TITLE: Absalom, My Son AUTHOR: Joyce McKibben (griffin100@juno.com) DATE: September 1997 DISTRIBUTION: Archive in XFC, but don't forward to the NG. Thank you. RATING: PG-13 CLASSIFICATION: V,A SUMMARY: A conspiracy within the Conspiracy is revealed and Fox Mulder is at the heart of it. DISCLAIMER: FM and CSM belong to CC and Fox Broadcasting and I am only borrowing them for a moment and will return them. No infringement is intended. Lord knows, I'm not making any money off of this and have no intentions of making any money from it. FEEDBACK: Always welcome. Send to: mckibben@cc.memphis.edu ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: I would like to thank my patient editors, Meredith and Miki whose encouragement and tough editing skills keep me on the straight and narrow path. **************************************************** Absalom My Son by Joyce McKibben "Remember, he is not to be harmed. Just retrieve the evidence." The voice spoke from out of the smoke; a faint spark of passion betrayed the cold indifference of the order. "He knows too much. Even without the evidence, he threatens the safety of the Project." The passion of a zealot tempered with a grim weariness. "What he knows, or thinks he knows, is of no consequence. Without the documents, who will believe him?" "Some will. Because of your orders, he is gaining allies." The bite of cold steel; a challenge. "He serves a purpose. The danger can be controlled." A cigarette flared, a burning red eye in the dark, then the smoke returned to eddy and flow around the old man. "Unless you feel the task is beyond your capabilities?" Challenge met and returned. "Damn you. Listen you old dragon, the day I can't handle my job..." Affection muted the rush of anger. "You can't protect him forever, you know. The Others don't give a damn for your promises." Pleading softened the cold reminder of reason. The smoker stared at his trusted lieutenant; the commander of his far-flung army of enforcers. Two battle-weary veterans of a conspiracy that had consumed their innocence and left only the ashes of power and belief in their place. The smoker reflected that, with a single word from him, men died or vanished or were driven mad. He felt a quiet satisfaction in his efficient manipulation of the shadows which hid the conspiracy from public view. His success was due, in no small part, to the man standing rigidly in front of him arguing for a death sentence the smoker had no heart to command "They would be wise to trust my judgement on this matter." "If you persist in protecting him beyond all reason, they may decide your judgement is at fault." A warning; a plea for release from a restriction which threatened them all. "That would be unwise." "Are you willing to bet your life on the premise that those men are wise?" Sardonic amusement crackled amid the warning. A smile lit up his cold eyes for an instant, inviting a shared contempt of the men who controlled the conspiracy. The smoker's lip twitched in what only someone who knew him well would describe as a smile. "I never bet." "Well, you're sure as hell gambling with the devil for Bill Mulder's son." Exasperation, affection blended with a hint of fear. "Just retrieve the documents, Jason. Neutralize the leak and Mulder will be left with nothing but his usual wild unsubstantiated claims. The Project can continue on schedule." The command was emphasized with a vicious stab of the waning cigarette into the crude clay ashtray on his desk. A child's school-craft creation treasured amid the richer ornaments of power. "Yes sir." Resigned obedience. A quick nod hid the sudden flare of cold determination in Jason's eyes. "I'll do what has to be done." Echoes of lamentations hovered in the air between them; then the door closed behind him. "Someone must play Joab to your David, old friend. I guess I'm the only one who cares enough. Forgive me," Jason whispered to the empty air. The smoker watched Jason leave, confident that this latest problem was in capable hands. As he wreathed himself in smoke once more, he pondered the problem of applying the right amount of pressure to bring Fox into the Project, to be at his side at last. ************** Alexandria, Virginia 11:00 p.m. Jason watched his quarry running through the night, chasing and being chased by his personal demons until the steam billowed off his body and curled around him like smoke in the cold air. His lean runner's body cut through the night like a stiletto, piercing the shadows with his passion. Even at night Jason could feel the fire that fed his quarry's endless quest, consuming its host until nothing but fire was left behind like a nova burning in the growing darkness of man's decline. Seeing him wreathed in tendrils of steam, Jason wondered again at the tenacious refusal of his old friend to deal summarily with the problem this young man posed. Pity certainly did not stay his hand nor did compassion. Entire families had perished at a single word spoken amid the smoke. No, compassion was not a fault the smoker could be accused of possessing. There was no purpose to this young man's continued existence. He threatened everything they had spent decades building. William Mulder's son, the one rejected as prime material for the project's ongoing genetic experiments, had no value, yet he was not only permitted to live, but to continue in his simple-minded pursuit of that most elusive of questing-beasts, the Truth. Jason chuckled harshly, swallowing the sound before it could drift across the handspan of distance and alert his quarry that he was not alone. It was only a suspicion. A hazy supposition born of random clues harvested through the years he had spent watching his quarry grow from a paralyzed frightened boy to a tormented driven man. Suspicions that were as fragile as the smoke which hid the smoker's subterfuge and misdirection which skillfully diverted the Council's attention away from the threat Mulder presented. He had watched in wondering silence as his friend threw his shield over the boy's unheeding back, coughing out orders that would stymie Mulder's search, while preserving his life. Jason smiled at the irony of knowing that Mulder's greatest enemy should also prove to be his greatest friend. The privilege of this knowledge was his alone and carried with it obliteration for himself and his friend if the Council even suspected the smoker had his own agenda. "Damn you my old friend," Jason breathed into the crisp air. "The others may not have seen what I have seen, but they will not remain blind forever. They will take you down and then carve up this young Quixote of yours into ribbons of despairing flesh." Jason continued to follow his quarry, certain of the route he would follow. For three nights he had shadowed him, drifting silently in his wake like a shark content to wait for the moment to strike. Tonight there was a hunter's moon, lighting up the dark heavens like a beacon. Tonight he would strike the blow that would free his friend from the tyranny of obligation to this infernal pest. Tonight his quarry was alone. His partner was far away; too far to sense the danger that threatened and intervene. Jason knew from bitter experience the bond this man shared with his partner. It grieved him to be the one to rend their shared soul apart. He knew the pain, the agonizing grief the one left behind would feel every second of every hour the other remained alive, but there was no choice. He knew she would feel the biting guilt that was slowly eating his own soul away. An eternity ago in Jason's memory, three men whose souls were bound together by a single dream stepped into hell to forge a place for themselves among the mighty. The smoker, whose name had been laid aside years ago, was the pragmatist, the master web-spinner. He, Jason, was the soldier, the facilitator. The third, Jonathan, was the visionary, who saw beyond the needs of the moment to the truth behind their dreams of power. He was the soul of their unholy trinity, the calm, clear voice that moored the rest of them to sanity. "Jonathan, was it worth it? Was it worth all our dreams - this random act of sacrifice?" Jason whispered the question on the frosted breath of air leaving his lungs to spiral up into the night. A part of Jason had died the night the Council executed Jonathan to remind them of their places in the scheme of things. He had watched the smoker burn as his soul ignited with the pain of loss, then grow cold as frozen fire. They had conspired against the Council to save this damned young man from the consequences of his interferring ways. The smoker cast his web of shadows around Mulder, protecting while seeming to obstruct and blind. Jonathan nurtured the young man's quest while diverting him from truths too dangerous for him to learn. Jason smiled as he recalled his own skillful twisting of orders that allowed Mulder to survive contact with the enforcers of the Council's will. Perhaps he could even claim the rightful title of Mulder's guardian angel, he thought with an ironic smile; a dark angel then who reeked more of sulpur than of incense, he added in a wry jab at the thought that either heaven or hell could be bothered to intervene in man's affairs. They had sinned. Confident that the shadows they had created would protect them, they moved too openly to protect Mulder from his brush with the truth. Jonathan had died for their sins of complacency. He had died for this young man running heedlessly through the night. Too many dead lay in Mulder's wake. Soon the Council would act and he and the smoker would join Mulder in some forgotten slag heap, buried under a mound of lies and earth. Jonathan's death would be rendered meaningless. He would be a forgotten martyr to their cause. The smoker trusted in lies and obfuscation to protect his purpose. Fool, Jason thought with exasperated affection. The Council grows more suspicious as the Day approaches. Turning on each other like a rabid pack of dogs, they would soon make a leap of assumption that would toll the end of the smoker's lies. "I promised Jonathan I would look after you. I promised him I would protect you, even - and perhaps most especially - from yourself. A martyr might not be so bad a thing, my old friend. Better now, than to wait. Despite your hopes, Bill Mulder's son would not be allowed to live. He could not be trusted. I have seen the warrant that waits until the Day arrives to be executed. Better now by the hand of a soldier than later by the hand of a hired assassin." Jason whispered this confession to the cat who sat priest-like in a window. No absolution was forthcoming and Jason did not wait for any sign that his chosen course of action was understood by heaven. There will be none to take his place, he thought. Let the believers have the cold comfort of a martyr to revere. Soon, the time would be past for martyrs or heroes or anyone beyond the few who clung to what power was granted to them. Let him die unblemished, in the full fury of his passion. Jason had seen hope die in the eyes of the men in the Project as they realized the extent of their betrayal. The death of the body was a kindness compared to the death of the soul. His friend would understand, eventually. Better that this man should die young, than to live too long and lose his soul to the darkness his truth hid. ************** Fox Mulder ran with the steady pace of a long-distance runner. His over-heated lungs ached with each breath as the cold night air stung and bit his throat. Steam trailed behind him as he pushed harder against the wall of his second-wind. His mind strained with the task of sorting through the papers his latest gambit had garnered. Tantalizing flickers of the truth teased him until he had stormed off into the night to run himself and his churning mind into exhaustion. Scully would have a fit when she came back from her conference to find his newest assortment of scars, he thought with a rueful chuckle. He remembered promising the nurse he would take it easy. Hell, he would have promised her the moon to get out of that damn hospital. It was just the usual, bruises, a battered skull and assorted scrapes and cuts. Of course the nifty stitched slice that decorated his leg would be a bit more difficult to explain. Damn that barbed wire. By now his body was almost used to the punishment. At least he had something to show for his bruises this time. This time the data was real. This time he could feel the Grail almost within reach. ************** 11:30 p.m. "Excuse me?" Mulder pulled up short, startled by the interruption of a human voice into his thoughts. Automatically he reached for his gun before recalling that he had left it sitting on the coffee table. Leaning back, breathing harsh puffs of steam into the night, he flexed as if stretching out the muscles in his back. In another fluid stretching motion Mulder swung down and forward, reaching casually for the gun that nestled reassuringly against his leg in the ankle holster. "That really won't be necessary," Jason said quietly. The boy had the spirit, if not the luck of a warrior. His quarry was still dangerous and, like a good hunter, he was careful not to give him any quarter. Mulder rose up with the gun into the bright shining blade of a knife that reflected the moonlight. He started, jerking his head back as the light stabbed his dark-accustomed eyes. The blade cut into his throat, leaving behind a searing cold streak of lightning swallowed up by a rush of warm hot fire that bubbled up and cascaded down his chest. The shock of the blade froze him in mid-stride, the gun clenched in a fist that spasmed once, then again then opened in a graceful surrender. The gun spiraled to the ground to land with an apologetic splat in the icy slush of the gutter. Jason grabbed his quarry's collapsing form and gently eased it to the ground. He cradled him in his arms as he watched the eyes darken with understanding. A sudden shout and rushing feet forced him to abandon his intent to stay with his quarry until death arrived to take him by the hand. It was not right that he should die alone in the dirty slush of the street, but Jason was too old a soldier to risk being caught. With a swift motion he lowered Mulder to the ground and, catching his eyes one last time, gave him a solemn salute before vanishing into the darkness. ************** Mulder lay in the cold slush unable to breathe, feeling the warm blood freezing as it poured out of the gaping wound in his throat. Images of a fish more bold than wise which had somehow leaped out of his tank to soar into the bright unknown world of air only to land on the floor, its mouth opening and closing in a desperate attempt to breathe the unknown substance its lungs would not recognize. Mulder had managed to fight the fish's panicked attempts to escape and fling it back into the tank where it settled on the bottom as if to remove itself as far as possible from the surface and the terror that lurked beyond its borders. Mulder felt his mouth working to breathe in the cold air his desperate lungs demanded. The ragged whistling at his throat spoke of that battle for air now fighting to breathe through a severed trachea drowning in blood. His mind was surprisingly clear, he felt the damp icy chill of the slush that surrounded him, noted the complete absence of pain and smelled the dark, sweet odor of his own blood. I'm dying, his mind helpfully supplied, as if his body wasn't already aware of that fact. Scully, he screamed silently, trying to reach her across the miles. Help me, his soul screamed as he felt the darkness close in. His eyes fluttered and closed, refusing to focus on the dark winged shadow that stood before him, silently, patiently waiting. "It's OK, mister. Just lie still. I've called 911." A voice, out of the darkness. He tried to to open his eyes, but saw only the dark wings of his uninvited guest. The voice held the shadow at bay, forcing it to retreat. Mulder clung to the voice, desperate to escape the inexorable grasp of the shadow. He felt the heavy pressure of cloth against his throat and his body surged in protest as the cloth sealed off the little air his lungs were managing to draw in through the gash in his throat. "Don't try to move. You're hurt bad." Silence, then Mulder felt the cloth move slightly and felt the delicious agony of air tearing across the wound and spilling into his lungs. "Sorry, mister. They never told me what to do for something like this. Just hold on. Please?" The voice sounded scared while offering comfort. A young voice, too young to meet death on an isolated street corner and fight it for the life of a stranger. Mulder's hand flailed as he tried to touch his savior. A child's hand, easily swallowed up by his larger one, tucked itself within his grasp. Mulder clung to the fragile promise of that tiny fist with all the strength he had poured into his quest for over twenty years. A sharp hiss of pain, the fist shifted slightly within his grasp nearly sending Mulder into a thrashing panic fearing that his lifeline was abandoning him. "I'm not going anywhere, mister. Listen to me, please." Mulder tried to fight for calm and air at the same time, succeeding at least in the first. His lungs were screaming that the tiny bit of air being drawn into his open trachea was not enough. "You're bleeding bad, mister, but you're not gushing. I think that's a good sign. Just hang on." In the distance, like the wail of banshees, Mulder heard the sirens. Reinforcements in this battle were coming, but too late. He felt his life dwindle down to a candle sputtering in the wind stirred up by the great dark wings reaching down to enfold him. The angel of death reached out for him and he felt the icy rake of its talons caress his chest. His heart, laboring and frantic, skipped a beat, then another. Frantic, Mulder fought back, clinging to life, refusing the peace death so kindly offered him. His fist crushed the small hand that anchored his body to life. Surrendering himself to faith in the simple grasp of a child's hand in his, he threw himself outward to find the other half of himself. Reaching out with his soul, Mulder plunged along the sliver of silken steel of his bond with Scully in a last desperate appeal for strength. A surge of startled amazement and fear settled down into a flood of strength that poured over Mulder's tired spirit like a shield. He felt himself relax into the strong arms of her spirit. She cradled him against her heart, laying her arms across his chest barring death from taking him. Her hands rested above his heart sheltering it, soothing his fear. No longer alone, Mulder rested in her embrace, his spirit content to trust that she would not relax her vigilance. Tucked within the shelter of Scully's spirit, Mulder defied the angel of death whose hands were closing around his heart. Death drew back, startled, then amused before bowing in acknowledgement of a temporary defeat. The last thing Mulder saw before he felt the strong hands of the medics at his throat was death slipping back into the shadows. Mulder barely registered the medic's gruff voice as it boomed over his head. It seemed to be assuring someone, himself perhaps, that help was here. Mulder wished he could tell them that help had arrived long before they did in the form of a small hand that appeared out of the darkness. How could he explain that a child's faith and Scully's indominable spirit had joined to cheat death of his soul? His lips moved in a silent mantra, making a prayer of her name. Air, blessed air began pumping into his lungs. Mulder relaxed into the pleasant euphoria of survival, again. ************** >From across the street Jason watched his theater of death transform into survival. He didn't bother cursing. Mulder had the luck of the angels on his side. Perhaps his survival all this time was not entirely due to the machinations of his smoking friend. Apparently it was not his fate to be Joab this night. A pity, but he took the sudden appearance of a boy on a deserted street as a sign, whether from heaven or hell he did not presume to ask. His quarry would live for now. The hunt was not over. Perhaps enough damage was done to eliminate the threat. His friend might appreciate the irony of killing the quest without killing the questor. Enough philosophy, he chastized himself as he left Mulder in the hands of the medics. He had an apartment to trash and data to retrieve. Another partial victory for the side of the angels, but no conclusive proof. That was victory enough for his side of this battle fought in darkness and shadows. His friend would not lose whatever it was he felt he shared with Mulder. In turn, Jason felt a weary gratitude that he would not lose more of his own soul to balance the smoker's pain. ************** Atlanta, Georgia 12:02 p.m. Special Agent Dana Scully woke up from the nightmare gasping for breath and covered with sweat. Fear still raced through her veins, freezing her blood. Her soul cried out in pain, as she reached blindly for Mulder. "It was only a dream," she whispered to reassure her thrashing heart. "It was only a dream," she pleaded with the intuition that tried to tell her how close she had come to losing the other half of her soul. Feeling immensely foolish, yet desperate to prove to her jangled nerves that it had been just a dream, she dialed a familiar number and waited, heart pounding in renewed fear as she heard his recorded voice suggesting that she leave a name and a number. "It was only a dream," she told herself as she dialed the airport and booked a seat on the next available flight back to Washington. "It was only a dream," she whispered to the night breeze as she hastened homeward, drawn by fear and a need beyond reason. ************** "Did you retrieve the data?" A calm, even tone, barely sheathing the steel threat behind the words. "Yes." "He is alive?" The smoker let the smoke leave his lungs in a slow spiraling tendril. His eyes burned through haze. He knew the answer as he had known what his friend intended when last they spoke. "You knew?" Jason sounded surprised, then gave his friend a wary smile. He shouldn't have been surprised. The smoker knew him better than he knew himself. "Of course. You worry too much my friend." The smoker paused to inhale and slowly exhale languid smoky rings. "Joab was a fool. You are not a fool. Fox is still useful to us, as Absalom could have been useful to David. I believe that was the analogy you were using?" Jason quelled an urge to lower his gaze as he stood before the unblinking stare of his friend. His soul trembled as he saw the truth, or at least the truth as his friend saw it, in those eyes for once not veiled by smoke. Jason fought down a sudden surge of apprehension. Knowledge in this game of theirs could be a fatal victory. "We have no secrets you and I. Believe what and how you will. Fox Mulder must survive. Jonathan knew that and paid for that knowledge with his life. He did not tell me why, only that Fox is vital to the end game." "How?" Jason managed to find his voice, stunned into silence by the sudden revelation that shifted his perception of the game. "Jonathan liked his secrets," the smoker sighed in vexed resignation. "Too many spy novels, perhaps." This time a sad smile flickered across his eyes, softening them into a mirror image of the eyes Jason had watched dim on a slushy sidewalk seven hours ago. "I only know that Jonathan was willing to die to keep the boy alive. We have to trust in his vision, though I have no intentions of repeating his mistake," the smoker paused for a moment staring at the dancing flame of his lighter with distant eyes darkened by painful memory. Touching flame to cigarette he once again began wreathe himself in shadows of smoke. "This rebellion of Fox's has gone on long enough. It is past time Absalom listened to reason. We must bring him into our kingdom to rule by our side." The smoker's voice turned stern and Jason flinched. "That is your task, my friend. I trust no other with this burden. Remove his options, until he has no choice, can see no other choice, but to join us. Do not fail me. I have no use for martyrs. Fox Mulder is more useful to me alive. If the Council cannot understand this then they are bigger fools than I ever imagined." "You think it can be done?" "All things are possible. Every man has a price. Find Fox's. Bring him to me, Jason. Bring me Absalom and together we will make him the heir to our kingdom." The smoker smiled as the devil must have smiled upon lost souls stumbling into Hell. Jason shuddered slightly then returned the smile. The Mulders had been part of the Project for decades. Fox Mulder belonged by rights to the Project and it was time the Project exerted its right to him. Jason poured out three fingers of whiskey each into two glasses and, after handing one to his friend, raised the glass to the grainy picture on the mantel. Three young faces shining with ambition and an unlimited future stared back at him. "A toast then, to the new heir?" The smoker downed the whiskey then inclined his head and smiled his ghost of a smile before returning to obscurity behind his writhing cloud of smoke. Jason placed his empty glass beside the picture and left the room. There was much to be done. There was a soul to inveigle. THE END Author's Note: Absalom was the son of King David. When he rebelled against his father, Joab, David's military commander, was sent to crush the rebellion. Acting against David's express order to spare his son, Joab killed Absalom to protect David against further rebellion. David went into mourning for his son and would not be comforted. Date sent: Wed, 08 Oct 1997 TITLE: Absalom II: The Snare of the Hunter AUTHOR: Joyce McKibben griffin100@juno.com DATE: October 1997 DISTRIBUTION: Archive at XFC, but don't forward to the NG. Thank you. RATING: PG-13 (some profanity) CLASSIFICATION: A,S SUMMARY: I would suggest that you read "Absalom, My Son" before reading this part. This is part 2 of a developing series. Jason begins to craft a plan to draw Mulder into the Project. DISCLAIMER: FM and CSM belong to CC and Fox Broadcasting and I am only borrowing them for a moment and will return them. No infringement is intended. Lord knows, I'm not making any money off of this and have no intentions of making any money from it. FEEDBACK: Always welcome. Send to: mckibben@cc.memphis.edu ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: I would like to thank my editors, KL and Meredith without whom I would probably flounder in a sea of words. ================================== The Snare of the Hunter "For among my people there are wicked men. who lay snares like a fowler's net and set deadly traps to catch men." Jeremiah 6:26 "No, there's no change." Jason kept his voice low without whispering, barely loud enough to reach the cell phone held tight against his cheek. There was no one within ten feet of him, yet decades of caution kept his voice soft as new-fallen snow. "His condition?" Jason felt the smoke curling out of the phone in his hand; envisioned his friend wreathed in smoke that hid his purpose and emotions. "Critical, but stable. He just came out of surgery," he replied calmly. "The doctors seem surprised he survived to reach surgery," Jason allowed a hint of wry exasperation to color his bland tone. "Then I am in the unusual position of being relieved that your usual skill and efficiency was sadly lacking this evening," the smoker's voice held a chilling mixture of affection and reprimand. Jason's shoulders twitched in an involuntary shudder. In his world, men died at the slightest twitch of the smoker's finger -- or his own, for that matter. "The devil's luck perhaps?" Jason replied with a touch of irony. "Perhaps," the smoker's voice echoed the irony. "Remember our bargain. Find his price. Bring him home." Satisfied with the command delivered and confident in its execution, the smoker severed the connection. Jason sighed. The devil must be chuckling in hell tonight. It was open season on Fox Mulder's soul. Now it was his task to bring the man into hell to sit at the right hand of the devil's own chamberlain. Whoever said it was better to rule in hell than serve in heaven had never felt the bitter bite of damnation. Well, Mulder was not going anywhere for awhile. From where he stood, Jason could hear the steady whoosh of the respirator as it pumped air into a narrow hole in the base of Mulder's throat, about an inch below the gash that should have ended his life. Jason was not a man who believed in miracles, but Mulder's survival came close to fitting all the descriptions he had ever heard about miracles. Jason rubbed his face with hands only lately scrubbed clean of Mulder's blood. He was tired. It had been awhile since he had pulled a twenty-four hour shift, but the other pieces that were part of this puzzle that was Fox Mulder would be arriving soon. This was no simple puzzle he faced. The standard inducements held no power over Fox Mulder. Jason needed this quiet time to observe the habits and habitat of his quarry. He needed to consider which pieces could best be used to bring Mulder's soul into his grasp. I'm getting old, he thought wearily and gave a quiet chuckle that sparkled in his tired grey eyes. He remembered Jonathan commenting that coping with Fox Mulder gave him more gray hairs than thirty years of serving the Project. Then again, Jonathan was trying to protect Mulder, not convert him. Time for the devil to come into his own. Time for Mulder to follow in his father's footsteps and join the Project; past time in fact. The soft chirping of his cell phone brought Jason out of his reverie. "Yes?" "Her plane has landed. She has been apprised of the situation." His operative's voice was as dead as his soul. Jason despised the man even while acknowledging that he was one of his best men. "Acknowledged. Continue to follow. Do not, under any circumstances, interfere." Jason's clipped tone left no doubt that any variance from his orders would be extremely detrimental to the operative's continued existence. "Yes sir." The man's resentment crept through his effort to maintain a neutral tone. Jason nearly laughed at the man's belief that he was being given a grunt's job. Keeping up with Agent Scully was nearly as arduous as trying to keep tabs on Agent Mulder. It might do the agent's ego some good to discover he wasn't quite as good as he thought he was. "Just do it, Carsten," Jason snapped back in his best 'I am not amused tone'. He sensed the agent's arrogance deflating and felt immeasurably better. There were some rewards to damnation. Now to find a way to persuade the stubborn Fox Mulder of those rewards. Watch and learn, Jason reminded himself. A good hunter must learn the ways of his prey before he can ever hope to bring him down. "Tally ho," he breathed softly as he drew the shadows around him and became no more noticeable than the wall. A grey man blending perfectly into nothingness. ************** Fox Mulder hung crucified on the mast of a great ship that plowed heedlessly into a raging storm. The wind scoured his flesh and sucked him dry. Pain flowed through his veins instead of blood. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came forth. His silent scream echoed only in the dark caverns of his mind, mocking his pain, reminding him that he was alone. The sound of the sail behind him buffeted his ears until all he could hear was the rush of air in and out of his seared lungs in time to the slapping of the canvas sails against the wind. His hands were chained at his sides, preventing him from covering his ears. Even his head was pinned against the mast by a spike driven between his eyes. This was hell, he concluded. He had become a fucking figurehead on a ship of the damned. Even his laughter, as dry and bitter as the wind which striped the flesh off his bones, burned in his throat. Fire burst from his lips and haloed his face like some damned mockery of heaven's holy fire. Scully, he screamed silently. Her spirit had held him, had protected him from the angel of death in the cold slush of the street. Why had she abandoned him? Had she taken his place in death's arms? Frantic, he twisted and turned in the chains which bound him to the mast. A demon sprang to his chest and began clawing at his throat, tearing open great gouts of fire that poured onto his chest. A great weight pressed him down as the ship rolled over. He felt the cold waters of the sea close over him, taking him down into the heavy darkness. The cold cleansed his mind in the last seconds of thought before the sea consumed him. Of course, stupid, he chastized himself. He was in hell. Scully didn't belong in hell. Strangely comforted by this thought, Fox Mulder allowed the sea to swallow him. The fire retreated into sullen embers of pain as the cold dark depths of the sea quenched all thought and feeling. ************** The sound of heels clicking at a fast pace echoed down the hospital corridor. Angry heels or perhaps only worried heels, but heels that stepped out the distance in short authoritative snaps like the crack of bullets. Jason smiled as he straightened up out of his reverie. A diminiative red-haired terrier in a crumpled business suit was barreling down the hallway aiming for Mulder's room with unerring accuracy. Even if one of the nurses had managed to intercept her course to ask or give directions, it was obvious that Special Agent Dana Scully knew exactly where she was going and would brook no interference. He watched her slow to a stop outside the room. Jason could see her reflection in the large observation window as she silently assessed what damage this latest storm to overtake her partner had done. Her shoulders moved in a long slow sigh. For a split second her face betrayed a weary resignation. Then, with a slight hunch of her shoulders, she resumed an expression of calm assurance in time to the arrival of her companion. Feeling in a doggish mood, Jason decided that if Dana Scully was a terrier, then this man had to be a mastiff. Broad shoulders, a military bearing that screamed ex-Marine, and a bald head that reflected the light from the overhead panels with a painful glare. Jason had no difficulty recognizing the man from his friend's descriptions. So this was the arrogant SOB who dared snatch Mulder from the fate that had been so painstakingly contrived for him. The smoker had waxed profanely eloquent when he realized that Assistant Director Walter Skinner had sprung the trap meant to ensnare Fox Mulder. Two years of careful planning. Two years of gradually pushing Mulder into ever greater dependence on his partner. All the work to bring him to the point where he would freely sell his soul to redeem her life, and this damned petty bureaucrat had deflected Mulder's sacrifice and stepped into the trap himself. Sometimes Jason wondered if Lucifer really paid attention to his field operatives. Jason wondered why Skinner had interfered. Mulder attracted strange allies. One of the reasons the Project was so interested in him was his ability to pull otherwise sane and rational people into his insane orbit. Like a hungry flame his passion drew less passionate souls ever closer until their souls ignited and they were swept up and away. It was this passion that the smoker fed on, relished until all that mattered was harnessing Mulder's fire to feed the dying fires of his own passion. Perhaps Skinner believed that a bluff once worked could work again. Jason gave a predatory grin. Well, Assistant Director Walter S. Skinner, hell's newest recruit, would pay for that arrogance with tears of blood until his soul was a withered husk and pride was only a distant memory. His friend was not a man to forgive or forget. Jason was not above issuing a gentle reminder should the fires of memory fail. "Agent Scully," Skinner began, his gruff voice sounding almost hesitant, as if he did not want to intrude on whatever communion she was having with her unconscious partner. Jason slowed his breathing to better overhear their conversation. He was here to learn, to discover what pearl of great price Mulder would barter his soul for. "He got too close to something, didn't he, sir?" Her voice was firm, almost angry. Whether her anger was directed at Skinner, at Mulder or even at herself was beyond even Jason's ability to discern. Jason watched as anger, fear and some other less definable emotion chased themselves across Agent Scully's almost inscrutable face. He noted the exact moment anger fled and her eyes softened in entreaty and prayer. "Don't you dare ditch me again, partner. Next time will be my turn," she whispered so softly that Skinner standing beside her heard nothing, but the tiny amplifier in Jason's ear betrayed her soft words into the hands of the tempter. Jason quelled a smile. He knew he was dangerously sympathetic to this woman. They were too similar, even down to the arguments she had with Mulder. Their spy turned ally was still dangerous, as much to them as to Mulder. She was the perilous queen mated with Mulder's erratically dangerous king piece on the chessboard of this dark game they played. Jonathan had been no more immune to her peculiar charisma. It had been Jonathan who first came up with the chess analogy when they realized the mistake they had made in sending her to Mulder. He suspected even the smoker held her in higher regard than he would ever admit. His friend admitted to few mistakes, yet seemed to respect her more because she had eluded all his calculated estimates of her effect on Mulder's work. Jonathan had warned and they had not listened. Realizing his attention was drifting, Jason closed off his memories and returned to the duty at hand. "....attacked without warning by a single individual. The young boy who called 911 said the man fled when he shouted and began running towards him. That doesn't sound like any of the Smoking Man's agents. Why use a knife? They had a clear shot." Scully turned angry blue eyes on her superior. Despite his quarrel with the A. D., Jason gave the man high marks for courage. Skinner didn't flinch. "Agent Scully," Skinner's tone was brisk and professional with just a hint of a reminder of authority. "The police are treating this as a mugging. I have assigned Agents Akers and Jackson to investigate as well. I'm sure you would agree that they are extremely competent agents?" Skinner's stare dared her to say anything. "Good. There are no indications that this was anything other than a random act of violence." "Begging to differ, sir, where Mulder is concerned nothing is ever completely random," Scully retorted in biting tones a hair's-breadth away from insubordination. Skinner looked as if he was having trouble swallowing a retort, but held her eyes until she turned away to return to her silent watchful vigil over her partner. Her stance indicated that she was not, would not, be convinced that this was a simple random act of violence. Jason watched her eyes in the glass and saw guilt. She would not go into her partner until she had burned the image of him lying broken and alone into her mind - a penance of sorts to flagellate herself for the sin of not being there when he needed her. "Welcome to the club, Agent Scully," Jason murmured softly. Jonathan's words on the night of his death were acid-etched into his memory. Jonathan had smiled while assuring him that he could handle the transfer perfectly well alone. Jason recalled in bitter clarity his joking response that he was no Sancho Panza to follow Quixote against the windmill, but he'd stop by the pick up the pieces later. The memory of that jest and the death that followed it served as his dark and bitter penance. "Just in case, Agent Scully, I will assign a guard." Skinner offered this as a peace offering without sounding in the least bit conciliatory. He followed Scully's fixed stare. In turn, Jason watched and knew what they must be thinking. Despite the assurance of the doctor, Agent Mulder was too still. His passion which had flared so bright earlier in the evening, now lay dormant, smothered by the machines which were giving his battered body a chance to survive. The heavy dressing on his throat made it seem as if he had been decapitated. Jason reflected on the Mulder he had tracked earlier in the evening. The Mulder that he had stalked had been furiously alive, a burning comet that blazed across the placid heavens in furious assault against the shadows that strove to blanket the stars with their lies. Even banked and muted, Mulder's passion could still draw in any who harbored a spark of the same impassioned faith. Jason saw Skinner's eyes grow sad and suspected that he held a deep admiration for his embattled agent who seemed to take a licking and keep on ticking, once again. Jason watched the pair in silent amusement at how transparent Skinner was. His every glance betrayed his thoughts. Jason translated the silent language stance and gesture. Skinner looked at Agent Scully who was staring intently at her partner. Jason followed the twitch of muscles in Skinner's jaw, the thinning of his mouth into a grim line, and the slight stiffening of his spine and knew that he regretted his deal with the devil. Skinner half raised a hand to touch Scully's shoulder then let it drop. //Yes, Mister Assistant Director, you would give your soul, if it didn't already belong to us, to assure her that, yes you believed her. You're too good a soldier not to believe. How many jungles have you fought in? What's this war we're in right now, but a jungle of lies, misdirection and half-truths waged in the shadows.// Jason smiled ferally as he watched Skinner struggle with his knowledge that this was no random act. There was no evidence to back him up, Jason had made sure of that. If Skinner failed to heed the signs and pushed hard enough, he would receive a cold visit from his master reminding him of his place. His smoking friend had merely to suggest that Agent Scully's health would be best served by an official acceptance of the police report and Skinner would be a problem no longer. //Nice doggy. You'll learn to roll over very soon.// Jason looked forward to the lessons. Skinner had much to learn about keeping his place. "Thank you sir. I'll stay here until the guard arrives," Scully moved to the door. Returning to a neutral professional tone, she continued, "Could you send someone over to Agent Mulder's apartment to check for evidence of a break-in?" Jason almost saluted. She was good, damn good. The old dragon might have miscalcuated - she might be more useful to the Project than just as bait to draw Mulder in. Maybe they should take a greater interest in how the ova they collected were used. Interesting possibilities arranged themselves in scattered pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Definitely worth looking into. Jason watched as Agent Scully walked into the room and sat down beside the bed. One hand rested on Mulder's left hand and Jason sensed that he would learn nothing new by staying. He would give them their privacy, for now. He was tired and wanted to sleep and mull over the possibilities his evening's gleanings had provided him. Giving a curt nod at Carsten who was doing a bad imitation of a wall, Jason left in A. D. Skinner's retreating shadow. ************** "Mulder...." Scully began, then hesitated, suddenly uncertain, adrift between what her scientifically logical mind told her and what her soul took on faith alone. Her arms still felt the chill of his body as she held him in the street, defying a dark, winged angel to take him from her. The smell of his blood reeked even to her diminished sense of smell. All this her soul knew and accepted without hesitation, but her mind flailed furiously in counter-attack, refusing to yield ground to such fantasy. Scully looked down at Mulder's hand, studying with sudden intent interest the long tapered fingers and neatly trimmed nails. She let the warmth of her own hand banish the faint blueness that lingered as a reminder of his body's efforts to preserve the blood in the vital organs while abandoning the extremities. Coward, she accused herself even as she let her eyes wander over his still form. Mulder lay on the bright side of death, cast back into life like some flotsam rejected by the dark ocean he flirted with so often. It was in these quiet moments that she allowed herself the luxury of savoring the long lean lines of his body, admiring the curve of his muscles while consoling her conscience with the myth that as a doctor she was immune to his physical charms. She always liked to save the face for last. That oddly put together face that should have made him homely and ordinary yet by some divine sense of humor combined the rich full lips with a grand beak of a nose, the dark stubble that hovered like a permanent shadow on his cheeks into a harmonious, even handsome whole. Now, however, she was slow to follow the lines of his chest upwards. This time there was no firm neck muscles to lead her to his face. Instead, when she resolutely forced her eyes upward, a respirator tube pumped air into his lungs through a hole cut in the base of his throat. Above the surgical tracheaotomy lay a thick dressing covering the gash that had severed his windpipe and come within a hair's-breadth of slashing open the cartoid artery. He would bear a scar, but he would be alive to heal. Scully breathed a prayer of thanks to a God she sensed had abandoned her (or perhaps the other way around, she conceded truthfully) for Mulder's life. Her emotions were a tangled skein without beginning or end. She could no longer tell where her anger at Mulder began and her fear for him ended. Mixed up with the fear and the anger was a soul-wrenching relief that he was still alive to bear the brunt of her anger. The memory of the dream that brought her home still had its claws around her heart. She had been so sure the dream was just that - a dream, a vivid nightmare allegory of her own dwindling into the shadows of death. Now the nightmare was reality. So close to losing him. Dying alone, in the cold with so much unsaid. She was the one dying, not him. She drank life from his passion, clung to his fierce faith that the truth, for both of them, was out there. She clung to the slender faith that he would go on without her, wounded perhaps, but still inextricably bound to his quest. And she would live on in his quest. Without him, she would die. She would continue, for awhile, demanding answers from the silent shadows that had condemned them both, but she did not have the faith left to pursue the trail alone. Without Mulder she had no leverage. Without Mulder, she was merely a discarded pawn in a game that no longer had any meaning. All the shadows had to do was wait in silence as she spent her last days helpless as a becalmed ship. With the passing of her life, she was shedding faith in all but him, leaving behind cast off pieces of her belief in an ordered universe. "Mulder," she repeated his name. Stronger this time, more assured, calling him back to her. Whatever happened, happened. Past and done with. She was here. Why and how were unimportant. He needed to know, she needed to reassure him, that he was not alone. ************** Floating deep in the dark heavy sea Mulder listened to the roar of the sea. Voices sang to him. Whalesongs, dreamsongs, songs of the sea from which he was born and to which he returned so often that it was as a second home. Eons passed drifting, listening to the songs, until a single voice called to him, pulling him out of the song, up towards the light waves that danced on top of the sea. Weightless he let the song pull him upwards until the first sparkle of light touched him and he remembered the pain. Let me go back, he pleaded with the voice as he tried to sink back into the sea, twisting away from the light. Arms held him, pulling him up into the light which blinded his sea-dead eyes. Always there was the voice, crying out a single word - a word that held him powerless to do anything but follow it out of his safe haven back into pain and fear. "Mulder" That word again. Stronger than his fear. His soul leapt for joy before his mind understood both the word and the voice that summoned him back into life. Aware now, of pain and self, Mulder struggled to answer. His throat burned in acid and flames as he tried to speak the answer to the word. "Shush, Mulder. Don't try to speak. The doctor's have numbed your vocal cords so you won't damage them further by trying to speak." He came awake to the calm, rational voice of his partner. She had not abandoned him. He couldn't focus on exactly what she was saying - something about not talking. Well, considering how much his throat hurt right now, he thought that maybe that was very good advice. His memory was still hazy from the drugs, but he remembered a knife, blood and a desperate struggle to breathe and a young boy's hands stopping his life from draining out in the slush of a Washington street. Carefully he opened his eyes, almost afraid that the voice was just a torment hell had devised for his eternal entertainment. Scully stood over him, carefully brushing his hair back off his forehead, her eyes so blue he expected to find the sun in them. She smiled, that same sad, joyful smile that greeted him in Alaska. "Welcome back, partner," she said softly. Mulder smiled, unaware that Scully saw her own sun in the light green dazzle of his eyes. Mulder mouthed just one word. A word that meant home, thank-you, and a host of emotions too complex for him to ever limit by any other word. "Scully." Scully nodded her understanding of their cryptic tongue and watched as Mulder closed his eyes and relaxed into her guardianship. Time enough later for the anger, the rebellion, the impossible patient to appear. Now there was simply relief shared and the reassurance that the future was still theirs, even if only for a little while. ************** Smoke drifted in serpentine coils around the smoker. He pondered the smoke for a heartbeat, then carefully exhaled another thread in the web that obscured his thoughts from his erstwhile comrades in the Project. They were fools. Let them pursue their petty little games. He understood the larger Game. Fox would understand as well. He couldn't help but not understand once he was brought into the Game. "Soon, very soon, Fox. I promise you will understand everything. Bill was a fool and paid the price, Agamemnon's price." The smoker smiled a grim, tight-lipped smile. The whisper melted into the smoke and drifted out into the early dawn through the open window into the world of dreams and portents. Across town, Mulder cried out in his dream as Samantha was pulled through his fingers into the light that burned away his memory. A cool touch caressed his face, banishing the evil dream and bringing sleep's benediction to his uneasy soul. The End XFCreative Mailing List Posting --------------------------------------------- Oh no, I didn't write this (I just wish I was this good). Joyce graciously gave her permission to post it on XFC. Please send all feedback to her at the address below. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- ----------------- TITLE: Absalom III: Cry Havoc AUTHOR: Joyce McKibben (griffin100@juno.com) DATE: November 1997 DISTRIBUTION: Archive on XFC, but don't forward to the NG. Thank you. RATING: PG-13 (some profanity) CLASSIFICATION: A,S SUMMARY: I would suggest that you read "Absalom" I&II before reading this part. This is part 3 of a developing serial. With the beginning of Season 5, this series should be considered to be taking place in an alternate universe. Jason begins to craft a plan to draw Mulder into the Project. DISCLAIMER: FM and CSM belong to CC and Fox Broadcasting and I am only borrowing them for a moment and will return them. No infringement is intended. Lord knows, I'm not making any money off of this and have no intentions of making any money from it. FEEDBACK: Always welcome. Send to: mckibben@msuvx1.memphis.edu ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: I would like to thank my editors, Miki and KL, for keeping me on the straight and narrow path. I would be quite lost without them. ================================== Absalom III: Cry Havoc "...a king shall appear, harsh and grim, a master of stratagem. His power shall be great, he shall work havoc untold..." (Daniel 8:23-24) "We have miscalculated." Jason let his words fall into the silence, sending ripples of unease into the dark paneled room. Decaying cloudss of smoke eddied and swirled around him as he stepped into the inner sanctum of his friend's lair. A touch of fear exhilarated his soul. His friend was as dangerous as the Oracle at Delphi and nearly as mysterious. He wondered if the ancient Greeks kept the Oracle for the sheer thrill of trying to outwit the fates it prescribed for them. Reclining in a nest of writhing smoke tendrils, the smoker looked up at Jason, "Really?" He paused to blow another thin twisting line of smoke to replace one that was fading into nothingness. "And exactly how did we manage this?" A dry smile twisted his lips for an instant and was gone as another serpent of smoke rose to join its brethren. Jason ignored the question and walked over to the small table in the corner of the room just to the right and behind the smoker's desk. Ebony and ivory chessmen stood in staggered array upon a mahogany and oak chessboard. This had been Jonathan's pride and joy, Jason reflected sadly, a specially commissioned work of art. The chessmen were exquisitely carved down to the finest detail of robes and swords and staves of power. So like Jonathan to transform the ivory pieces into a fantasy kingdom ruled by a philosopher king and his warrior queen facing the dark hordes opposing them. "I remember Jonathan telling us that comparing Fox Mulder to an errant sun hurtling across our heaven pulling allies into his orbit was only part of the greater truth," Jason mused aloud, his voice soft with memory. The smoker swiveled in his chair to give Jason his full attention. Idle smoke-rings, disturbed by his movement swirled about his head like striking serpents. He said nothing, letting his silence compel Jason to continue. Jason felt the pressure against his will. His friend used silence like other men used a knife. It was an extremely useful tactic with lesser men, but Jason was not so easy to manipulate. Jason smiled and considered extending the silence to heighten the tension in the room. His friend was not the only one who appreciated the exhilarating rush that came from pitting his will against an equally dangerous opponent. The Others, those old men of the Consortium, were too impatient with any threat to their perceived power. Their only answer to opposition was to eliminate the threat; alpha sheep content to rule other sheep. "I remember when Jonathan commissioned this set," Jason continued, slyly noting the slight sigh of contentment from his friend. "He said we needed something to remind us who of the real players were." The smoker nodded, allowing Jason to draw him into this game of reminiscence. With a sudden breath he scattered the obscuring smoke and leaned back to indicate that Jason had his undivided attention, for now. Jason lightly brushed the crown of the ivory king-piece with his fingers, lingering for a moment on the fluted scroll held in one hand in place of a scepter. He didn't need to pick up the piece to see the portrait of Fox Mulder carved into the ivory nor did he need to examine the queen whose resemblance to Dana Scully was more than a passing coincidence. Jonathan had been a master of many games. Jason wished he knew how many gambits his old friend had actually set in motion before his death and whether they would be a help or a hindrance to his current plans. "Jonathan warned us that we did not know all of the pieces on Mulder's side of the board. The white queen was our gift to him and our first, perhaps our greatest mistake." "Old news, Jason. You said there was a new miscalculation," the smoker prompted. A vexed sigh escaped him as he realized he had played into Jason's ploy. He gave Jason a brief nod of acknowledgment to indicate that the score was now even. "We incorrectly identified a player who is not the pawn we took him to be. Jonathan selected many players for this game. Some we know about, most we do not. Mulder has strange allies in strange places. Those who follow him for their own reasons, while dangerous, are reasonable risks. But Jonathan set into motion another player under our very noses and we did not even notice," Jason nodded towards the framed picture on the mantel. Three young men, faces afire with intense ambition and passion, stared back at him in frozen images now lost in history. "And this unknown player is?" the smoker asked with a touch of frost chilling his tone. Jason understood the anger and touch of fear that chilled the air. Ignorance of who was what in this game was tantamount to death. His friend prided himself on knowing to the nth degree who the players were and what role they played or even what role they thought they played. The idea that there was another serious player on Mulder's side that they had overlooked was cause for alarm. Mulder's moves were calculated on known variables. A rogue piece could destroy everything. "The King's bishop." Jason picked up the ivory bishop, dressed like a warrior mage wielding a heavy staff pointed out across the board at the opposing ebony army. He stared at the piece, trying to see if Jonathan had left them a clue to his intrigue. A rueful smile twitched across his lips for an instant as he realized that under the great miter, the bishop was bald. "Damn you, Jonathan. Even in the grave, you move us around like your damn chessmen," Jason muttered to himself. "Apparently our newest recruit is one of Jonathan's players. Assistant Director Walter S. Skinner is more important than we realized." "Nonsense. He is a petty bureaucrat with delusions of importance," the smoker snarled. "Delusions or not, he is vital to our purpose. He is a key to Fox Mulder's soul," Jason continued evenly, ignoring his friend's rising irritation. It was difficult to argue when he wasn't entirely sure himself of the reasons for his sudden insight, but he felt the impact of his revelation redefine the game. With an effort, the smoker restrained an angry dismissal of Jason's theory. Pride warred with dispassionate assessment of Jason's skills and lost. Better to concede the pride than to risk losing everything. Unwilling to trust his voice not to betray his irritation, the smoker waved at Jason to continue. "Skinner has protected Mulder at every turn, even beyond all reason unless he was specifically set in place for that very reason. I doubt if he is even cognizant of his purpose. Jonathan was a genius. He could read men's inner motivations and what drove them to certain actions and knew exactly where to place them so they would be of most use to us at a later date." "So you are saying Skinner was put into place by Jonathan in order to protect Mulder? Rather far-sighted of him. Still.... It would explain much." The smoker smiled. "How delightful that our upright assistant director should owe his present position to the very people he holds in contempt, but how is this useful to us?" "Simple. We have merely forgotten one of the basic laws of physics - objects in motion affect each other. Mulder attracts allies who are pulled into his orbit and follow his path. What we forgot is that he is also affected by them. We have seen his devotion to Agent Scully, calculated it, depended on it until Skinner stepped in." Jason paused and carefully placed the bishop in front of the ivory king-piece, blocking the check threatened by the black knight. The smoker followed the movement on the chessboard with interest, his eyes flicking over the new arrangement, calculating actions and reactions of all the various pieces with the intense concentration of a chess master. Jason moved a rook to threaten the bishop. He gave his friend an apologetic glance and shrugged. The entire incident with the bees had been badly handled. His friend had been too intent on inflicting a humiliating lesson on Skinner, and Jason's own underlings had mishandled the cleanup operation by using their own initiative to frame the Assistant Director. That particular act of sheer stupidity had cost them their lives. Jason made their deaths an object lesson to his other operatives - initiative was fine, if it worked. If it didn't, then expect no mercy. The smoker acknowledged Jason's apology and his own folly in allowing a personal vendetta to interfere in his long-term objectives. He had come perilously close to losing ground with the Consortium elders, but a quick cleanup and an absolute blackout on information disseminated to the public eased them back into placid self-satisfaction. Trusting in his instincts that his reading of the subsequent puzzling events was true, Jason picked up the ivory king-piece and took out the rook threatening the bishop. His shoulders set in faint lines of tension, Jason turned to face the arguments he sensed were building. To his surprise, his friend was nodding with sudden understanding. "I did wonder why nothing came of that particular ploy. I merely assumed Skinner had added one more act of sabotage to his repertoire. Interesting. And how do you propose that we use this bit of insight?" "My sources report that Agent Mulder went to Assistant Director Skinner's apartment that night. Due to the oversight of my agent," Jason winced as he accepted responsibility for the stupidity of that fool, "no listening devices were placed in the Assistant Director's apartment. An oversight, I might add, that has been corrected", Jason added with a deadly cold tone. "Still I can speculate. An hour later the murder weapon was tested at the FBI Crime Lab, but no identifying marks were found on the weapon. The Assistant Director did not have time to destroy the evidence before Mulder showed up. Therefore, our very own Fox Mulder conspired with his superior to destroy vital evidence in an ongoing investigation of a policeman's murder." Jason let his friend absorb the speculation in silence. His own mind was churning out stratagems and maneuvers designed to take advantage of this new information. "Then you are proposing that for some reason Mulder is willing to put his honor and career at risk for Skinner?" the smoker asked with a slight incredulous lilt to his voice. "What I am saying is that we have been focusing on Agent Scully to the possible detriment of other targets. Perhaps we should give the Assistant Director some reward for being such a good dog - perhaps a milk-bone biscuit in the form of a slight remission in Agent Scully's condition. Draw the man deeper in until his soul cannot twitch without our permission." Jason's voice was cold as death. He had been ordered to damn Fox Mulder's soul. If the way to that damnation was through the souls of everyone close to him, then at least Mulder would have company in hell. "Do as you please, Jason. Just bring Mulder to me." The smoker blew a haze of smoke over the chessboard obscuring the pieces before leaning back in obvious dismissal of his lieutenant. Jason inclined his head in a slight bow then left the room. With the proper care and precision to details, Skinner would make the perfect lure to draw Mulder into the shadows. Jason relished the exhilaration of facing an opponent worthy of his personal attention. It was always entertaining to corrupt the soul of an honorable man, almost as entertaining as drawing men burdened by a conscience into the abyss. Damnation was a tricky game, but the rewards were exquisitely satisfying. ==================== Mulder's Room George Washington Medical Center 4 days after the attack The sound of someone entering his room stirred Mulder reluctantly from a hazy dream where he drifted among chartreuse drug-laced clouds. He lay still, eyes closed, trying to determine if it was worth the effort to open his eyes. For three days he had ruthlessly ignored everyone. The only exceptions he had made were for Scully and his doctor. Now, only Scully could pull him out of his isolation. He was mortally tired of hearing his doctor repeat the same tired platitudes: 'you're doing as well as can be expected, Mr. Mulder. These things take time and patience.' Well, time he had, but he was fresh out of patience. The steady thrum of the pump on the respirator was a constant reminder that his progress was being measured in inches. Lava still burned in his throat, held at bay by the drugs, but lurking, waiting for a cue to take the stage again. The sound of the respirator was becoming more familiar to him than his own heartbeat. He was tired of the restraints that held his arms down. Scully had explained the reasons for them and, intellectually, he understood those reasons, but he wondered if she understood how desperately he hated being restrained. Soft sounds rustled in his ears as the visitor settled into the chair beside his bed. It had to be Scully. None of the hospital personnel had reason to move that quietly. Not that they exactly made a lot of noise, they moved quietly and efficiently around the machines that hooked him to life, but they did so with a brisk efficiency rather than a careful consideration not to disturb him. He started to sigh against the rhythm of the machine and felt his chest tighten in protest. For a moment he panicked as he fought the machine. The lava rose up to choke him and his hands curled into claws fighting the restraints, striving to reach up and tear the tube out of his throat before he choked to death. "Shush, Mulder. It's alright. Just relax. The more you fight, the harder it is to breathe," Scully's voice, slow, steady, and calm, gentled him out of his panic. One small hand brushed his hair away from his forehead in long, slow sweeps. Unconsciously he moved his head into her hand, like a cat arching into the hand that stroked its back. Her other hand reached down to slip into his much larger one. Gradually Mulder relaxed into the rhythm of the respirator. He gave Scully's hand a gentle squeeze to let her know he was alright and opened his eyes. "God, Mulder, you've got to stop doing that," Scully admonished him with a shaky smile. Her eyes were clouded with worry. He hated the machine and the restraints, hated the dependency they forced on him. His pleas notwithstanding, the doctors were adamant - until his throat healed enough to withstand the pressure of breathing, he was going to remain hooked up to the respirator. Mulder gave an almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulders, part apology, part resigned resentment at his imprisonment. Scully gave him another smile and watched as his eyes responded. She never ceased to be amazed at how responsive his eyes were. Over the past three days, his eyes had spoken volumes of his pain, his anger and above all his abiding concern for her. If he was thrall to her smile, then she was indentured to his eyes. Mulder made a tapping motion with his right hand, indicating he wanted the chalkboard they used when a shrug and a glance wasn't enough to convey his meaning. Scully undid the restraints and handed him the board. She wished she could make the nurses understand that when he was completely awake and aware, Mulder didn't need the restraints. It was only when he came awake and tried to breathe against the rhythm of the machines that he tried to free himself of the tracheotomy tube running into the base of his throat. After one such incident when he came close to succeeding, the word had come down from on high - he would remain in wrist restraints until the respirator was no longer necessary. Freed of the straps, Mulder flexed his arms and indulged in the sensuous luxury of raising his arms over his head and stretching like a cat. His shoulders protested the sudden change in position with audible creaks and snaps. Catching sight of Scully smothering a laugh at the cacophony of sounds, Mulder smiled and snapped a few of his upper vertebrae in a loud rejoinder. Scully tried to turn her smile into a censuring look, but failed. This was no cure for Mulder's anxiety about his future, but, like him, she had learned to seize these moments and hold onto them. Without a word, she handed him the chalk. Any leads? Scully shook her head. Mulder had told her about a disk he had retrieved from one of his insane marauding ventures. When she went to check on it, there was no disk. To add insult to injury, his hard drive had been systematically trashed. Byers had been quite profane about the damage. To the best of her knowledge, Scully had never really heard Byers swear before. He did so in a hushed mutter of highly literate, yet highly profane terms that amused and entertained her, almost as much as the flush of embarrassment when he realized she had overheard him. Frohike's comments had been simple, earthy and to the point. "No, Mulder. No one saw anyone enter your apartment. No one heard anyone moving around," Scully sighed. "Skinner suspects the assault on you was more than a simple random attack, but his team of experts says otherwise and we have no evidence to force them to keep the investigation open. The D.C. police are in charge now." Mulder almost yielded to the temptation to hurl the chalkboard against the wall, but realized that would only bring in the nurses and Scully would be hastily evicted while they put him back in restraints. Damn Cancer Man. He was so close. The disk was his best hope of getting enough information to deal with that SOB. Now it was gone, along with his hard drive, like all the other evidence he ever managed to lay his hands on. Torn out of his hands, just as Scully was being ripped from his life. "Whatever was on that disk, Mulder. Whatever you found or think you found, it's not worth your life," Scully pleaded against the angry familiar despair she saw in the back of his eyes. She had so little time to make sure Mulder would commit to life. Her own doctors were grimly honest with her about her dwindling health, just as Mulder's was bluntly optimistic about the excellent chance he had of speaking again and returning to a normal life. How strange, she thought, that she could accept her sentence of death while Mulder regarded his sentence of life as simply one more burden to bear. It was worth your life Mulder didn't look at her as he handed her the chalkboard with the words of his confession plain to see. He had failed. Scully took the chalkboard in silence. Mulder lay still, his head turned away, his hands clenched at his sides. This was no boyish pout, this was the despair of a man who had seen his last hope ripped from his hands. She didn't know what to say, what she could say to ease his pain. She had no hope to spare him. His fierce hope had warmed her soul these past few weeks when her own hope had dwindled into darkness. Perhaps, though, she could still give him something of herself to rekindle his inexorable hope. If her soul was dry, was there not yet a part of her heart still burning? "I'm still here, Mulder. As long as I know you believe, I can believe that somehow, together, we can come through this," Scully whispered softly as she leaned down and returned the kiss he had given her in the hospital outside Penny's room. Her lips brushed his forehead, sending fire cascading through the cold ashes of his soul, igniting hope and passion in a bonfire of resolve. Mulder grabbed her hand and held it to his lips in a kiss at once both chaste and passionate; a knight re-pledging himself to his lady. Round one might belong to the dragon, but he was not going to concede round two without a fight. Mulder released her hand and smiled; a smile peculiarly his own - part mischief, part simmering passion, part quixotic madman. I believe. Scully smiled at his simple proclamation of trust and hope. He never ceased to amaze her. Resilient beyond all reason. Capable of a simple faith in the truth that even the blackest despair could not quench. She fought against the temptation to hate the men who were trying to destroy that faith. Her own faith, overshadowed by her science for so many years, was returning as she journeyed deeper into the mysteries of death. Soon she would travel where Mulder could not follow, must not follow until his journey was complete. She prayed that she could leave him enough faith to survive her death and continue the search for their truths without her. Scully started to answer him when she saw Mulder's eyes grow wild and he began struggling to sit up. Tubes strained and tangled as he thrashed about. A horrid ragged croak followed by a trickle of blood burst from his throat. One arm tried to thrust her aside while the other hand stabbed at the doorway. For an instant, as she fought to restrain him, Scully thought she saw a shadow in the doorway. When she turned her head a moment later, no one was there. Mulder collapsed against the pillows, spewing blood from his mouth, his eyes furious and frightened as he tried to make her understand what he had seen. Still furious he fought the drugs and the restraints until he was pulled back into the drug- induced netherworld. Scully had to be warned. That thought accompanied him into the haze until more drugs sapped all conscious thought away and he was left floating in a world where time coiled around him in an endless loop with no beginning or end until the memory of the event flowed into the memory of the attack and was lost. Jason moved swiftly away from the door as nurses poured into the room in response to the alarms. The risk was minimal, but had to be taken. So, Mulder could identify him as his assailant. Interesting. Possibly even useful. Not as useful as confirming that the unique bond Mulder shared with his partner was as strong as ever, however. ************** Later that night "It's not your place to question, doctor. You have the vial?" Jason's voice was cold and dry as an Arctic breeze. "Yes, but... I can't just administer this to a patient without knowing what is in it." Protests, feeble and uncertain, like the final struggles of a fly sensing the imminent arrival of the spider. "It's rather late for an attack of conscience, doctor. Perhaps you would prefer explaining to the medical board exactly why you have been systematically administering experimental drugs to your patients without FDA approval?" Jason paused, counted slowly to twenty-five, listening to the doctor's panicked breathing. Such a foolish man to believe the Consortium's promises of immunity. He was a useful man only as long as he cooperated. "I thought not. Just administer the contents of the vial in her regular vitamin supplement treatments. I think you will be pleased by the results. That is what you want, isn't it doctor? The well-being of your patients?" Jason mocked the doctor who had his breathing under control and was waiting in silence to hear his instructions like the obedient servant he was. Jason despised him. So eager to be on the cutting-edge, so greedy for personal aggrandizement that he failed to see the sword that hung over his head. "Oh, and by the way, doctor, you will be mystified by the improvement. If I hear one word from you that suggests you claim any responsibility for the improvement . . . You have, I believe a two-year-old son. . ." Jason tried to keep from laughing at the use of such tired, old threats, but this doctor seemed overly impressed by the melodramatic. It was all he could do to avoid lapsing into an imitation of Edward G. Robinson. "Yes, I understand," came the bitter reply. "She is due in tomorrow for her weekly checkup. I'll administer the dose then. Is that all?" "For now." Jason hung up the phone content with the doctor's struggles against the web that bound him to Jason's purpose. Little men with grand ambitions were so useful to the Project. Now it was time to set the middle game in motion. With the white queen occupied and the white king momentarily in check, it was time to test the white king's bishop in battle. A certain Assistant Director Walter Skinner was about to learn the price of a soul. Jason sat in the darkness and smiled. The End Date: Wed, 03 Dec 1997 TITLE: Absalom IV: Sow the Wind (1/2) AUTHOR: Joyce McKibben (griffin100@juno.com) DATE: December 1997 DISTRIBUTION: Archive at XFC, but don't forward to the NG. Thank you. RATING: PG-13 (some profanity) CLASSIFICATION: A,S SUMMARY: I would suggest that you read the preceding parts of this series before reading this part. This is part 4 of a developing series. Jason and CSM cope with rumblings within the Consortium. DISCLAIMER: Mulder, Skinner, Scully and CSM belong to CC and Fox Broadcasting and I am only borrowing them for a moment and will return them. Jason belongs to me. No infringement is intended. Lord knows, I'm not making any money off of this and have no intentions of making any money from it. FEEDBACK: Always welcome. Send to: mckibben@msuvx1.memphis.edu ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: I would like to thank my editors: Miki and Carrie who always keep me on the right track. ************** Absalom IV: Sow the Wind "For they sow the wind, and they shall reap the whirlwind." Hosea 8:7 11 days after the attack Jason's Office "You're late," Jason greeted his friend without looking up from the computer screen. His fingers were dancing across the keyboard in a rapid staccato beat that underscored the loud New Orleans jazz music pouring out of the hidden CD player. The smoker closed the door behind him and allowed himself to be enveloped by the music. A bit raucous for his taste, but it did provide an excellent distraction for anyone trying to listen in. Jason must be feeling mellow. Usually when he was playing with the men who monitored the listening devices he gravitated towards Stockhausen or some of the more disharmonious electronic music. The summons from Jason had been insistent and secret; a code signal known only to the two of them, meaningless to anyone else. Curious, but cautious as ever, the smoker had kept to his usual schedule, maintaining the dull ordinariness of his daily routine. Patience was not only a virtue, but essential for staying alive in the shadowy world he called home. "I'm being watched. It seemed prudent to maintain the illusion that I am busy with routine matters," the smoker replied in a calm voice. He detested being followed, especially by the amateurs who infested the conspiracy these days. Fox Mulder, on his worst days, could do better than some of these puppies, he thought with irritated pride in his wayward protege. "It has begun," Jason announced in a matter-of-fact tone. The smoker sighed heavily, prompting a feral grin from Jason. "What's the matter, old friend, gotten too used to the quiet life?" A cloud of smoke billowed in Jason's direction and he paused in his typing long enough to wave it away from the screen. The smoker, content with his unspoken comment on Jason's sense of humor, walked over to a chair by the computer and sat down. The music was too loud to carry on a conversation more than three feet apart. "Unlike you, Jason, I do not find chaos to be exhilarating," he commented with acid humor. Pawn responds to pawn's move, he thought with a silent chuckle. He and Jason were like two old masters, trading humor and information like opening moves in an intricate chess game. There was never a winner, simply an interest in who would reach the point of checkmate first. "Pity, it really is the only time to be alive," Jason replied as he punched the return key and sent a dozen messages flying out to his scattered agents. "How many do you think will choose this opportunity to try to negotiate their way up the ladder?" the smoker asked with mild curiosity. Such times always brought out the ambition in lesser men. Betrayals and insurrections among the lower ranks were expected, even planned for in his strategies. The smoker pitied those fools who believed they could betray Jason and survive. There would be many openings in the ranks of middle management by the time this storm passed. "It's one way of winnowing out the fools with more ambition than brains, old friend. Saves us the trouble later," Jason commented dryly. "What are those idiots thinking?" The smoker stabbed out his cigarette in a single vicious thrust. The elder statesmen in the conspiracy must have taken leave of their senses. Why now? "This is not the time for this sort of foolishness." "Power corrupts more than morals, old friend. This idiocy is evidence that it also corrupts intelligence," Jason retorted. "Still, it will shake up the status quo, which could work to our advantage." "Perhaps," the smoker conceded grudgingly. "Have you taken precautions?" he asked with sudden alarm. In chaos, accidents could happen and no one would have to accept the blame. "Of course," Jason answered with just the tiniest trace of exasperation in his voice. "I'm no novice. From the opening gambits, I would say this whole mess is nothing more than an incident provoked out of casual malice that has gotten out of hand. No one is in control at this point. Our 'friends' are too busy jockeying for power amongst themselves. It is not unreasonable to suppose that disgruntled parties might seek to take advantage of the chaos to strike." The smoker sighed. "Good. I am not yet ready to move and would not like to have my hand forced by their intemperate actions." "My men have their orders, as do the men watching them. Nothing is being left to chance . . . or to trust," Jason added with soft menace. "Well then, perhaps while our friends are amusing themselves with their petty games of power, we can tend to our own game. The King is stalemated and the retreat of our most threatening pawn should be sufficient to keep the White Queen occupied. I think it is time I paid our rogue Bishop a call . . . to remind him that he answers to me. I would hate for him to get the wrong impression should this dissension among our ranks reach his ears." The smoker's face twisted into a death's-head grin as he drew a final long drag from the dying cigarette and slowly released the smoke in a perfect circle. "Enjoy yourself, but remember, we want a wolf, not some drooling lapdog," Jason admonished gently. The smoker's eyes grew brittle. "Perhaps you would prefer to handle this yourself?" he asked coldly, angry that Jason could read him so well. "No, I prefer the shadows. He knows you. There is no need for him to know me. Why confuse him? Go, let him grow used to hearing his master's voice," Jason added smoothly. "Later, then?" the smoker asked quietly as he departed. "Of course. I believe it was your turn, my friend," Jason smiled as he glanced over at the chess board in the corner of his office. Not as ornate as the one occupying his friend's office, but far more ancient; French knights with white banners flying faced off against the English forces fighting under the red flag. The smoker stared at his beleaguered white king and let his mind relax into the possible moves to remove the threatened check. Jason watched his friend leave. He was glad to be able to give his friend the gift of shortening Mr. Skinner's leash. The humiliation of having to acquiesce to Skinner's bluff over the DAT still burned in his friend's soul. There would be time enough for him to make his own call on the Assistant Director. Perhaps when the lessons of obedience and damnation were more firmly imbedded in his soul. It was time, past time, to move Mr. Skinner into the forefront of the battle, he thought with savage contentment. Skinner's soul would make a magnificent addition to his collection. Skinner's rage at the fate closing in on him should be quite useful. A soul as strong as this one should be savored over time, like an excellent brandy. Jason felt a warm glow of contented anticipation as he returned to his shadowy machinations. ************** It was past 7 p.m. On a hunch the smoker returned to the FBI Building. A single light, blazing out from an upstairs office rewarded his gambit. He moved swiftly through the silent halls, marveling once again at the ease with which a dedicated team could penetrate and eliminate potential threats within these hallowed halls of justice. His tools would do well to remember his power and maintain their usefulness to him. Perhaps this rising storm would afford him an opportunity to make an example of someone. A pity Mr. Skinner had proved to be a necessary piece, he thought as he unceremoniously entered the Assistant Director's office without bothering to knock. "Working late, Mr. Skinner?" the smoker asked in a voice reminiscent of the walrus suggesting a stroll down the beach to an unwitting oyster. Assistant Director Walter Skinner closed his eyes momentarily against the sight of his nemesis. "What do you want?" clipped words breaking out of a jaw clenched tight against the bitter anger that burned in his eyes. "Is that any way to greet someone who is prepared to give you what you want the most?" A puff of smoke billowing out of lips spread thin in a sardonic smile. "I expected more enthusiasm, Mr. Skinner." "Agent Scully is still dying. I've kept my side of the bargain, you bastard. I have yet to see you keep yours." Skinner spoke with low intensity. "You are an impatient man, Mr. Skinner. Like Agent Mulder, you want everything at once," the smoker rebuked softly. "I believe you will find the latest medical reports on Agent Scully's condition to be . . quite encouraging." The smoker walked over to Skinner's desk and slowly, deliberately crushed the smoldering cigarette into the stand holding the small American flag on the edge of the desk. Apparently satisfied that the Assistant Director understood his place in the game, the smoker drew out another cigarette and lit it, taking a long deep breath of fiery smoke. The smoker noticed that Skinner was bracing himself to endure a face full of smoke. The game-piece recognizes the hand of the master, he thought with cool satisfaction. He caught Skinner's glaring eyes for a moment, before turning aside and blowing the smoke across the room. "You will see, I am quite prepared to deliver on my promises. You need more faith, Mr. Skinner. That is what miracles are made of, isn't it?" The smoking man smiled benevolently. As he turned to leave, he paused in the act of opening the door to turn back towards Skinner. "I believe this time, it is your turn to pucker up, Mr. Skinner," he commented in a dry voice that betrayed no sense of victory, only the inevitability of his dominance. Without waiting for a response, he left the office. "King's bishop is now in play," he whispered to his shadow as it trailed along the wall behind him. ************** Skinner glared at the closing door. The lingering smell of cigarette smoke made his eyes burn and turned his soul to lead. It had taken all of his self-control not to rise up and physically assault the conductor of his personal train to damnation. Only the knowledge that retribution would not fall on his head alone stayed his hand. If the smoking man was telling the truth, then the last hope he had of salvaging his soul was gone. A contract with hell was binding only when the devil held up his end. If Agent Scully's cancer was in remission, then he owed hell the rest of his soul, payment to be made in installments, no doubt, he thought savagely. A piece here, a piece there, until nothing was left but the shadow of a soul where honor and duty had once reigned. Skinner stared sightlessly at his own reflection in the portraits on the wall. There should be some change, some mark to brand him as one of the devil's minions, he thought bitterly. Thirty years ago he had seen the devil walk out of the jungle clothed in the body of a ten-year-old boy. Only a fool trusted in appearances. Now he belonged to the devil. He heard the words inside his head, mocking him. The reports on his desk dwindled into unimportant mementos of a time when he could delude himself that he was captain of his fate. Suddenly the stark revealing light pouring down from the overhead panels was unbearable. Slowly, like a man bidding a reluctant farewell to a lover, Skinner got up and turned off the lights. Only the defused light from his desk lamp remained to illuminate his darkness. The shadows blurred his reflection that had stared back at him so harshly a moment ago. Maybe the real Walter Skinner is trapped in that lost reflection and I'm only the ghost left behind to haunt his body, Skinner thought with bitter resignation. "I've been a ghost for nearly thirty years," he muttered. The darkness matched his mood. He felt the jungle closing in and knew that for him, the war would not end; there would be no reprieve and only hell waited for him at the end of his journey. Staring out at the lights of the city, he wondered when he would cease feeling the agony of each step into hell and whether the end of the pain would also mark the death of his soul. A Marine to the last, he accepted this defeat in the sure and certain knowledge that he had stepped into harm's way to protect a comrade. His sacrifice had guaranteed that Mulder would be free to carry on the war. Better his soul writhing in the smoking man's grasp than Mulder's. Scully was Mulder's bright angel. Without her, Mulder would be lost to the rage he kept caged; lost to the greater battle that lay ahead. Silent allies, he and Mulder had conspired to protect her, to buy her life at any cost. Now he had to live with the consequences of his bargain. As he stood in the darkness, Skinner vowed that before he corrupted justice again, he would first see proof that the smoker had met his terms. Perhaps the smoker was content to give Skinner time to accept that he had no room to maneuver. The idea that the devil was a master tactician was no comfort. "I have sacrificed my honor, but I still stubbornly cling to its shadow," he muttered against the window. If the devil held up his end of the deal, then Skinner knew without a shadow of a doubt, that he would hold to his word. A battle lost does not mean the war is lost. Mulder would know the cost of Scully's reprieve. For the first time he was glad that Mulder knew of his deal. Mulder would be wary now of trusting him too far. That hurt more than Skinner would have thought possible. He had come to value Mulder's trust as well as his passion for the truth. But better to lose the trust than keep it and chance that a betrayal would be the ultimate price for Scully's life. Skinner stared out into the darkness and tried to pray. "God, don't make me betray him as well. If you're there and you listen to the prayers of damned souls like me, don't make me face the choice between saving Scully and betraying Mulder." Only silence and the soft humming of a janitor cleaning the hall answered him. "A Marine doesn't pray, boy - he acts." The words of a sergeant whipping him into a firefight with scornful words and a solid kick to his ass came back to him. He had been muttering half- forgotten snatches of prayers as the world exploded around him in his first taste of war. "Good advice, Nichols," Skinner muttered back to the ghost of a man dead nearly thirty years. "But who in hell is the enemy now?" "If you wait long enough, boy, the enemy will come to you. Fight on your terms, not on his. A Marine is brave; he ain't stupid." Nichols's voice faded away along with the memory of that gut- wrenching fight. "Yes sir!" Skinner responded and stiffened to attention, sending a silent salute out into the darkness. My terms indeed and in my own time, Skinner promised his old mentor as he prepared to dig in and make the bastard pay for every piece of his soul. [end part 1 / continued in part 2] Absalom IV: Sow the Wind (2/2) "For they sow the wind, and they shall reap the whirlwind." Hosea 8:7 George Washington University Hospital Same night Dana Scully stared out across the garishly lit city from the large bay window in the upper floor of the hospital. The darkness no longer threatened her with vague hints of the final night encroaching on the dwindling day of her life. She could look out into the night now and see its beauty. By some grace, of science or of God's, life was awakening from its nap and reclaiming her. No angel descended to announce the miracle, merely a plain ordinary X-ray that clearly showed a marked reduction in the cancerous mass lodged in her nasal cavity. Her doctor did not indulge in more intensive tests. His attitude puzzled her, but she was relieved he had not insisted on admitting her to the hospital for further tests. She wanted to let Mulder know the good news. There would be time enough for tests and questions and probes into the elusive mysteries of medical miracles. Her rebirth into hope needed to be shared with the one person who had sustained her hope with his fierce faith in miracles. She had arrived, face gleaming with life, to find that Mulder was enduring another session with his surgeon. The nurse hastened to assure her that this was just a routine checkup to insure that his recovery was back on schedule. Scully relaxed. For the past week, Mulder had shown signs of steady improvement. The damage from his unexplained seizure had been minimal, but had been enough to delay his weaning from the respirator. Mulder's eyes had expressed his disgust at the delay, but he seemed to accept that cooperating would get him off the machines faster. Scully returned to an overstuffed chair in the waiting room and tried to be patient. She wanted to tell Mulder that she would be there at his side as he fought his way back to health. She wanted to give him back some of the hope he had selflessly given her over the past few months. Waiting, mulling over the whys and wherefores of her remission, was not what she had in mind. Impatient to share her miracle, she was soon up and pacing the small waiting area weaving in and out among the other people holding vigil here as if participating in some intricate dance. She felt distanced from them - they were enduring anxiety, grief or else clinging to a tremulous hope. They reminded her that Mulder had been in their place not so long ago, waiting in fearful rage for the verdict he was powerless to avert. Her vigil was one of joy, to communicate life rather than to wait fearfully for an outcome she was helpless to affect. "Come on, Mulder. How long does it take to check your stitches? If you're playing on the sympathies of some cute young intern. . ." Scully smiled as she envisioned her partner exerting his considerable charms on some poor unsuspecting intern to spring him loose from the respirator. An overwhelming wave of terror enveloping a helpless frantic plea struck her like a cannonball, sending her staggering against the wall. With an effort of will she stayed on her feet, on knees that were suddenly as sturdy as soggy pieces of bread. She was drowning in fear; she was the fear. It soured her mouth and set her lungs to fighting furiously for every breath as she choked on the cloying fog. As suddenly as it hit, the terror receded, leaving behind an oily trace to mark the high water mark on her psyche. The silence left behind was, in its own way, as terrifying as the reeking cloud of fear. In its wake, she felt her soul crack with the knowledge that Mulder was being torn from her. Brushing aside helpful concerned hands, she fled this place of silent waiting and hurled herself through the doors, past the watchful nurses. She glanced in the window of Mulder's empty room as she ran towards the examining rooms. "Ma'am, you can't go in there. Ma'am . . ." The nurse's voice, stern, tight with a touch of irritated impatience, tried to halt her headlong flight. Scully burst through the doors prepared to do battle and found an empty room. Stunned, she rocked to a halt and tried to silence the frantic fear that was sweeping her soul away. Her mind inventoried the room with scientific calm while her heart and soul howled at the delay. No sign of a struggle, yet something was missing - besides her partner, her heart commented in sarcastic irritation. Once again her eyes swept the room, hunting for the elusive clue that would explain where her partner had been taken. She felt the cord binding them together stretch to the breaking point, strangling her soul as it thinned out to a single thread of spider-silk glistening in the darkness between them. "Hang on, Mulder," she pleaded with his receding presence. She knew he was not leaving of his own accord, but he was leaving none-the- less. "Ditch me, again, mister, and I'll follow you to the gates of heaven and kick your ass," she added with ferocious certainty. For just a second, she felt a flicker of a smile along their bond before it vanished in the breathless fear that was drowning him. She spun around to confront the harried nurse who had finally caught up with her. "Where is he?" she demanded harshly as she pushed the nurse through the door into the empty room. There was a time and place for etiquette and this was definitely neither the time nor place. The nurse's expression went from affronted authority to stark bewilderment. "The orderly came to take him back to his room. I can't imagine where he has gone." Confusion was being replaced by dismay. "I'll page Dr. Faber. Maybe he decided to take Mr. Mulder up to surgery," the nurse retreated from this blue-eyed fury who seemed prepared to tear an answer out of the bare walls. She and Mr. Mulder were both mad, she decided as she retreated back into the comforting realm of regulations and procedures. Alone again, Scully tried to quell the rising panic in her heart and concentrate on applying her investigative skills to solving this mystery. If not here, then where would someone wanting to kill Mulder take him? A quiet place where he wouldn't be disturbed, yet someplace where Mulder's death wouldn't seem out of the ordinary, she concluded. Her soul raged at her calm assessment of the cataclysm taking place, but she knew Mulder's best chance lay in her using her mind, not her heart to find him. The nurse's words came back to her with a terrible new meaning. Surgery - what better place to kill a patient in relative safety. An unfortunate accident or better yet, the favorite word of surgeons trying to explain how they allowed a patient to die - complications. With something akin to a snarl, Scully ran for the stairs. Waiting patiently for an elevator to arrive then make its slow ascent was beyond her powers of restraint at this point. Mulder was fading, despite a desperate grip on the cliff's edge; his fingers were being pried open and the abyss waited for him with an avid hunger. "I'm coming, Mulder," she growled as she charged up the stairs. ************** Mulder was tired. His body ached with the effort to breathe through his shattered throat. The tube that had been his lifeline was now choking him, blocking the air he managed to draw down the inferno in his throat. Back arched with the effort to free himself from the restraints, he felt one wrist snap under the pressure, but barely registered the stab of pain as he continued to strain the broken bones against the padded straps. He was weakening. His struggles were slacking off despite his mind's frenzied effort to cling to life. His body was just too tired, too exhausted to fight any longer. The darkness promised rest and an end to pain. His body pleaded with his mind to surrender, but the rest held no peace for him. Scully was coming. His faith narrowed down to that one indisputable tenet and refused to abandon life no matter what inducement death offered. "Come on you son of a bitch, die already." The words of his executioner, impatient of his victim's stubborn grip on life, stung him. Mulder remembered how the man had smiled when he came to fetch him from the examining room. As steeped in sedatives as he was, Mulder felt the presence of death in the guise of this very ordinary-looking man. He was the orderly who had attended him before, but suddenly Mulder sensed that this time was different. When his gurney headed towards the elevators, not his room, he exploded in a futile struggle against the restraining straps. The man had actually laughed at his frantic attempts to escape once the steel doors of the elevator had shut him off from all hope of rescue. Fear had taken him then, plunging him into a black pit of despair and anger. His mind screamed Scully's name as he plummeted into the darkness. An inestimable time later, a desperate need for air drew him up from the dark sea, plunging up into the light. He felt the stitches tear apart as he tried to pull air down his battered throat only to encounter the tube blocking his airway, the tube that was supposed to feed him air. As he thrashed he saw the orderly open his fist for a second, felt the rush of air and blood into his starved lungs, then sucked vacuum as the orderly's fist closed again. SCULLY, his mind cried as he began to slip down into the abyss. An image of Scully, surrounded by a aurora of fire, striding into the darkness after him flickered for a moment. With a last burst of strength he tried to send her all his unspoken love, all their hopes and fears for the years to come. Defying the siren song of the abyss, he clung to the edge of life, but felt the gradual slackening of his body as it defied his will and began the slow journey back into the depths of the dark sea. I tried, Scully. I really did, but I'm just so tired, he apologized as he felt the waves take him. A sudden rush of air startled him back to consciousness. Processed air never tasted so good. He was giving serious consideration to selling his soul for another one like it when a second burst followed the first and then another as his outraged lungs tried to suck the respirator dry. Vaguely, in a distant place where other men dwelt who did not appreciate the stunning beauty of a single breath of air, he heard the drumming of feet on tile and an echo of his own strangled gasps for air. Perhaps, soon, he could be bothered to be curious about the miracle that returned the air, but right now, he was very busy breathing. ************** Scully hit the door of the small minor surgery room running. The slam of the swinging door against the wall sounded like the crack of a rifle. In the dim light, she saw Mulder's gurney and rushed towards it. Her feet hit something soft and went out from under her and she nearly flew across the final few feet onto Mulder's chest. A startled rumble and the blessed thrum of Mulder's heart beating were the sweetest sounds she ever hoped to hear in her life. She noted the torn stitches, but was relieved to see that the bleeding was more of a steady ooze than a torrent. Then, abruptly recalling the thing she had stumbled across, she stood up and turned around, weapon ready. The dim light made identifying the object difficult, but the rising stench of urine and feces told her that someone had died a violent death in this room. Moving cautiously, in case whoever killed the person on the floor was still in the room, Scully found the light switch and turned it on. A man, dressed in an orderly's uniform, lay on the floor in a pool of urine. His face was a ghastly shade of blue-black and his tongue protruded from a rictus grin. Stooping carefully beside the body, Scully noted the presence of a thin wire buried in the flesh of the man's neck. Scuff marks on the floor indicated that the man had struggled with his assailant before he died. She had seen this man during her visits with Mulder. A simple orderly, a bit more attentive than most, but nothing out of the ordinary. Why would he bring Mulder here? Was he the assassin, no attempted assassin, her skittish mind corrected or had he died protecting Mulder from the real assassin? The body was still warm. That meant someone had come in, murdered this man silently and efficiently and then left, apparently unseen, as she was running up the stairs and down the hallway. If the unknown killer had taken the time to murder the orderly, then he must have had time enough to kill Mulder. The receding bluish tinge in Mulder's face suggested that he had been without air for a significant amount of time, suggesting an attempt to attribute the death to mechanical failure. The man who killed the orderly made no attempt to hide his crime, so it was reasonable, she thought, that he would have harbored no reluctance in garroting her helpless partner. She supposed the second assassin was still somewhere in the hospital and, according to regulations, she really should attempt to apprehend him, but she was beginning to suspect the second man, for whatever reason, had prevented Mulder's death. The sight of the unfolding crimp in tube leading from the respirator to the tracheotomy in Mulder's throat did not inspire her to seek out her partner's deliverer. She would cooperate fully with the investigation, but she wasn't going to budge from Mulder's side until she was personally satisfied that he was safe from further attacks. "Whoever you are, thank you, and please don't let me find out who you are," she whispered to the empty room. Trust Mulder to have a deadly efficient guardian angel. She compromised between two duties and phoned the murder in to hospital security at the same time she asked that Dr. Faber be paged, then called Skinner and informed him of the attack. Skinner's curt assurance that he would send an agent to guard Mulder vibrated with fury. Scully welcomed his anger, it matched her own. Someone would pay for this, Scully vowed, content to know that when the time came, Skinner would not stand in her way. Turning back to her partner, she kept her gun ready in case the assassin had backup. She didn't know why Mulder was the sudden object of murderous intent. Their adversaries in the Consortium must know that he had lost the evidence. This attack made no sense, unless it was committed out of sheer spite. Mulder's eyes shot open, wild and dark from his journey into the fringes of the abyss and he did not seem to be entirely back with her yet. He was struggling to focus, to rejoin her, but he had journeyed far into the shadows and the return trip would take awhile. She felt his hand squeeze hers and squeezed back as hard as she could. "Welcome back, Mulder," she smiled in relief and gratitude. "Guess I just can't trust you on your own anymore, can I?" Mulder said nothing, but his eyes closed and his heart began to slow down and his breathing evened out. Her hand was imprisoned in his grip. She suspected she would have to pry his fingers loose if she wanted to use that hand any time soon. Scully carefully brushed his hair off of his forehead with her other hand. "Sleep now, Mulder. I'll be here." The sound of feet rushing down the hallway told her that her moment alone with him was at an end. Between the police and the surgeons, she would be lucky to have him to herself again for hours, but of one thing she was certain, she wasn't going to let him out of her sight until Skinner sent somebody she knew and trusted to watch over him for her. ************** "You did well. Such loyalty will be rewarded," Jason promised as he escorted his agent to the door. As they reached the door, his voice turned cold and the friendly hand resting on the man's shoulder closed like a vise. Seeing the agent pale and buckle under the pressure, Jason smiled and released him. "Still, it would have been better if you had interfered before the attempt on Mr. Mulder's life. Had Mr. Mulder been a little less tenacious, I would be promising a reward of an entirely different sort," Jason said smoothly. The man swallowed nervously and nodded, grateful to be allowed the luxury of leaving this room under his own power. Jason closed the door behind the man and smiled a cold deadly smile. The agent he had assigned to protect Mulder had betrayed him. Well, the man was dead and beyond his reach, for now. This time the fools who ran the Consortium had gone too far. This little game they were playing was getting out of hand. Time to remind them of the unpleasant side-effects of chaos. He wondered again at Mulder's tenacity. A lesser man would have died in the street from the wound Jason inflicted, much less this latest attack. Who are you, Fox Mulder? Did Jonathan ever penetrate that mystery? Was that why he died? Jason wondered as he stared down at his chess board. Soon his friend would arrive and they would resume their many-layered game. The events of the evening would be analyzed and absorbed into the overall strategy of the Game. Still, Jason pondered the mystery that surrounded Mulder and catapulted him into the center of the Game he and his friend had played now for over forty years. "Who are you?" he whispered to the silent chessmen arrayed in their endless battle lines. THE END TITLE: Absalom V: The Price of a Man (1/2) AUTHOR: Joyce McKibben (griffin100@juno.com) DATE: February 1998 RATING: PG-13 (some profanity) CLASSIFICATION: A,S SUMMARY: I would suggest that you read the preceding parts of this series before reading this part. This is part 5 of a developing series. Jason sets into motion the end game for Mulder's soul. DISCLAIMER: Mulder, Skinner, Scully and CSM belong to CC and Fox Broadcasting and I am only borrowing them for a moment and will return them. Jason belongs to me. No infringement is intended. Lord knows, I'm not making any money off of this and have no intentions of making any money from it. FEEDBACK: Always welcome. Send to: griffin100@juno.com ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: A very big thanks to Meredith whose editing skills keep me focused and gently prod me in the right direction. ************** Absalom V: The Price of a Man "Shall I ransom them from the power of Sheol? Shall I redeem them from Death?" Hosea 13:14 13 days after the attack George Washington Hospital Mulder slowly floated to the top of the ocean of drugs cascading through his veins and tried to remember why he was flirting with permanent narcotic addiction, again. His mind felt like half-melted jello, not enough form or substance to hold even a passing thought. Random flashes of memory appeared and vanished with the chaotic intensity of a disco light. Terror. A desperate fight to breathe. A man's fist closing off his airway, smiling coldly then furious when Mulder did not slide easily into death. Air, blessed air and the touch of Scully's hand on his face. Floating on top of the waves, he tried to remember if he died and heaven was an eternity of feeling Scully's touch or if he had survived and had a future where nothing had been said or settled between them. "Hey, partner." Despite the drugs which made even the smallest muscle movement a challenge, Mulder smiled. He suspected it appeared more like a lopsided loopy grimace, but he hoped Scully would know what he meant - she usually did. "Come on, partner. Time to wake up," Scully said soothingly, her tone easing him gently back into consciousness, her hand resting on his, wrapping her fingers around his while her thumb rubbed the back of his hand in slow circles. Mulder made an abortive attempt to answer her and felt the sting of pain as his throat fought the muscle relaxants briefly then gave up the effort. Oh, yeah. His throat. Memory came surging back and he remembered with stark clarity the knife that had slashed through his throat on a lonely street. "Shush, Mulder. Just take it slow and easy. The doctor won't be happy if you rip out all of his nice stitches," Scully cautioned. Mulder felt the restraints around his wrists and felt the odd weight of a cast on his left arm. Vague memories of struggling against his restraints as he was being murdered came to the fore and the distinctive sound of bones snapping replayed. Damn. He felt his lungs expand and contract independent of his will and stopped a sigh before it had half formed. Shit. He hated respirators. More memories surged back on the ebbing tide of drugs. The urge to breathe against the cycle of the respirator was very tempting, but hard-learned experience kept him still. Mulder nodded slightly, being very careful not to jar the air tube at the base of his throat. Very cautiously he opened his eyes, blinking a bit at the light. To his delight, the first thing he saw was Scully haloed by the light, looking for all the world like his guardian angel. He squeezed her hand to let her know he was awake and aware and was rewarded by a smile that rivaled the dazzle of the overhead lights. For some reason beyond his fathoming, Scully glowed. Even her eyes, usually clouded with worry whenever he woke up in a hospital, seemed to shine with some emotion he couldn't quite place. How long, he mouthed. It was dark outside, but whether that meant he had been asleep for hours or days he couldn't tell. "Thirty-six hours. You were in some pain and the doctor decided it would be best if you simply slept through the worst of it," Scully assured him. Mulder sensed that she had not agreed with the doctor's course of action, but hadn't interfered. Mulder felt the head of the bed being raised slowly to give him time to adjust to the new angle. When he was finally upright he saw the doctor come in followed by a nurse. He gave Scully a sad look as if to ask if she could protect him from another exam, but she merely shook her head and retreated to the foot of the bed. At least there he could watch her instead of worrying about what the doctor was doing. Dr. Ozwin didn't say a word throughout the examination except for a few random 'hmmms' and a 'tsch' or three which meant nothing to Mulder, but seemed to say something to Scully. He read her face for his fate, knowing her eyes could not lie. He knew the possibility that the latest attempt on his life could have resulted in permanent damage, damage that would effectively exile him from the X-Files. The doctor couldn't know how desperately Mulder needed reassurance, but Scully did and the slight relaxing of her eyes along with the merest hint of a smile was enough to tell Mulder that he still had a future, at least one that he cared about. "Alright then, Mr. Mulder, the stitches look in fine shape. If nothing further interrupts your recovery, I should be able to remove them in three more days," Dr. Ozwin said heartily. His cheery manner deflated at the impatient glare directed at him by his patient. "Just try not to have any more adventures and maybe we can get you into rehab and out of here, OK?" he added with a tone of exasperation marring his professional cheery tone. Mulder gave his doctor another glare and nodded, very, very carefully. Dr. Ozwin's rules of recovery were etched into his brain - no sighing, no exaggerated movements and, above all, no talking. It wasn't as if he'd arranged that little attempt on his life that sent him back into a drugged sleep for thirty- six hours. Mulder wanted out - out of this bed, out of the tyranny of the respirator, and out of the depressing need to have his meals fed to him through a gastrointestinal tube. Right now, he might consider cold-blooded murder for a western omelet and whole-sale slaughter of innocents for a cup of coffee. Mulder gave Scully a look that mixed inquiry, mild pleading and worry hoping she would be able to interpret a plea for some kind of assurance from the doctor that he was going to speak again. Scully gave him an amused, but slightly exasperated look and nodded. "Dr. Ozwin, what are his chances for a full recovery? You said at the very beginning that there would be a 50- 50 chance of him regaining his voice. Has there been any change in your prognosis?" Scully was all professional, crisp, no-nonsense. Mulder figuratively held his breath as he waited for the doctor's reply. The damn respirator kept on pumping air into his lungs, but his soul paused as he waited for his sentence to be pronounced. "Mr. Mulder has remarkable powers of recuperation. Unless something else happens to interfere with his recovery, I expect he will regain full use of his voice. There will be residual huskiness and I doubt if he should consider a career in singing, but with proper rehabilitation, he should been speaking again in one month, possibly two," Dr. Ozwin replied in a genial fashion that involved a lot of teeth and a smile that actually produced a dimple. Concentrating on showering Scully with his charm, he ignored Mulder's part in the equation very thoroughly. Mulder silently growled at the doctor. For the first time he noticed that Ozwin resembled a graying Adrian Paul. He actually seemed to be trying to score with Scully over his prone body. Suddenly Mulder made up his mind to be rid of the stitches in two days and out of the hospital in under a week. This much charm had to be bad for Scully's health - something along the lines of too much sugar for a diabetic. He owed it to Scully to make as fast a recovery as possible. ************** Engrossed in his silent grumbling, Mulder did not notice Scully's tender smile as she watched him glower, but Ozwin did. With a sigh, he hustled out of the room. "Thank you, doctor, for all you've done," she said graciously, but with a note of finality in her voice that told Ozwin his advances had been noted and rejected. Ozwin turned and gave her a shrug and a smile to indicate that he understood, then moved on to his next patient. Scully chuckled to herself, careful not to make a sound. Mulder's pouting was the best sign she'd had in nearly two weeks that his determination to fight back against all odds had made a full recovery. She had been more worried about his spirit than his voice. Physical complications never stood in Mulder's way; he either overcame them or ignored them in his headlong rush after his truth. As long as he had the spirit to keep fighting, she knew he'd manage to get back in the game. Looking at him drifting into a half-aware world, dazed by the drugs that were slowly ebbing from his system, she wondered how she ever thought she could push him away to save him the pain of losing her. They were linked too close for that rational plan of hers to work. Even now, she had only to touch him, to lightly caress his skin and he would burst through the haze of the drugs to be with her. Time had nearly slipped through her fingers. No more hesitation, no more waiting until the right moment, she was not going to take the chance that he would be ripped from her before sharing in her joy. Whoever was trying so desperately to kill Mulder might not wait until her 'right moment.' Moving back up to stand beside him, she allowed herself the luxury of watching him doze, drugged and relaxed, with all the tension and fire that made him banked down to smoldering coals. His face was slack and relaxed with half-lidded eyes that made her wonder if this was how he would look after sex. For once, Scully did not banish that thought back to the closet of her fantasies. Just for now, she would allow herself to see her partner as a man and understand her own feelings for him, as a woman. As if sensing her gaze, Mulder opened his eyes and lay there absorbing her scrutiny. His eyes darkened with recognition of the meaning of her gaze and a small flush spread from his neck up the lines of his face. With a smile at her own daring, Scully took her finger and traced a long lazy spiral along the lines of the flush. Mulder licked his dry lips and threw himself into her eyes, pulling her into a pool of longing, uncertainty, fear, and passion intense enough to burn both of them to ash if ever unleashed. Startled by meeting passion to match her own, Scully dropped her hand and stepped back. In an instant, Mulder lowered his eyes and when he raised them again, they were the eyes of a friend and partner, nothing more. Perhaps, she thought, there was a hint of regret lingering, but no sign of despair or shame. Scully realized that whatever the ultimate destination on their journey, Mulder had every intention of exploring this particular extreme possibility. Mulder smiled as he tapped his finger on the bed to indicate he wanted free of the restraints and wanted the chalkboard. Scully quickly unfettered him and helped him balance the board in against the cast on his left wrist. What happened? You came back early? You OK? Puzzled, Scully tried to figure out what he was talking about then realized he was referring to the latest attack. "Someone tried to kill you and make it look like an accident. Rather clumsily, I might add." Scully had to chuckle at the raised eyebrows and outraged look Mulder gave her. OK, so making comments about the assassin's competency and professionalism were a bit excessive under the circumstances, she admitted to herself. The look on Mulder's face however, almost made the slip worthwhile. "You were a lot more stubborn about living than he had counted on, but I wouldn't have made it in time." Scully laid her open hand against Mulder's face in silent apology. His eyes absolved her. You came. That's all that matters. "Well, if the assassin hadn't been killed by someone else, I would have been too late. I don't pretend to understand what is going on here, but I suspect there is a division in the enemy ranks. Skinner is furious. You now have your very own private guard right outside the door." Scully smiled as she recalled Skinner's anger at the attack. The first agent assigned to guard duty had told her that the Assistant Director made it very clear that if anything happened to Agent Mulder that Death Valley would be a step up from his next assignment. Mulder looked quizzically at her but accepted the slight shake of her head. She wasn't ready to fill him in on the details, yet. She'd save them for the times during rehab when he was ready to climb the walls and needed a diversion. She'd save them for a time when her guilt wasn't quite so raw. The idea that she could have been tamely sitting in the waiting room while Mulder was ruthlessly murdered still haunted her. Not answered my question. You OK? Scully saw the stubborn lines appear around Mulder's eyes and the look of concern that he tried to hide behind a smile. "More than OK, partner," Scully gave Mulder a full- fledged smile and watched his expression dissolve into a look that a man might give if offered a glass of water in the desert. She noted the snap of the chalk as his fingers clenched in a spasm of hope and fear. "Seems I qualify as an extreme possibility. My cancer has receded. The doctor doesn't know why, but x-rays don't lie." Scully was stunned to see a tear roll down Mulder's cheek. More tears blurred his eyes as they turned the color of the sea in autumn. The chalk fell from his fingers as he raised his hand to touch her cheek. His hand cupped her face as his thumb moved along her chin and swept briefly over her lips. A look of utter awe and gratitude shone in Mulder's eyes that drew her into the eye of the storm, into a silent, private place where he kept his heart. Leaning forward slightly, Scully turned her lips against the palm of his hand and kissed it. Still saying nothing, making no other move, she acknowledged his heart and opened her own to him. Finally he smiled back at her, breaking the spell with a look that combined lively curiosity, relief and the promise of passion yet to come. Fumbling for the chalk, he finally located a sliver of it and retrieved the chalkboard from his lap. You'll make me believe in God. "He's just one more extreme possibility, Mulder. When you get your voice back, we'll argue which is easier to believe in, God or aliens," Scully said with a laugh. She hadn't laughed or smiled so much in ages. She felt like a prisoner released from a dark, dreary dungeon coming up into the sun. Mulder was alive and they had a future to believe in. It's a date. Welcome back, partner. "I never really left you, Mulder. I just took the scenic route for a bit. Now, go back to sleep. I'll be right here." Scully firmly removed the chalkboard and chalk and set them on the table. Mulder's initial protest was deterred by the return of her hands on his arm and cheek. Leaning into the sanctuary of her touch, Mulder allowed the drugs to float him away and fell asleep with a smile, sailing on the hope in a future he had not dared to believe in before. Scully watched him sleep and prayed that they would be allowed the future she saw reflected in his heart and his eyes. So many enemies remained obscured in shadow. She watched and tried to believe in the extreme possibility that they could have a future. At least she was now assured that she would not leave him alone to fight on without her at his side. [continued in part 2] ___________________________________________________________ Subject: Absalom V (2/2) by Joyce McKibben ************** 21 days after the attack Washington Mall "A most satisfactory development, my friend," Jason commented dryly. The smoke from his friend's cigarette blended with his breath in the cold air to form a great billowing cloud that obscured faces already hidden in shadow. "Yes, the A.D. is proving to be a most efficient tool," the smoker replied with quiet satisfaction. Jason's smile was lost in the darkness. His friend's tastes in revenge were simple, but very direct. It was refreshing. So few in the Consortium these days understood the exquisite pleasure of a well-planned and executed revenge. A gentle drifting snow began to fall, further hiding the two men from curious eyes. Jason wondered anew if the devil looked after his own or was merely amusing himself by sending an entire city into the throes of panic with the expenditure of a few snowflakes. "I thought the last clean-up job was handled with more efficiency and dispatch than usual. He will make an excellent addition to our team, once he has resigned himself to the inevitable," Jason noted with cold appraisal of the walls closing in around Assistant Director Walter Skinner. Mr. Skinner was now deeply inveigled in their affairs. Jonathan's foresight in cultivating this particular game piece was reaping unexpected benefits. Whatever plans the Elders may have had in mind for Skinner would now be diverted in the smoker's favor. Jason allowed himself a moment of smug satisfaction. Their plans, nearly forty years in the making, were moving towards completion. The smoker exhaled a perfect smoke ring that hung motionless in the cold night air. A second attempt fragmented in a sudden gust of wind. He shrugged deeper into his coat. "I know, old friend, we are both too old to hold these clandestine meetings in the cold. However, until I can be completely certain that all the listening devices have been removed from my office, it would be wise to meet in unexpected places," Jason said, keeping his anger under tight control. The Elders were consumed with paranoia after last week's revolt within their ranks. The entire power structure of the Consortium was still reeling from the effects of the mutiny. "Now, old friend, what is so important to drag both of us out into this cold," Jason asked gruffly, shaking a half-inch of snow off his shoulders. "Your time is running out." Cold words. Clipped, urgent words. Jason went very still. He could feel his skin twitch in anticipation of the bullet's sting. Did he want the end to come at the hands of a friend, or would he rather die cursing a faceless drone? His breathing remained calm and even, but he knew his friend had heard the infinitesimal catch in the rhythm before he exerted control. "Mulder's time is running out. With his goes yours." Jason fought the urge to sigh in relief. This night would not end with him sprawled in the snow, staining the crystalline whiteness with his blood. His friend, balked of his dreams of writing spine-chilling dramas, sought amusement in manipulating emotions and fears. He refused to give his friend any more satisfaction than he had already gleaned from the situation and merely cocked a quizzical eyebrow. A brief growling cough rewarded his control. Tit for tat, my friend, Jason thought. "The Elders are in the process of deciding that any threat to their security must be eliminated," the smoker continued, this time allowing his anger to seep into the words. Jason understood that anger. He too felt the frustrated fury at having to answer to a bunch of old fools who were fluttering about like panicked turkeys on Thanksgiving morning. Now they were turning away from ravaging their own ranks to contemplating a truly disastrous course of action. "Why now? The Project is beyond Mulder's ability to derail," Jason asked without expecting an answer. Events were accelerating, hurtling them all to the culmination of decades of plots and conspiracies. The Elders felt the loss of control as events twisted in their hands to control them and were lashing out in desperation. "They are afraid of what they do not control or understand," the smoker snapped contemptuously. "Mulder, by necessity, has been kept ignorant of his purpose in the Project. What he has learned, the scraps he has scavenged, cannot be reassembled into the truth - they are only shards of a mirror that reflect darkly what he seeks to know." "I would have thought that the Elders would at least have respected the Compact," Jason muttered softly, knowing he was a fool to believe the Elders respected anything other than the intoxication of power. They must believe that the Compact would never be enforced. Decades of wielding unlimited power had rendered them senseless to the possibility of retribution for any act. Then again, they had been chipping away at the terms of the Compact before the ink had dried on their signatures. "When souls are sold so cheap and the devil has not come to collect, the damned may believe themselves free of the bargain," the smoker replied. "Fools. The devil comes at his own time. Do they think that he has forgotten about them?" The smoker puffed irritably at his dying cigarette, pulling the last fragments of fire and smoke deep into his lungs. "Or us," Jason added so quietly that only the snowflakes heard him. "With Bill Mulder dead and Fox's parentage in question, no doubt they feel safe in moving against him," Jason commented, letting the unspoken question hover in the air between them. He wondered just how close to the mark the rumors were that placed Fox Mulder in his friend's lineage. The smoker turned to face his friend, giving him an enigmatic smile before languidly lighting up a fresh cigarette. The exhaled smoke seared the falling snow and melted into the night. He stared at the snow- shrouded statues of the Korean War Memorial with a distant pensive expression that Jason refrained from interrupting. Jason stared into the night, content to wait for his friend to speak. They were used to these long silences between them. Words were merely the necessary clutter of their daily lives. Their souls, such as were left to them, lived in the silences. "She was a beautiful woman. All beauty and intelligence, enough to tempt a saint, but no fire." The smoker gave a self-mocking chuckle, echoed by Jason's smile. His friend had worn many names and could claim many titles, but saint was never even a remote possibility, even before the Compact. "All the fire has been leached out of them. It is as if they poured all their fire into one vessel until nothing was left of themselves but pale shadows, half- dead wraiths moving among the living, mocking us. And him - all fire, ready to ignite in a conflagration that would destroy us all," the smoker mused in a distant tone that suggested to Jason he was veering dangerously close to the brink of prophecy. As his voice died out, lost in the rising wind, the smoker sighed and gave his shoulders a vigorous shake to dislodge the snow that threatened to transform him into a puffing snowman. "The Elders are blind fools. I should let them destroy themselves by destroying Mulder, but I have no intention of throwing away four decades of work. I gave Bill Mulder my word. His son will follow him into the Project as was ordained." The smoker flicked his half-smoked cigarette away into the snow-bank forming at their feet. "You will bring Mulder to me by week's end, Jason. We will make Mulder ours. We will reap the rewards of faithfulness and obedience," the smoker commanded briskly. There was no need for threats. Failure had only one reward and Jason knew it. Their position was already shaky. Jason suspected that more than one Elder might be tendering the proposition that he and the smoker might also be considered threats. The tightrope of ambition and power they had walked for these many years had grown slippery with Jonathan's blood. They had seen his connection with Fox as betrayal. Few of the Elders were capable of comprehending Jonathan's deep understanding of the labyrinthine consequences of the Compact. If those fools of Elders did not realize the value of Fox Mulder, then they deserved no less than the fate they dealt to Jonathan. "I will see to it personally," Jason assured his friend. He shivered slightly, from the cold wind that cut through his thick wool coat, he told himself. "Well, then, Fox, time to bring you home where you belong. You've had your fun, now it is time to put away childish things," Jason murmured as he walked away, leaving his friend standing in the blowing snow, staring at the statues of men who had fought in the first war of the Project and felt the stone-cold emptiness of its purpose immortalized forever on their weary bronze faces. ************** Tic-Toc Cafe Next evening "You have the tape." Jason's tone made a comment out of the question. He had been kept waiting by this over- confident whelp. The familiar surge of his anger at minor league players who thought they were too valuable to discard brushed the edges of his self-control. Little men with big ambitions were so pathetic, so blind to the reality that no man was irreplaceable. "Yes. It's gonna cost you, however," the grungy young man with a buzz haircut grinned in what he obviously hoped was a sinister manner. Jason tried not to sigh. He cautiously took another sip of coffee and made a mental note to hire someone to torch this place. Any cafe that abused coffee this badly should not be allowed to exist. "Lenny, we agreed on the price yesterday," Jason said smoothly. Even the boy's efforts to gouge more money out of a contracted deal were predictable. "Yeah, well, this little piece of art is a masterpiece. You can run it through any test you want and it will come up clean. I'd say that's worth another thousand, wouldn't you? I don't know what scam you're pulling, but from the looks of this tape, I'd say you're gonna be raking it in. So, I want my share, up front," Lenny demanded, holding the tape box behind his back. The metal rings on his nose and eyebrows glinted as he leaned forward to emphasize that he thought he held all the cards. "Very well. You seem to have me over the barrel, so to speak." Jason gave in with a show of resigned impatience. Lenny's startled 'oh' quickly turned into a gloating grin. With a kick of his foot, Jason moved a satchel from under his seat to the boy's feet. "I think you'll find everything to your satisfaction." Lenny's tongue flicked over a tiny ring attached to his lip as he barely restrained a grab for the satchel. With a passable attempt at a sneer he passed the tape to Jason under the table. Pausing only long enough to give the box a tiny shake to confirm that a tape did indeed lie inside, Jason slipped the box into his coat pocket. The boy was an arrogant fool who had developed unseemly ambitions, but he had been trustworthy in the past. "Then our business is complete. Enjoy the rewards of your labor," Jason said as he rose to leave. Lenny barely nodded in reply, squirming impatiently as his feet cradled the satchel. His hands were actually twitching on top of the table. Jason smiled pleasantly at his erstwhile minion and departed into the night unmarked by the bored waitress slumped in a corner reading an introduction to business textbook. Behind him he heard the sound of the satchel being hauled up to the bench and the small snap of the hasp as it sprung open with a swift, vicious bite. A string of adolescent profanities followed him out of the doorway. As the door shut, he heard Lenny give an exultant 'yes'. Rejoice while you can, little man. The artist should never outlive his masterwork, Jason thought with a grim smile as he climbed into a nondescript car that hid a V8 engine and a state-of-the-art electronic system beneath its battered exterior. "One down, one to go. Welcome to 'This Is Your Life,' Mr. Skinner," Jason whispered under the strains of a Scott Joplin piano rag CD. Lenny, unaware he was dying, gathered up his booty and scurried out into the night. The poison spread out from the tiny puncture mark on his hand carrying the deadly toxin through his bloodstream. ************** Later that night "Doctor, I don't remember asking for your opinion. In fact, I don't recall that our little agreement requires anything more than absolute cooperation from you. Now, do as I suggest and I will forget this little faux pas of yours," Jason let the dagger behind his words be seen in the icy clipped tones he used to cut short the doctor's protest. The man was becoming tiresome. Necessary still, but fast losing whatever advantage the trust he had constructed with his patient gave him. "Yes, I know it will be difficult to explain, but it isn't as if we are asking you to justify a full-blown resurgence of the cancer -- just a mild setback. If all goes well, that is all it will be. Another set of tests, more scans and something as simple as a technical malfunction can be blamed." Jason tried to avoid using complicated concepts. For a doctor, this man was surprisingly dense where abstract motivations were concerned. "I thought you would see it my way." Jason said with cool arrogance. Considering the consequences, doctor, you're a blind fool to even attempt to argue with me, Jason thought as he gave the doctor his instructions. As soon as Mulder was safely under control, he would have to see about arranging a skiing accident for this idiot doctor. Such convenient things, skis. Strangely, he actually felt a twinge of regret over this particular move in the game. Agent Scully had been glowing like a young sun this past week, shedding hope like rays of light into the tired soul of her partner. Jason watched as Mulder soaked up life and hope in equal measure and made a recovery his doctors frankly labeled astonishing. A full week before the earliest target date for his release saw him heading home. It was almost a pity to quench that sun, even for a moment, but Mulder had to face the consequences of a refusal to join them. "Your king is in check, Mr. Mulder. Will you sacrifice your queen and bishop? I wonder. Are you a player as Jonathan foresaw or something more. The end game is at hand. Your move," Jason said softly as he leaned over to move the red king's knight into position to threaten the white queen. Unless Mulder was willing to sacrifice Scully and Skinner, the only move left open to him was to accept checkmate. Common sense and experience told him that Mulder would capitulate, but Jason knew that in a crisis, Fox Mulder never did anything he was expected to do. He was the ultimate maverick in a game where every move, every stratagem had been predicted and planned for. The Elders were right to fear him, but fools to try to remove him from the game. THE END TITLE: Absalom VI: The Covenant (1/2) AUTHOR: Joyce McKibben (griffin100@juno.com) DATE: September 1998 DISTRIBUTION: Gossamer. All others please ask. RATING: PG-13 (some profanity) CLASSIFICATION: A,S SUMMARY: I would suggest that you read the preceding parts of this series before reading this part. Jason and Mulder make a choice. DISCLAIMER: Mulder, Skinner, Scully and CSM belong to CC and Fox Broadcasting and I am only borrowing them for a moment and will return them. Jason belongs to me. No infringement is intended. Lord knows, I'm not making any money off of this and have no intentions of making any money from it. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: To a group of ladies who inspire me as well as keep me from straying too far into the grammatical wastelands. FEEDBACK: Always welcome at: griffin100@juno.com ================================== Absalom VI: The Covenant "We have made a covenant with death, and with hell are we at agreement." Isaiah 28:15 24 days after the attack Jason's Office "Damn idiot," Jason muttered as he snapped the cover closed on the report. The Elders must have conducted a strenuous search to find the most pompous fool they could to head up their black ops unit. A bull in a china shop had more tact and subtlety than the man they placed in charge of keeping the lid on things. "Hamilton," Jason called out in a deceptively calm voice. "Yes sir?" his assistant answered politely before appearing in the doorway a moment later. He walked slowly over to Jason's desk and stood waiting for instructions. "Remind me to send condolences to Major Dolby's family," Jason commented dryly as he handed Hamilton the heavily- marked report. "Did the major die in an accident or in the line of duty?" Hamilton inquired seriously, his dark brown face betraying nothing more than mild curiosity. Jason stared icily at him. "For the card, sir," Hamilton added blandly. Jason's eyes remained cool and impersonal, but his lips twitched in an infinitesimal smile. "Oh, I think an accident; a promising career cut short and so on. Just write something appropriate for the occasion and send it out ... day after tomorrow should be soon enough." "Yes sir. I'll select something appropriate," Hamilton assured Jason gravely. Jason looked at his assistant standing poised and calm before him and wondered where his loyalties lay. The conspiracy was maturing more rapidly than anyone had counted on and the Syndicate, which was supposed to be in control, was anything but in control. The Elders were drunk on blood and revenge. Hamilton had remained loyal to him through the recent upheaval, but whether from choice or by orders, Jason could not discern. Hamilton remained impassively unconcerned by Jason's intense scrutiny. Either he was assured by his loyalty or blindly confident in promises of protection made by Jason's enemies. Well, in four days, if his plans went awry, it would not matter. The smoker did not make idle threats. If Mulder had not been brought into the Project, his soul bought and paid for, Jason would outlive Mulder's assassination by the Elders by hours at best. "That will be all, Hamilton," Jason waved a hand in dismissal. If his plans were successful, he would deal with the inscrutable Hamilton later. "Very good, sir." Hamilton turned to leave, almost pivoting with the crisp grace of a military drill instructor. As he reached the door, he paused. "I saw Bryson Tolliver the other day. He appears to have developed a most unusual interest in Agent Mulder's apartment." Jason froze. Tolliver was the Elders' favorite assassin. Events were accelerating. For a moment, Jason felt the bottom drop out from under him and hung motionless in free fall on the lip of the precipice. "He looked most stressed. I took the liberty of introducing Lucy to him. She seemed most pleased by the gift. Mr. Tolliver will have a most entertaining vacation and will return in five days." Without another word, Hamilton left the office, carefully closing the door behind him without a sound. Jason remembered to breathe and tried very hard not to laugh out loud. Poor Tolliver. The Fat Man, the chief of the Elders, had almost no sense of humor. Still, five days with Lucy might make any punishment worthwhile. If she didn't kill him first, of course, from sheer exhaustion. Hamilton was proving to be a complex and surprising assistant. Taking him on as his aide had been little enough he could do for the son of a fallen soldier. Perhaps Hamilton would be a worthy recruit to the Smoker's list of allies. Time had been bought. Jason still had his friend's deadline to meet, but at least now he would not be racing an over-eager assassin for the prize. Jason flipped on the receiver to the listening device in Mulder's apartment. He would make his move tonight. Agent Scully had a doctor's appointment this afternoon. No doubt she would be reluctant to tell her partner the bad news, but it would not matter. Jason would be receiving a full copy of the X-rays and reports by courier before she left the hospital parking lot. The board was set. Mulder's bishop and queen were in peril and the only way he could avoid checkmate was to sacrifice one of them. Jason pondered his unwitting opponent for a moment and wondered if Mulder's maverick brain would find a loophole in his carefully crafted strategy. Perhaps that was why Jonathan had been willing to take such risks to protect the boy. Fox's unorthodox genius had proved more than once to be a match for some of the Syndicate's best strategists, provoking a physical response to thwart Mulder's uncanny ability to penetrate the lies protecting the truth at the heart of the Conspiracy. "Tonight you become an aware player in this game, Fox. You will see unfold the consequences of your action or inaction. I think I understand Jonathan at last. We are gamblers, all of us, risking everything on the unknown, the incalculable responses you make to imminent threats," Jason said softly as he leaned back to listen to the quiet sounds of a silent man moving about his home. "Check, Mr. Mulder, and mate, I hope," Jason added in a whisper that might have been a prayer to the devil that held his own soul in checkmate. ************** Mulder's apartment later that afternoon Fox Mulder wandered about aimlessly in his apartment. He was restless. After weeks of being penned up in the hospital he wanted to be out and moving around, but Scully had made it very clear that he was still recuperating and needed to rest. Hell, he'd been doing nothing but resting for over three weeks. He was bored with resting. Still, he supposed she had a point. The speech therapist had been optimistic that, with care, his voice should return with only a gravel huskiness to remind him how close he came to permanent disability retirement. Jogging was probably not on the short list of activities he was allowed to indulge in. Part of his problem was that the apartment was entirely too clean. Scully had apparently decided to take action against the comfortable clutter he amassed around his life. He really couldn't blame her. For Scully, neatness was right up there behind loyalty and duty as cardinal virtues. Organized chaos was the term he preferred, but he supposed that was a bit on the optimistic side. In the weeks before his attack, he had not even kept up the pretence of organizing the clutter, except for the stacks of files and clippings on his desk - those were kept in rigidly controlled piles ranked according to their usefulness in his search for a cure for Scully. If he listened carefully, he could almost imagine he could hear the death wails of the dust bunnies as they were ruthlessly exterminated. Some of those dust balls had been with him since he first moved in; they were like old friends. For that matter, they survived a hell of a lot longer than most of his fish. He felt like a stranger in his own apartment. It would probably take him days, if not weeks, to find everything again. Contemplating the hassle of trying to outguess Scully, he tried to work up some irritation, but it fell flat. As childish as it was, he wanted to be irritated with her because then he could forget how worried he was. "Just a routine follow-up exam," she had said. "Nothing to worry about. I feel fine," the familiar litany continued, fooling no one, but offering her a comfortable shield against his blatant concern. She did look fine, better than he had seen her look in months, but that did not reassure the ice-field that swallowed his heart when she told him the doctor wanted to see her again. Fox Mulder was not a man who believed in miracles, yet one had been bestowed on Scully seemingly from nowhere. Now it appeared that someone decided that the miracle was a mistake. For the first time in his adult life, Mulder wished he could find comfort in prayer. He maintained a completely neutral attitude about the existence of God. Scully believed. He tried to find comfort in the reflection of her faith, but doubted if God really cared. If he did, then how could he allow someone as good and honorable as Scully to suffer so much evil? Frustrated and unable to sit still for long, Mulder continued to wander around his apartment. Finally he could take being cooped up no longer. Better to risk Scully's wrath than go insane. At least the weather was mild and unseasonably warm. Still, he grabbed his leather jacket and pulled it on over the light black sweater with the high neck that concealed the bandages. This morning, in the hospital, he had taken off the bandages and stared at the wound that wrapped around his throat like a snake. Despite the surgeon's best efforts, there would be a scar; a brand scored into his skin to remind him daily of the unknown assassin who struck him down, then held him tenderly as he drowned in his own blood. No doubt the nurse informed Scully of his action. He knew Scully liked to enlist his nurses as her eyes and ears when she had to be away. She had said nothing when she arrived to take him home, but he saw her eyes flit for an instant to the soft skin-tone bandage on his neck when she thought he wasn't looking. He hid in the silence and the moment passed. What was there to say? Another scar, another step closer to the day when death would grow tired of playing and claim him. Now they had a visible, constant reminder of time pressing in on them. He wished he knew whether this was a good thing or whether it would tear them apart. The late afternoon sun felt warm on his face as he emerged from his apartment building. He paused for a moment, looking down the street towards the path he usually took when the urge to run took him; the path he had taken a cold, slushy night just over three weeks ago. Mulder bit his lip as the memory of a flashing blade and the warm sting of blood and air spilled from his throat onto the icy slush of the street. Not that way, not yet, not until he could run that memory into the ground. Shrugging off the flashback, he turned to walk towards the small park nearby. The short four block walk, even taken slowly, exhausted him. "Shit," he grumbled in a hoarse raspy whisper as he collapsed onto a convenient bench. OK, Scully was right. I don't have the strength of a two-day-old kitten, Mulder groused to himself. With an effort he controlled his breathing to avoid gasping and straining his healing throat. Slow and easy, breathe in deep, exhale slowly, he chanted mentally as he slowed down his breathing into an even rhythm. Damn rehab sessions had a few good tips, he acknowledged grudgingly. A shadow fell on him and he looked up to see a young man dressed in jeans and a heavy sweater standing in front of him looking at him with a strange expression. The hair on the back of Mulder's neck prickled and he began to tense. He was in no shape for a fight, but the instinctive response to danger kicked in nonetheless. The young man noted Mulder's alert response and smiled a wintry smile. Without a word, the man dropped a bulky manila envelope in Mulder's lap and walked off. When he was about ten feet away, he turned and looked at Mulder sitting there uneasily holding the package. Mulder looked up into his eyes and saw cool appraisal and a distant, amused respect. With a nod at the package, the man turned and walked away. Now what?, Mulder wondered as his hands felt the shape of a video tape and the stiff edges of some sort of heavy paper. He held the package gingerly, almost as if it was about to explode in his hands. It was very tempting to toss the package in a nearby trashcan and walk away, but his curiosity was aroused. Somebody was going to a great deal of trouble; somebody who knew him well enough to know that once his curiosity was tripped, it would be almost impossible for him not to examine the contents of the package. A perfect trap with a messy explosion as the payoff would seem the logical conclusion, but this didn't feel like that kind of trap. Why go to so much trouble, when a simple gunshot would cause less of a stir and be a lot quieter? As he slowly got up for the walk home, Mulder looked around for any sign that he was being followed. If he was, they were very, very good, he admitted. Then again, it was a fair guess that he would head home to examine the package in the safety of his own apartment. Mulder felt like the quarry in a very elaborate hunt with a hunter who knew him too well for comfort. He did not like the feeling. He was tired of being the quarry - just for once he'd like to be the hunter. ************** In his car across the park, Jason watched Mulder begin his slow journey home. His high-powered binoculars caught the nervous twitch of Mulder's fingers as they played with the envelope. So far, so good. The end-game was proceeding as planned. Jason had resisted the temptation to be the one to deliver the bishop's checkmate in person. He would have to content himself with knowing that it was his hand that lay around Skinner's soul. Hamilton was the better choice - an unknown and less likely to provoke a public scene. Hamilton had his own orders and Jason had no reason to doubt that he would carry them out with equal skill and dispassionate attention to detail. Misplaced records, the normal chaotic inefficiency of modern medical bureaucracy should be sufficient to occupy the agent for several hours. "You are alone, Fox. Until I give the word, you have no one to turn to, but me. Alone, you are vulnerable. Alone, you are mine," Jason whispered as Mulder turned the corner onto his own street. ************** Mulder's legs were trembling by the time he slowed from a fast walk to climb the steps to the entrance to his apartment building. An irrational fear had taken hold of him, driving him to push his tired body to its limits. Like a fool, he had left his cell-phone at home. Consumed by a need to speak with Scully, to reassure himself that she was indeed fine, he had defied doctor's orders and common sense. The fast walk was a pitiful parody of the long loping strides of a runner, but it still left him shaky and gasping for breath. Despite his efforts to control his breathing, his lungs were heaving, sucking in air which burned in his throat. For once, the interminably slow elevator ride up to the fourth floor was a relief. When the doors opened again, he had his breathing under control and managed a steady, if slow, walk down the hall. On the off-chance that Scully had returned early and was waiting for him, he was determined to show no outward signs of his exertion. Once inside his apartment, Mulder tore open the envelope. Despite his confidence that the envelope was not a trap, he could not prevent a slight wince as the paper tore nor a sigh of relief when nothing happened. At least Scully would not come back to find him splattered all over his nice clean apartment. Tilting the envelope, Mulder poured out onto his coffee table a video tape, a heavy parchment envelope and a small velvet bag. The video tape was unlabeled and, after turning it over several times in his hands, trying to see any identifying marks, Mulder carefully set it aside. The black velvet bag contained an oddly shaped object which turned out to be a white chess piece. Mulder stared at the elaborately carved representation of a robed man wearing a bishop's miter and wielding a sword, trying to remember if he had ever seen a chess set containing such a remarkably crafted piece. He played chess badly, though on occasion his erratic and often senseless moves had stymied a more proficient player. He knew enough to recognize this piece as a bishop and understood its moves and importance to the overall game, but why would someone send it to him? Carefully setting the bishop on the table, he slit open the parchment envelope. The letter inside was brief and succinct, written in a gothic style of penmanship popular forty years ago. Mr. Mulder: King's bishop is in danger. The tape provides ample evidence. My knight now threatens the White Queen. Think well. Consider well. Your move is coming up. Be ready. The letter was unsigned. Mulder held the letter gingerly and pondered its meaning. If he held the bishop in his hands, that must mean that whoever wrote this note considered him to be the White King. If so, then the only queen he could possibly have would be Scully. Mulder dove for his cell-phone, frantically hitting the speed dial. Six, eight, ten rings - each one tearing out a chunk of his heart. After fifteen rings he gave up. In the ensuing silence he could hear his heart beat. There must be a dozen good reasons why Scully wasn't answering her phone. She'll laugh when I tell her how I panicked over something so silly, he assured his flagging optimism. "What do you want from me?" he asked the empty air as he stood up and went over to stare out the window. Why not just kill him and get it over with. Why the elaborate charade? "Just fucking come out and tell me for christsake..." His fist pounded against the window frame in slow, angry blows that shook the glass. Mulder's anger drained out of him as he realized the futility of both his anger and his demand for answers. It wasn't his move. He was at the mercy of the invisible player on the other side. He could only react to his opponent's moves. Mulder fumed at his helplessness, but until more of the strategy was revealed, he had to play a passive role. "If you harm her in any way... I swear, I'll find you. I'll kill you in front of the whole fucking world if I have to. Do you hear me?" The cold venom in Mulder's voice left no doubt he meant every word. The raspy tone gave his words a malevolent twist. Anger boiled up again, not the hot rage that usually drove him to foolish ill-considered acts, but an icy fury that purged his soul of mercy. A sharp ring startled him. A second ring shook him out of his confusion and sent him lunging for his cell-phone. "Hey, partner." Scully's voice. Her blessed, exasperated, tired, miraculous voice poured into Mulder's ear like rain on a thirsty land. Thank you god, Mulder's heart whispered. "Scully," Mulder rasped into the phone, relief warring with his waning fury frustrating his attempt to speak slow and evenly. "Afraid I'm going to be late. There's been an accident and traffic is at a complete standstill," Scully explained. "You OK?" Mulder blurted, his voice breaking annoyingly on the last word. "I'm fine. I'm about six cars behind the accident. I was just seeing if anyone needed assistance. There are no injuries, but the road is completely blocked. Looks like I'm going to be here for awhile," Scully added with a resigned sigh. Taking a deep, calming breath, Mulder asked the question that he most feared. "What about the doctor?" There was a pause, not long, but just long enough for Mulder's heart to freeze and his soul to wither. "I'm fine, Mulder. We'll talk when I get there. Don't worry," Scully said reassuringly, but just fast enough to tell Mulder that everything wasn't fine and she didn't want to have to tell him something over the phone. "Sure," he responded trying to sound as if she had convinced him. He doubted if he was doing any better job than she had on him. Fools, both of them, to think that they could hide behind words. "Take out, OK?" "Sure. Your pick. Just remember, no heavy spices. With luck, I should be out of this mess soon. Give me about an hour," Scully advised, her voice soothing and too normal sounding for Mulder's jangled nerves. "No Indonesian, then?" Mulder tried to sound pouty, but with the raspiness in his throat, he wasn't sure the trick would work. A chuckle rewarded him. "No Indonesian. You can try to scorch my mouth some other time." "Fine, I'll find something non-inflammatory," Mulder felt his voice weaken and mentally swore. He wanted to keep Scully on the line, to reassure him that she was fine and wasn't in any danger. "Hang up, now, Mulder. Remember, you are not supposed to overdo it," she ordered firmly. "I'll be there soon," she promised as she hung up. "I'm counting on it," Mulder whispered as he pressed the power off key. Whoever was playing this game with his life was very good. He now had an hour to fret about what could have happened to Scully and what she wasn't telling him about the doctor's visit. He might as well be damned for a sheep as for a lamb. The video might contain some answers, maybe even some hint as to who his mysterious adversary was. This scenario was too complex, too distant for Cancerman. Who else wanted him boxed in? ************** "Sir?" Hamilton's voice sounded tense, almost irritated, if Jason was any judge. If the situation wasn't so critical, this uncharacteristic emotional display by his aide would intrigue him. "Yes," Jason answered with a marked brusqueness. His attention was concentrated on the questions Mulder was asking thin air rather than on whatever was irritating his most able assistant. "She left the hospital before I got there. That fool doctor gave her the lab results without insisting that she remain for further tests." Hamilton's tone left no doubt of his opinion of the laggardly doctor. One part of Jason's mind resolved on a suitable accident to remove an incompetent link in their organization. The doctor enjoyed skiing. Good enough. Such a tragedy. A remarkable career cut short by a careless accident. The only question that now remained was whether Hamilton would also have to be attended to. "Then where.... ?" Jason's mind frantically shifted gears. Where was Dr. Scully? If she were free, then he would have to rearrange his plans for Mulder. Alternatives, hasty contingency plans sprang to mind, shuffled through for plausibility and workability. "I'm afraid I will need transportation, sir. I acted as I saw fit, sir. I think I can guarantee that she will be quite occupied for at least an hour, most likely two." Hamilton sounded as if he were expecting a reprimand, yet managed to sound contrite without cringing or whining. Jason's eyebrow shot up and he straightened up from the half-slouch he had slid into while concentrating on what he thought was an impending crisis. His assistant was proving to be a veritable magician. "Explain." "I ascertained the subject's route and by a certain judicious disregard for routine traffic regulations, I managed to overtake her and advance to a position several cars ahead of hers. I then took action to immobilize her, along with several hundred other people. I do sincerely regret the necessity, sir, but the Jaguar was driven by a man most unsuited to handle such a distinguished car." A chuckle escaped Hamilton's effort to present a clear, concise, professional report. Jason smiled in response. Someday he must remember to tell Hamilton that it was perfectly acceptable to laugh at the foibles of those they chose as instruments in their grand plan. "I believe I have also received my first death threat, sir. A most intriguing experience. The man was almost incoherent, but I believe he intends to either eviscerate me or sue me into penury. I suspect I bagged a lawyer." Hamilton was definitely chuckling now. Jason allowed himself another smile and made a note to see that the tables were turned on this lawyer. A bit of penury was good for the soul - other men's souls, of course. "Oh, by the way, I took the liberty of faxing Dr. Scully's medical report to you from the doctor's office. I trust it is all you hoped it would be, sir." "Hamilton, you are a marvel. As soon as you can detach yourself from the results of your ingenious tactical maneuver, report to my office. Well done," Jason added with warm sincerity. His plan was intact; warped a mite, but still operable. If he was successful, he would have to do something very nice for Hamilton. If he failed... Well, whoever inherited him would be getting a rare treasure, Jason thought ruefully. ************** Fifteen minutes later, Mulder knew it really didn't matter who was behind this game. Skinner as a bishop to his king was not an image he had ever considered, most days he felt he was the one jumping to Skinner's tune. Someone, however, obviously had an over-inflated view of his place in the grand scheme of things. If he was so fucking important, then why was he usually left three steps behind the truth with no evidence and certainly nothing that could threaten even the shadow of the conspiracy that existed within or around his government. He refused to believe that the events depicted were real, but they were damning. The tape purported to be a surveillance video that caught a shadowy figure entering some research facility, destroying key data and coolly executing an MP and two lab technicians before setting off an explosion. Just before the tape blurred and went blank, the camera caught the figure pulling off his mask to reveal A. D. Skinner. Rewinding the tape and watching carefully, Mulder could pick out familiar movements and mannerisms that would clearly identify the masked figure as Skinner to anyone who knew him well. Without other hard evidence to back it up, this tape would not be enough to convict Skinner of any crime, but it would seriously compromise his position. Mulder knew that the scenario, minus the executions, was plausible. He knew about Skinner's deal with the devil. His stubborn pursuit of the truth had led him to Skinner and he literally stumbled onto the deal. Skinner didn't explain why and Mulder never asked. The obvious reason, Scully's desperate need for a cure, did not need an explanation. He saw it in Skinner's eyes when he lied about the gun; he was part of the reason Skinner had given that smoking bastard power over him. Guilt and an odd sense of fellowship had led him to compromise the law to protect his boss from the trap closing in on him. What he couldn't figure out was why this tape was given to him? If his adversary thought for a moment that he would use this tape against Skinner, then he was a fool. That was unlikely. The noose constricting around his neck was not the result of a fool's labor. A warning, then? A threat. Someone believed that he cared enough for his superior to take this tape as a warning. His move. Mulder thought back over the rules of chess and tried to come up with a visual image of the situation. The bishop and the queen were threatened - which meant that in the next move either one would be swept from the board. If the next move was his, that meant he could prevent or delay that removal. That he would act was a given, so why the elaborate set-up? The answer came with a suddenness that sent Mulder sagging back into the couch. Of course, his move would have to be to place himself between the threat and Scully and Skinner. His adversary wanted him to offer himself up like some damn sacrificial lamb. Maybe he got off on the power or maybe he just wanted to see him squirm - it didn't matter. Mulder knew that he was going to have to play out this game, but not necessarily by the rules. Looking at his watch, Mulder made a quick call to his favorite bistro and threw himself on the mercy of the manager who laughed and promised to deliver a tasty meal fit for a man whose throat could barely tolerate black pepper, much less the lava-quality spiciness he usually enjoyed. The condemned man would at least eat a hearty meal, he quipped to himself as he pondered his next move. Something unexpected, he thought, something no sane man would consider. Mulder grimaced and, with a shrug, he invited chaos into the game. He could see no way out except to trust in the random kindness of pure chance. Stepping out into the void and trusting that something was out there to catch him was not an uncommon feeling. It was an old familiar sensation and he loathed the feeling each and every time he did it. Now there would be no Scully waiting across the chasm to catch his out-stretched arms - just blind chance that somehow, someway he could stop himself before he hit bottom. "Damn, I hate gambling." ********* [end of part 1 / continued in part 2] ============== Absalom VI: The Covenant (2/6) Mulder waited, impatiently, which was the only way he knew how to wait. Too much time to think, at least with his thoughts as dark as they were right now. Someone had profiled him as neatly as he was accustomed to profile serial killers. He had to assume his phone was tapped and that he was under active surveillance. The idea made his skin crawl. He was tempted to turn on one of his raunchier and noisier videos - give whoever was watching him a thrill. He was certain that whoever set this trap knew him well enough to expect such a reaction. Should he give them what they expected? He considered this for a moment while idly recreating some of his clutter. No, it was time he started making moves against the pattern set down for him. Scanning the channels, Mulder let a closely fought soccer match provide background noise as he rambled around his apartment. An hour passed, dinner arrived and was in the oven staying warm. Still no Scully. Mulder battled an urge to call Scully again. Instead he paced and tried to profile himself as his enemies must have done. It was no secret that losing Scully would cripple him. Nor would it take a genius to predict how far he was willing to go to save her. What was interesting, however, was the tape implicating Skinner. His unseen opponent apparently had reason to believe that Skinner was a bargaining chip. As he considered the patterns laid out before him, Mulder sensed that the net closing around him did not have the feel of Cancerman's usual tactics; this was a bold, direct assault aimed at driving him into a corner. Mulder was certain that if Cancerman knew he had conspired with Skinner to extract him from the frame-up, his soul would have been in Cancerman's fist weeks ago. The hell with whoever was listening, Mulder thought. If the man didn't already know he was angry, upset and more than a bit frantic, then he wasn't the opponent Mulder thought he was. He treated his eavesdroppers with a rich banquet of curses directed at the man behind this strategy. Scully's little delay, coming hard on the heels of her visit to the doctor and the mysterious delivery of the tape damning Skinner, could not be a coincidence. His opponent was demonstrating his power to control the variables in his life. And doing a fine job of it, too, he grumbled to himself. He needed no reminding that his life was now intertwined with Scully's so tightly that the ripples spreading out from events affecting her unsettled his world. Punching up the games pack on his computer, Mulder activated the never-before-used chess program and stared at the pieces, pondering ways and means of extricating himself from this trap. A loud ring, repeated, broke his concentration. Out of habit he grabbed his cell-phone, but the ringing continued. A hasty search of his desk revealed his phone, vibrating with each strident ring. Mulder hesitated, trying to control his breathing. He felt the presence of the hunter coming to check on what his trap had caught. Licking his dry lips and forcing his breathing into a slow, even rhythm, he picked up the receiver just as his answering machine clicked on. "Hello. Leave a message." His mechanical voice droned in patient entreaty. "I know you are there, Fox." Mulder froze in the act of answering. His memory flashed back to a frozen gutter, blood drowning him as he listened to this voice telling him he was dying. "Come now, Fox." Jason sighed audibly. "I'm here," Mulder growled. "Good. We need to talk, Fox. You have received my messages. I have every confidence in your ability to deduce the probable moves." Jason's voice was coolly polite, but seemed to hold a note of regret. Mulder wondered why his tormenter bothered feeling anything; did the hunter offer sympathy to its prey? "Actually, I fail to see why you bothered sending me that tape. Should I be concerned or is this your way of telling me that I'll be getting a new boss in a few days?" Mulder struggled to make his voice as bland as possible and cursed as it broke several times. Jason chuckled. "Excellent, Fox, you retain your legendary wit. I am relieved to find that your unfortunate accident has not dented your most annoying habit of making a joke out of extremely serious topics." A hint of ice in his tone sent a shiver down Mulder's spine. "However, time is not your ally. The park where you were given the tape - in fifteen minutes. Unless you are forfeiting the game?" The dial tone hit Mulder before he could muster a response. "Damn!" he swore as he slammed down the phone. If Scully arrived while he was out, he might have more to worry about than a deal with the devil. "Fuck it," he spat out the words as he scribbled a quick, slightly vague note and grabbed his jacket. Locking the door behind him, he folded the note and tacked it to his door. He doubted if it would salve an angry Scully, but he had promised not to run off. At least she'd know he had remembered the promise, even if he didn't keep it. Cold comfort. ************** Early evening dusk had swallowed up the park in shadows. The feeble light from a few street lamps barely penetrated the darkness. Appropriate, Mulder thought. Whoever his nemesis was seemed to enjoy these melodramatic touches. The warm breeze of the afternoon had been replaced by a cold wind that plucked at his coat, seeking a way into his soul. "Punctual. Good," Jason commented dryly from a nearby shadow. He smiled as Mulder started then turned slowly in his direction. Hell was in Mulder's eyes and, for a moment, Jason wondered who was damning whom tonight. "Your tone indicated a certain urgency," Mulder commented, trying to maintain a nonchalance he did not feel. His throat spasmed and he cursed as his tone wavered uneasily between baritone and husky bass. "For you, perhaps." Jason stepped farther back into the shadow, inviting Mulder to join him in the dark. Mulder hesitated. Memory, vivid piercing memory flashed back to another dark night, a flashing blade and darkness rushing in to claim him. Anger, fear surged up, choking him, making his hands twitch with the urge to rip this man's throat out. He felt the weight of his back-up pistol laying heavy in his jacket pocket. It would be so easy, so satisfying, to kill this son-of-a-bitch who had tried to kill him three weeks ago with cold casualness. With an effort, he controlled his urge to explode into violence, to repay the weeks of agony in a single glorious moment of revenge. His heart wanted to kill, but his mind told him that the situation called for using his brains, not his emotions. "If I'm to die, I think I prefer to do it here in the light," Mulder replied softly, carefully keeping his voice low and even. He didn't think the entire purpose of this charade had been to lure him to his death. Too obvious a ploy. Still, it wouldn't hurt to have his opponent underestimate him a trifle. Jason chuckled. He was beginning to see the attraction working with Mulder had had for Jonathan. Fox Mulder managed to combine brilliance and naivete along with a dark current of violence in a surprising mix that raised the art of doing the unexpected to an art form. "If I had wanted you dead, your partner and Assistant Director Skinner would be writing your eulogy right now." Jason paused and considered his opponent for a moment. He gestured to the bench Mulder had occupied earlier. Half in shadow, lit by a single street lamp twenty feet away, it offered a compromise. He watched Mulder as he glanced at the bench, then back at his half-hidden form before turning abruptly and walking over to sit down. Jason walked over to sit on the opposite end of the bench, just out of arm's reach. It occurred to him that he and Mulder were like two great cats meeting in neutral territory, each warily waiting for the other to make the first move. Mulder sat stiffly, glaring at the man who had tried to kill him and was now apparently intent on blackmailing him into some unknown action. His anger was thick in the air between them, but he held himself rigidly in check. His own life he was perfectly willing to endanger in bravado escapades, but Scully's life, and even Skinner's, now depended on his self-control. "I was wrong," Jason mused aloud as he stared into the darkness, apparently oblivious of the man beside him. "Killing you would have been a mistake and a grievous waste of potential." Mulder waited silently. He wanted to make a smart-ass quip, something to lessen the tension, but he didn't trust his voice not to betray him. Do not show fear. He repeated this mantra over and over as his mind feverishly attempted to build a profile of this strange man. Might as well profile the devil, he thought, but knew that even if Jason were Satan himself, he would still try to profile him. It was ultimately what he did best. "I came to realize this, with a bit of help, of course. Now I realize what a very old comrade knew years ago. You are simply too valuable to waste, Fox Mulder," Jason observed as he swiveled around to face his opponent. "You called me out here to tell me this? I'm flattered," Mulder replied, pleased that he had managed to find that low baritone range that the speech therapist had recommended. "Not entirely, but I felt it was best to clear the air of our prior meeting. You are a rare bird, Agent Mulder. One of my very few mistakes." Jason smiled and let the hint of the knife echo in his tone. Despite the obvious control Mulder had on his emotions, Jason enjoyed the shudder that rippled in his eyes. "You have viewed the tape," Jason said confidently. "And understand the rules of the game you so brashly entered four years ago. Now we are in the closing moments of play. Your queen and your bishop are in jeopardy. You know the options. Either choose one to take the fall for you or acknowledge checkmate. It has been an interesting game, but we grow bored with it. Now it is time you moved on to other, higher games." Jason sounded languid, almost bored by the necessity to recite the details of the trap he had so cunningly crafted. Only his eyes glittering in the pallid light betrayed the hunter's excitement in the kill. Mulder held his breath. There had always been a faint hope that he had misread the clues, that Scully's and Skinner's future did not depend on him alone. He was tired of bearing the weight of others' lives on his shoulders. So many deaths lay in his wake, so many failures. He couldn't bear the weight of any more, especially that of these two - the woman he loved yet would not admit he loved, even in the whispered silences of his heart, and the man who was the older brother he never had, who badgered him to behave even while giving him a rock to put his back up against when he didn't. He sensed this man was not quite as calm as he wanted Mulder to believe. Just the faintest tension around his eyes and a stare that would freeze hell told Mulder that his surrender was far more vital than he was being told. The stakes then would seem to be as high for his opponent as for himself. There had to be some advantage to be gained from this insight. Perhaps not enough to halt his headlong slide into hell, but maybe enough to bargain the terms of his damnation. "Why go to all this trouble?" Mulder flung the question that had tormented him since he stumbled onto the conspiracy. Why was he so important? Why hadn't he ended up with a bullet in the back of his head years ago? Jason smiled coldly. How typically Mulder to ask questions while standing on the brink of disaster. Trust him also to ask a question Jason had no answer for. Damn the man, his mind and whatever hidden role he had in Jonathan's grand scheme. "The why does not concern you. Surrender or sacrifice are your only two options." Jason remained implacable, refusing to be pushed into showing his own ignorance. He remembered something Jonathan had once said about Mulder. Give him no room to maneuver and you had a chance of controlling him; just that, a chance. Allow him the smallest room to twist or turn and he'd be off the hook and away before you could react. "Why should I just hand myself over to you so easily? The tape is not admissible evidence and ... " Mulder had to pause and steady his voice before he could go on. Way to go, champ, he thought. Nothing like handing your enemy the fucking gun and painting a target on yourself. "Scully's cancer is in remission." "What the gods give, they also take away, Mr. Mulder. Skinner is our tool, to be used or broken at our will ... as you well know. As for Agent Scully. Let's just say we take an extremely personal interest in her case. She has proven to be a most resilient experiment with results far beyond anything we had calculated. Still, all experiments must come to an end ... unless new data or sufficient motivation to continue is supplied," Jason purred with a razor-edge to his voice. Time to show the claws and the fangs directly. Very past time to show Fox Mulder who was Alpha Male here. "You might find this interesting reading," Jason said as he carefully laid down a manila folder on the seat between them. He watched as Mulder's eye flickered helplessly to the proffered report then were pulled back up to stare rigidly into the darkness. The man was vibrating like an over-taut violin string. "Well, then, let me summarize for you. Apparently, with as little reason as the sudden remission, the cancer has reactivated. We know so little, after all, after the mysteries of human biology. I'm sure Dr. Scully would be pleased to know how valuable her contributions are in expanding that knowledge," Jason commented smoothly. He bristled angrily at the casual dismissal of Scully's importance. She was not somebody's lab rat, to be used and discarded. She was a brilliant, honorable, caring woman who fought at his side against monsters, human and inhuman, without question and without hesitation. As his eyes flicked over the deadly threat concealed in an insignificant manila folder, his soul shuddered with the premonition of death creeping in to swallow Scully up; severing his lifeline to humanity. He dared not think about the implications of the return of the cancer - not if he hoped to remain sane and coherent enough to try to find a way out of this trap. Without realizing it, Mulder's lips pulled back in a snarl as he fought his hatred of the men who reduced human beings to the level of impersonal experiments. How could he voluntarily join such men without polluting the sacrifice of so many lives; without betraying Scully's struggle against what had been done to her? "You have no choice, really. Kill me and the plan goes forward. The only difference is that you will die as well. Is your petty vengeance worth the lives of two innocent people? If so, I am here. Take your best shot," Jason said as he laid his hands flat on his knees, empty of any weapon. The storm was rising. Whether he would ride it or be consumed by it hung in the balance of one man's self-restraint. Damn, Mulder cursed. He wished he felt a whole lot more noble about selling his soul, but instead he felt soiled, filthy, unclean. There was nothing noble about giving in to evil, but the alternative did not bear thinking about. He had to say the words, betray the man Scully thought him to be if he was to have any chance of saving her or himself. Betrayal was the only option left open to him. The only uncertainty remaining was exactly who he would end up betraying. Well, at least his enemies would be getting a soul already badly smudged. It shouldn't hurt that much to take the final step into ultimate evil. Hate burned darkly in his eyes, causing Jason to stiffen slightly. Mulder hovered on the cusp, savoring the last seconds of freedom, wondering if it wouldn't just be better to kill this man and then himself in a final act of defiance. It would be the perfectly chaotic thing to do. Break every rule. Rewrite the game on his own terms. He smiled, a cold and deadly smile that peeled back the layers of his humanity to reveal the raging beast he kept chained inside. "You may find I'm not what any of you expected," he growled, deliberately allowing his voice to roughen and break into a bass rumble. For just a moment longer he would savor the taste of being his own man, capable of ordering his own destiny. Maybe if he had surrendered to the violence within him long ago, he would not now be sitting here in the dark preparing to hand over his soul to his enemies. Jason remained silent, though watchful. Unconsciously he cataloged his defenses. This was the point where all predictions were useless. The moment in the hunt where prey and hunter could switch places in an instant. His blood raced and burned and he knew that the savage looked out of his eyes as he waited. This was the moment when he savored life to its fullest. He rode the storm he had raised. Slowly, deliberately, Mulder looked Jason in the eye, then lowered his eyes and nodded once. When he looked back up, it was with a weary, resigned expression that he hoped masked the faint ember of hope he nursed in the shadows of his soul. "Checkmate," he said quietly. "Acknowledged," Jason replied brusquely. He felt his breathing begin to slow down as he came down from the adrenaline rush. The storm had responded to his bidding. The game was his ... maybe. The victory had come too easily. Where were the rants, the absurd posturing, the fury Fox Mulder was capable of? This defeat smelled like a diversion; it lacked the rich aroma of despair and final capitulation. No matter. Despair would come soon enough. Once Mulder realized that there was no other choice, but the one he offered, his surrender would be genuine. Jason actually preferred this gesture of rebellion. It made the final victory that much sweeter and much more certain. "Scully?" Mulder blurted out his concern as if knowing that just her name held all the questions he ever needed to ask now that his life was no longer his own. "I believe a new doctor, one you will recommend, will find that the test results are confused and, upon further tests, will discover that the cancer has indeed gone into remission after all." Jason replied casually. It would be a small gesture to seal Mulder to his bargain. He found it quite interesting that Mulder did not inquire after Skinner. It might be amusing to see how the dynamics of that relationship evolved. Once Mulder had been bound irrevocably to their side, perhaps he should be given the other end of Skinner's leash. "We'll talk in more detail later. Right now, I believe you have a dinner date with the tardy Agent Scully. If you hustle, you will just beat her home," Jason repressed a chuckle at the flare of fear/anger in Mulder's eyes as he realized, again, how closely they were being monitored. Good, let him believe that they could control every moment of his life and he would be easier to bend to their will. Mulder stood up, biting back the bitter words he wanted to hurl at his man who held his soul so casually in his hands. Damnation hurt. He felt shredded. Only one thought remained clear - Scully must not know. She must never know that his betrayal of their quest and her sprang from his desperate need to save her life. Turning his back on Jason, Mulder almost wished he could hope for the executioner's bullet. Death would be a hell of a lot easier than lying to Scully. He walked slowly back home, unable to gather enough energy or will to move faster. Even knowing that his slow pace guaranteed that Scully would beat him to his apartment, he trudged slower and slower with each step. He was tempted to provoke an argument, to drive her away so he wouldn't have to endure an evening deceiving her that he was still the Mulder she trusted and respected. Then he realized that this was probably just the first of many nights and days of deception and knew that delaying the inevitable lies would not make them any easier to bear. The light in his apartment told him that Scully had indeed beaten him home. He imagined for a moment her anger, then her resignation at his absence. Now, she would be waiting to hear whatever fantastic explanation he tried to come up with before wringing the truth out of him with a glance and the slight upturned curl of an eyebrow. "Not this time, Scully," Mulder whispered as he stood on the sidewalk looking up at his window. There, barely visible except as a shadow of movement, he thought he saw Scully moving around. Time to face the music. Time to come up with a twofold lie to persuade her that he was merely truant, not traitor. Time enough for truth later, if his last ditch strategy failed and he was so used to damnation that her anger would not penetrate a heart turned to ice. With a determined shrug of his shoulders, Mulder cloaked himself in the shadow of the man he had been minutes before. The only chance he had, the only chance she had, lay in his ability to convince her of the lie. At all costs she must remain aloof from this game. He would make his move, alright - just not the one he agreed to. Samantha, if she were here, could have warned his opponent that her brother was not above cheating if the stakes were high enough. Cheating hell ... now there's a challenge no sane man would try. Then again, sanity has never been one of my strongest suits, he thought as he paused and took a deep breath outside his door. Plastering a rueful smile on his lips, Mulder braced himself for trial by Scully and walked into his apartment. ********* [end of part 2 / continued in part 3] ============== Absalom VI: The Covenant (3/6) As he expected, Scully was waiting for him. One look at her expression told him all he needed to know - worry and irritation blended with weariness - her Mulder-look. Why did he always manage to end up hurting the one person he would die to protect? As he carefully hung up his jacket, Mulder pondered anew a question he had asked himself repeatedly over the past four years; a question which had no answer. Scully remained silent. Her eyes said all that needed to be said. After the first exchange of glances, Mulder studiously avoided making eye contact. He knew he lied badly to her and he knew she knew it as well. "Sorry, Scully, my informant took forever to get to the point. You just can't get a good informant these days," Mulder quipped lightly as he maneuvered past her to the kitchen. Despite his efforts to avoid her eyes, he felt them sear into his back until he wondered why he wasn't igniting. "OK, so witty isn't the way to go," Mulder muttered to himself under the clatter of silverware. He assembled dinner on the dining room table Scully had unearthed during her cleaning binge. He had more or less forgotten that it even existed except as a convenient dumping ground for bills, folders, notebooks and such. With a small flourish, he brought out the casserole dish and let the fragrant odor of stroganoff fill the apartment. When the fresh salad and homemade dressing emerged from the refrigerator, Mulder thought he detected a slight softening of Scully's glare. "I threw myself on Stefan's mercy. I told him you were coming to dinner," Mulder confessed as he watched Scully struggle to maintain her veneer of irritation. He had taken her to the small Russian bistro a few times. Scully had made an impression on Stefan. He frequently asked about her. Mulder suspected that Stefan harbored latent matchmaker tendencies. Somehow, no matter how busy the bistro was, Stefan always managed to attend to them personally. Mulder began making a tradition out of taking Scully to the bistro for special occasions. Lately, before the assault, he had begun to find any number of occasions worthy of being called special. "Let's eat. Stefan is going to ask me how you liked dinner and I'd rather not tell him that we were too busy arguing to eat it," Mulder said. Bracing himself, he managed to look Scully in the eye for almost a full five seconds before dropping his gaze. He knew he must look as guilty as sin. Scully couldn't miss the signs that he was keeping something from her. "Mulder...." Scully began firmly then trailed off as Mulder offered her a chair. She wanted to clear the air between them, but she was hungry and Mulder was looking half sheepish, half hopeful. The dinner was a wonderful gesture. Maybe he was right. Maybe after they ate something and relaxed, they might be able to discuss her medical report and his blatant disregard for his own health as two calm rational adults. "Later, Mulder," she warned him as she accepted the chair and began dishing out the salad. She had to smile as Mulder whipped out a pan of Stefan's special rolls. If they had food in heaven, Scully imagined that it would taste something like these rolls. She gave Mulder a 'no fair cheating' look and was rewarded with a shrug and a sly smile. She might have been convinced that his disappearance was simply Mulder playing hooky except that the smile never touched his eyes, when she could see his eyes, that is. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. Her eyes began boring holes in the top of Mulder's head. "I promise - after dinner, tea and interrogation, for two," Mulder quipped as he looked up briefly with a resigned look on his face. He felt Scully scrutinizing him, trying to peel back his defenses and peek inside his mind. Not this time, Mulder vowed silently. He would tell her the whole truth only when it was too late for her to stop him from saving her life. Then he hoped he would be able, somehow, to find the strength to watch her walk out of his life in disgust. They ate in silence, each locked away in their own minds, pondering how to tell the other what needed to be said without saying too much or revealing the pain they were intent on concealing from the other. Surreptitiously, Mulder watched Scully, trying to memorize her, to etch her as a tattoo in his memory - indelible, eternal. In a hundred quick glances, Scully observed Mulder, her eyes photographing images of him, carving them into her memory so that they would be the last thing her mind would see if the reborn cancer took everything else from her. ********* "So, what did the doctor have to say?" Mulder asked as he handed her a steaming cup of strong black tea, lightly sugared. By the look on her face, he knew he had barely beat her to the punch. Delay could only work in his favor, he hoped. "Not much," Scully answered, resorting to the literal truth. Dr. Morrison had been uncharacteristically reticent. After gruffly telling her that the latest X- rays showed a resurgence of the cancer, he shoved the report across his desk, almost into her lap and fled the office pleading an emergency. She had spent the next hour reading the report, trying to find a loophole in the inexorable conclusion that her brief remission was over. Her curt response was met by silence. Mulder didn't say a word; he let his silence speak for him. Scully could deflect questions with a skill most criminals would envy, but she lied badly, at least about the important stuff. If he waited long enough, she would either have to answer the question or else try to change the subject, acknowledging that she had something to hide. He watched as her eyes changed color and narrowed as she realized she had been backed into a corner. Those eyes also held a promise that he would pay for this momentary victory when his turn came. Right now he didn't care. He had to know the truth before he began to betray her trust - one last truth between them for old times sake. "Dr. Morrison did not elaborate, but the reports seem to indicate that the mass was fractionally larger, indicating that the cancer was most likely active again," she recited evenly, fixing her attention on the wall just behind and to the right of Mulder's left ear. She waited for his protest, his invariable denial of medical fact. "What did he suggest?" Mulder asked slowly, choosing his words carefully, remembering that invisible ears were monitoring this conversation. Scully's eyes narrowed and she stared at Mulder, trying to decipher where his usual torrent of denial had gone. Mulder flatly refused to meet her eyes. She leaned over to touch his hand, to connect with him. Mulder surged up out of the chair and began pacing before her fingers had more than brushed against his skin. "We haven't discussed a course of treatment, yet. There are not a lot of options within traditional methods of treatment." Scully kept her voice calm, emotions shoved deep inside. Her voice was as remote as if she was discussing someone else's life-threatening disease, not her own. She wouldn't allow herself to break down in front of Mulder, to allow her fear to show. He must never feel she wasn't capable of handling this development; that she craved the feel of his arms around her as she dissolved into rage against this disease that was killing her. Mulder tasted her fear like smoke in a tinder-dry forest. It fed his anger until he wondered why he didn't simply ignite in a firestorm of fury against the men who did this to her. He wanted to gather her into his arms and hold her tight against his chest, giving her the last ounce of his life if necessary to save her. "There are other doctors, other treatments. If Morrison can't help you, then we'll find someone else," Mulder replied stubbornly. Of course it will be a doctor controlled by the Shadows, but if I'm a very good boy, he'll be a very good doctor, Mulder added silently. Suddenly the notion of trying to cheat Jason no longer looked quite so attractive. Face-to-face with Scully calmly reciting the details of the death sentence imposed on her by his enemies, his resolve faltered and his willingness to gamble with her life faded. The stakes were too high. "Dr. Morrison is the acknowledged expert in this type of cancer. I am not visiting a shaman or drinking some herbal remedy cooked up by a folk doctor," Scully added with a glimmer of a smile that was only a little forced. Look at me, Mulder. I'm still the same Scully I've always been. Don't turn away. I'm more than the cancer that's eating its way to my brain, her eyes pleaded with the back of his head. Anger at his refusal to look at her now blended with concern for him and the swift riptide of her own fear for the future. "I'm just saying that there may be other doctors better qualified to deal with a non-traditional course of action," Mulder snapped back a bit more sharply than he intended to. Without thinking, his eyes met hers in a instant of apology. He felt like a deer staring helplessly into the headlights of an oncoming truck. Panic gave him the willpower to pull his eyes away, but he knew that Scully's suspicions were aroused. In her stubborn concern for his worthless soul, she would hound him for the truth until she dragged herself into the swamp with him. Scully got up and walked over to where Mulder stood staring at the floor. Tenderly she reached out to him, but stepped back when he flinched away from her touch. Mulder simply shook his head and pushed past Scully to sit down on the couch, cradling his head in his hands. Why couldn't she simply leave well enough alone? Why did she have to be so fucking persistent about prying into his affairs when any sane person run as far away as possible? "You believe this is about you, don't you?" Scully asked incredulously. Memories of an argument about a desk and a life of her own surfaced. Her stumbling attempt to explain her angry rebellion echoed back to her. 'Not everything is about you.' The issues at the heart of her anger still festered below the scab they had pasted over the breach. "Everything is always about you, isn't it. You think that somehow you're responsible for what's happening, don't you?" Irritation began replacing the concern of a moment ago. Why did Mulder have to make this so difficult? For the first time since staring at the X-rays, the anger boiling deep inside her surged upwards. His rebuff of her concern threatened to undermine the cool, detached manner she chose to deal with the resurgence of her cancer. Mulder tried to speak, but realized he had nothing to say, but the truth which was not what Scully needed or wanted to hear. Angry at being shut out, Scully's temper snapped as the strain of the past few weeks broke her self-imposed controls. Anger gave her the insight to know what words would hurt the most. Fear spat them out at the man who lay at the core of all her hopes and fears. "I can't even die without it being about you," Scully snapped. In the twinkling of an eye, her cool exterior melted in a blazing catharsis of anger. She knew that Mulder was not to blame, but he was part of the crushing load of fear and anger she had been carrying around for weeks. Barely learning to deal with her own impending death, she had been hurled into the maelstrom of fear that instead of preparing him for her death, she would have to adjust to his loss. Because of him, she had to accept that she was not whole without him. Because of him, she needed another person as much as she needed air to breathe. Fear became anger and the anger became too much to bear in silence. As unreasonable as it was, she damned him for making her need him. Mulder stared at her, her words slashing like daggers across his guilty soul. She was wrong. It was about him. His enemies were using her, making her suffer because of who or what he was. He realized that she saw his answer as further evidence of his self-centered preoccupation with his obsession, but she was suffering because she got mixed up with a loser who was too dependent on her to send her away before she got hurt. It was now painfully clear that she did not know how important she had become to him. The man who bought his soul knew her value. Scully was no pawn, a casual sacrifice to gain a momentary advantage in a game. She was the queen - the most versatile, dangerous piece on the entire board. Without her, his quest would be a pointless series of maneuvers with little hope of ultimate victory. Now he had it in his power to send her away, to set her free. With a single word he could surrender to the darkness and free her to walk in the light. The seduction of surrender felt like a lover's embrace. He was tired of fighting against his darker nature. Letting go, he unleashed his anger, reveling in the hot taste of fury and despair. His eyes closed off the windows to his soul, cast her out of the intimacy they shared. He saw her anger collapse in on itself as he gouged a chasm between them. Shaking with the effort to control his despair and grief, he poured all of his fury into the single word of truth that would damn him in her sight. "Yes." Yes, Scully is it all about me, Mulder thought sadly. You were destined to fly high until you collided with the Mulder disaster field. Mulder watched as Scully's expression turned from anger into stunned disbelief then back to anger again. It was done. Not as he wanted it done, but it was better this way. A quick, clean surgical strike with Scully's anger to cauterize the gaping wound where his heart and his honor used to be. He drowned his pain in anger and with ice-cold eyes, shut her out. "Is that all I am to you? Just a pawn in your megalomaniacal universe?" Scully's voice was rigid with anger hovering on the brink of detonation. Mulder detected the hurt seething below her rising anger. He felt it like shards of glass in his heart, but could not relent. He drew on his own reservoir of anger to dull the pain. Was she blind to her true value? What was so fucking important about being his equal in the sight of their enemies? It only brought him anguish as he watched his family disintegrate around him - his father dead, his sister taken and his mother a stranger protecting the lies more precious than himself. Was she really so fucked-up that she wanted to be seen as his equal in this insane game by men who dined on the souls of any who opposed them? It occurred to him that this sudden eruption from a quiet, intimate dinner into furious recriminations was typical of their relationship. They constantly walked the razor's edge between intimacy and estrangement. The very things that made them so strong together, also worked against them whenever they tried to delve into emotional issues. For a moment he considered ignoring the listeners and taking her into his arms and confessing everything - from how much she meant to him to the barter he made for her life. Just once, he wanted to bare his soul to her, to cut past the evasions, the innuendoes, the camouflage of humor he used to hide himself from her. Then he remembered - it wasn't his soul anymore. Chastened by the grim realization that once again he was too little, too late, he sat in silence as she turned her back on him and walked away. Fighting to control her anger, Scully now took up position by the window, staring blindly out into the night. The tattoo on her back burned. This was not happening her soul whispered to her angry heart. Something had gone terribly awry with the discussion. Even in the midst of her fury at Mulder's egotistical guilt trip, she sensed that the normal rhythms of their arguments were all wrong. The feel of this argument was different from all the others they had had in the past. The silence hung painfully between them. Mulder's temper began to fray as he tried to brace himself for Scully's inevitable departure. It was killing him to watch her fighting to regain her composure, her balance against the harshness of his words. He had shut her out for her own good, but what if in doing so, he also destroyed part of who she was? Enlightenment. Revelation. Everything but the fucking Mormon Tabernacle Choir went off in his head. He was a fool. OK, perhaps not an entirely new thought, but the current implications of this insight were staggering. Scully was right - he was assuming that this entire scenario was solely about him. He prattled to himself about how important Scully was to him, yet cast her out of the equation when it came down to her own future. "Shit," he growled hoarsely. When he invited chaos into the game, he had in mind some personal grandstanding, a bit of dramatic one-upmanship, not challenging his own nature and moving contrary to every instinct he had where Scully was concerned. It had been so easy to play the martyr. Now he had the uncomfortable feeling that playing that card was taking the easy way out. His enemies must have realized how close to emotional exhaustion he was and offered him a chance to give up and still feel as if he had won something. He felt a certain respect for the man who profiled him so well. He suspected it was the man he had talked to on the park bench. There was a bond between them that went deeper than the bond between a killer and his victim. The man knew him, knew which way he would jump, knew the trap to lay and the choice he would make. Two futures lay open before him. In neither one did he see any potential for personal happiness, but in one he could show Scully just how much she did mean to him and give her the two most precious gifts he had to offer - his honesty and his complete trust. In the other, he could allow the darkness to swallow him and leave Scully behind to fight her own darkness alone. However, resolving to buck the odds and actually getting his mouth around the words were two different things. His mind and heart were willing, but his voice simply couldn't say the words. "Fuck this," Mulder said loud enough for Scully to hear. Other than a slight twitch of her shoulders, however, she gave no indication she heard him. Every inch of her rigid back and clenched hands screamed out her anger, her fury at the insult he had allowed her to believe. Grabbing his cell-phone, he punched in Skinner's pager number. As long as he was throwing himself into the arms of chaos, he might as well go all the way. At least the savage sound of him abusing innocent cell- phone buttons got Scully's attention. Her face was flushed and her eyes were icy with anger, but she was looking at him. Times like this he really missed a cigarette. If nothing else, it would give him something to do with his hands. He clutched the cell-phone like a drowning man clinging to a life preserver. Taking a deep breath, he embraced chaos and looked her square in the eyes. The part of him that wasn't shaking like a leaf, smiled as confusion challenged anger for dominance in her expression. We've thrown away the script, partner; ad lib time, he whispered to himself. "You really want to hear the truth?" he asked softly. Part of him prayed that she didn't, but he knew she could not resist knowing even if the truth only brought her more pain. "Your truth or the truth, Mulder?" Scully asked warily. "Simply a truth, as far as I know it. It's dangerous, it's dirty, but it's all I have left to give you," Mulder replied quietly as he stood up to face his partner and his judge. ********* [end of part 3 / continued in part 4] TITLE: Absalom VI: The Covenant (2/2) AUTHOR: Joyce McKibben (griffin100@juno.com) DATE: September 1998 DISTRIBUTION: Archive on XFC, but don't forward to the NG. Thanks. RATING: PG-13 (some profanity) CLASSIFICATION: A,S SUMMARY/DISCLAIMER: see part 1 FEEDBACK: Always welcome at: griffin100@juno.com ============== Absalom VI: The Covenant (4/6) "What the hell is he doing?" Jason muttered as he listened to Mulder preparing to bare his soul, the soul *he* owned, damn it, to his partner. Damn the man. Did he think this little confession scene would alter the deal one iota? "Scully, I went out this afternoon to meet someone, someone who sent me a warning that you were in danger." Mulder held up his hand to silence Scully before she could speak. Giving her a sad smile he walked over to the pouch sitting by his computer and handed it to her. He watched as her fingers felt the unfamiliar shape of the chess pieces inside. In response to her quizzical look, he nodded his intention for her to open the pouch. Scully looked even more perplexed as she looked at a white queen and a white bishop lying in her hand. The heavy parchment note sailed to the floor like the last stubborn leaf of fall. "I was offered a deal, by the devil himself if I'm any judge." Mulder paused, unable to bear looking into Scully's worried eyes. "Not a very original deal. I gave up, Scully. Your life, Skinner's life - the price of not giving up was too high." Mulder forced himself to look down into Scully's eyes - to read his fate in those clear blue eyes that had never been tarnished by dishonor. Jason swore bitterly at the offending receiver as he listened to Mulder's confession. This ill-timed burst of honesty served no purpose except to complicate the deal. In a very dim way, he supposed he did understand Mulder's need to lay bare his treason. He never had anyone who would have cared enough to mourn his lost soul, but he did understand the forlorn wish to be mourned. "Don't mess this deal up, Mulder or you'll be on a morgue slab and I'll be a cloud of ash drifting over New Jersey." Jason tried not to contemplate the consequences of failure. He had notified his friend that the deal was done - Mulder was theirs. Failure now would leave his friend no choice and him no future. "Mulder, you can't let them win. You've lost too much. I've lost too much. Fight them," Scully pleaded with steel in her voice. She couldn't believe what she was hearing. Either Mulder had gone completely insane or else the shadows she had stubbornly refused to acknowledge really were using her as a pawn. "Is this what you meant when you said this was about you?" she asked uncertainly. She would be more than happy to erase the memory of Mulder dismissing her importance even if it meant accepting that the conspiracy they fought had reached into her life to manipulate her cancer. Mulder nodded. He didn't trust his voice. All his flagging energy had been poured into getting this confession out. His throat burned and ached - a living reminder of his opponent's intrusion into his life. Clutching the chess pieces in a closed fist, Scully stooped down and picked up the note and read it. She puzzled over the contents, forgetting Mulder who was standing quietly in the shadow just outside the glare of the lamp. Without really thinking about it, Mulder was already retreating into the darkness he believed he had given himself to. "Who....?" Mulder smiled, transforming his sad eyes into burning reflections of his heart. "Well, unless I've taken leave of my senses, I think our enemies recognize that you are the most important piece in this game of theirs. Can't think of anyone else I'd trust with the job," Mulder ended on an embarrassed note. He wasn't used to this much honesty. It provoked a strong desire to cut and run and hide somewhere until the urge to bare his soul had passed. As he listened, Jason was torn between respect for Mulder's ability to maneuver some breathing room and irritation that his carefully prepared plans had not been sufficient to demoralize him. Jason realized that he had no one to blame but himself if he had underestimated Mulder. Jonathan had certainly given him plenty of advice about Mulder's genius for skating on thin ice and surviving. Jason did not waste time in useless recriminations. The simple fact of the matter was that he had failed to recognize and take into account the intensity of the bond between Mulder and his very dangerous partner. The one thing he had not foreseen was that Mulder would go against his nature and bring Scully into the equation. In fact, if the phone message he overheard was correct, Mulder was acting completely against every profile the Elders had on him and was bringing his boss into the now chaotic mess that was Jason's crisp neat plan to subvert Mulder. Jason briefly wondered if he could make a deal with all three of them, to bring all three under the overt umbrella of the Consortium while making sure their first obligation was to him and his friend. "Mulder, you can't make deals with these people," Scully protested. Her eyes were angry, but they softened when Mulder flinched. She was furious, but only a small portion of that anger was for Mulder's obstinate streak of self-sacrifice. Mulder shrugged. "It's done." He was trembling as he tried not to take his eyes from Scully's. He wished she would just damn him and get it over with. She wasn't following the script, damn it. A loud authoritative knock on his front door saved Mulder from drowning in the ice-blue ocean of Scully's eyes. She persisted in caring for him, fearing for him, even, to his complete astonishment, loving him. Mulder didn't know whether to bolt or fall down on his knees before her and cling to her for salvation. Mulder was becoming convinced that God was using him for divine comic relief. Of all the times to realize that Scully loved him. Fresh from signing his soul away, he should not be standing here burning in the heat of her love. Startled by the interruption, Scully stepped back. Trying to gather her scattered wits, she walked over to the window. She suspected their untimely interruption was Skinner responding to Mulder's call. She did not intend to greet Skinner with a flushed face and unshuttered eyes. Listening in on the rustle of movement in Mulder's apartment, Jason hoped that Skinner would be a sensible man and suggest that everyone get some rest and meet to talk about this situation in the morning. "Give me four hours with Mulder and I'll make him forget this awkward lapse into moral honesty," Jason muttered. Jason heard Mulder step to the door as the listening device picked up a cacophony of confusion. Glass shattered, hitting the wooden floor with an icy patter A soft thud was mixed in with the sound of a door opening. Heavy feet moved quickly. Mulder's bellow ended in a rasping crack as his voice splintered. Swearing, Jason pulled the ear piece out and hoped he had not gone deaf in that ear. Mulder must have been standing right under the mike. Odd, he thought, even without the ear-piece he could still hear the sounds of bodies thrashing about. "Damn," he yelled as the soft pops of a silenced pistol sounded from just outside his office. His gun was up and aimed at the doorway even as he ducked for cover. A roar of gunfire, quickly followed by another loud shot temporarily deafened him. He held his ground, determined to make the assassins pay very dearly for his life. Stupid, he muttered to himself. He measured the distance to his bolt hole and calculated the odds of making his escape before his assassins burst in. Something had gone wrong with their plan. Obviously their plan had been to disable his alarm system then burst in and execute him before he had a chance to react. Now he could only wait to see whether his unknown helper or the assassins would walk through the door. "Sir?" Hamilton's voice sounded breathless, as close to ruffled as he ever expected to hear from his dapper assistant. Jason remained silent. He wished he had had the foresight to put a remote switch on the light. Darkness would be really helpful right now. If he lived through this night, he would make installing remote switches a priority. "Sir, I am coming in. I'll slide my gun on the floor and keep my hands in plain sight. The assassins are quite dead and making a terrible mess of the carpet." Jason said nothing, but watched cautiously as a Browning 9mm was pushed through the small crack in the door, butt first. From the soft hissing noises Hamilton was making, the barrel was still very hot. Slowly the gun was lowered to the floor and was sent gliding across the polished oak floor with a tap of a foot. After a moment, the door opened the rest of the way and a bleeding, swaying Hamilton appeared. His teeth were bared in a grimace as he held his arms up and out. Blood dripped rapidly from his left shoulder and forearm. It was possible this was a set up, but Jason's instincts were telling him that whatever else Hamilton was, he was not a traitor. "Put your arms down before you bleed to death," Jason ordered curtly, waving his assistant over to the chair beside his desk. Hamilton lowered his arm and stumbled forward. Still holding his pistol, Jason leaned over and examined the wounds. "You'll live. The bullets passed straight through. You are a lucky man or should I say that I am?" Jason glared at Hamilton. "What brought you back here so late?" "I was told by a reliable source that the Elders were cleaning house. I thought that it was possible that you were one of the people on their list. Being right hurts," Hamilton grunted as Jason shoved a handkerchief into his right hand and pressed the hand against the hole in his shoulder. Damn them, Jason thought with cold fury. The mysterious sounds in Mulder's apartment suddenly made sense. Apparently Mulder was another one of those loose ends being tidied up tonight. Damn those old men to hell. "Your friend, the smoker?" At Jason's nod, Hamilton continued, "He's been shot. His assassin was a bit divided in his loyalties so he gave your friend a chance to bleed to death rather than taking a clean kill." "How do you know this," Jason asked suspiciously. "Because my reliable informant is at the moment lying in my bed with my best pillowcase plugging the hole in his chest," Hamilton said with a sly smile for Jason's astonishment. "Thank you," Jason said quietly, gently resting a hand on Hamilton's good shoulder. "The Elders won't be very happy with you for this night's work." "I don't work for the Elders. I work for you, sir," Hamilton replied wearily, the adrenaline seeping out of him. "I'll take you back to your place. Lock the doors. I'll send Webster over to stitch you both up and get my friend to a safe house. Lie low until you hear from me personally. If you don't hear from me by noon tomorrow, I'll most likely be dead. Take the best offer you can and play their game until you're strong enough to play your own." Jason instructed brusquely. Loyalty like this was something he had never considered or counted on and he was at a loss to know how to acknowledge it. Thankfully, Hamilton seemed too out of it to realize how taken-aback his boss was by his words. Hamilton nodded as Jason helped him up and leaned him against the wall. It was going to be a busy night. Jason locked his office door behind them as he shifted through people he trusted enough to clean up the mess in his outer office. Hamilton had shot one of the men through the head. Blood and brains were splattered all over the leather upholstery and the walls. Using a very circuitous route, Jason got Hamilton home. He took the luxury of checking on his friend while he was there. The wound was bad, but his friend was tenacious and, even unconscious, appeared as tough as nails. "They'll pay for this night, my old friend. They will pay until their souls bleed." ********* Mulder opened the door to see something he rarely saw - a puzzled Skinner. His perverse sense of humor goaded him into smiling at his confused boss. Skinner gave him a stern look. Situation normal, Mulder thought with an odd feeling of comfort. Skinner looked positively menacing in a black fisherman's sweater, leather gloves and a dark leather jacket. Where the jacket hung open, Mulder could see Skinner's pistol. Apparently he had taken Mulder's warning that serious shit was flying. As quickly as Mulder's smile appeared, it vanished into a somber, almost grim expression. It seemed appropriate that he and Skinner were dressed alike in black; twin shadows who had mortgaged their souls for the woman standing behind him. He nodded a greeting and stepped aside to allow Skinner to enter. The silence between the men was broken by the sound of breaking glass. Skinner's eyes went wide. With three long strides he moved into the room, pulling his gun and dropping into a near crouch. Mulder spun around in time to see Scully crumple into the floor. "SCULLY!" he yelled, his voice breaking and crackling as his throat was scoured raw. He felt as if he had swallowed the shards of glass scattered around Scully's body. Skinner moved to the wall and sidled over to the window, trying to peer out without offering a target. Heedless of anything but Scully lying on the floor amid blood and glass, Mulder charged to her side, dropping to his knees and skidding the last foot or so. Glass impaled his knees, but he didn't feel a thing. Another bullet passed through the air where Mulder's head had been a second before. "Damn it, Mulder, be careful," Skinner hissed. He spared a glance down at Scully and realized that being careful was probably the last thing on Mulder's mind. He didn't want to leave Mulder alone, but he was useless up here with no target to shoot at and no cover. Clawing his cell-phone out of his coat pocket, he called in the shooting. "Officer down." He hated those two words, too often they preceded the grim fact that the downed officer was lost, but they would bring down the might of the law enforcement world in swift response. One of their own was in peril. Skinner made it to the street by the time he heard the first faint wails of the sirens converging on this place. Gauging the trajectory of the bullet, Skinner slipped through the shadows until he was in position to watch the rear entrance of the building across from Mulder's. As the street outside the main entrance filled with police cars, Skinner waited patiently for the rat to run for cover. A shadow slipped into a darker shadow. The assassin never broke from cover, but moved relentlessly towards escape. "Freeze! FBI. Put your weapon down, NOW!" Skinner shouted as he brought the fleeing gunman into his sights. The man suddenly dropped and turned and Skinner felt the hot buzz of a bullet carve a grove across his check. Returning fire was an automatic response and a deadly one. Skinner knew what he would find even as he walked slowly over to the heap of bloody clothing lying in the alley. He felt no pity, just anger at men who killed from ambush. There would be no answers; this man would have no identity. He sympathized with Mulder. On more than one occasion, desperately sought and paid for evidence vanished without a trace, leaving behind only more questions. It never ended. Skinner waited for the arrival of the police. The gunman's rifle was silenced, but the roar of his own gun must have alerted the police who would be approaching with caution and suspicion. Skinner put up his gun and had his FBI identification ready by the time the beams of the officers' flashlights lit up the alley. ********* Mulder tried to call to Scully, to tell her not to leave him, to plead with her, but his raw throat refused to utter a sound. He fought the urge to cough. There was enough blood here, he didn't need to add to it. Scully lay in a heap. Blood was spreading out around her, soaking her hair, dying her white sweater. Mulder scooped her up until he could cradle her head against his chest and lay her body in his lap. He felt the beat of her heart as it labored under the strain of pumping a diminishing supply of blood. The bullet had gone in high on her left shoulder; a small rather neat hole that belied the gaping wound in her back busily pouring her life out all over his lap. Mulder crammed a discarded napkin into the wound and pressed her tightly against his chest to hold it in place. His hands were slick with blood and fear. As he held her, he felt her life soak into him and he wondered that it did not burn him with scalding accusations. He had brought her to this. He should have sent her away. Then it would be him lying here, in the place he was meant to be. Damn it, Scully. You can't die. My life for hers. That was the deal. Mulder's thoughts were a jumble of fear, anger and confusion. He had paid the price. His soul was sealed and delivered. Why her? Why now? Because he told her the truth? Mulder pleaded with a God he had avoided for over twenty years for a miracle. Not her. Not Scully, please. "Don't leave me," he whispered, his throat aching as he fought to say the words. His voice was a husky rasp, but he hoped Scully understood all the things he couldn't say. His entire being was focused on Scully, but he sensed a presence. If he looked away from her face he knew he would see the dark angel who had stood over him on a cold, icy street waiting to take him into death. Mulder stubbornly refused to acknowledge the intrusion of death. Scully hadn't let him die and he wasn't about to let her go either. He would fight Death himself if he had to. Rocking slowly back and forth, cradling her as he breathed soundless words into her face, Mulder didn't hear the medics until one of them reached out to take her from him. Mulder fought to keep hold of her, clutching her so tight he felt her ribs bend. "No, I won't let you have her," he rasped painfully. He tasted blood. Fear suffocated sense and reason. "Mister, let go," a medic barked, impatient to begin to try to save this woman's life. "Mulder." A whisper. A sound as soft as snow and as loud as a trumpet call woke Mulder from his panicked resistance. Swallowing painfully, Mulder forced her name out of his torn throat and tried to smile at her. It was a weak effort, but he was rewarded by a return smile that didn't break into an anguished groan for nearly three seconds, an eternity of hope for him. Reluctantly, Mulder released her into the care of the medics, but held onto her hand until the medics lifted her onto the gurney, forcibly separating them. He struggled briefly to stand, unaware that his untamed eyes reflected only horror and death and unending fear. He felt strong arms engulf him and hold him as he vainly attempted to struggle to her side. The darkness roared and swept over him as he collapsed in the arms that would not let him fall. Disjointed words. The sounds of plastic tearing. Medical sounds. Familiar sounds. Skinner's voice. "Mulder." With a start, Mulder came back to full consciousness, aware of the cold air freezing his bloody sweater to his body. Scully was gone. He could feel the cold of her absence freezing his soul. He was afraid. If she was really gone, if death had taken her, he would freeze to death from the inside out until nothing was left but a frozen husk that walked and talked but felt nothing. Unable to speak, Mulder looked into Skinner's eyes for hope. Skinner nodded though his eyes reflected his own worry. Alive, then, but still in danger. ********* [end of part 4 / continued in part 5] ============== Absalom VI: The Covenant (5/6) Jason walked slowly down the corridor of the hospital. Four weeks ago, he had walked this same corridor to observe the man he had tried to kill struggle back from the brink of death. Up ahead, standing like a tall pillar of black ice, that man now stood outside a room watching his partner fight to live as she had watched him fight. Keeping an eye out for stray Assistant Directors, Jason slipped into an alcove where he could observe Mulder for awhile. He was flying by the seat of his pants now, improvising on the run. For the first time in years, he felt free. He was in an impossible situation with a death sentence waiting to be executed, yet there was an invigorating intoxication in skating along the thin edge of extinction with only his wits and his cunning keeping him alive. Once again, Mulder was the key to the situation. Jason wondered if there actually was a minor god called Murphy and whether Mulder was his acolyte. Mulder seemed to move unscathed through disasters and cataclysms, wrecking the finely tuned plans of men who were themselves little less than gods in terms of the power they wielded. Well, if Mulder was Murphy's Law in action, then it behooved Jason to use his talents to the utmost. The only question was how? Mulder stood vigil outside Scully's room. She looked so small and fragile lying there amid a maze of wires and tubes. Unconscious, her face devoid of the lively intelligence that transformed her, she looked like a child sleeping in blissful ignorance of the war being waged for her life. The bandages on his knees stretched as he moved. He had protested taking the time to have the glass shards removed, but Skinner had been adamant. In fact, Skinner had taken over, getting him out of his blood-soaked clothes, propelling him into the emergency room for treatment and forcing a gallon of coffee into him until he threw the final cup against the wall along with a string of obscene curses. In Mulder's fragmented memory, he remembered Skinner smiling as he left to find some towels to clean up the mess. If he lived to be a hundred, Mulder doubted if he would ever completely understand Skinner. Vaguely he recalled Skinner telling him that the man who had done this to her was dead. Mulder couldn't remember if he even acknowledged the information. It didn't matter. The assassin was merely the tool, not the heart and mind behind the killing. Inside his frozen soul, Mulder plotted the death of the men who stood in the shadows behind the assassin. If Scully died... Mulder's heart shuddered at even contemplating such a disaster, but his angry soul repeated the words, driving home the despair, to kill the last vestige of mercy. If Scully died, he would hunt down the men responsible before he joined her. Mulder was struck by the hellish symmetry of his life. She had stood here, just four weeks earlier, as he lay amid a tangle of wires and tubes fighting for his life. He would gladly trade places with her; he wanted to trade places with her. Anything to silence the ache that was squeezing his heart into bitter wormwood. Anything to silence the guilt that charged him with her death and demanded expiation in blood. No, that was taking the easy way out, he thought with the last remnant of his dalliance with emotional honesty. Scully didn't deserve the pain of watching him die. He deserved every second of pain knowing she was dying because of him. He embraced the pain, made it part of him, used it to encase his heart in bands of unrelenting steel. Vengeance would be his. Mercy would be buried with her, along with his heart, his honor and his soul. Mulder felt the bloodlust rise and recoiled from the soulless executioner he saw himself becoming. He didn't want to exist in a living hell. The ice that was freezing his soul frightened him. Madness had always lurked deep within his soul. Fury had unlocked the chains more than once and murder danced in the fires of his temper. Always before he had had a reason to not take the final step over the line. Now, his reason lay dying and the fires beckoned. He was so cold. "Scully," he whispered in desperation. "Please, don't go. Don't leave me to face my demons alone." Tears boiled up, but he refused to cry until he knew whether he was crying for his death or hers. Taking a deep breath he fought the urge to cough as the air rasped over his raw throat. "I wish I could make outlandish promises that I'll change, that I will be the man you think you see beneath the mask. I can't. I am who I am, Scully. Not much to offer, I guess. There'll always be some quest, some monster that calls me out for one more fight. It's what I do. You deserve so much more than I can give you, but I give you all of what I have." Mulder leaned against the glass, etching his plea into the glass barrier between them. "You can't die now. Not until we at least try to see if it can work between us. If you die now, I don't think I can find my way home in the dark." Mulder closed his eyes, his body folded in prayer even while his soul cried out that no one other than Scully cared enough to listen to his plea. If she could not hear him, who would? "Agent Mulder," Skinner interrupted his agent's dour thoughts with a softening of his usual resonant bass tones. He waited patiently as Mulder gathered himself together. His own mood was bleak as he fought the urge to revert back to the simple Marine code that blood called for blood. "Yes sir," Mulder replied wearily. He raised his hand against the window in a silent, final supplication. With a ragged sigh he straightened up and turned to face the inevitable concern he knew would be in Skinner's eyes. "Get some rest. You've been standing here for nearly eight hours. I'll watch over her," Skinner glared briefly to forestall the protest he saw building in Mulder's stormy eyes. "The moment anything changes, I'll call you. I promise." Mulder shook his head, denying his body's need for rest. He was afraid that if he left her, she might forget his overwhelming need and drift into the peace offered by death. He remembered how alluring death could seem, offering peace and solace for all the pain and hurt acquired over the years. "She will need to see you when she wakes up." Skinner tried to put as much confidence in those words as he could. Scully had to survive. If she died, no man on earth would be able to control Mulder's rage and he wasn't even sure he would try. "Besides, if you go find a quiet place to rest, Agent Smithers won't have a chance to track you down and get a statement from you. He is taking this investigation very seriously. I think you would prefer to have all your wits about you before tackling his questions," Skinner advised with a note of wary resignation in his voice. Mulder raised his eyebrow at the change in tone. Skinner's expression remained bland, but a slight shrug of one shoulder and a soft sigh told him that Skinner had already endured Smithers's bulldog persistence and had had an interesting time tap-dancing around the truth. "You know, I am really tempted to tell Smithers the absolute truth, but I don't think he's ready for it," Mulder replied wearily, rubbing his forehead with the heels of his hands. "I'd like to think that most of the agents under my command aren't ready to accept the truth we both know exists." Skinner paused, considering whether to pursue his own curiosity. "I gave up, sir. I sold my soul to the devil and it couldn't even buy Scully her life." Mulder sagged against the wall, his tone defeated, his body collapsing in on itself as his rage turned inward. Skinner guided Mulder over to some very uncomfortable- looking vinyl chairs. He said nothing. If Mulder wanted to talk, he would. The tale sounded terribly familiar. His own soul had been bartered for little or no results that he could see. It was a humbling experience to find that your most precious possession was worthless tender to your enemies. "You are being set up, sir. There's a tape in my collection which has damning evidence against you. It's hidden, but if Smithers does a thorough search, he might stumble on it." Skinner swallowed hard and his fingers stiffened around Mulder's shoulders, but he gave no other sign that he felt the noose tightening around his neck. He saw a spark of humor in Mulder's eyes. "What..." "'The Gladiator and the Slave Girls of Atlantis' is very high on my recommended viewing list, sir," Mulder said with a wry twist to his tone that broadened into a grim chuckle as Skinner's look of bewilderment turned into acknowledgement. "Agent Mulder, remind me to have a long talk with you, off the record of course, about your video habits," Skinner said with mock sternness. Smithers was a puritan; groping through Mulder's extensive porn video collection would not be a task he would relish. "Yes sir," Mulder said as he sagged back against the wall, suddenly too weary to continue talking in circles. "If you won't rest, at least go take a walk and get some fresh air. I'll stay here. I have an agent posted on the door to the ICU and another one by the stairs. No one will get to her," Skinner vowed. He felt a slight surge of pride that Mulder gave a nod in response to his assurance. Mulder did not extend trust lightly, especially where Scully's welfare was concerned. Now for the hard part. "I have also assigned Agent Cawlder to guard you," Skinner made his voice a battering ram that ran over and through Mulder's abortive attempt at protest. "You were the main target, Mulder. That bullet would have taken you in the gut. Somebody out there doesn't like you very much. I am not going to watch Scully pull through only to have to tell her that I was careless enough to allow you to be killed." Skinner was firm on this point. By this time, whoever had ordered Mulder's death, must know that their assassin had failed. It was only logical to assume they would try again. Mulder looked rebellious, hunching his body against the necessity to walk among armed guards. "I don't want..." Mulder started to protest then saw the implacable resolve in Skinner's eyes and recognized that on this issue he wasn't going to be moved. It must be the lingering influence of brutal emotional honesty, he decided as he realized that he had lost his usual urge to fight the intrusion of authority into his private life. "Yes sir," he conceded. At least his abrupt surrender was rewarded by a look of astonishment before Skinner recovered his composure. Mulder gave him a resigned shrug as he shoved upwards to a standing position. It took a minute to regain his equilibrium and stop the hallway from spinning, but he waved off Skinner's assist and turned to leave. "I'm going to the garden. It's private enough there that I should be safe. Tell Cawlder not to hover," Mulder snapped as he walked down the hallway. In the darkness of the hospital garden, maybe the man who bought his soul would emerge and tell him why it had not been enough. In the shadows, Jason smiled. He was growing to like Mulder. The lad had a flair for improvisation and a genius for taking chances no sane man would consider. Bill Mulder never fathered this wolfling, if he was any judge of men. Neither had his smoking friend, who made caution and circumspection his gods. A glimmer of an idea began to rise like the dawning sun. Jason actually smiled. Where better to hide the truth than in a nest of lies? Still smiling, Jason slipped into one of the side rooms and through an easily unlocked connecting door into an examining room that opened out onto the main ER corridor. From there he moved quickly towards the small enclosed garden. The ubiquitous Agent Cawlder paced restlessly by the entrance to the garden, obviously uneasy at his orders not to hover. Through the heavy glass sliding doors, Jason could see Mulder standing in the courtyard, staring at the winter-dead garden, waiting for some sign, some indication that his bargain had meant something. Thankful that he had memorized the plans to the hospital four weeks ago, Jason followed a series of winding hallways until he reached a door that opened into the rear of the garden. He stepped into a small area hidden from the main entrance by large coniferous bushes enclosing a long semi-circular bench facing the statue of some unknown saint softly lit by recessed lights. A peaceful spot where he and Mulder could have a private discussion without distressing the earnest Agent Cawlder. Jason sat quietly, listening to Mulder's restless footsteps grow closer. When he could hear the rasp of his breathing, he spoke up. "Fox." Mulder froze in mid-step. He had hoped for this meeting, but now faced it with an equal measure of fear and righteous anger. He didn't want to die with so many things left unsaid between him and Scully. He wanted to hate this man who had disdained his soul while at the same time he wanted to go to his knees and beg for some miracle to save Scully. Gathering his anger around him like a shield, Mulder walked towards the soft circle of light. Jason stood up as he entered the small plaza. "You are not surprised to see me here. Good. I like a man who anticipates events," Jason said calmly. It was time Mulder learned the price of playing this game. Their lives hung upon what passed between them in the next few minutes. Their lives and the lives of his friend, of Scully, even the life of A. D. Skinner all depended on whether Mulder would listen or act on the rage that was consuming him. "Why," Mulder poured all of his rage into a single hoarse word. Mulder faced his tormenter, his eyes a dark hurricane green. "Complacent men, afraid of what they cannot control, acted impulsively," Jason replied cryptically. "You should understand that much, at least." Mulder scowled but said nothing. His fists clenched at his sides, he stood silent, a forbidding dark shadow standing in the light, trembling with an effort to contain the rage that demanded vengeance. Jason sighed. So much anger, yet with enough wisdom or caution to wait and hear what he had to say. He might own this man's soul, but he wondered if anyone had the power to control him. Perhaps it was best not to try. The hawk served best slipped from its leash and allowed to hunt on its own. He would have to trust that, in the end, this hawk would return to his fist. "You are not the only one who wonders if they will lose a friend, someone closer than a friend, this night. I learned too late what was planned to warn you. A friend lies where your partner lies as a result of their orders. The Elders will pay. I offer you a chance to help make them pay for this night's pain." Jason watched Mulder carefully as he recited the litany of the Elders' crimes against both of them. "You said Scully would not be harmed if I accepted your deal," Mulder retorted in a husky, angry voice. His hands flexed as he fought the urge to throttle the truth out of the man who betrayed him. "Yet you took it upon yourself to tell her about your deal. That was not in the bargain, as I recall," Jason responded calmly, feeling his way back onto familiar ground. "You didn't say I couldn't," Mulder threw back defiantly, aware that he sounded like a small boy arguing with his elders. "Very good, Fox," Jason smiled. "An old friend said you have a genius for discovering even the tiniest loophole. No, I never said you couldn't tell your partner or Skinner about our little deal. That wasn't why she was shot." Mulder gave up trying to appear calm and began pacing in fits and starts around the plaza. If he put a little distance between him and Jason, he might be able to resist killing him with his bare hands on the spot. "You were the target. Agent Scully was a miscalculation. I suspect that the shooter would have paid dearly for that mistake even if he had been successful in bringing you down. The Elders do not tolerate mistakes or individual initiative," Jason said with a grim humorless smile. "I on the other hand, encourage initiative and reward it." Jason walked over to the bench and sat down, drawing Mulder's attention to him by the force of his words and his will. Death still hung in the air, but Jason sensed that Mulder was beginning to listen. "You were just one of several men slated for termination tonight. The Elders are now short several assassins and none of their targets are dead. No doubt there are some serious recriminations occurring right now among the Council." "They will try again?" Mulder asked with a sudden return of fear for Scully's safety. He half turned to go when Jason reached out and held him still with one hand. Mulder froze at the touch, stiff with anger, but also curious. "As I said, I intend to make the Elders pay. You and Skinner are my hawks. I can give you much information that will make the Elders extremely uncomfortable. You will act on that information. Between us we will shake the complacency of the Project's overlords. With my knowledge you have a chance to learn the truth hidden behind the lies you've been fed all these years." Jason watched Mulder struggle with the concept that his bargain was not complete surrender, but simply a new way to fight the lies. He did not look totally convinced, but Jason sensed that the desire to fight back and inflict real damage was draining away his urge to refuse. "Fox, the conspiracy you fight has more than one face, more than one purpose. If tonight's events had gone as I had planned, I would have brought you into the Project as their tool, to serve as your father always intended. Now I bring you and Skinner in as my tools. We will show them that we are not to be taken lightly," Jason urged, letting the long-banked fire of his ambition flare up and out to touch Mulder with its heat. Mulder threw back his head and stared at the moonless sky above. His world had shifted on its axis one too many times today. He no longer knew where to place his feet, who to trust or even whether he should trust at all. Scully was his foundation and that foundation had turned into a quagmire as she fought for her life. "And if I say no?" "Then you are a dead man. A struggle for power is going on inside the ranks of men accustomed to think of themselves as gods. Either you join me or you become a luxury neither side can afford." Jason laid out the brutal facts of life and death in the Project. Mulder thought about what Jason had said and even more about the things he had not said. Jason was offering him a chance to fight back, to maybe gain some justice for the victims of the Project, but not ultimate justice. Was it worth it? He didn't know. He did know that he wanted someone to pay for what they did to Scully. If he refused, he suspected he would be dead in a day or so. With him dead, there was no reason to remand Scully's death and Skinner would be left in thrall without hope or reason. It wasn't any easier the second time, but Mulder did not see any choice. "I agree, but if I can take down the Project, I will," Mulder warned staring Jason straight in the eyes. "Fair enough. However, you might find yourself going down with it. Still, you have a right to try and I really wouldn't expect anything less from you," Jason replied evenly. He stood up and, on impulse, stretched out his hand to Mulder. "By the way, my name is Jason. I think we are going to get to know each other very well in the next few years." This incandescent young man touched a part of him he thought had died on a dark bridge four years ago. Mulder looked at the hand, glaring defiantly as he shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. Just as he was turning away, he stopped and stared up at the brightly blazing hospital windows overlooking the garden before reluctantly raising his right hand to touch Jason's. He recoiled before Jason could grip the hand, but Jason nodded his understanding. "Oh, by the way, you might want to give Dr. Anthony Walker a call when Agent Scully recovers from the gunshot wound, as I'm sure she will. I hear he is quite an authority on her type of cancer." Jason hid his smile at the flash of hope that changed Mulder's eyes from dull brownish-green to a light sparkling sea green. "I am not a harsh taskmaster, Fox. You will hear from me from time to time. In the meantime you are free to pursue whatever avenues you choose. Feel free to tell Mr. Skinner that his duties will be substantially changed in the future. I am not going to harness a thoroughbred to a plow." Jason smiled at his own analogy. This unholy alliance he was forging had enormous potential for raising all of them as high as their dreams could imagine or thrusting them into anonymous graves. Either way, they had no choice now but to try. Mulder started to turn and leave. "I haven't finished," Jason said. He saw Mulder's shoulders stiffen as he felt the leash tighten. Just one last tug, Fox, Jason promised silently, and then you're free to hunt on your own until I need you. Mulder turned and stood silently, glowering, but acknowledging Jason's right to call him up short. He hated the feel of the bit, but he wasn't stupid enough to fight unnecessarily, yet. If his obedience was required to protect Scully and Skinner then he could be very obedient, if not completely happy about it. "If you want the advice of an older man, tell Scully everything. If she walks away, I promise, she will always be under my protection and you will be better off knowing at the beginning. However, if she decides to stay, I will consider that decision to be of her own free will. Two souls are quite enough for me. I have no desire for hers as well," Jason assured Mulder. Besides, Jason thought, if she stays, as I think she will, then your soul is enough to bind her to my purpose even more securely than if I had tried to barter for hers. I think the price for her soul would be more than I could pay, he conceded with the respect one soldier showed another. Mulder growled something under his breath, but not loud enough for Jason to hear. Jason's words were cold comfort. He knew he would tell Scully about the deal. If she was smart, she would leave him, but he had this sinking feeling she was going to stay with him and try to win his soul back. Jason and Scully in a tug-of-war over his soul - the image was daunting. Mulder had a feeling his future was going to be extremely uncomfortable. Released, Mulder hurried back to Scully's bedside. Jason stepped back into the shadows and pondered how best to use his new hawks to bring down the men who had declared war on him. "We're all together, just as you predicted, old friend," Jason whispered to Jonathan's ghost. "You knew. All along you knew and you never told us. Always one for keeping your little secrets." ********* [end of part 5 / continued in part 6] ============== Absalom VI: The Covenant (6/6) Dawn 30 hours later - Scully's room Mulder leaned back in the oddly comfortable rocking chair and stretched the muscles in his back and neck until he could hear the vertebrae pop. The chair had appeared as if by magic an hour after he had returned to stand outside Scully's room. The duty nurse shrugged and simply said that someone higher up had authorized it. At this point, Mulder wasn't sure whether he had Jason to thank, Skinner or some unknown, but kind-hearted hospital administrator. Maybe the staff had simply grown tired of seeing him pressed against the window to Scully's room and quietly arranged to get him out of their way. Whoever was responsible had his undying gratitude. Occasionally, during his long vigil, Mulder had seen the agents Skinner had left on duty pacing outside the room like stern hallway monitors. There was a brief flurry of contention when the shifts changed and each new nurse had to be personally checked out, but Mulder left the furor in Skinner's capable hands. He had more important things to do - like persuading Scully not to ditch him. She was so still. He kept reaching out to touch her hand, to reassure himself that she was still alive, still with him. Each time he hoped that at his touch her eyes would flutter open and she would be back. She was somewhere very far away and he could not find her. He had passed beyond bargaining with heaven or hell for her life. Besides, he had nothing to offer that had not been offered before with no response. If she wished to return, then nothing in heaven or hell could stand in her way. Mulder did not think that an army of angels could stand up against a determined Scully. If she was lingering in that gray area between life and death, then it was because she was torn between the serene peace death offered, the assurance her faith gave of a heavenly reward, and the soul-wracking frustration he and his quest offered. Finally, just before four a.m., nearly thirty hours since the shooting, he laid his head down on the side of the bed and slept, cradling her hand against his face, holding on for dear life. Asleep within moments, he did not feel her hand shift in his until her palm cupped his cheek. As he slept, she slipped from coma into sleep and dreamed of him and with him. An hour later he woke up as the duty nurse moved around him checking the machines that beeped constant reminders that Scully was still alive. Satisfied, she left as silently as she came in. He felt the heavy stubble on his cheeks rub against Scully's palm and tried to remember when he had fallen asleep. She looked almost translucent to his sleep blurred eyes. Something of the netherworld clung to her and he was afraid she was slipping away from him. Tentatively he raised his hand to touch her face, but pulled it back, afraid to disturb whatever peace she had found. Mulder shifted back in the chair, letting his head thump lightly against the back, as he returned to his vigil. The smell of hot coffee hit him with a slap. Without turning his eyes away from Scully's face, he reached out and grasped the Styrofoam cup placed in his hand. "I've eaten better C-rations than what passes for food here, but I want to hire the man who makes their coffee," Skinner said with a tired groan as he settled into a hard wooden chair shoved in the corner of the room. "Hmmmm," Mulder mumbled as he cautiously sipped the rich, dark brew, waiting for the jolt as the caffeine hit his system. In spite of his intense focus on Scully, he had been grateful for the solid reassurance of Skinner's quiet presence throughout the long hours he had spent at her side. Skinner had been the only one he trusted to watch over her when he was forced to take a necessary break. Once Skinner had accepted Mulder's refusal to leave, he had kept him supplied with coffee. Finding Mulder asleep on his last round, Skinner had gladly drunk both cups of coffee. Right now he was running on nerves and caffeine, but he wouldn't allow himself to rest until Scully was out of danger and Mulder did not need to be reminded not to hurl himself into self-destruction. Mulder's face sagged with exhaustion, but his eyes burned with the dark fires of vengeance that worried him. "Hey partner . . .," a small voice shattered the silence. Mulder froze. Hot coffee splattered as his fist crushed the cup. Part of him noted for future reference that he had just been scalded in some very tender spots, but for now his entire being was caught up in a miracle. Skinner held his breath, almost afraid to believe he had heard anything. He had moved beyond exhaustion about four hours ago. Hearing voices was one sign of extreme exhaustion, that much he remembered from 'Nam. He prayed that this wasn't some cruel hallucination. Mulder couldn't take much more and he knew he was close to the edge himself. "You look terrible," the voice continued, slightly stronger this time, filled with amused tolerance and contentment. Mulder swallowed twice, trying to find his voice, then gave up. With a mingled sob and groan he leaned forward and laid his head in Scully's lap, anointing her with his tears. Straining with the effort to move leaden limbs, Scully slowly raised her hand and let it drop on Mulder's head, fingers lightly smoothing his hair as she made soothing whispers of reassurance. Scully was smiling down at Mulder; a sad, soft smile that acknowledged sorrow, betrayal and future pain. There was also immense understanding of and love for the man shuddering with relief under her hand. Skinner stood to go, feeling embarrassed at his intrusion into this intimate act of reunion. Scully lifted her eyes to his as the chair creaked under his shifting weight. Skinner was captured by the serenity and resolve that shone out of eyes that still looked into the world beyond. Scully nodded once, mouthing 'thank you' to him as she turned back to her partner who was raising his head at last to look at her. Walking quietly into the hall, Skinner felt the odd sense that he had been given absolution by the only person who could give it. Looking out the window at the rising sun, Skinner felt the second of his lives slip into the dark waters of the past. How many lives did he have left? For that matter, how many lives did any of them have left? They had pushed the odds far beyond all reason, yet miracles still kept bringing them back into the fight. They had no right to expect their luck to hold, yet he couldn't help believing that it would. He knew that any time they beat the odds was cause for celebration. Too tired to even rejoice, he indulged in the rare luxury of simply watching the sun come up with no agenda or urgency beyond the calm wonder of seeing another day begin. 'But I've a rendezvous with Death.' The words formed out of the shadows of his memory, a poet writing of his own fate in war, whose words had haunted him throughout the hell of 'Nam. 'And I to my pledged word am true, I shall not fail that rendezvous.' As the dawn turned into daylight and the bustle of the hospital swirled around him, Skinner stood sentry over the reunion of two soldiers in this latest war, a war fought in darkness and without fanfare. There were no victors in this war, just survivors, but he intended to see to it that even if no one else was left standing, the two he had just left would survive. ********* Still unable to speak, Mulder poured his heart and soul into his eyes as a shy, tremulous grin lit up his face. They had wrenched another miracle out of fate's hands. Words were beyond him. There were no words to describe his gratitude to whoever or whatever watched over Scully and brought her safely back to him. Scully watched the sun dawning in Mulder's eyes as it banished the chill of her dalliance with death. If she did nothing else in the short time left to her, she intended to make this incredible man realize his own worth. She was a woman with a mission. Mulder held himself too cheaply. It was time he saw himself through her eyes. His need had drawn her back into life. For too long she had drawn strength from his stubborn faith in her and in the possibility of a cure. Now it was time she gave some of that faith back to him before she had to leave him alone for good. "Mulder," she spoke his name with a tenderness meant to capture his attention. Liquid eyes bored into her and she had to resist the urge to drown in the passion she saw swimming in their depths. "You haven't slept, have you?" she chided him with a smile. Mulder shrugged and absently rubbed the stubble on his cheeks that was bordering on a young beard. "You can tell?" he quipped back - lame, but at least he got the words past the lump in his throat. "I'm a trained investigator, Mulder," she responded in kind, basking in the warmth of their familiar repartee. "I'm back now and I don't intend on going anywhere, so go home and get some sleep. We haven't finished that talk we were having and I don't want you falling asleep before I talk you out of this insane plan of yours," she admonished with mock sternness as she lightly traced his jaw-line. Her body felt the thrumming response Mulder made to this advance. Suddenly a whole new host of extreme possibilities opened up in front of her. "Scully..." "Later, Mulder. Get some sleep. You're swaying. I'm getting dizzy watching you try to sit upright." Scully brought her other hand up to cup his face and leaned forward until their foreheads touched. A chaste act with overtones of passionate intimacy that left them flushed and breathing hard. A loud raucous buzz exploded in the silence and they pulled back in startled alarm. Two nurses and a resident burst into the room prepared for the worse. Mulder glared at the heart monitor then gave Scully a rueful grin. He allowed the nurses to shoulder him out of the way as they hovered over a flushed Scully who was losing the battle not to laugh. Skinner's appearance blew the last of her self-control and she dissolved into chuckles as she tried to reassure the nurses that she was fine. Mulder gave the perplexed Skinner a shrug and a smile before he grabbed one of Scully's hands, squeezed it and mouthed 'later.' Knowing hospitals as well as he did, Scully was going to be completely occupied for at least the next couple of hours. He didn't think he could sleep, but he figured he could lie down for a couple of hours so he could honestly tell Scully that he tried. "Sir, you were telling me about a spare room where I could sack out for a few hours?" Mulder commented as he walked out into the hallway and noted how bright the day looked. ********** Later that day "Hey, moving up in the world, partner," Mulder said as he walked into Scully's new room five hours later. Contrary to his expectations, he had fallen asleep almost immediately and logged in a solid four hours sleep. Thanks to a shower, a shave and fresh clothes he felt that he might just pass muster. "Still the same old food, though," Scully shot back as she contemplated the consequences of rebelling, just once in her life, against clear broth and Jell-O. "Hungry, Mulder?" she asked mischievously. "Nah, I've had my quota of Jell-O for the year. It's your turn," he retorted as he grabbed a lumpy chair and pulled it over to the side of the bed. As he tried to fit his body between the lumps, he wondered if he could track down the rocker and hijack it. "You got some sleep," Scully said with relief. Mulder looked tired, but the glassy sheen of exhaustion was gone from his eyes. She realized that she missed the stubble. It gave him a dangerous, don't-bring-home-to-mama look that definitely opened up some very tempting possibilities. "Yeah, some," he assured her. Biting his lip, he looked down at his shoes, trying to brace himself for the talk he knew was coming. She was too late to save him and somehow he had to make her understand. "Mulder, don't you dare feel guilty for not being dead," Scully snapped sternly. Mulder's head came up and she was startled to see surprise in his eyes. "Actually, I've already had that lecture from Skinner. You were unconscious for so long, I guess he figured somebody had to do it," Mulder said with a resigned shrug. "Then what..." "Well, as I recall our last conversation, before you took a bullet meant for me, you were saying something about me not taking the deal," Mulder paused as Scully quickly shifted gears from her planned lecture and remembered the interrupted discussion. At her nod, he continued. This honesty routine was not coming easy for him but he wanted to lay everything out on the table before crawling back inside his barriers. "It's too late, Scully. I'm bought and paid for. The good news is that part of the price is a cure for you. The bad news is that if I try to back out now, I have a choice of being shot by the Consortium or by Jason." Scully was frowning now. "Who..." "Jason's the man who holds the other end of my leash," Mulder shrugged and gave a sad smile. "Actually, he isn't as bad as I expected. He has his own agenda after the other night. Seems the Consortium went mad and issued hits on several people, including Jason and a friend of his. If I can believe him, then I'm pretty much back where I started, with him as my informant. I told him I'd take him and the Consortium down if I could. He laughed and told me to go ahead and try." Mulder sounded faintly insulted. "He's lying to you," Scully interjected. She was determined to remain calm despite the urge to shake Mulder until he came to his senses. "Possibly. What else is new? I was weaned on lies, Scully. I'll have to wait and see. I think he was telling the truth about your cure. Take it. Make something good come out of this deal," Mulder pleaded. He refused to bolster his arguments with physical contact, but his eyes begged her to take the chance to live. "They'll keep using me, then. I won't be a pawn to be used against you," Scully argued, angry at the men who used her to destroy the one man who dared stand in their way. "You've got it all wrong, Scully. You're no pawn. You're the only reason I even made it this far. Without you, I'm the pawn, their pawn. You've validated me. You have given me faith to believe in miracles and offered me the solid rock of your integrity as a person and as a scientist to put my back against," Mulder said passionately, his soul spinning the words out of his need to make her understand how much she meant to him. Flushed by his outburst, he laid his hand over hers, smiling as she grabbed hold and squeezed. Such a tiny hand, almost lost in his larger one, yet he never seemed to think of her as anything less than a giant towering over lesser men. "Mulder..." For once, Scully was at a loss for words. While she understood that Mulder loved her, she had never once realized how much he also admired and respected her. Love suddenly seemed to be the easier emotion to deal with. "No, listen just a moment longer, then I'll shut up and give you a chance to tell me I'm wrong," Mulder admonished with a sly smile. "The deal is made. I think Jason is right - if I back out now, I'm a dead man. At least this gives me a chance to fight back . . . and you a chance to live. Sounds like a pretty fair bargain to me." Mulder didn't smile. Scully needed to know with absolute certainty that he was dead serious. Mulder's eyes told her all she needed to know - a desperate need/fear for her life combined with a grim awareness of what this deal would cost him. Mulder had entered this deal fully aware of the price. This was not like any of his other forays into forbidden territory which were as much a boy's reckless belief in his own invincibility as all-consuming drives for the truth. This was a man's decision, made with a man's heart and a man's acceptance of the consequences. What a hell of a time for Mulder to finally grow up, she thought irritably. "I'm not leaving you alone in this, Mulder," Scully responded with steel in her voice. She was pleased to see him flinch just a bit. "If you had any common sense at all, you'd walk away from me just as fast and as far as you could." "Well, I think whether I have any common sense was settled a long time ago and the answer is no - not where you are concerned. I am not going to stand by and watch you become everything you hate. My life isn't worth that much," she snapped. "You're not going to refuse..." Mulder stopped, trying to regain control of his voice which deserted him along with his composure at the thought that Scully might refuse the cure. "No," Scully said with a softening of her tone. "No, I'll take the cure. I'm selfish enough to want to live, if for no other reason than to keep you from making any more idiotic deals." Scully watched fear, relief, hope, and regret chase themselves across Mulder's expressive face until only relief was left. He wasn't the only one who couldn't bear to imagine life without the other. Someday she hoped she could make him understand that she wasn't being noble; she was simply unable to walk away from the life they had created. However precarious, however insular, this was the life she chose and would fight for with every ounce of her stubborn Irish will. "Besides, someone has to stick around to haul your ass out of the fire, partner," she added with a glint in her eye that brooked no argument and a smile to let him know she had every intention of picking up where she left off. "Can't imagine anyone else I'd rather have hauling my ass," Mulder quipped. His eyes were sad as he realized that Jason was right, Scully wasn't going to abandon him no matter what. He didn't know why she stuck around, but he hoped one day maybe they could talk about that as well. ********* Standing in his friend's smoke-drenched office, Jason stared down at the empty chessboard. Slowly, almost reverently, he began to replace the scattered chessmen. The black side was missing two bishops, a rook and over half its pawns. The pawns were expendable, but he suspected that the Elders would soon feel the gap left by his and his friend's exile. Overtures would be made, responsibility for a gross act of individual initiative passed on to a dead man and the strayed sheep would be welcomed back to the fold. The Elders were fools to trust men they tried to have killed, but fools were very useful things to have in this game of secrets and lies. On the opposite side of the board, the ranks of the white king betrayed a strange new alliance. Jason wished the board could reflect the new hierarchy that had hatched in a dark garden at the cusp of midnight. Light and dark mixed together in no arrangement known to modern chess. Mulder's white king stood in the bishop's square with the white queen at his right hand. Two black bishops sat in the royal squares holding court over this new order. A black rook guarded their left flank while a white bishop flanked by two knights and a rook protected the king and queen. New rules. A new game. Jason smiled as he pondered the possibilities in this new power structure. He raised a glass of amber whiskey in a toast to the gods of dark ambition he had followed for nearly fifty years. "I brought him in. I have bound him to our purpose with chains he cannot break." In the shadows he stood, casting his shadow over the white king and his allies. It was time for the real game to begin. The End Author's note: The fragment of poetry quoted by Skinner is Alan Seeger's "I Have A Rendezvous With Death."