wanted."

He'd lost the piece of paper with X's phone number on it, but unfortunately he couldn't use that as an excuse.  He remembered the number perfectly well.  He took a deep breath, released it, and dialed.  The phone rang and rang.  Mulder wondered what X could be doing.  He realized that he wasn't sure he'd ever seen the informant during the day.  He thought maybe he slept in a coffin.  

Suddenly, the phone picked up.  "What?" demanded X.

"You really have to work on your customer service skills," Mulder told him.  It was surprisingly easy to fall into his usual, sarcastic manner.

"What do you want, Agent Mulder?"  X said.

"I have a picture of your 'Invisible Man,'" Mulder said.  To Mulder's satisfaction that shut X up for a moment.

"Are you sure?" X asked.

"The guy on my video was in the right place at the right time, and he matches what little description I've got of Knowlton," Mulder said.

"I'd like to arrange to get a copy from you," X said.

"Sure, no problem, "Mulder replied, "but there's something else.  He's in the D.C. area, or was as of last night.  I got a note on my door that I'm pretty sure is from him.  He's clearly interested in running into me again.  I think we can use that to our advantage."

"You want to set a trap," said X.

"That's the idea."

"How are you going to go about doing this?" X asked.

"I hope I can get him to answer either Packard's or Moernicke's cell phones.  I wanted to ask Skinner if I could have the help of some of the FBI tech support people.  They might be able to use the connection to track him down."

"That won't work," X said.  "Not with a cell phone."

"I know we can only track him as far as the closest cell site, but come on, how many cell sites are there in Washington?  There's got to be one every few blocks," Mulder said.  He knew that X was probably right to have dim hopes for the plan of tracking Knowlton, but the thought of pinpointing his location and just sending the cops to go get him was so attractive.  "Even if we can't catch him the easy way," Mulder said, "we can at least get a voice imprint from the phone conversation.  Maybe there will be useful background noises to analyze, or something."

"Maybe," X conceded.  "And if this brilliant scheme doesn't work?"

"Then I'll agree to meet with him.  If I can lure him into the open, we can grab him."

"Very well," said X.  "When are you planning on contacting him?"

"I was thinking this evening," Mulder said.  He couldn't quite keep from sounding unhappy.  "The longer I wait, the more likely he is to discard one or both stolen phones and then he'll be unreachable."

"I take it that it's my job to arrange protection for you, if this meeting with Knowlton goes forward?" X asked.

"That was my understanding of the agreement, yes," Mulder said.

"And who will coordinate the efforts of my organization and the FBI?" X asked.

"I think I can work something out with Skinner," Mulder said.  "If not . . . well, I've got backup technical people I can use."

"Your Lone Gunmen friends," X said.  "I wouldn't trust them to find their own behinds in a locked closet with a compass."

"That's . . . a really disturbing mental image.  Let's not go there."

"All right, let's not.  When can you get me the pictures of Knowlton?"

"Can you be in the Hoover Building parking garage by five?" Mulder asked.

"Of course."

"I'll see you there, then.  It's a date."

Dead silence for a second, then X said, "You disgust me," and hung up.  Mulder couldn't help feeling a little pleased at being able to get the man's goat.  

He glanced over at the clock.  It was a quarter past eleven.  He would have to call Skinner and get an appointment, go home, put on something more presentable than the jeans and T-shirt he'd worn yesterday . . . the thought made him very tired.

His head and his eyes ached, and he suspected his temperature was going up again.  He really wanted to take a nap.  Actually, if he could have had anything he wanted, he would have asked for a beautiful woman to come in, rub the sore spots out of his back, give him a really good screw and let him curl up against her as he fell asleep.  

Well, that's what he would usually want.  He wondered if he would ever be able to go to bed with anyone again, after what had happened.  Knowlton had even managed to take the fun out of his fantasies.  The thought both angered and depressed him utterly.  He curled up on the couch, hoping to find solace in sleep.  


Assistant Director Skinner's Office,
That Afternoon

Skinner had just gotten off a conference call with the Director, the NYPD and some guys from ATF about a bomb threat against the Manhattan subways.  Home grown terrorists  -- could anything be worse?  All the TV cameras of the world were pointed at the US -- land of the free, home of the homicidal maniacs.  

All he wanted was five stress-free minutes.  He hit the "do not disturb" button on his phone and took off his glasses so he could rub his eyes.  He heard the inner door of his office open and startled. 

"Kim, I want you to knock before you --" he began, but when he turned, it wasn't his secretary, Kim.  The Cigarette Smoking Man stood there, his ever-present Morley dangling from his lips.  "What do *you* want?" Skinner demanded.

The Smoking Man seated himself without being invited.  "I want to talk to you about Agent Mulder," he said.

"He's on medical leave," Skinner said.  "There's nothing to say about it."  He grabbed some papers from his desk and pretended to study them, in order to show that the conversation was over.

"I understand he contacted you today," the Smoking Man said.

Skinner couldn't help wondering where this son-of-a-bitch got his information.  Did he tap every call that went into the Hoover building?  "He called several times.  When I was finally able to speak to him he asked to see me, and I told him I could fit him in tomorrow," Skinner said.

"How did he react to that?" the Smoking Man asked.

"He seemed fine with it," said Skinner.  

A corner of the Smoking Man's mouth quirked up into a humorless smile.  "Mulder is faced with a duty he doesn't particularly want to perform," he said.  "I imagine delay would not be unwelcome to him."

"What are you talking about?" Skinner asked.  The Smoking Man looked around, clearly seeking an ash tray.  "All federal buildings are smoke free now, didn't I tell you that?" Skinner asked, with malicious satisfaction.  The Smoking Man glanced at him quickly with his lidded, fishy eyes, and then wordlessly drew over Skinner's wastebasket and flicked his ashes into it.

"Mulder's assailant is a wanted man in many quarters," the Smoking Man said.  "He killed a man in Berlin -- an increasingly senile and worthless man, but still a member of the Old Guard."

"You mean of your . . . 'organization?'" Skinner asked.  The last word came like spitting out a frog.  

"Quite so," said the Smoking Man.  "Understandably, certain key members are very concerned."

"Cry me a river," said Skinner.  

That got another sardonic half-smile.  "Tell me, do you consider yourself a friend of Agent Mulder's?" the Smoking Man asked.

"We don't always see eye-to-eye, but he's a man I respect," said Skinner.

"Then perhaps you'd be glad to know that it's in Mulder's interest to act sooner, rather than later.  He wants backup and technical services from the FBI, in order to lay a trap for his attacker.  My 'organization,' as you put it, will not wait very long.  They'll force Mulder's hand, and he'll be worse off without the protection the FBI can give."

Skinner eyed the Smoking Man with suspicion.  "Since when did you develop such a concern for mulder's welfare?" he asked.

"I have always preferred that Mulder be controlled, rather than destroyed," he said.

"Why?" asked Skinner.

"I have my reasons."

"So what exactly are you asking me?" Skinner said.

"Tell Mulder that you'll meet with him today.  Give him what he asks," said the Smoking Man.

"Are you actually *advocating* for him?" Skinner asked.

"In this case, he and I share a common objective, and so should you.  We all want a dangerous man off the street."

"For widely differing reasons," said Skinner.

"True," said the Smoking Man. 

Skinner looked at him for a count of five or six, trying to gauge what his real motivations were.  As usual, they were unfathomable.  "All right," he said at last.

"I believe Mulder should be reachable at his cellular phone number.  He usually is," said the smoking Man.
*******

Mulder had finally fallen asleep on Scully's couch.  He'd given in and taken his anti-anxiety meds, and they'd knocked him right out, just as Dr. Najar said they would.  He barely even stirred when his cell phone rang.  Its sharp, piercing beeps continued, however, until his eyelids fluttered open.  Foggily, he groped for the phone on the floor.

Once he found it he managed, "H'llo?"

"Agent Mulder, it's me," came Skinner's voice.

Mulder hauled himself into a sitting position.  "Hello, sir," he said, "what's up?"  He realized after he said it that this was not the way to greet an Assistant Director of the FBI.  "I mean," he amended, "what's going on?"  This wasn't much better, and he had to wipe half-dried drool off his cheek as he said it.  Good God, he'd been out.  

"Are you all right?" asked Skinner.

"Uh, yeah," he said, "I was just kind of sleeping."

"Someone dropped by to speak for you this afternoon," Skinner said

"Who . . . Scully?  About what?" Mulder asked, confused.

"No, our smoking friend," said Skinner.  

This took a while to compute for Mulder.  When the thought clicked he said, "He's no friend of mine."

"He says I ought to see you this afternoon and give you whatever you ask," said Skinner.

Mulder looked at Scully's VCR clock; it was 3:45.  Holy crap.  He'd have to go home, put something respectable on, get over to the Hoover Building . . . .  "Sir, I'm not really dressed to come in," he said.

Skinner said,  "The FBI's not running a fashion show.  So long as you don't show up naked or in drag, I don't care."

That got a smile out of Mulder.  "All right," he said.  Could he handle this, he wondered?  Was he ready?  He knew that he'd never be ready.  "I think I can be there in 20 minutes," he heard himself say.

"Good.  I'll see you then," said Skinner, and the connection terminated.  

Fox looked at the disconnected phone in his hand.  "Oh, my God," he thought.  "Oh, Holy Christ."  He was actually going to have to talk to the bastard who'd raped him.


The security guys at the Hoover Building's front entrance had to razz Mulder about his appearance.  He was wearing grubby jeans, sneakers and a T-shirt that read, "Every Oak Tree Is A Nut That Stood its Ground."  Mulder told them he was going undercover to infiltrate a gang of slobs, and they laughed.  

At home, these were Mulder's comfort clothes, but here they made him feel decidedly uneasy.  As he walked through the halls his immaculately-dressed colleagues gave him strange looks.  Wearing a suit would have allowed him to feel more detached and professional.  He'd been able to get cooperation from the Watergate staff because he'd been in Mr. FBI Agent mode.  At the moment he felt like plain old Fox Mulder, exposed and vulnerable, fresh from the humiliation of having taken his first dose of psychiatric medication.

He went down to his own office first, hoping to find Scully.  The lights inside were on but the door was locked, indicating that she was planning to return, but not soon.  Dammit, he thought, and looked at his watch.  It was nearly a quarter past four.  He needed to get upstairs and see Skinner ASAP.  Maybe Scully had gone up already.  He hoped so; he wasn't going to be able to do this alone.

His feeling in the elevator was one of subdued panic.  If he was still feeling the effects of his anti-anxiety medication he didn't notice.  He was a little surprised at how much the idea of facing Skinner frightened him.  He hadn't done anything wrong.  His medical leave had been approved and scully had said that Skinner seemed understanding.  

For the most part, Skinner struck Mulder as an honorable man, if a traditional one.  And traditionally, men did not get raped.  He hoped to God Skinner wouldn't say anything cruel, even unintentionally.  Mulder felt so fragile right now.  He doubted very much that anything the AD said would make him cry, but an ill-considered comment might make him defensive enough that he'd start yelling at people and humiliate himself further.

By the time he'd reached Skinner's office, he'd nearly worried himself to tears.  The small, sane portion of his brain told him, "You are in no emotional shape for this.  You're getting so squirrelly you should start to seriously consider checking yourself into the bin."  

"A lot of good that did Chris Harwood," Mulder answered himself.  When Kim saw him she hit the intercom button and told Skinner that Mulder was here.  Mulder wondered if her expression was too-carefully blank, or if he was just paranoid.  Not everyone in the Hoover Building would know about what happened to him.  Yet.  But the Cincinnati office was officially working this case, and those agents would know other agents . . . .  His coworkers were investigators, after all.  Nosiness was in their blood.  Inside of a month, the whole FBI would probably know.

Skinner told Kim to send Mulder in, and she rose to get the door for him.  He thought she gave him an odd look as he walked past her.  He hoped he didn't smell like sweat.  Then he realized he probably smelled like Scully's flowery conditioner, which was almost worse.

Skinner stood as he entered, looking extremely official in his suit and tie.  Mulder felt a renewed sense of self-consciousness about his scruffy appearance. Scully stood in front of one of the other chairs.  Her expression was concerned.  Mulder began to feel reassured, until the smell of old cigarette smoke hit him.  He looked to his right and found the Smoking Man kicked back in a visitors' chair.  He had not bothered to stand.

"I don't want him in here," Mulder said, pointing at the man.

"You wound me," said the Smoking Man.

"I'd like to," was Mulder's reply.

The Smoking Man rolled his smoldering Morley between his finger and thumb and said, "I was the one who arranged this meeting for you."

"I don't care," Mulder said.  As usual, the Smoking Man's expression was unreadable.

"Go," said Skinner, jerking his head toward the door.

The Smoking Man's eyebrows lifted just a little.  "Very well," he said at last, and stood.  "If that is what you wish."

"You bet it is," said Mulder.

The Smoking Man shrugged his jacket into a squarer position and stuck the cigarette in his mouth.  He spoke around the butt end of it: "I shall require a detailed brief of the proceedings, in order for my organization to be of any help.  You know how to contact me," he said, gazing at Skinner.

The AD's ears actually turned red, whether from rage at the presumption or shame because what the Smoking Man said was true, Mulder didn't know.  "Get out," said Skinner.  The Smoking Man went, slowly, trailing his nicotine fumes behind him.

Mulder felt an aversion to sitting in the Smoking Man's vacated chair, so he looked around for another.  There was a simple one in the back corner, no armrests, no casters, probably Kim's when she took dictation, but he didn't care.  He pulled it over and dropped down into it.  

*Ouch.*  Was he ever going to learn not to plunk down into chairs?  "Agent Mulder," Skinner began, his voice more gentle than Mulder had ever heard it.  Oh, hell.  This was bad too.  Actually, everything was bad right now.

"Can I offer you a drink?" Skinner asked.  Mulder glanced up, a little startled at the offer.  No agent on duty was allowed to drink, but then, Mulder was on medical leave, and Skinner was an Assistant Director.

"No, sir, thank you," he said, his voice steadier than he felt.  "I'm on medication."  He managed to hold Skinner's gaze as he said it.  It was right that Skinner know.  It was related to his medical leave, and with any luck, the medicine would allow him to return to work quickly.  "I'm hoping treatment will help me resume my regular duties as soon as possible," he explained.

"That's admirable," said Skinner.  "But don't push yourself for the Bureau's sake.  We'll be better off with you at 100 percent in six months, rather than 50 percent right now."

"With all due respect, sir, I don't think so," he said.  "John Knowlton is a problem that needs to be dealt with immediately.  I'm not the only person in danger."

"I don't really care about the Consortium's 'Old Guard,'" Skinner began, but Mulder cut him off.

"I don't think they're in danger," he said, very soft, glancing at the door.  Cancer Man wouldn't be out there with a stethoscope, would he?  Mulder decided he probably wouldn't, and continued, "It's more likely to be people like me, guys who've been targeted by the 'organization,' who Knowlton would have had some reason to keep tabs on.   He'll continue to strike as long as we let him."

"What are you proposing?" asked Skinner.  He sounded as if he already knew.

"I've got a couple of contact numbers for Knowlton," Mulder said, "Ideally, I'd call him and we would track him down by his cell phone signal, end of story.  I think we've got enough to convince *somebody* to press charges, even if it's only for credit card fraud.  If we can't target him with the phone signal . . . then I'd meet with him.  Hopefully I'd have backup right behind me and they'd take him out."

"Cancer Man said that you were requesting backup from the FBI," Skinner said.

"Did he?  Actually, all I wanted was the help of some of our technical guys.  I wouldn't put agents in danger on the street unless I had to." 

"I'd rather that the Consortium wasn't your only line of defense," said Skinner.

Mulder glanced up at him, saw that he seemed grimly serious, as usual.  Was Skinner actually being *nice* to him?  "If there's federal agents along, that raises the question of who gets to keep Knowlton if we catch him.  I mean, I personally don't care, as long as he's put out of action, but that would be a nasty thing to have to argue out in the field."

Skinner just looked at him a moment, then he said softly, "Our smoking friend out there says it's in everyone's best interest to let his people get him.  The Bureau doesn't even have a warrant for this guy.  If we haul a foreign national off the street and then can't pin anything on him, the German Embassy gets involved and we look like morons.  If *they* get him, then you know we're not going to see or hear from him again.  I don't like it, but it seems to be the only practical course of action.  If you wrestle with a pig you get dirty."  The expression got a slight smile out of Mulder.  "We can avoid conflict in the field if we use agents who appreciate the unique elements of this situation," Skinner said.  "I volunteer myself.  Agent Scully?"

She looked fully as startled as Mulder felt, but she managed, "Yes, sir, absolutely.  It never occurred to me that I wouldn't go."

"Good," said Skinner.  "That acceptable to you, Agent Mulder?"

"Yes, sir," Mulder said, still a little shocked.  "Of course.  Thank you."

"I've spoken to some guys from the Technical Support Squad and they said they can set up in my office.  It shouldn't take long.  Morley's Ghost out there tells me that it's best to do this as soon as possible.  Do you agree?" Skinner asked.

Mulder swallowed.  "Yes, he's probably right," he said. 

"All right," said Skinner.  "Let me call down to Technical Support."  He did so, and within minutes a guy showed up with a laptop and a coil of cording.  Mulder was impressed that Skinner had gotten someone from TSS to drop everything at the end of a workday and come running. 

"How well will this work?" Mulder asked the techie.

"You're trying to trace a cell phone, right?" the man asked.

"Yeah," said Mulder.

"Well, the best we can do is the triangulation method.  We use the signals from three different cell sites to try and pinpoint the caller's location," said the man.

"In this case, it's the receiver," Mulder pointed out. "Does it work?"

"It doesn't work so well in urban areas because of high signal traffic," he said.  "And it doesn't work so well in rural areas because the cell sites are too far apart."

"Does it work well anywhere?" Mulder asked.

"Not really," said the other man.

"Great," said Mulder.  "Does everybody have to be in the room with me while I make this call?"

"I can set up outside the door, if you want," the techie said.

"I have no problem leaving, but I'd just as soon you had some kind of backup," Skinner said.  "Ordinarily I'd get one of our negotiators to do it, but under the circumstances I think Agent Scully would be fine.  Assuming that's all right with her."

"Of course, sir," she said.  "Although I'm not trained in negotiation tactics--"

"You won't be doing any of the talking," Skinner said.  "You'll have earphones only.  Your job is risk assessment."

Mulder knew that was polite phrasing for calling Scully his babysitter.  She was supposed to step in if he started freaking out.  "I don't think that's necessary," he said.

"It is if you're using my office and my phone," Skinner said.  "Besides, maybe Scully can pick up on some identifying background noise, if the trace doesn't work."

That was a real long shot, and Mulder knew it.  "Have you got someone to record this, so you can analyze background noise?"

"I don't have a warrant," was all Skinner said.  That could have meant anything.

"All right," Mulder said with a sigh, "Let's get this over with."

The Tech Support guy put an adapter in the jack of Skinner's phone that allowed a headset for Scully to be plugged in.  She settled the earphones on her head and pulled a second chair over to Skinner's desk.  Mulder supposed he got Skinner's chair, which would have been kind of cool under any other circumstances.

The TSS guy took his laptop into the outer office and Skinner followed him.  Skinner stopped in the doorway and said, "If you need anything else, let me know."

"Thank you, sir," Mulder said.

Once the A.D. left Scully said softly, "You don't have to do this."

"If I want to catch him I do," Mulder replied.  The paradox was typical of his life -- the only way to avoid the enemy was to bring him closer.

Mulder settled himself at Skinner's desk, then he lifted the phone receiver and slowly dialed Packard's cell number.  One ring.  Click.  Mulder's whole body shuddered. 

"The cellular unit you have tried to reach is either turned off or out of the service area.  If you should--" Mulder hung up.

"I think he ditched Packard's phone," he said.  The "discreet" inquiries into Packard's disappearance had apparently done their work.  He began to dial Moernicke's number.  Would a German cell phone work in the USA?  He'd forgotten to ask the techie.  One ring, two, three . . . maybe it wasn't turned on.  Maybe Knowlton had tossed the handset into a river.  

Click.  "Guten Abend," came a voice.

"Hello?" he managed.  "Is this John Knowlton?"  Dead silence.  "This is Fox Mulder."

Another few moments of static, and then a man drawled, "Well, hel-lo, love."

The accent was unplaceable, almost Australian, the tone rough and of medium depth.  

Dana put a steadying hand on Fox's back.  She would be able to feel that he was trembling all over. 

"Did you try to come see me yesterday?" Mulder asked.  

"Of course," said Knowlton.  "I was in the area.  The set-up you had around your doorknob was quite clever."

"But it never stopped you," Mulder said.

"Certainly not," said Knowlton.  "I *am* a professional."

I know you are," Mulder said.  He told himself to play up to the SOB's ego, because that was the man's weak point.  "When did . . . why did you decide to come see me, in Cincinnati, I mean?" he asked.

"I was passing through on business of my own," said Knowlton, "and you looked lonely."

Well.  That was a new one.  Mulder realized that he hadn't asked how long he needed to keep Knowlton on the line for a trace.  He grabbed one of Skinner's pens and wrote on the blotter, "How long . . .?"  Scully glanced at it and held up her forefinger.  Her wire was long enough to allow her to go to the door.

Trying to make conversation, Mulder asked, "Um, what can you tell me about yourself?  You seem to know a lot about me, but I don't know anything about you."

That got a low chuckle.  "You knew the right phone number to call," he said.

"I'm a professional, too," Mulder pointed out.

"You're the profiler.  You guess," said Knowlton.  

Mulder had had conversations with other criminals that went very much like this.  The trick was to be bland, non-confrontational, and to try and get them going on some topic that interested them.  He was beginning to feel like he might be getting his feet under him.  "I know you're originally from South Africa," Mulder said, "and that somewhere along the line you picked up German citizenship.  How did that happen?"

"Got on the train in Johannesburg and ran out of money in Bonn," said Knowlton.

Mulder suspected that he must have met Josef Moernicke there, accepted the older man's protection because he had nowhere else to go.  "How old were you?" Mulder asked.

"Fourteen," said Knowlton.  Oh.  To his surprise, Mulder found himself feeling something close to pity.  

"So . . . was that before or after you found out that you had unusual powers over electricity?" mulder asked.

"Hard to say, love.  Was a long time ago," said Knowlton.  

"You had to have noticed at some point," Mulder pressed.  "Was there a moment when you realized that you were special, that you could do something no one else could do?"  With your average, organized, antisocial personality, flattery would get you everywhere.

"Oh, well, I remember Mum beating me with a mop handle because she wouldn't believe I could turn the streetlights on and off," Knowlton said cheerfully.  "I guess then I must have realized I was different.  I would have been . . . oh, eight?  Must be, because I don't recall much before that."

Mulder made a mental note of the British turn of phrase.  "Were your parents native to South Africa?" he asked.

"Mum was a Kiwi," Knowlton said.  It took Mulder a moment to recognize the slang term for a New Zealander.  "Don't know about my dad.  Never met him.  Wouldn't want to, from what I've heard."  Knowlton sounded perfectly bright and chipper about the whole thing, as if he were describing an interesting sporting match.  This was a sign of a deep, underlying pathology, but somehow Mulder found himself feeling almost sympathetic.  He told himself not to be naive.  Knowlton could be making the whole thing up.  

Scully came back in the door holding a little folded Post-It Note.  When he read it he found it said, "Georgetown. Trying to close in."

Mulder started trembling again.  ID-ing Georgetown was good, but not good enough.  He quickly scratched on the blotter, "Hotel?"  He glanced up and saw her shrug.  Georgetown was tourist country.  The place had more self-consciously quaint bed and breakfasts than a wild dog had fleas.

He realized he'd been silent too long and said, "Um, so . . . so what can you do with this ability of yours?  Can you affect the functioning of someone's brain?"

Knowlton laughed softly.  "I think I'll keep that to myself," he said. 

"What about credit cards?  How do you keep from frying the magnetic strips?"   

"I've got a cigarette case I keep my cards in," Knowlton said.  "It's a filigreed iron thing from the old days.  It works all right.  If the strips go bad anyway I can usually get a clerk to enter the number by hand."

An idea occurred to Mulder.  He wrote on Skinner's blotter, "Checked Moern.'s CC#?" 

Scully grabbed the pen from him and wrote, "Know it?"

Mulder had to shake his head.  He'd never looked into it.  He felt like a moron.  This was why you didn't let recent rape victims run an investigation, he thought.

"So . . . so why me?" he asked.  It was the first thing that came to mind.

"Why not you?" was the reply.

"I dunno . . . most people are attracted to others for a reason.  You know, there's a certain look, a smile, something somebody says . . . ." 

"Ah," said Knowlton.  The interjection had a tolerant sound to it that suggested he thought Mulder wanted to be praised.  If it kept the man talking, so be it, Mulder thought.

"I liked the way you walked from the first time I saw you," said Knowlton.

"Which was when?" he asked.

"Oh, my," Knowlton said.  "Must have been . . . '90?  '91?  Hard to recall, I'm afraid."  That was about the time Mulder had been assigned to the X files.

Mulder had another idea and wrote, "Ask Morley's Ghost," on the blotter and drew a line to the abbreviation "CC."  After that he scratched, "Make the SOB be useful."  Scully gave him a grim smile and left again.  He felt strangely bereft.

"You all right, love?" Knowlton asked.  Mulder realized he'd been silent too long. 

"Yeah -- it's just I'm, I'm a little bit nervous."  Knowlton would hear it in his voice anyway, so he might as well own up to it.  The other man would interpret it as he wanted.

"Aw--you needn't be frightened of me, love," Knowlton said.  That confirmed Mulder's suspicion that Knowlton believed the sex had somehow been consensual and that he and Mulder had "feelings" for each other.  

The thought turned Mulder slightly sick.  "Why shouldn't I be afraid of you?" he asked.

"Wouldn't do anything with you that you didn't like," Knowlton replied.

"You already did," Mulder said.

"Oh, is that how it is, now?"  Knowlton said, his tone both mocking and flirtatious.  "You should have heard yourself carrying on the other night.  I'd say you were pretty excited."

Tears of rage and shame stung Mulder's eyes.  He didn't want Scully to be listening in on this.  He told himself to count to ten, to be rational, to be professional.

Knowlton must have heard a catch in his breath because he said, "Now now, Love, none of that."

"Sorry . . ." Mulder managed.  "This is really hard for me."  Honesty was the best policy when dealing with an intelligent psychopath.  Most of them were eerily accurate at picking out lies.

Knowlton chuckled.  "Getting hard for me, too," he said.

Oh, hell.  Mulder didn't need to hear that.

Skinner's door burst open again and Scully stalked in.  Her lips were pressed in a hard line and she made cutoff motions with her hands, like an umpire declaring a runner safe.  Apparently, she hadn't thought much of Knowlton's last comment, either.  Mulder knew that she'd hit the hang-up button if she got close enough, and he said, "I need to see you."

"When?" asked Knowlton.  Mulder held his hand up to stop Scully's advance.

"Tomorrow, 9 p.m., the Jefferson Memorial," he said.  It was the first thing that came to mind.  

"You'll be alone?" Knowlton asked.

"Yes," Mulder said.  "I gotta go."  

"All right.  Love you, love."  

Mulder couldn't make himself respond.  He hung up the phone without Scully's assistance.

"What did you just agree to?" she cried, sounding more grieved than angry.

"Did you get a location?" he asked.

She shook her head slowly and said, "Not a precise one, no."

"Nothing on the credit card, either?"

"When I got out there, the Smoking Man was gone," she said, sounding apologetic.

"Then the only way we'll catch him is for me to meet with him," Mulder answered.  

She looked very sad, but did not contradict him.  Instead she put her arms around him and hugged him tight.  The closeness felt awfully good.  He heard Skinner's door open briefly, then close again. Apparently Skinner had decided to leave his agents alone for a while. 

It was just as well.  Exhaustion and stress were beginning to take their toll on Mulder, and he shed silent tears into the hollow of his partner's shoulder. After a few moments he pulled away from Scully and looked around Skinner's desk for tissues.  He couldn't find any.  Of course--*real* G-Men didn't need Kleenex.  Scully dug some tissues out of her purse and handed them to him.  

She gave him a look of sorrow and bewilderment as he blotted his eyes.  "I can't believe you do these things to yourself," she said.

"This is nothing compared to what other people do to me," Mulder pointed out.  He wished he'd brought some of the Xanax with him.  He found he would rather face Skinner wasted than teary. Mulder told himself he better get hold of himself quick; there was a limit to how long the AD would stand outside his own office.  

Suddenly, he remembered that he was supposed to meet with X.  "Shit, what time is it?" he asked.

Scully looked at her watch and said, "Twenty past five."

"Ah, hell. I've got to get out of here," Mulder said.  He stood up and strode out of the office, brushing past Skinner on the way.  That was a solution to his problem--he'd just move too fast to talk to the guy.

He heard Skinner's, and then Scully's, footfalls behind him. "Agent Mulder, where are you going?" Skinner demanded. 

"I'm late for a meeting with my shadowy informant," Mulder called back.


When he got down to the parking garage it occurred to him that maybe this hadn't been such a great idea for a meeting place.  When he'd met X here before, it was during off hours when the place was nearly deserted.  Now it was 5:30 and agents were everywhere, getting into their cars.  

On a hunch, Mulder headed for one of the corners in deepest shadow, and sure enough, X was there, lurking.  There really wasn't any other word for it.  He also did not look pleased.

"I've been here over half an hour," he snapped, as Mulder approached.  

"I'm surprised nobody arrested you. Hanging out in dark corners while everyone else goes to their cars is not the way to be inconspicuous."

"And whose fault is that?" X demanded. 

"It was unavoidable," Mulder said. "I was stuck in a meeting with our respective bosses.  And I talked to Knowlton," he added.  Just mentioning it made him feel tired.  He hoped X wasn't able to tell he'd been crying.

The informant's expression showed neither contempt nor compassion.  However, he did begin to look interested.  "What did he say?" he asked.

"I'm meeting with him tomorrow, 9 p.m., the Jefferson Memorial," Mulder said.

"Why there?" X asked.  "It's isolated, there's cover.  It seems a poor choice."

"It was just what came to mind," Mulder admitted.

"You went with the first place that came to mind?" X asked.  "You put no thought into it?  You have to be the most suicidally stupid man I have ever met."

"Cut me some fucking slack, would you?" Mulder said, louder than he'd meant to.  

Now people really were looking at them.   Mulder felt his face flush.  

"Keep it quiet," X said, but the fury had left his voice.  Perhaps even for him there was such a thing as going too far.  "Very well.  9 o'clock tomorrow at the Jefferson Memorial.  Have you made arrangements with the representative of my organization you met with today?"

"No," Mulder confessed, truly beginning to feel suicidally stupid.  "I wouldn't talk to him."

X looked disgusted, but at least he kept his comments on the subject to himself.  "Then I strongly suggest you meet with both of us tomorrow morning, to coordinate our efforts.  You may be perfectly willing to wander out into the dark to play hide and seek with the Invisible Man, but I am not."

A cozy little brunch with Cancer Man.  Oh, joy.  "Scully and Skinner will have to be there," Mulder said.  "They want to come with me tomorrow night."

X did not look surprised.  He asked, "Can they be counted on to cooperate?  We won't catch Knowlton if we turn on one another."

"I think they'll be willing to do what it takes," Mulder said.  Then he added, more softly,  "I have it from Skinner that we'll turn Knowlton over to you if we catch him."

X actually looked a little startled.  "I think my associates will find that provision most agreeable.  It's so much extra effort to have to arrange a hit in a prison."  

Mulder wished X hadn't put it like that.  The expression, "conspiracy to commit murder" came to mind.

"You said you had video images," X prompted.

"In the car," Mulder said.  He turned on his heel and walked over to where he'd parked.  Scully stood on the far side of his car.  Even in her neat suit and long coat, she looked a little forlorn.  Mulder wondered if she were disappointed in him for working with his informant, or hurt that he'd run off and not waited for her.  He glanced up, met her eyes for a second, silently willing her to understand.  

Then he opened his car door and leaned across the seat to rummage in the glove compartment.  Mulder came out with a computer disk.  He'd labeled it "Minesweeper," after a popular time wasting game, since you never could be to careful.  He held it out to X, who looked extremely skeptical.

"This is not the same as pictures," he said.

Mulder wasn't sure if the man was pissed because he hadn't bothered to print them out, or if X was computer illiterate enough to be put off by images on a disk.  It had never before occurred to Mulder that X might have points of vulnerability too.

"Go to 'Start,' then 'Programs,' 'Photoshop,' 'File,' and 'Open.'  They're in JPEG format.  It's not hard," Mulder said.  X gave him a sour look but took the disk.

"10 a.m., Nana Jay's, on 18th Street, between Wyoming and Kalorama," X said.  "Do *not* be late this time," he said.  He turned and strode away, his trench coat rippling at his heels.  Somehow, Mulder wanted to hear Darth Vader's Theme as he stalked off.

Once the informant was out of earshot, Mulder turned to face Scully.  "I bet he's not going to refund me the price of the disk," he said.  

She didn't look amused.  "I don't trust that man," she said.  

"You shouldn't," he said.  "I don't trust any of them.  Still, in this case I think we do have a common goal."

"You *think?*" she asked.  "Jesus, Mulder, do you realize you're gambling with your *life?*"  Her clipped words hung in the air.  Most of the agents had gone home by now, but a few still filtered through, and they glanced over at Mulder and Scully.  What a tableau they must make -- her leaning toward him, tense and burning despite the parking garage's dim illumination, him gazing down at an oil stain by his shoe, scruffy and exhausted.  Mulder could just feel the rumor mill starting up again.  

"You mad at me?" he asked, softly.

"Am I *mad* at you?" she asked.  She seemed at a loss for words.  Mulder braced himself for a spectacular, public reaming.  Oh well, he thought.  Not like life could get much worse.

"I feel sick over what's happened to you," she said.  Her voice was quieter than he'd expected.  He glanced up at her.  "I don't want to watch you destroy yourself."  Tears shone in her eyes, and she seemed to be fighting for control.  

That set off every protective instinct he had.  He strode around the front of the car and caught her in his arms.  He didn't even want to *think* about the rumors that would be circulated in the break rooms, tomorrow.  "Fuck 'em," he thought.  If people wanted to call them "the Sex Files Unit" just because he was a man and she was a woman and they didn't date other people and they spent a lot of time alone in the basement together . . . well to hell with them.  

"I'm sorry.  I'm sorry.  I didn't want you dragged so far into this," he said softly.  "It's just that . . ."  The honest thing to say would be "I need you."  Could he say that?  Was it manipulative to say that he needed her support in a venture she deeply disapproved of?  He let the sentence trail off and just held her tight.  

He could see the whole crown of her head when he looked down.  "Coppertop," he teased her.  "You just keep on going, and going, and going . . ."  She made a sound between a sob and a giggle, then reached up to punch him in the arm.  It was the way a sister would have responded to a brother, or a third grade girl to a boy she had a crush on.  Fox found it didn't bother him at all.  He rocked her a little.  She deserved some soothing, after all she'd given him. 

Dana cried for perhaps five minutes.  She stepped back from him at last, and started rooting in her purse, presumably for Kleenex.  "I think you gave it to me," he said.

She glanced up at him.  Her mascara was running like sooty tears.  She wiped at her cheeks with her fingers, but that just smeared the makeup and gave her a waif-like, chimneysweep look.

Fox didn't think he'd ever felt such tenderness for her.  He lifted the hem of his T shirt and wiped her eyes.  Someone on the other side of the parking garage made a whistling noise.  

"Take it all off!" a woman shouted.  There was laughter.  Scully glanced aside, her face reddening. 

Fox flipped up his middle finger and tucked his hand behind the small of his back so the onlookers could see.

More laughter.  "You go, baby!" came another woman's voice.  The comment could have been directed at either Mulder or Scully.  "Go home," Fox said to Dana, softly.

"You shouldn't be alone, tonight," she answered, just as quietly.  Mulder opened his mouth to protest, but then it occurred to him that maybe *Scully* didn't want to be alone.  

"Okay," he said.  "I need to get something a little more dignified to wear for tomorrow.  You got a problem with me driving by my place?" he asked.  She shook her head.  "All right.  I'll meet you back at your apartment," he said.  While he doubted that Knowlton would drop by early, he still did not want either of them staying at his place.  "See ya," he said.

"See ya," she replied.  

Although there were few places in D.C. more secure than the Hoover Building's parking garage, Mulder stood and watched until Scully was safely in her car.


Mulder drove home feeling tired and ill.  He discovered that the landlord had replaced his lock core, so in theory he could tell Scully he'd changed his mind and just crash here.  The thought of sleeping in his own home for the first time in days was appealing.  However, he'd told her that he would go over, and she might need him, so he'd go.

Mulder fed his fish, and noted with satisfaction that they had not begun to eat one another from hunger.  He always felt a little guilty when they did that.  He changed into clean clothes and put together what he'd need for tomorrow.  He sighed when he saw that one zippered pocket of his overnight bag was now completely full of medication bottles.  

Resigned, he got back into the car and headed right back the way he'd just come, toward Annapolis.  Why the hell couldn't she live somewhere closer, he wondered?  It didn't occur to him that maybe he should move, instead. 

When he finally pulled into her parking lot, all he wanted to do was sleep.  His muscles ached, his insides were sore, and he could tell he had a fever.  He hoped he wouldn't act like an irrational jerk again tonight.  Guiltily, he found he hoped that Scully wouldn't need too much from him.  He felt like he was running on empty.

To his relief, she looked like her usual calm, collected self when she answered her door.  Of course Scully wasn't freaking out, he told himself.  He was the one who kept losing it.  Though self-confidence wasn't something he was usually short on, at the moment he felt like a Loser with a capital "L."  He walked in, put his stuff on a chair, and curled up on the couch.

"Have you eaten?" she asked.

He thought about this.  He looked at her VCR clock.  It was just before 7.  He would have to confront Knowlton in just over 24 hours.  With Cancer Man as backup.  Oh, holy fuck.  How did he get himself into these things?  He decided he'd better not dwell on what could happen tomorrow.  That way lay madness.  He remembered that Scully had asked him a question.  "I dunno," he managed.  Ah.  Apparently he was going to be an idiot again tonight.

"I'll take that as a 'no,'" she said, and he heard her open a kitchen cupboard.

It occurred to him that she'd been feeding him a lot lately.  "Hey, Scully, we could order pizza or something.  I've got money on me.  You don't need to let me eat you out of house and home."

"Tell you what, if you start chewing on the furniture, I'll tell you to stop it," she said.  "You want grilled cheese?  I've been wanting grilled cheese all day.  I don't know why.  I haven't had that in years."

"Childhood favorite?" Mulder guessed.

"Yeah," she admitted.  He heard her pulling bread out of a plastic wrapper.

"Wanna make a tent out of a blanket and some chairs and spill Kool Aid on the carpet?" he asked. 

She laughed, a little sadly, he thought.  "Not with the security deposit I had to put down.  Sometimes being an adult sucks, doesn't it?"

"Yeah," he said, and shut his eyes.  Being a kid had sucked, too, but he didn't want to get into that.

The next thing he was aware of was Scully waking him.  She laid a plate with a hot grilled cheese sandwich on it on the floor next to the couch, along with a paper napkin.

He sat up and took the plate over to the table.  They ate for a while in silence.  Mulder found the sandwich was very good.  He hadn't realized how hungry he was. He'd scarfed his before she was done with half of hers.

"You want another one?"  she asked.

He shook his head, feeling sleepy and a little dazed.  How did that song go?  "I have become comfortably numb."  Great.  Nothing like drugs and denial to take the edge off a guy.  He wondered if the Consortium would be thrilled.  

"How are you doing?" Scully asked.

"I'll live," Mulder answered.  "How are you?"

"All right," she said.  "Better, thank you."

"Good," he said.  He leaned down and rested his head in the crook of his arm.

"You look like you need to go to bed," Scully told him.

Mulder had dumped ketchup over his grilled cheese and now occupied himself by scraping up dabs of it on his fingers and sucking it off.  "You know what I wanna do?" he asked.

"What?" she replied.

"One day I'm going to write a book on the psychology of mutants."

"Oh," she said.  It did not seem to be what she expected him to say.   

"I mean, think of all the mutants we've run into.  For most of 'em, their physical abnormalities were the least of their problems."

"I don't know about that," Scully replied.  "I think being a giant flukeworm grown in toxic sludge would limit your opportunities in life."

"Oh man, I wasn't even thinking about that thing," Mulder said.  Suddenly, he didn't want to eat his ketchup anymore.  "I was thinking about Darin Oswald, about Knowlton.  I mean, what must it be like to know that you're -- you're 'different from other men?'  That's how the Smoking Man said Knowlton described himself."

"Everybody's different," Scully said.

"No," Mulder said.  "Not like Tooms was.  Well, he might not have been human enough to feel alienated.  Think of Modell, or Barnett, after the hand thing.  These are people who've been cut loose from society, and that's the trait that unites all kinds of violent criminals.  You once called Modell a 'little man.'  That's what these people are like.  They're loners, outsiders, looking for something to make them feel big." 

"That's your analysis of Knowlton?"  Scully spoke gently, but her expression was skeptical.

"Well, it's a pretty broad analysis," Mulder said.  "Everybody feels alienated sometimes.  The difference lies in what people choose to do about it."  He pushed himself up straight and said, "Oswald's an erotomaniac.  His life was so empty that he created this fantasy world around the only woman who was ever nice to him.  She was completely unavailable, but he couldn't see that.  Even after he'd nearly killed her husband, after he dragged her out of the hospital, frightened and crying, he was sure she had to love him back.  The illusion was that necessary to him.  I guess he -- he wanted to believe."

"Do you think Darin Oswald would have done to Mrs. Kiveat what Knowlton did to you?" Scully asked.

"Think we should call it Oswald's Syndrome?" he asked.  "Think that would please our little Darin?"

"Probably not," she said.

"No," he agreed.  "I don't remember Oswald having any priors, but if he'd gotten in trouble for breaking and entering, maybe peeping Tom behavior, then I'd say he was a pretty good candidate to become a Power Reassurance Rapist.  That's the kind that thinks his victim likes it.  That's the kind who sometimes calls on a victim more than once."

"And you think that's what Knowlton is?" Scully asked.

"I think he's got a lot in common with that type.  He's got ... things in common with the Sadistic Rapist type, too.  That'd be like--" he nearly said, "Donnie Pfaster," and then mentally bit his tongue.  That was a name he tried not to mention around Scully.  What he actually said was, "Gary Heidnik or Jeffrey Dahmer.  With that type control is everything.  They're terror artists.  Everything they do is aimed at total possession of the victim."

She bent her head.  Mulder was unsure the gesture was one of fatigue or grief.  Perhaps it was both.  "How could he torture you that way and think that you enjoyed it?"  She asked.  The question sounded almost rhetorical, like the things one says to God, but he attempted to answer.

"Carl Wade thought he loved the girls he kept chained in his basement.  He thought he was 'taking care' of them.  Well -- I guess that doesn't address the bigger question, 'why?'  As in, 'why do these things happen?'  I don't know the answer to that one."

She lifted her head and he saw the hard glint of tears in her eyes.  "I'm sorry," he said.  Couldn't he even open his mouth without making someone else miserable?

"It's all right," she said.  She reached out and wrapped her small, warm fingers around his.  "It's not you."

She seemed to be implying that she would have been sad whether Mulder was there or not.  This contradicted his impression that she'd been all right at the time he showed up, but he didn't challenge her.

Instead he managed a smile and said, "I think I'll turn in, if you don't mind.  Wouldn't want to keep cancer Man waiting in the morning." 
"Sure," she said.

He got up and went into the bathroom to wash.  The place had a nice, herbal smell.  He looked at himself in the mirror.  His reflection was skinnier and more haggard-looking than he remembered.  There were dark smudges beneath his bloodshot eyes and his T-shirt was wrinkled.  "Jesus, you look like you spent all night in a bus station," he thought.  His hair was getting too long on top, too, like Krycek's stupid-ass haircut.  Angrily, Mulder ran his free hand under the sink tap and plastered his bangs back over the top of his head. 

"You are not going to lose your identity over this," he ordered himself.  "Knowlton can fuck you, he can even kill you, but he can't destroy you.  The whole world's been trying to do that for years, and it hasn't worked yet.  You're still you.  Nothing's changed." 

It wasn't true.

It wasn't just Knowlton who had made him question his selfhood.  Accepting the drugs from Najar had been very hard.  He'd worked with dozens of patients on medication when he was a psyche intern, and had never looked down on them.  But it was different when it was himself.

He brushed his teeth and glanced at the closed bathroom door.  He didn't want to go out there yet.  Ordinarily he went running when he needed to think, but even Mulder wasn't stupid enough to run now.  He still sometimes found blood spots on his underwear, and he hadn't done anything more athletic than plunk into a few chairs and occasionally yield to the necessities of nature.  Which itself was a new species of hell.  He sighed and stripped off his clothes.  He turned on the fan and the shower water.  Once he found a good temperature he hopped in.

Either he was less feverish than yesterday or he'd turned the water on hotter, because it didn't make him shiver.  He didn't use Scully's Body Gel this time, either.  He'd been smart enough to bring actual soap in a Ziploc bag and his own shampoo, which was supposed to have conditioner built in.  It didn't leave his hair feeling as soft as Scully's, but it also didn't make him smell like a damn flower bed. 

"So," he thought to himself as he ran the soap bar over his body.  "So you got fucked and you're on drugs, now.  What is this going to mean?  That you're a failure?"

He heard the ghost of an old, angry voice in his mind: "What's the matter with you, boy?  Your baby sister could do better than that.  Jesus Christ, try to act like a man."

The dry, profiler voice replied, "What were my options?"  Madness, was the answer.  Madness and helplessness, and those were unacceptable.  He'd taken the pills, and he did feel a little less hysterical today.

"Forgive me," his father had said, just before he died. 

He squeezed his eyes shut against the memory, failed to keep it out.  He'd cradled Bill Mulder's body in his arms, the man who'd raised him, who'd cared for him, who'd beaten him. 

In the vision Fox had while he lay near-dead in the New Mexico desert, his father had said, "If you are to continue, the things you will discover will destroy me."

Fox had loved his dad, and he'd hated him, but he didn't want the responsibility of destroying him.  He put down the soap and pressed his hands to his eyes.  He'd wanted his father and sister so badly when he was at his mother's house.  Still, what could they have done for him?  With Samantha, it was impossible to say.  She'd been tiny, only eight years old, when she vanished.  Depending on what she'd been through, Sam could be almost anyone by now.  If she was alive.  Of course she had to be alive.  She had to be.  That tragedy could not be irreversible. 

Trying to turn his mind aside from that abyss, he wondered what his father would say, if he could.  Fox wanted him to say that it was all right, that what had happened wasn't Fox's fault.  He wanted his father's embrace, his comforting . . . as if.  Bill had never been comfortable giving physical affection to his son.  It had been a minor miracle that he'd agreed to hug Fox on the night he'd died, a miracle Fox was humiliatingly grateful for.

Fox gave in to his sorrow and cried for his family -- for the whole, terrible world.


Dana poised to rinse the grease off her plate in the kitchen sink, then stopped.  She could hear the shower running in the next room.  She'd grown up in houses where you couldn't run water without torturing the person in the shower.  She'd also lived alone too long to be sure what would happen if she turned the sink tap on.  She ended up leaving the dirty dish on the counter. 

She wandered into the living room, thinking she'd catch any news there was.  She had the remote in her hand when she heard Mulder cry out.  The sound froze her in her tracks.  She hoped to God that he wasn't experiencing massive hemorrhage.

She knocked hard on the bathroom door and asked, "Mulder, are you okay?"

No response.  She put her hand on the knob, found it didn't turn.  She didn't like that at all.  Dana grabbed a butter knife from the kitchen and pressed it into the knob slot.  She twisted and it popped right open. 

"Mulder . . ." she called out, pushing the door in.  Swirls of steam inside.  She recalled him miming a gunshot to his head.  Oh, God, she'd left her razors in there . . . 

"Mulder?"  When she still got no answer she swept the shower curtain aside, needing to know, afraid of what she'd find. 

Mulder stood in the shower with one arm was wrapped around his chest.  Dana looked down, saw no rivulets of blood on the bathtub floor.  Oh, thank God.  He slowly lifted his other palm and turned away from her.

Suddenly she was ashamed.  "I'm sorry, Mulder," she said softly.  "I'm so sorry.  I was afraid . . ."

She could see why he hadn't answered her.  He was crying too hard. 

She let the curtain fall closed and after a moment she heard the water shut off. 

"You don't have to get out because of me," she said, backing off.  She'd managed to further violate a man who'd been raped.  Scully didn't think she could have felt worse if she'd physically kicked him. 

Mulder reached out from behind the shower curtain and grabbed a towel from the bar on the wall.  Moments later he emerged, the towel tied tightly around his hips.  He had regained his composure somewhat, and he sat carefully on the wet edge of the tub.  "You figured I was gong to off myself?" He asked, his voice hoarse.

"You're stronger than that," she said, but her cheeks burned and she couldn't meet his eyes.

"You don't . . ." he began, "you don't think less of me, because I went to see a psychiatrist, do you?  Because I've got medication?"

She looked over at him, incredulous.  "No, no of course not," she said.

He nodded and gazed down at the floor, his hair dripping on his toes.  He looked exhausted.  She got the impression he was being beaten down, by shame and anxiety and the relentless criticism in his own head. 

Oh, she would kill John Knowlton, the "Invisible Man," or whatever his name was, if he broke her friend.  Much as Mulder's perverse determination sometimes frustrated her, the thought of him without it filled her with grief.  "Mulder  . . ." she began, uncertain what to say.  Encouragement against impossible odds was Mulder's forte, not hers.  If he had run out of reasons to keep fighting, what could she tell him?   "Mulder, have you ever read Azimov's 'Foundation' series?" she asked, at last.

That got him to glance over at her.  "Yeah," he said.

"You remember Stars' End?  The lighthouse at the edge of the known universe?" she asked.  She thought he gave her a suspicious look. 

"What about it?" he asked.

She had to turn away as she spoke.  "That's like you," she said.  "You're this light way out in the darkness.  If you let them put you out . . . the rest of us will never find our way to that unexplored space."

Silence for a long time.  Scully felt her face flush even hotter.  She shouldn't have spoken like that.  It was a stupid metaphor.  Probably he felt as embarrassed as she did.

She was surprised by the sudden tension in his muscles, the hand that lifted to his eyes.  "And here I figured you thought the 'Foundation' series was about makeup," he said.

She managed a squeak of outrage, lifted a hand to bop him on the head, and ended up wrapping her arms around him instead. 

As the fan cooled the room he started to shiver, and she finally pulled back and said, "Why don't you put something on and get into bed?" she asked.

He glanced up at her.  She read in his expression the temptation to say something filthy, then the decision not to.  He looked away.  "It's your house," he said.  "You get to sleep in the bed."

Scully looked at him, saw he was exhausted and half naked and cold.  He needed sleep, needed to be somewhere comfortable and warm.  She couldn't tell him that.  As soon as she said the words, "You need," his hackles would go up. 

"I need," she began instead, and found those words were hard to say.  Perhaps she was more like Mulder than she'd thought.  "I need you to be safe tonight.  I'll feel better if I know you're comfortable."

He looked at her, looked away again.  "But . . . but if I kick you out of your own bed I'll feel like an asshole," he said.

"What if I lay on top of the covers next to you, until you fell asleep?" she offered.  "I wouldn't touch you, I'd just--"

"You'd just be there?" he interrupted.

"Yeah," she said.

He took a long time thinking about it.  "Okay," he said at last.  "Let me get dressed."

"Yeah, sure," she said, standing.  She left the room and closed the door. 


Later, Dana wandered into her bedroom, saw Mulder's body limned faintly in the orange streetlight glow that crept through the cracks of her blinds.  He had, of course, appropriated both pillows.  His breathing was deep and even.  As she'd promised, she lay down on the comforter next to him.  Fox stirred, glanced up at her, then snuggled close. 

She tugged at the extra pillow.  He relinquished it willingly, but when she rested her cheek against the case she felt the dampness of recent tears.  Oh, dear.  Dana put her right arm around Mulder's shoulders.  He returned the embrace, pressed his face into the crease between her breast and biceps.

"It's all right," she assured him.  "I'm here.  Go back to sleep."  She stroked his hair with her free hand, found it was still damp with washing.

"Sing to me," he said, suddenly.

Startled and rather embarrassed, she said, "You don't want me to do that."

"Yes, I do," he argued.

Oh, hell.  Dana couldn't sing worth a damn.  "No, you really don't," she insisted.  "I don't even know any songs."

"You used to be a Girl Scout, didn't you?  You have to know some songs."

"Yeah, like the 'Eensy Beensy Spider,'" she said.

"So?" he asked. 

Oh, crap.  He really wanted to be sung to.  She couldn't blame him; Dana had loved it when her mother sang to her, when she was small.  An old, old tune began to filter through her head.  Like the most ancient of Irish lullabies, it was a lament.  "It's Gaelic," she warned him.

"So what?"

"It's depressing,"
"Even better," he said.

She began a song that was sometimes called "Buttermilk Hill," which she only knew in a corrupted, Irish/English form:

"Siubhal, siubhal, siubhal a run. 
Siubhal go sochair, argus siubhal go cum. 
Siubhal go den duras, argus eligh liom,
Is go de to, mo muirnin slan.

I sold my flax, I sold my wheel,
To buy my love a sword of steel
So it in battle he might wield,
Johnny's gone for a soldier."

Dana wended her way through the verses she knew, until she thought Mulder was asleep.  She brushed his hair with her fingertips. 
He stirred, then asked, "What does that mean?"

"What does what mean?"

"Your song.  The 'Shule aroon' part."

"Oh," she said.  "I was told it means, 'Walk to me, love, walk to my door and run away with me."

"Very romantic," he said.  He sounded as if he meant it. 

Suddenly embarrassed, she explained, "It's a traditional song, handed down from the end of the 17th century.  I seem to recall that it's a protest against William and Mary of Orange.  The English words were written around the time of the Civil War."

"American, or English?" Fox asked.  Trust an Oxford grad . . .

"American," Scully said. 

"Ah," said Mulder.  "It's very pretty."`

"I've always liked it," she said.

He was quiet after that.  Lulled by the soft rhythm of his breath, Dana became drowsy herself.  Although she hadn't intended it, they fell asleep in each other's arms.


Some hours later, Fox startled awake with a gasp.  It took a few moments for the nightmare images to fade and for him to orient himself.  Dana was still curled next to him; there was sunlight in the room.  He struggled to sit up and peer over her at the clock.  Just before eight.  Holy crap.  He'd been dead asleep for 12 hours.  Actually, he felt like he could easily sleep the rest of the day.  As if.  He needed to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for breakfast with Cancer Man. 

Scully blinked sleepily at him as he dropped back onto the pillow.  She turned to look at the clock as well, and said, "Oh."

"Yeah, 'oh,'" Mulder agreed, rubbing his sore eyes with the heels of his palms. 

"Did you have a nightmare?" she asked.

He sighed.  "I was having this dream," he said.  "You and me were in it, and a bunch of people that I knew in the dream, but I don't really.  We were like . . . out in the middle of Kansas or something, way out on the prairie.  There were these cyclones touching down all around us, and the only building out there was this house that had no doors.  There was great big windows all over it, too, lots of glass, and we're all thinking, 'What the fuck? What are we going to do?'" 

"A house without doors is a pretty good metaphor for someone who's been violated," Dana said gently.  "What happened when the storm hit?"

"Actually, it didn't.  Instead a bunch of zeppelins showed up and all these Nazi frogmen paratroopers jumped out with flame throwers."

"Oh," she said.

"They started setting fire to everything, and there was this kind of televangelist guy controlling them with orders over a microphone.  We were shooting at 'em and some of the other people were throwing stuff, and this one guy, all he had was a garbage can lid, and he was trying to keep them off with that.  Just before one of 'em torched me, I woke up."

"Do you have dreams like this often?" she asked.  She sounded as if the thought worried her.

"Oh no, no," he said.  "Well . . . I don't think I've ever had a dream about cyclones before.  I see the Nazi frogmen all the time."

"I see," she said.  There didn't seem to be much else to say.

Fox gazed up at the ceiling for a few moments and then said, dreamily, "You know what the weirdest thing was?"

"What was the weirdest thing?"

"They used to fill zeppelins with hydrogen.  You'd have to be insane to take a flame thrower up in one of those things."

She just looked at him for about a count of three.  "Well, I'm getting up," she said, and rolled to her feet.  Fox curled into the warm spot she'd left and felt a little sad. 

"I'm making toast, you want anything?" she called to him.

He remembered what he was supposed to do that day and nearly said, "A .38 to the head," but stopped himself.  If he wasn't careful, she really would call the Nice Young Men in the Clean White coats.  "No," he said, then recalled that if he didn't eat before he took his antibiotic, he'd be sick.  "Yes," he said.  "Toast will be fine."

She leaned around the bedroom door and said, "Are you sure you're okay?"

"'Okay' does not in any way do justice to the way I feel," Mulder said.

"You don't have to do this, you know," she said.  "You could let Skinner and me handle it.

"No," he said, rolling over to gaze at the light filtering through Scully's blinds.  "It's my problem.  It's my fight.  Besides, this is my only crack at Knowlton.  Or whatever his name is."

"Hmm," she said.  She sounded unhappy, but she didn't scold him.  "You want white toast or rye?"


He thought about this.  It seemed too momentous a decision at the moment.  "Burn the hell out of it and I won't know the difference," he said.


The cross-streets X had given them were in the Adams - Morgan district of Washington, once a low-status community of working-class immigrants, now fashionable in the multicultural 90's.  The restaurants on 18th street were famously good and increasingly expensive.  There was also never anywhere to park.  Scully guided the car through tangled streets while Mulder glanced anxiously at her dashboard clock.  9:51, it said.  They would probably be on time.  He wasn't sure if this was a good thing or a bad thing.  T minus 11 hours and nine minutes until the scheduled meeting with Knowlton.

She finally found a place to park -- probably illegally -- in the lot of a tall, brick apartment building a couple blocks away from their destination.  He hopped out as soon as the car stopped moving.  He was craving sunflower seeds, even a cigarette -- good God, he'd given that up years ago -- anything to keep his hands occupied.  He settled for jamming them in the pockets of his trousers.  He was clean, shaved, dressed in a suit and his most subdued tie.  Feeling professional would help him act professional.  Or so he hoped.  He'd taken no Xanax or codeine that morning, since he wanted to avoid the dopey, weepy state he'd been in recently.  At worst, skipping the drugs would leave him jittery and in pain.  This would probably make him homicidal, which might actually be adaptive behavior in the current situation.  He wondered if it would be better if he were taking Prozac instead of Zoloft.  Didn't Prozac make people homicidal?

Scully shut off the engine and got out.  "You all right?" she asked, walking over to him.  She was also wearing the outfit that screamed "FBI Agent" the most loudly, a knee length navy skirt and blazer, matching shoes, white blouse.  Well.  The Syndicate could say a lot of things about the X Files Unit, but they couldn't call them sloppy.

Mulder shrugged in answer to her question.  "If I say 'yes,' you won't believe me.  If I say 'no,' you'll haul my ass home and call Werber."

"Should I?" she asked.  She appeared deadly serious.  "Is that how distressed you are?"

He looked away from her.  "I need to do this," he said softly.  "This thing started with me, I want it to end with me."  He strode off across the parking lot, both afraid and eager to meet his foe.  No -- his temporary allies.  Shit.

After a few paces Scully caught up with him and grabbed his elbow.  He realized that she'd been calling to him.  "What?" he asked, slightly annoyed.
 
"The restaurant is *that* way," she said, pointing in the opposite direction.

Oh.  "I knew that," he said.  She walked back the way they'd come, and Mulder hoped that he was inconspicuous about following her lead. 

The building fronts on 18th street were mostly turn-of-the-century brick, tall and narrow with lots of windows.  Nana Jay's occupied the lower floor of one such building. The place smelled good.  Apparently X knew how to choose his restaurants.  Even at an off-hour like 10 a.m., the sidewalk tables were all taken and there seemed to be a line inside.  Mulder and Scully waited just inside the glass door. 

Once they moved forward a bit, Mulder caught a glimpse of X, who was sitting by himself in a corner booth.  Mulder tapped Scully's shoulder and they slid through the crowd.  Once they got close he noticed the "Thank You For Not Smoking" tent card that sat upon the table.  He touched it as he slid in next to the informant and said, "I'm starting to like you." 

"Please keep such comments to yourself," X said.

Scully looked completely bewildered. 

"I think he protests too much," Mulder told her. 

X's lips pressed into a tight line, then he seemed to spot someone in the crowd at the entrance way.  "Your superior," he said. 

Mulder and Scully glanced up.  Skinner stood in the doorway, looking perplexed.

"Sir!"  Scully called out, half standing and waving her hand. "Sir!"

Skinner did eventually look their way and walked over.  Like X, he was wearing a long coat despite the heat.  Mulder wondered if this was some kind of fashion conspiracy.  Skinner settled himself next to Scully, leaving only one place, on the far side of X, conspicuously vacant. 

"Where's your boss?" Skinner asked the informant.

X raised his eyebrows and said, "I'm hardly his keeper."

All three Federal Agents checked their watches.  Mulder's said it was 10:05.  Not very late, but late.  He wondered if Cancer Man had been unable to find a place to park, or if his tardiness was just a big "fuck you."

"I say we begin without him," Skinner said.  "What safeguards do your people have in place to protect my agents?"

Mulder was embarrassed about being spoken for, and he began, "Sir, I--" but a look from Skinner silenced him. 

X seemed equally uncomfortable.  His gaze kept slipping over toward the empty seat and the doorway.  "I would rather not discuss matters of substance until all the relevant parties are here," he said. 

"If you're not your own man, if you've got to wait on your smoking friend, I understand," Skinner said.  He looked anything but understanding.  Actually, the AD looked downright poisonous.  Mulder wondered if this was how they taught agents to interrogate subjects back in the good old days. 

Skinner's sneering hostility was clearly doing its work on X's pride.  The informant narrowed his eyes and every muscle in his shoulders tensed, as if he were preparing to spring.  In the end, he seemed to master himself and relaxed a little.  "I *am* my own man," he said, with dangerous softness.  "When my 'smoking friend' deigns to grace us with his presence, you may feel free to explain the proceedings from the beginning."

"Done," Skinner said.  "I repeat, what means do you have in place to ensure Agent Mulder's safety?  Why should I let a good agent, who's already on medical leave, be put in a dangerous situation?"

Mulder startled and looked over at him.  It had never occurred to him that Skinner would not "let" him help bring in Knowlton.

"Sir," Mulder began again, but this time Scully gave his arm a vigorous pinch.  "Ow, would you quit it?" Mulder whispered to her, but she continued to look over at the AD, as if completely engrossed in what he was saying.

"My organization has some of its best people on call for this evening," X said.

"'Best,' how?" Skinner asked.  "Best wardrobe?  Best personality?  I want to make sure we all agree as to our priorities-- " he stopped when X suddenly turned toward the doorway.  The Smoking man sauntered in, minus his usual smoldering Morley.

"Sorry," the Smoking Man said, as he settled himself in the booth next to X.  "I was outside finishing my cigarette."  His pale eyes slid over to glare at X, but the informant held his gaze without wavering.

"The Assistant Director has volunteered to catch you up on the meeting so far," X said.

"Your 'associate' here was dodging my questions, that's what's happened so far," Skinner said.  X's lips pressed tight together and he gave Skinner a scanning look, as if memorizing him for some future hit. 

Cancer Man glanced at X, then back at Skinner.  "Dodging your questions about what?" he asked.

"Where our respective priorities lie," Skinner said.  "You want to catch this former employee of yours.  Fine.  I want to protect a couple of my better agents.  What assurance do I have that I'm not sending Mulder and Scully into some kind of death trap?"

"None," the Smoking Man said, mildly.  "All dealings with violent criminals are potential death traps, or hadn't you noticed?"

"I mean a trap set by *your* people," Skinner said.

"Ah," said the Smoking Man.  "So you think this is all a double-cross."

"Maybe," Skinner said.  "You're sure not falling over yourselves to convince me otherwise."

Cancer Man gazed at him a moment or two from beneath lowered lids.  His expression was unreadable.  "If you think about it, I could have ordered Knowlton -- or someone like him -- to kill Mulder and Scully ages ago, if I wished it.  As I recall, Knowlton had no difficulty getting access to Mulder's hotel room, and met with little, if any, resistance inside."  He shifted his gaze to Mulder as he spoke the last words.

Mulder clenched his fists and half rose out of his seat.  "What do you think I was supposed to do about it, you son of a bitch -- " he began, but Scully, and to his surprise, X, each grabbed one of his shoulders and forced him to sit again.  The impact hurt.  "Don't even touch me," Mulder snapped at X, and violently shrugged his hand off.  People were staring at them from across the room and whispering.  The greeter at the door looked worried, as if she was debating calling the cops.

X narrowed his eyes and hissed, "Don't be any stupider than you are, any of you."  He looked around the table, his gaze encompassing all three federal agents and the Smoking Man.  "This is not a situation in which we can bicker or try to settle old scores.  If we can't cooperate, some or all of us will end up dead.  I don't know about *you,*" he said, looking directly at Mulder, "but I'm against that idea."

Just then a stocky African American woman with graying hair strode over to their table.  She wore a loose floral print dress and sensible shoes.  Mulder suspected that this was Nana Jay herself.  She stopped in front of their table and planted her hands on her hips.  "Is there a problem over here?" she demanded.

"Things are under control," X assured her.  She looked at him, frowned a bit and then suddenly seemed to place him.

To Mulder's utter shock, she burst into a wide smile.  "Well, hel-lo," she said.  "What brings you out here after all this time?"

"Business," was all X said, but he did give the woman a slight smile.

"Mm hm," she said, sounding skeptical.  "I heard about the kind of business you in."

"And what would that be?" X asked.  If he was nervous about her blowing his cover he didn't show it.

"Getting yourself killed," she replied.  "No good will ever come of you hanging around the likes of him."  She pointed at Cancer Man.

"I'm sorry, have we met?" the Smoking Man asked mildly.

"Have we met," she repeated derisively.  "You stick out like a sore thumb, snooping and spying around here."

"Ma'am, I apologize," Skinner began.  "We didn't mean any offense.  We're just trying to conduct a meeting here."

"Hmm," she said, looking at him with obvious disapproval.  "You watch your mouth," she said, turning to point her finger at Mulder.

Mulder swallowed, quite thoroughly mortified.  "I'm sorry, I got angry.  I shouldn't have," he said.

"Everything's under control here, Nana Jay," X said, "but if you prefer, we can leave."

She gave them displeased looks all around, and finally said, "As long as you act like ladies and gentlemen, you're welcome.  None of my business what you do for a living."  Mulder realized that she must think they were all Syndicate members.  "One other thing," she said, pointing at Cancer Man, "you will *not* smoke in my non-smoking section."  With that she turned and swept off.

There was an uncomfortable silence at the table for a few seconds.  "Well, that was entertaining," the Smoking Man said.  He did look almost amused.

"So much for keeping a low profile," Scully muttered.

Mulder turned to X and said, "You implied that you had a plan."  He wanted to get this meeting over as soon as possible.

"My idea was to have my own people and Agents Scully and Skinner at the Memorial some time in advance, as soon as it's dark enough for the surrounding trees to provide good cover.  I understand that it's supposed to rain tonight, so it should get dark early," said X

Mulder heard Scully say, "Great."

"Agent Mulder will arrive just before the scheduled time, and wait in the lighted area of the Memorial.  I suggest that he wear a wire.  If nothing else, if we lose contact with him we may assume that Knowlton is using his power over electricity, and that we must use caution."  To Mulder's surprise no one challenged the idea that Knowlton had such power. 

"Then what?" Scully asked. 

"Mulder will lead Knowlton into the Memorial itself.  The walls will obstruct Knowlton's view of the area and he will be easier to surround.  We ought to place an operative in each of the Memorial's openings and station others at the perimeter of the steps.  Once Knowlton enters the building, we start to move in."

"And if he wipes the minds of all these operatives and walks away?" asked the Smoking Man.

"If you have a better suggestion I'd like to hear it," X said.

The Smoking Man just gave him a thin-lipped smile.


Their brunch probably would have tasted better if it wasn't so quiet.


By the time they got back to her apartment, Dana knew Mulder was running a fever.  His face was pale and his eyes had an odd, glazed look.  He changed into his T-shirt and jeans as soon as they got in, and then paced around the living room, rummaging though his bags to no apparent purpose.  She sensed his fear, his exhaustion, and his barely-contained rage at the world.  Dana suspected was in for a difficult afternoon.

"I figured I'd go back home for a few hours," he said.  "The lock on the door's fixed and since I have a time and place to meet Knowlton, I don't think he'll bother me."  He didn't look up at her as he said it.  He clearly expected her to disapprove.

"What's back home?" she asked.

"You know . . . stuff."  He tried to jam all his medication bottles into one pocket of his bag and found they wouldn't go.  He ended up pitching them all into the main compartment, where he certainly wouldn't be able to find anything.

"I'd rather you weren't alone right now," she said.  When he didn't answer she added, "You're sick, you're upset and you just started a course of psychiatric medication.  Actually, I'd prefer it if you didn't even drive."

"Yeah, well, you can't always get what you want."

Scully looked up at the ceiling and counted to ten.  "What do you want, Mulder?" she asked at last.  "What do you get out of driving yourself until you're sick and exhausted?  Are you trying to go out in some blaze of martyred glory?"

"Yeah.  It's better to burn out than fade away," he said.  He pitched his bag of toiletries onto the couch. 

"Fine."  Scully said, turning her back on him.  "Fine, whatever."  Then she thought about it and realized it was *not* fine.  She rounded on him and said, "When are you going to realize that you are not the only person in the world who's hurting?"  The anger in her voice at least got him to stop and look at her.  "It's like you think you're this little island and nothing that happens to you touches anybody else.  How do you think your mom would feel if she knew you were using yourself as bait to catch a mutant killer?  How do you think *I* feel?  I've been helping you out with this plan because I couldn't think of anything better.  I shouldn't even have done as much as I did.  I was probably remiss as a doctor and a friend by not sending you to a hospital the minute your temperature spiked." 

"Scully, don't treat me like some kind of convalescent--"

"Mulder you *are* a convalescent.  I'm not trying to offend your sense of manhood.  I'm just pointing out a reality.  I don't think you should go tonight.  You've gotten Knowlton to agree to show up, which was extremely brave and resourceful of you.  Let Skinner and I do the rest."

"I can't," Mulder said.

"Why not?" she asked.

He sighed and some of the tension left his shoulders.  Finally he said, "When I was a New Agent at the ISU, I interviewed this guy who was doing time for lust murder.  One of the smartest criminals I ever met.  I asked him whether he'd ever taken anything from his victims -- kind of as a souvenir.  Most killers like him do, and the cops had been going nuts looking for his stash.  He laughed at me when I asked.  He said, 'You know what I like to take from a girl?  I take her essence.  Once she's dead, she's all mine.  What do I need her stupid pantyhose for?'  That's what a rapist wants.  To own his victim.  When somebody like Knowlton calls a person up in the middle of the night, just to harass them, he's trying to possess them through fear.  He wants to be a part of their every waking moment.  I'll be damned if I let him do that to me."

Scully smoothed her hair back from her forehead in a half-conscious soothing gesture.  When he put it that way she understood, but she didn't feel any better.  "You want to get this man off the street.  I want to keep you alive and unharmed.  Those goals shouldn't be mutually exclusive.  I'll help you with this sting operation," she said.

"If . . .?" he asked, looking suspicious.

"If you take my advice on your health, and not just use me as a backup gun.  I *won't* blindly follow orders that'll get you killed."

Mulder sighed, seemed to relent.  "You want me to go to bed, don't you?" he asked.

"How well are you going to fight if you're exhausted and sick?" she pointed out.  Nothing like a little enlightened self-interest to put things in perspective.  "I want you to do three things," she said. "Take your medication.  Call up Janet and get an appointment as soon as possible so she can check that fever out.  Get some rest before you go to the Memorial tonight.  If you'll do that, I'll shut up and do everything I can to help you bring in this Invisible Man."

His face took on the sad, far-away expression he got whenever she told him she cared for him.  He turned soulful hazel eyes up to meet hers and said, "You promise you'll shut up?"

She repressed an urge to pitch a couch pillow at him.  "Girl Scout's honor," she said, and gave him the three-fingered Scout solute.

Mulder returned the gesture, but then he folded down his first and third fingers.  He gave her an evil grin despite the water in his eyes.


He did take a nap, though.


When Scully gently shook Mulder awake the room was dimmer than he remembered it.  The light filtering through the blinds was slate gray and he could hear the faint patter of raindrops on the window. 

"It's seven thirty," Scully she told him.  "I'm getting ready to go."

"Fuck . . ." he said, hauling himself into a sitting position.  "This early?"

"It's a twenty-minute ride to the city," she said.  "I'm supposed to be there before it's dark.  By the way, your friend dropped by while you were sleeping and said to give you this."  She pressed some small metal object into his hand.

He looked at it.  "A tie clip," he said.  "How thoughtful."  He knew a wire when he saw one and was sure Scully did too, so he didn't bother mentioning it.  "It's an ugly tie clip, too."  Actually, it wasn't; it was an understated little gold diamond with a faint cross-hatch pattern etched into it.  Probably very tasteful, for people who liked that sort of thing.  It was just that everything to do with the Consortium was ugly on principle.  "Who's going to be on the other end of this thing?" he asked.

"I told the man who gave it to me that Skinner and I would expect to have pickups, and he assured me that some of his 'best people' would be listening in as well."

"Uh huh.  Just what I always wanted."  He got up and said, "Well, I guess I might as well make myself presentable.  Wouldn't want a gang of international murderers to think I'm a slob."

He was heading for her bathroom when she said, "Mulder . . ." and he stopped and turned.  She looked down and away from him.  The pale light from the window cast the scene in grays, like a charcoal drawing.  "Please be careful," she said at last, very quiet.

"Oh, yeah.  Yeah," he assured her.  He stepped forward to brush his fingertips under her chin and gently lifted her face.  There was a moment of electrifying eye contact, then they both turned away. 

Mulder cleared his throat, gazing at some imaginary object by his foot.  "I mean, I only get one life, right?" he asked.  "It's not like I'm going to throw it away on this."

"Good," she said.  She did not look up at him again, but she ran her fingers over his hand as she walked past him and out the door.


At a little before 9 p.m. Mulder had no difficulty finding a parking place by the Jefferson Memorial.  The rain had stopped, mostly, but a fine mist had risen from the tidal basin, making haloes around the sodium lamps.  The dome of the Memorial itself was washed in a luminous blue glow, cast by the lights that ringed the lower tier of the roof.  It was a short hike around the sodden lawn to the front steps.

The building's foreskirts were empty.  Floodlights set along the water illuminated every step, every well-groomed hedge.  The waist-high cement flower beds cast strange, multiple shadows.  Fox looked up and saw there were breaks in the clouds.  A few hardy stars and a sickle moon shone through the city light pollution.  "It's all right," he told himself.  "After tonight, it's over." 

Ha.  As if.  He ascended the first set of steps, trying to scan the surrounding tree cover with being obvious about it.  Nothing moved.  As far as he could tell, he was alone.  Scully and Skinner wouldn't abandon him, would they?

He remembered what Cancer Man had said: "So you think this is all a set up."

Too late to worry about that now.  Fox had a 9 mm in his shoulder holster and a snub-nosed .38 in a special holster at his ankle.  The .38 was heavier than it looked, and he had to resist the urge to pull his sock up. 

"God, if you're listening," he thought to a deity he wasn't sure he believed in, "I don't want to die here.  I don't want . . ." he found he was unable, even in his mind, to name the horrors he didn't want.  "Just give me the strength to do  . . . whatever it is I have to do, okay?" 

As he finished this rough prayer, he reached the Memorial's uppermost step.  Fox leaned against one of the towering white columns and gazed out over the tidal pool.  The lights from the Mall were visible over the canopy of trees.  The basin itself was cloaked in fog.

The view reminded him of something.  Oxford, seen from across the Thames?   No.  He shook his head, trying to clear a sudden wave of dizziness.  What had he been thinking about, again?  He wasn't sure.

"Hello, love."  Fox jumped and grabbed for his gun.  A strong hand caught his wrist and then another clamped onto his shoulder.  Fox was spun around, lost his balance and fell to his knees.  His right hand got pinned behind his back and he narrowly escaped smacking his head against the cement by throwing his left hand out in front of him. 

The pain of his scraped hand seeped through the adrenaline rush, along with the sensation of body heat against his back. 

Oh, God, no.  Not again.  "Don't, please don't," Fox protested, before he could stop himself. 

"Don't?" Knowlton asked.  Who else could it be but Knowlton?  The soft, unplaceable drawl was there, the tone somewhere between flirting and mocking.  "Don't what?"

Fox cried out involuntarily. "Please don't do this."  The cruel twisting against his shoulder joint increased.  His eyes teared.  The profiler voice in his mind told him to say, "Not out in public."

Fox got no reply for a few, terrifying seconds.  "All right, love," Knowlton said at last.  He wrenched the 9 mm from Mulder's grasp and slammed his pelvis into the agent's buttocks.  Knocked forward, Mulder had to straighten up quickly to avoid getting his teeth smashed into the cement. 

Afterward, Fox slowly got his feet under him and stood.  "Would you let my hand go?" he asked, mildly.  "I won't cause any more trouble."

"You won't, eh?" Knowlton asked.  "What's my guarantee of that?"

"I'm sorry," Fox said.  "You startled me.  I wasn't sure who you were."

"Mm-hm," said Knowlton.  "And just how many men do you meet out here?"

"On purpose?  Only you," Fox said.  Actually, it was true.  "But I meet people by accident all the time."

"There are no accidents," Knowlton said, but he released Mulder's arm.  Mulder gripped his shoulder to try and rub some circulation back into it.

"Perhaps not," Fox conceded,  "Can we go inside?"  He did not turn around to face Knowlton.  He would not make eye contact until he was invited to do so.  It was important that Knowlton believe he himself was in control here.  If he began to suspect that Mulder was a threat to his authority, he just might shoot.  Or worse.

"All right," Knowlton said.  Mulder walked slowly into the Memorial. 

There was Tom Jefferson, 19 feet of weathered bronze.  Cement laurel wreaths decorated the walls, and Jefferson's most famous quotes were carved beneath:

"We hold these truths to be self evident . . ."

"I have sworn upon the altar of God eternal hostility against every form of tyranny over the mind of man."  Fox led Knowlton to the far side of the circular chamber, turned and leaned his back against a section of curved wall.  This would be a really, really good time for the cavalry to come in, he thought.  He heard no footsteps outside. 

"Oh, Lord, please, don't let me have been double crossed," he thought.  "Don't let this son-of-a-bitch have shorted out everybody's brains . . ." He gazed over at Knowlton.  What did he look like?  Even in the well-lit Memorial it was hard to tell.  Fox had the impression of someone shorter than himself, someone whose close-cropped hair was graying at the temples, but who moved with a catlike litheness that suggested he was still in his prime.  Mulder did *not* want to get into a physical fight with him.

Knowlton got awfully close.  He'd been out in the rain -- Mulder could feel dampness radiating from his clothes.  What was he wearing?  Something dark.  God, it was hard to focus.  The next thing he knew he was shoved back hard against the wall.  Knowlton pressed his forearm across Mulder's chest, a gesture away from his throat.  Knowlton's free hand caught Mulder's and held it against the wall beside Mulder's head.  Mulder felt the assassin's thumb gently stroke the skin over his wrist bones.  "You said you needed to see me, Fox."

The sibilants in the words sounded like water striking a burning surface, like the serpent whispering in Adam's ear.  Fox felt a shudder go through him at the sound of his name.  He told himself, "Think, you idiot."  It was easy to get dreamy, listening to that voice.  It was hypnotic, like the rushing of waves on the beach -- no, maybe that was the sound of blood singing in his ears.

"I -- I wanted to ask you something," Mulder said.

"What's that?" Knowlton said.  He leaned forward so that they were practically kissing.  There was a faintly herbal smell about him, like a garden in the rain, overlaying the scent of old gun smoke. 

"You hurt me, in the hotel," Mulder said.  He couldn't keep his voice from breaking slightly over the words.

"Allus hurts the first time, love," Knowlton murmured.

The words "first time" sent another jolt of terror through Mulder's body.  "No," he said, "you cut me.  Since you did that, I was thinking that--" he faltered, uncertain whether the next words would offend Knowlton and put himself in greater danger.

"You were thinking what?" Knowlton asked.

"I was thinking you had to blitz me.  That you couldn't take me out when I was armed and awake.  now I think . . . I think maybe you could."

He sensed Knowlton's smile.  "I think so, too," he said.

Mulder swallowed.  "Then why did -- why did you do to me what you did?"

"Why do you think?"  Knowlton's lips brushed his cheek as he spoke.  Mulder felt the scratchiness of a mustache.

Mulder's heart was slamming into his ribcage.  He felt sweat dampening his hair and forming a clammy layer under his shirt.  Under other circumstances, caresses on his hand and soft lips against his face would have been pleasurable.  He got a sick feeling in his stomach.  

"I think," he managed.  "I think you did it because you liked it."

Breath against his cheek -- Knowlton's quiet laugh.  "You think right," he said.  Knowlton turned his head, touched his mouth to Mulder's.

"Stop where you are," snapped Scully.  From the way she spoke, Mulder was sure she had a weapon leveled at Knowlton's back.  "Put your hands up and turn around," she ordered.

Knowlton took one step back, slowly lifted the hand that held Mulder's.

"Both of them," Scully said. 

Mulder got a flash of eyes -- Knowlton had green eyes -- and then something slammed across the side of his face.  He saw sparks, and then blackness.  

People were shouting.  Was he unconscious?  Was he dead?  His knees and then his hands struck concrete.  More sparks -- then brilliant flashes and the sound of gunshots amplified horribly by the dome above.  Confused cries -- Mulder got hit in the head again.  "Scully!" he called, got no answer.  Don't let her be down . . .

Knowlton grabbed Mulder's wrist and wrenched it up between his shoulder blades, then yanked him to his feet. "Did you lie to me, love?" came his hoarse whisper.  "Did you?  That's too bad.  I'll have to teach you better."

More gunshots -- sparks as the bullets ricocheted.  The flash briefly illuminated dark, swarming figures.  Knowlton shoved him toward an exit and fired at someone coming up the steps.  Mulder heard a man's strangled cry, and then he was half pushed, half hauled toward the stairs.  Pitchy black outside.  There should be visible lights from cars on the freeway.  Surely, Knowlton couldn't turn those off?

"Where are we going?" Mulder asked.

"Someplace quiet."  Mulder thought Knowlton had a specific place in mind.  Somewhere hard to find, where a man's cries would go unheard.  

Mulder encountered the steps before he expected to and stumbled, pulling Knowlton off-balance.  Mulder seized the opportunity.  He flung himself forward, hoping to turn his fall into a shoulder roll and get the assassin's body under him at impact.  Knowlton did the sensible thing and let go.  Mulder hit the steps hard.  He'd only ever practiced this move on mats.  He tumbled down the stairs but managed to roll to his feet on the landing. He spun, unsnapped the .38 from his ankle holster and fired.  He heard no cry, but drew no answering fire.

Mulder bolted down the last flight of steps and headed across the grass for -- what?  The car was the obvious answer, but what if Knowlton could short out the starter?  Even if he couldn't, what would happen to Scully, and Skinner as well, if they were left alone with Knowlton and a dozen Consortium goons as "backup?"  Instead, Mulder turned and headed for the highway that bridged the tidal basin.  There had to be lights over there.  He had to be able to see at least a little.  He could hear people shouting up in the Memorial, and he thought he could pick out Scully's voice, high above the voices of the men.  She was alive.  Mulder silently thanked any deity that might be listening.

When he reached the tree line he kicked off his shoes and slipped into the thin brush.  He had not heard a pursuer, but he doubted anyone ever heard Knowlton's approach.  Mulder was good at being quiet too, when he had to be.  He walked as he'd learned in Indian Scouts, coming down on the side of his foot and rolling smoothly onto the ball, feeling for twigs underfoot.  He crept from shadow to shadow, edging toward the roar of the highway.

He stopped at the edge of the tree line, several yards' distance from the bridge.  The lights on the bridge were still lit, and the headlights shone on passing cars.  The resulting illumination was not good, a bright moon would have been preferable, but it was better than nothing.

About ten yards away a shadow slipped from the woods, the silhouette of a human body.  Mulder's finger pressed against the trigger.  He could gauge the person's location from the space where the headlights of distant cars winked out.  It could be Knowlton.  It could be a member of the Consortium.  It could be Scully or Skinner or some hapless evening wanderer.

Mulder decided not to take the chance.  "Federal agent.  I'm armed!" he shouted.

"That what it's come to, love?" came Knowlton's voice.  The words blended with a soft rushing sound -- raindrops sprinkling on the leaves of the trees.  Pretty.   

"Seems you want it the hard way. "

Mulder jumped -- found Knowlton had covered a third of the distance between them.  "Lucky I'm not a man who takes no for an answer."

"You damn well didn't ask," Mulder said.  He shook his head, tried to clear it.  It was so hard to think right now . . .

"We've got some work to do on that troublesome streak of yours."

The silhouetted figure slowly came closer.  It looked like the vision-figures he'd seen during his sojourn among the dead in New Mexico, like the shadow in the door the night Samantha disappeared.  It felt as if he were trapped in amber, as if time were winding backward.

Body heat -- breath in his ear.  "You've twice pointed a gun at me tonight," Knowlton said.  "I don't like that.  It won't happen again.  I'm going to teach you a lesson, and this time it'll be one you *will* *not* *like.*"  Fingers brushed Mulder's gun hand.

The touch brought it all back.  Pain tearing him up from the inside, rough kisses on his neck and teeth sunk into his shoulder, hands running over his buttocks, his thighs, his groin . . . 

Knowlton lifted the gun barrel, going for a disarm.  

Mulder fired.  The shot took the assassin in the chest and knocked him backward.   

Other shots hit in the belly, the chest again . . . when Knowlton fell to the ground Mulder kept firing until the trigger responded with a soft *snick.*  

"Mulder!" came Scully's voice.  He realized that she couldn't know whether he himself had been shot.  

"I'm all right," Mulder managed.  It felt as if his tongue was moving in thick glue.  He put his hand against a tree trunk to steady himself.  Suddenly an orange light flickered on above the trees, one of the Memorial's sodium lamps.  He heard the sound of feet crunching on leaves and glimpsed figures ahead through the darkness and fog. One by one the Memorial's lights came back on, slowly retrieving the stand of trees from darkness.  Mulder walked stiffly toward where the figures stood.  A small silhouette disengaged itself from the others and hurried over to him.

"Scully," he said.  He half-limped, half-ran the last few steps to reach her.  She threw her arms around him and he gasped -- something in his ribs pinched horribly.  

She pulled back and said, "You're hurt."  

He shook his head as she slipped her hand beneath his jacket to touch his sore side.  This was nothing compared to what he'd been afraid would happen.  Nothing compared to what had already happened. He'd never had a flashback that vivid before.  Knowlton had hurt him.  He'd touched him in private places and Fox couldn't make him stop and it had hurt so much.  It was all over and it still hurt.

Scully held him more gently and he fought hard against the urge to cry.  He was *not* going to cry in front of Cancer Man.  He was *not.*  

The price for stifling the tears was a violent spasm in his stomach that made him bolt for the trees to be sick.  Not glamorous.  Not what Eliot Ness would have done.  Still it was better than showing the tiniest shred of emotional vulnerability to people he hated.

Once Mulder left the trees Scully caught his arm.  The support was more than emotional; he suspected he might have fallen over if she hadn't held onto him.

"You okay?" she asked.  He nodded.  "Does your head hurt?  How many fingers?"

"Yes and two.  I don't have a concussion."  His voice was rough with sickness and exhaustion.  "What about you?  You all right?  There were all those shots and I couldn't see who got hit . . ."

"I'm fine," she assured him.  "There's two men down, one badly.  Both Consortium, as far as I can tell. the paramedics are already on their way.  They'll take good care of you."  Then she sighed and said,  "This is going to be hell to explain."

"Refer anyone who asks to Cancer Man," Mulder said.  He walked slowly toward the spot where men in dark suits gathered around Knowlton's body.  

Scully stopped and said, "Mulder, don't."  Her expression pled with him to stay away.  It must be bad.  He hadn't gotten a good look before.

He gently disengaged himself and said, "It's all right."  The shadow-men shifted aside as he approached.  Mulder managed not to fall down and humiliate himself further.  He saw Skinner in the group, as well as the Smoking Man and X.  All looked unharmed.  Skinner gazed at the ground with his first knuckle pressed against his lips, probably worrying about legal implications.  Cancer Man casually flicked ashes into the grass.

As Mulder continued walking through the ring of men someone grabbed the back of his jacket.  He shrugged the hand off and stepped forward into something hot.  

There was blood in the grass.  Mulder's shoes were on the other side of the trees.  When he looked down at himself he realized that he was covered in blood spatters.  No wonder Scully had been worried.  

He backed away quickly and stripped off one of his socks.  The other was under his ankle holster and wouldn't come off.  He pulled at it hard, got sticky blood on his fingers.  Now he was nauseous again.  He spat on the ground, thought he might have to go back to the trees.  He thought to himself: "I will not throw up, I will not throw up . . ."

Suddenly Scully was beside him, gripping his elbow to keep him steady.  "I'm getting you out of here," she said.  This time he didn't argue with her.

As she helped him away from the group the Smoking Man called out, "Agent Mulder, don't you want to see the face of the Invisible Man?  As a successful hunter you can claim that right."

Mulder did not know what to make of the mocking tone in the man's voice.  Was he insulting Mulder for his weakness, or trying to goad him into traumatizing himself further?

"Leave him alone," Scully snapped, but Mulder stopped and turned toward the men.  They cleared away from in front of the body, which was an indistinct heap in the darkness.

The Smoking Man pulled a cigarette pack from his coat pocket and twisted it into a cylinder.  He touched the flame of his lighter to the paper, then tossed it onto the grass by the body.  The tongue of fire guttered in the gore, nearly went out, and then suddenly caught again.  

The flickering light gave a disturbing lifelikeness to Knowlton's dead features.  As Langly had said, he had a mustache and hair that was beginning to thin.  The face was narrower and more gaunt-looking than Mulder had expected.  The nose was straight and the jaw square, although the parted lips revealed crooked front teeth.  Perhaps people would have considered Knowlton handsome. 

The body did not upset Mulder as the blood had.  It was dreary in its ordinariness.  Like any violent death, it posed many questions and answered none.  He allowed Scully to lead him away as the first of the ambulances roared across the bridge.



Georgetown Medical Center,  
Next Day

This time Mulder was admitted to the hospital.  They gave him pain meds too, which made the twitching second hand on the wall clock much too interesting.  

The big hand was on the nine and the little hand was on the five when a nurse opened the door.  Mulder waved her away.  "I'm fine," he said, pointing up at his still-full IV.  He didn't want to be poked anymore.

"There's somebody here to see you, Mr. Mulder," the nurse said.  "You up to having a visitor?"

"Yeah, sure," he said.  He struggled into a sitting position.  The nurse was about to leave when he said, "Wait--it's not some old guy with cigarette breath, is it?"

She looked puzzled.  "No," she said.

"Okay," Mulder said, relaxing.  "That's fine then."

A few minutes later Scully came into the room, and he held both hands out to her.  "We have to stop meeting like this," he said.

She caught his hands in her own and asked, "How are you?"

"Better than that guy," Mulder said, inclining his head toward the room's curtained partition.  "That's my roommate, George.  George has acute food poisoning, and every so often he wakes up and starts retching." 

"Great," Scully said.

"With any luck, he'll stay asleep."

"How's your fever?" she asked.

"Down this afternoon..  They say it's a virus, but they put me on new antibiotics anyway.  They make my guts hurt."

"I'm sorry," she said.  

"I talked to the police today," Mulder said.  "They seem all right with the claim of self-defense.  I think it was the 6-inch bruise over my ribs I got fighting on the stairs.  Nothing broken by the way, it just hurts like a bitch."

Scully loosened one of her hands and ran it over his hair.   It felt nice.  "What do they have you on for the pain?" 

"I dunno, but it must be the good shit.  That street value of my blood is like . . . a lot."

That got a smile from her.    "I tested some of Knowlton's blood this morning.  He had hypokalemia, the same condition Darin Oswald had.  Even though we didn't get DNA from the semen sample, the electrolyte imbalance is rare enough that I think we can make an  ID.  Looks like you closed a case."

"Whoopee," Mulder said.

She pulled up a chair and sat down.  "You said before that you'd feel better if Knowlton were out of the picture.  Has it helped?"

He sighed, closed his eyes a moment.  "I'm less afraid now."

"Good."

"As for the rest of it, I don't know.  Will I ever be able to sleep in a hotel room without barricading the door?  Will I ever be able to -- to sleep with somebody without feeling sick when they touch me?  I don't know."

"I think you'll be able to do whatever you put your mind to," Scully said.  "You're a pretty determined guy."  She rubbed the back of his hand with her thumbs, avoiding the IV lead.  The IV made his arm feel cold, and she would know that.  Nice of her.  She looked down at his hand as she spoke, "Mulder . . . I admire the way you dealt with what happened to you.  You never gave up fighting, you refused to play the victim.  I don't know if I would have been that strong.  I think a lot of people wouldn't be."

Mulder shook his head.  "It's no big deal."  He watched her massage pinkness back into his fingers for a while, then said, "When I was at Oxford I knew this guy who had a huge poster of Malcolm X holding an AK-47.  Underneath the picture it said, 'By Any Means Necessary.'  Funny thing for a British white kid to have.  Anyway, the phrase stuck with me.  People do what they have to do to survive.  I don't think there's anything special or admirable about it.  It's just the will to live kicking in."  

"It's hard to keep fighting when you're scared, when you don't feel well," she said. 

"Yeah," he admitted softly.   They were both quiet a while and he let his eyes fall shut.  "You wouldn't give up on me," he said at last.

"Hmm?"

"I said you wouldn't give up on  me.  You had no patience with me at all when I was whining and didn't want to take care of myself."   He opened his eyes and saw she looked sad.  He wondered if she'd taken the comment as a rebuke.  "That's a good thing," he explained.

"You didn't whine."

"The night you put me in the shower I was whining."

"Not really.  You were . . . complaining vociferously.  I can't blame you, really."

"Nobody likes a whiner."  

"Mulder, you are not a whiner.  Look-- can you at least believe that *I* think you're brave?"

"I guess," he said.

"I'm not so stupid, am I?"

"No."

"I think you're brave and I'm proud of you, and I think you're going to be able to put this behind you."  

"Can I put it behind me while sitting in the smallest room in my house?"  She looked confused a moment, then smiled and shook her head at him.  "Speaking of which, I was able to use the toilet this morning without feeling like I wanted to scream.  You'd be surprised how much that improves your outlook on life," he said.

"I'll bet."

Mulder considered what he'd just said and added, "I'm sorry, you didn't need to know that.  I get honest when I'm stoned."

"You're honest all the time.  That's why you get in so much trouble."

"Oh yeah."  He closed his eyes again.

"You want me to go so you can rest?"  Scully asked.  He shook his head.  "All right.  I'll stay."

He dropped off to sleep with the warm sensation of Scully's fingers pressing his own.  For the first time since he left Cincinnati, he felt safe.  

 ************************************************************************** 
Just in case you care:  According to the U. S. Department of Justice's Bureau of Statistics, an adolescent or adult woman is raped every 50 seconds.  An adolescent or adult man is raped every fifteen minutes.  Be careful out there, boys and girls. 

Research material for this story included (alphabetical by author):

By Ann Burgess, Allen G. Burgess, John Douglas and Robert K. Ressler:
"Crime Classifiaction Manual"

By John Douglas and Mark Olshaker:
"Mindhunter"
"Journey Into Darkness"
"Obsession"
"UNABOMBER: On the Trail of America's Most Wanter Serial Killer"

By Joseph J. Grau, Ph.D.:
"Criminal and Civil Investigation Handbook"

By Robert K. Ressler and Tom Shactman:
"I Have Lived Inside the Monster"

By Ann Rule:
"The Stranger Beside Me"

By Serita Deborah Stevens and Anne Klarner:
"Deadly Doses: A Writer's Guide to Poisons"

By Billie Ann Wilson, Margaret T. Shannon and Carolyn L. Stang:
"Nurses' Drug Guide"

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