"Malleus Maleficarum" by Pellinor
____

CLASSIFICATION: XA (Mulderangst, Scullyangst)

RATING: R (Violence and dark stuff)

SUMMARY: A stranger with a tempting offer promises hope in Mulder's 
time of need. Refusal could cost him and Scully their lives, but 
could the price of acceptance be greater still?

SPOILERS? None. This story is set before the start of the fourth 
season. 
____

DISCLAIMER: Anyone whose name you recognise isn't mine. They belong 
to Chris Carter, 1013 and Fox, and are used here without permission 
but without profit.

POSTING: Posted to this archive 6 May 1997. Thereafter posted on 
atxc and x-files-fanfic mailing lists.

NOTES: Main (and long!) author's notes follow at the end.

FEEDBACK: Yes please. I will answer all letters. I love answering
letters!

**********

It wanted her, the darkness. She could feel its fingers caressing 
her face, feel its soft reassuring whispers like a gentle sea on 
shingle.

You'll be safe, Dana. Safe. Mother's arms and the smell of 
baking.... Safe....

And _she_ wanted the darkness - wanted more than anything to sink 
into the velvet darkness that was beyond pain. 

But she couldn't.

There was something else, needling through the darkness with an 
urgency that held her by the throat until tears started in her eyes 
- something calling her from the darkness with an urgency that 
was... that was terrible, but at the same time was beyond her grasp.

A smell. A choking, eye-watering smell. A dangerous smell. A deadly 
smell.

Something - some distant part of her that could still think through 
the pain - knew that smell. It was.... It was....

The darkness spoke, louder, more insistent. You'll be safe, Dana. 
Safe... Ahab's voice and a happy ever after. Safe....

"No!" Her voice was the tiniest croak as she willed the darkness 
away, willing herself to focus on the smell - on the thing of such 
importance that she knew she was missing.

The smell. It was.... It was....

She ran her tongue slowly across her lips, trying to use physical 
sensation to awaken her sluggish mind, but tasted only the sharp 
iron of her own blood. 

It was.... It was....

She inhaled deeply, trying to absorb the smell into her very being, 
but the fumes reached out their strangling fingers and choked her 
throat. She coughed, and the pain of the movement filled the whole 
world until nothing could keep the darkness away.

She didn't fight it. She didn't fight it at all.

**********

Hands. Hands were clawing at her, pulling her roughly from the soft 
darkness into a nightmare of broken images.

Hands....

It came upon her with the vividness of a camera flash, although her 
eyes were screwed tight shut against the horror.

Flash....

Hands pulling at her, ripping the life line from her grip. Calling, 
calling.... Mulder, I need your help! Mulder! Broken glass. A foot 
crushing the phone, cutting the link that bound her to him. Alone, 
alone.... No help. Alone with Dua... Duan... with _him_.

"No!" She tried to cry out, but her voice was as nothing against the 
roaring that filled the whole world.

Flash....

Lights. Lights in her eyes, blinding her. Can't think. Can't see. 
Can't drive. The car behind, pushing. Pain - pain and fear. Dead 
girls with their hair cut off. Alone. Donnie Pfas.... But he looks 
like.... 

"No!" Whimpering now, panic stricken. "Leave me. Please...." But the 
choking blackness that was all around smothered her words before 
they could leave her ravaged throat. 

Flash....

Lights. Lights in her eyes, blinding her. Grief in her heart, 
blinding her. The car....

"Mulder!" There was rough ground beneath her body and she pushed 
against it, struggling to rise. "Mulder!" 

The images, the memories, were swallowed up in the roaring choking 
heat that was everywhere around her, and nothing remained but him. 

Pain, blood, choking, roaring.... Nothing. All nothing. Just Mulder 
and his ravaged eyes, burnt like fire into her memory.

She would never see him again.

She sobbed, her breath catching on the choking thick air, as the 
hands grasped her shoulders, the fingers digging into her flesh 
painfully. 

She would never see....

"No!" she muttered, with  sudden resolve. She would _not_ let it go 
that way, not without a fight. 

She wrenched her eyes open, forcing them to focus against the harsh 
light that made the pain throb with an intensity beyond imagining. 
Focus. Think. Look. 

"Leave me alone...."

But a face was bending over her, silhouetted in the blinding light, 
and she froze in the gaze of its needle-sharp eyes.

Not Mulder. Of course not Mulder. She'd known that. The deep aching 
pain of unshed tears told her that. So why did the face drive a 
fresh dagger of pain into her soul?

She was alone. Alone with.... ?

Hands.

And then the darkness swirled around her and nothing mattered any 
more.

**********

Tuesday 11 June 1996, afternoon
_____

"No!"

It was the tiniest of groans but inside her whole soul cried out in 
anguish at this invasion. Hands. Hands touching her, warm fingers on 
her arm, their touch freezing her like an icy dagger. 

"Leave me alone....."

The fingers clutched tighter, and there was a soft gasp. Distant 
footsteps sounded as on a hard surface, grew loud, then faded away. 

"Dana?" The voice caressed her senses like honey. "Dana? It's okay. 
It's me."

Scully wrenched her eyes open painfully, wincing at the throbbing in 
her head, and her fears fell away. The cruel harsh fingers became a 
loving stroke, and the terrible eyes of her imaginings became the 
tear-drenched eyes of love.  

"M...?" She ran a tongue over her lips, dry from lack of use, and 
cleared her throat. "Mom?" she managed at last. Her eyes travelled 
to the chair at the other side of the bed, but there was no-one 
there. 

"Dana." A warm hand stroked her cheek, and she sighed, relaxing into 
the memory of childhood. The old loved patterns of the patchwork 
quilt. The stuffed dog. Warm milk and stories and hands tucking her 
into bed, safe.

"Mom? Where's...?" She coughed again, pain throbbing through her 
head. "What happened?"

The hand paused for the briefest of moments, then continued 
stroking. "You'll be okay, sweetheart," her mother said, firmly, but 
there was something in her voice - something that hadn't been there 
a moment before.

You'll be okay. You'll be okay.... Scully let out a breath she 
hadn't realised she'd been holding, and relaxed into the pillows. 
She'd be okay. The other thing - the vague feeling of dread - was 
nothing. Just the last vestiges of a dream, soon to be forgotten. 

"It will be okay, Dana." Her mother's voice was tinged with sudden 
urgency, even panic. 

Don't cry, Dana. Look, I can repair him. We'll give him a new eye, 
better than ever before. It'll be okay, Dana.... A soothing voice 
through the warm memory of enclosing arms and a hand on her hair, 
stroking. Mom would make it better. Mom said it would be okay. Mom 
was.... Mom was _everything._

She wanted to. Oh, she wanted to - to relax into the memory of 
childhood - to let her fears and worries fade away as she let 
herself fall into soothing sleep, lulled by her mother's words. 

But she couldn't. She was Scully now. She had to find out. 

"Mom?" Scully's vision pulsed with the throbbing, but she could see 
the muscles of her mother's face tighten. "What happened?"

"You were in an accident." Her mother's voice was almost casual, but 
there was something else there - almost.... relief? As if she'd 
feared a different question altogether. "Your car...." A swallow, as 
if stopping just in time from saying more. "You had a nasty bump on 
the head, but you'll be fine."

"A car?" Bright lights. Eyes. A terrible smell. Hands.... "A car?" 
She tried to keep her voice casual, but couldn't stop it from rising 
in panic. She was just too tired, too hurt, to pretend. Soon she 
would have to be Scully again, but for now.... Now she was just 
Dana.

"It's okay, Dana." Her mother's hand clutched hers, squeezing with 
an intensity which belied her words. "It was just an accident. 
You'll be fine."

Memory came like a flash. Floating through the darkness on an ocean 
of pain. Unfamiliar voices, rising and falling, rising and falling. 
And through it all, the constant noise of sobbing, on and on like a 
river, then fading away as the darkness claimed her again. 

"You were _crying_!" Wonder made her voice harsh with accusation. 
"You don't cry, but you were crying. Why?"

"I was worried about you." Hands twisted in her lap, eyes focused 
anywhere but at her. "You could have...." She bit her lip, cutting 
off the words.

"Could have what?" She was focused now, still weak, but insistent. 
Footsteps passed in the corridor, but there was no-one but her and 
her mother, sudden tension almost palpable in the small sterile 
room. "For God's sake, Mom, tell me."

Scully struggled to sit up, but a sudden stab of pain in her head 
brought tears to her eyes, and she sank back, exhausted, feeling the 
anger rush away as quickly as it had come. She chewed her lip as the 
images assailed her. Hands, dragging..... The eyes. Light, blinding 
her. Missing time. No answers..... No answers.

"Just tell me what's wrong, Mom." It was the whimper of a lost 
child, terror making her weak. She didn't know. She didn't know.... 
She needed to know. However horrible, she needed to know.

"It's nothing, Dana." Her mother leant back in the chair as if 
drained. "Nothing for you to worry about. Just me being silly...." A 
failed attempt at a smile. "I was just thinking about.... about 
Melissa. Seeing you there...."

Scully's mouth opened - a vain attempt at comfort - but no words 
would come out. "Oh, Mom," she cried out, silently, guilt and regret 
hammering in her head with a pain worse than the merely physical. 
"Oh, Mom. I'm sorry....."

But she didn't speak. She couldn't speak. 

"But you'll be okay." Her mother spoke fiercely, wiping her eyes 
abruptly with the back of her hand. "You woke up. _You_....." 

Silence. The white sheets of an empty bed in an empty room. Flowers 
on a grave and a memory that never faded, never lost its pain.

"I'm sorry.... I'm sorry, Mom." She spoke in a tear-drenched 
whisper. Had they ever spoken of it, back then, both of them 
desperate to fight the pain in their own ways? Did her mother blame 
her? Would she only have the courage to ask for forgiveness when it 
was too late, like with.... like with Ahab?

"I couldn't bear to lose another daughter." Her mother's voice was 
quiet, muffled by the hand she pressed against her lips. "Seeing you 
there....."

"I'm okay, Mom." Scully forced a smile, though it wasn't returned, 
and used her hands to push herself more upright on the pillow. "See? 
I'll be okay."

"I know!" her mother snapped, and Scully winced with the unexpected 
force of it, tears starting in her eyes with the sudden movement. "I 
know," she continued, more quietly, softly stroking her daughter's 
hand. "But that's not the issue, is it?"

The question hammered in her head, echoing in tune with the pounding 
headache. "Is it? Is it? Is it....?"  Questions, questions.... The 
room seemed to swim, her mother's face distorted with pain. I can't 
Mom! Why do I have to be strong all the time? My head hurts. I just 
need you to _hold_ me. Make it better, Mom.....

But she couldn't. She couldn't evade her responsibilities.

"No." She shook her head, though the word itself came out as a tiny 
whimper. "No. It's not."

"Are you going to tell me, Dana?" Her mother's voice was insistent, 
but the fingers were back on her forehead, feather-light and 
soothing. It was a silent apology for what had passed. "Tell me what 
happened, Dana. I need to know."

"Nothing happened." Scully could hear her voice in her head, high 
with denial, tight with fear. "Nothing. I was just driving, 
when....."

Lights. Lights in the mirror, blinding her. Tears in her eyes, 
blinding her. Blood on her face, on her lips. A smell. And the 
_hands_.....

"Dana?" Trembling with concern and fear. "Dana?"

Hands, clutching, pulling, invading..... Hands.....

"Dana?" Shouting now, a voice from somewhere else, outside the white 
flashes of memory and nightmare. "Dana!"

She wrenched her eyes open, and the hands and the light and the 
smell and the memory fell away and there was only warmth, and love, 
and clean sheets and....

"Mom?"  She was five again, desperate for her mother's embrace. 
"Mom?"

"It's okay, Dana. You'll be okay. I'm here." Her mother's voice was 
gentle, though there was still a tremor in it, and a tear fell on 
her face. "Shh. Don't think of that. It was an accident. Just an 
accident. You'll be okay."

You'll be okay. You'll be okay.... Soothing words, soothing hands, 
soothing memories.... She shut her eyes, trying to immerse herself 
in the security of the past. Face buried in Mom's chest, inhaling 
the smell of her clothes and her perfume and fresh baking....

You'll be okay....

Will I? It started as a tiny insistent whisper, but grew until it 
filled her whole mind. Will I, after....?

There was a squeak as her mother shifted position on her chair, and 
the sound of a deep indrawn breath. The hands continued to stroke 
her hair, but there was a tension about the touch, about the very 
feel of the air.

"What happened, Dana?" It was almost a whisper. "What happened 
_before_ the accident? Why were you on that road at that time of 
night?"

Pain throbbed through her head as she physically flinched from her 
mother's questions. I can't! I can't tell her _that_. I can't tell 
anyone that.... Not yet. Not until....

"Dana." Her mother's voice rose warningly. "I was woken up at three 
in the morning and told you were in the hospital. The last time that 
happened it was.... " She didn't need to finish _that_ sentence. She 
swallowed, and her voice was hoarse with tears when she continued. 
"You owe me an explanation, Dana."

"I can't!" It was an anguished sob, spoken more to herself than 
aloud. "It was.... it is something I.... I don't want to talk 
about." She tried desperately to meet her mother's gaze and convey 
her apology and sincerity, but her mother wouldn't look at her. "I'm 
sorry, Mom," she whispered, at last.

"You could have died last night." Her mother's voice was 
unforgiving. "Did you even think of anyone else?"

"It was...." Lights. Hands. Eyes.... "It was an...." The smell. 
Heat. Tears.... tears in her eyes then, blinding her. Tears in her 
eyes now, choking her. "It was an accident. I'm sorry....."

"I know." It was worse now, her mother's voice. Hoarse with tears 
and grief, no longer with anger. "I know it was an accident. But 
you.... You went out alone at night. You didn't tell anyone where 
you were going. It's just...." A hand rubbing across her face, 
coming away shiny with tears. "I know your job's dangerous. I 
know.... I know each day could be the last, but you.... I don't 
know. I think.... Sometimes you seem to forget that more people than 
just yourself would be affected if anything happened to you."

"I know, Mom." Her head was throbbing worse than ever, and tears 
were squeezed from her eyes with the pain. She just wanted to sleep. 
"I'm sorry. I didn't think."

Please leave it, Mom. Please. Please believe that's the truth. I'm 
so tired. I can't explain.... I _was_ thinking about that. What 
you're saying - it's so familiar to me now. I just can't tell you, 
not yet. Please don't push....

"I didn't know it would be dangerous." She spoke more urgently, 
suddenly desperate to see a smile of forgiveness in her mother's 
face. "If I had known, I'd have called M...."

She froze. Mulder. She'd just assumed he was at work, but now.... 
The grief of never seeing Mulder again. It was so vivid suddenly, 
the memory, though everything else was still so cloudy. She'd been 
so sure she'd never see him again. Had it been because she'd thought 
she was going to die, or was it something else - something else her 
mind had blanked out?

"Mulder?" She tried to sound casual, but couldn't keep the tension 
from her voice. "Where's Mulder?"

"He's at home. He's fine." Her mother spat out the words as if they 
burnt her. "Assistant Director Skinner sends his regards," she 
added, every word clearly enunciated and distinct. 

But not Mulder. The implication was clear. But not Mulder. He hadn't 
even come. 

"He'll have a reason." Scully's words were defiant, angry at her 
mother for doubting him, but then the doubts hit her with the force 
of a physical blow. "He'll have a good reason," she repeated, 
desperately, her voice rising with fear. She was just too _tired_ to 
be rational.

Why hasn't he come? Why hasn't he called? I _need_ him. I need 
someone who knows what it's like. I need someone who won't push. I 
need..... I need Mulder.

Pain thumped in her head, and a gasp escaped her lips. Her mother's 
anxious face hovered over her, but is seemed to warp and change 
until it was Mulder's face she was seeing, twisted with torment and 
calling for her help.

Burning, burning.... Acrid smoke in the desert. A voice from the 
dead against a field of stars. The scream of a heart monitor in the 
icy cold. A glass of hope smashing on a ship. 

He's fine.... he's fine.... Her mother's bitter words echoed in her 
head, but it was not enough - not enough to stop the visions which 
flashed before her eyes as sleep and pain dragged her away from her 
voice.

Mulder.....

And then her sister's voice spoke through her memory, her eyes 
guarded as she spoke above another hospital bed in another time.... 
"He was in a dark place, but he.... You helped him find his way 
back, Dana, just like he helped you come back to us."

"He needs me," she whispered, as the darkness of sleep began to take 
her. "He needs me...."

Just as soon as I'm well.....

But when she looked for the image of his face, there was only 
darkness. Dread filled her ears like a roaring sea.

**********

end of part 1

**********

Tuesday night
____

He could no longer _feel_ it. He had clutched it close for so long 
that it was almost part of him now. It had chilled him, hours ago, 
this most longed-for and most detested thing. Now it just.... was. 
It had lost its power to enthral.

But he _needed_ to feel it. He needed to be aware of its beauty, to 
be aware of its horror. 

Slowly, slowly, moving muscles that had grown numb with inactivity, 
Mulder raised his arm, bringing the gun to his face, and gently 
stroked it against the sensitive skin of his lips. It was smooth - 
cold and smooth - smooth as the tongue of a deceiver - but the 
barrel raked through the stubble on his chin like a bullet through 
flesh - like the bullets that would rake through _their_ flesh. 

He shut his eyes, shying away even from the pale glow of the street 
below. He had lived too long in the light. Now it was time for....

"God!" He laughed suddenly, a harsh sound with no mirth in it. The 
movement jolted his hand, and the end of the barrel slipped into his 
open mouth. He ran his tongue round the opening, savouring every 
subtlety of the sensation. A shiver ran down his spine, but whether 
from dread or anticipation he couldn't tell. 

He had never tasted death before, not like this, even though his 
life ran red with blood. His father's blood on his hands, his 
informant's blood on his doorstep, Melissa's blood on the 
threshold.... But he had never tasted it before - consuming the 
darkness so it seeped into his every vein, his every thought, like 
alcohol. He had lived too long in the light. 

What would it feel like, to kill? He'd killed before, of course, and 
seen death in the eyes of other men. He had _died_ once before too, 
his soul floating peacefully amongst the stars while others bartered 
for his soul. But that had been a peaceful death, lulled by the 
chants of the healing men, safe in the dark from the fires of the 
desert. It was.... nothing.

But this? What would _this_ feel like? What would it feel like for 
_them_? A bullet in the brain. Face in a rictus of agony. Blood on 
his hands. 

Blood on his hands.....

He pulled the gun from his mouth as if it was poison, and leant 
forward for the sweet comfort of the glass. He filled his mouth with 
the burning amber liquid, washing it round his mouth as if he could 
scorch away the memory of the gun, then swallowed mouthful after 
mouthful, draining the glass like a parched traveller at an oasis. 
He knew what it would do, though he had seldom tasted it before this 
night. His father, his eyes unfocused as he clutched an empty 
bottle, but his face serene - just a few hours free from guilt and 
regret. 

It provided answers. It got rid of the doubts. It made things clear.

God! How he needed things to be made clear.

But what would it _feel_ like? Nagging, on and on, the doubts 
hammering in his mind. What would it feel like to be a murderer?

"What does it matter?" He spoke aloud, his voice harsh with a 
confidence he knew he didn't feel. "They're nothing. It doesn't 
matter." 

He reached out a finger and caressed the gun, slowly, tentatively, 
as it lay beside him on the couch. If only his fingers would stop 
trembling....

It's right. It's right.... He whispered to himself, trying to 
convince the warning voice of his fears. It's not murder. It's 
right.....

He could still hear the phone call in his mind, every word, every 
nuance endlessly etched on his memory, although it was a whole night 
before, now. 

"Agent Mulder." The voice had been emotionless, shattering lives 
without even caring. That had been the worst thing of all. "You will 
stay in town until you are told otherwise."

"What?" He had been half asleep, woken from the dream that had hung 
over him with a formless sense of dread. He had hardly been 
listening, his mind worrying the stray image that was all that 
remained if the dream, trying to remember. 

"You will stay in town until told otherwise." Louder now, but still 
devoid of inflection, as if talking to something that wasn't worth 
wasting emotion on.

"Now, isn't that a pity." He'd snapped awake, recognising the 
threat, but the dream had still clouded the edges of his mind, 
slowing his thoughts. He'd floundered, joking feebly to gain time. 
"I _had_ been planning to break into a neat little secret base, but 
I guess that will have to wait."

" You will stay in town until told otherwise," the voice had 
repeated, tone no different from before. "Next time it will be 
more.... serious."

He'd reached for the file and the plane tickets and held them 
protectively. This Arkansas case was so.... so promising. He 
_couldn't_ miss this one, however much they threatened him. 

"Do you understand, Agent Mulder? Next time, no-one will pull her 
out." 

"What?" The phone had trembled in his hand as real dread became more 
terrible than any half-forgotten nightmare. "What have you done to 
her?"

"Remember this, Agent Mulder." 

Then the call had been cut off, leaving him alone in the darkness of 
his fears. 

"Scully," he whispered now, stroking the gun with the soft touch of 
a lover. "Scully...."

It was all for Scully. The gun. The kil.... He shuddered, even now, 
unable to say the word, and the smooth metal seemed to spark with an 
icy chill. 

Think, Mulder. Think. Focus. It's so easy. A pull of the trigger, 
and then walk away. So easy. 

So easy.... 

He picked it up, his hand closing round the handle, still warm from 
his long holding. The gun.... His hope. His anchor. His.... He 
swallowed, correcting himself. _Her_ salvation.

And his damnation...?

But he couldn't tell her. That was a certainty, even when everything 
else was awash with doubts. He couldn't tell her, not until....

It had been a long eternity before her mother had called him, though 
it had been no more than two hours. Two hours of anxious pacing, 
calling, searching, finding nothing.

"Fox, it's Dana." Her voice had been composed, though he could hear 
the hoarse tremor beneath it that told of recent tears. It was a 
voice he had heard so often from his own mother, after.... after 
Samantha....

"What happened? Is she hurt?" He'd  pounced on her words, almost 
shouting. He'd felt so helpless before, getting no answer on 
Scully's phone but unwilling to worry her mother unduly by calling 
her. Like Scully's mother had been herself, dreaming about her 
daughter's abduction but unable to warn her.

"She's got a bad concussion. She'll be.... " And then she'd broken 
down, tears rendering her voice scarcely audible. "Oh, Fox. Her 
car.... It was.... It had burnt...."

"Next time, no-one will pull her out," he'd murmured in horror, his 
worst fears confirmed. "Next time....."

Scully's face, white and terrified, trapped behind glass as the 
flames leapt up and consumed her. Her blackened body, scarcely 
recognisable as human. A second gravestone with her name on, while 
her mother's tears fell on the cold stone....

"It was you," his conscience had accused him, as the phone had grown 
slippery in his white aching fingers. "You. They hurt her because of 
you."

But _they_ hurt her.... The answer had been loud then, as it was 
insistent now. _They_ hurt her. They....

".... you coming?" Her mother's voice. How long had she been 
speaking to him when he had been lost in doubt and accusation? 

He couldn't even remember ending the call. The whole day since then 
was a blur of the glass and the gun, and now half the next night 
gone too. 

But he hadn't spoken to her. He couldn't even bear to think of her - 
of her eyes. The cross could shine at her throat and her eyes would 
be so full of disapproval. _She_ would want him to stay in the 
light.

But he had walked too long in the light, turning his back on 
violence. Putting down his gun and trying to talk, for God's sake, 
when the only language they understood was violence. They had taken 
so much, and still they remained unpunished.

They had gone too far this time.. Robbed him of the hope that lay in 
Arkansas, robbed Scully of..... God! The flames of the burning car. 
Scully in a broken heap at the roadside. It wasn't the worst of all, 
but it was the final straw.

He'd been weak for too long. They knew that. They relied on that. 
But this time....

Dead eyes, staring from the floor. Blood spattered on the walls. A 
cigarette dropping from a lifeless hand.... 

And he would laugh. He would kick the dead face, and he would laugh.

"Oh God!" He shuddered, feeling suddenly sick to his stomach. He 
reached for the bottle and tried so hard to smile at the image, but 
his hand shook and the bottle slid from his hand and smashed on the 
floor. Enough shards of glass to kill a man ten times over reflected 
the darkness back into his soul.

"But I will do it." His voice was shaking, even though he put all 
the confidence he thought he felt into the words. "I _will_ kill 
him."

"I would not recommend it." The voice was silken soft, and it seemed 
to come from all around him and from no particular place.

"I _will_". Even to his own ears he sounded like a petulant school 
boy, and he gripped the gun tightly, trying to regain control. It 
never occurred to him to question who the speaker was and where he'd 
come from. The whisky coursed through his veins and he was so deep 
in darkness that nothing could surprise him. He couldn't take his 
eyes from the shattered glass.

"You will not." The voice was close to his ear now, and he felt an 
exhalation of breath on his cheek. It was cool, and made him shiver. 
"You can not."

"I can." He could smell smoke, as clear in his memory now as it had 
been that night two years earlier. The man had calmly breathed out 
smoke as a gun had been pointed at his head, knowing he wasn't going 
to die. He had had enough of everyone assuming he was too weak to 
become a player. "I will be able to pull the trigger."

"Oh, I do not doubt your will, Fox." It was indulgent, almost 
patronising, like a respected teacher to a favourite pupil. "But I 
doubt your opportunity. These men dig deep holes to hide in, and to 
dig them out will expose only yourself."

"I don't care. As long as I take them with me." Mulder picked up a 
shard of glass and held it against the dim light from the street. 
Everything else was cloudy now, even his voice strangely thick, but 
this.... Even distorted, a reflection wouldn't lie. 

"You would not. They would lure you with clues and lead you to a 
cipher - let you kill one of their men they wanted dead anyway. Then 
you would be destroyed on a murder charge."

"Who are you?" Mulder swung round at last, but the room was too dark 
to see clearly and wouldn't keep still. "One of those peace and love 
and harmony people? It was one of those who stopped me last time." 
He laughed bitterly, but the tears were starting in his eyes. 
Melissa. And if she _hadn't_ stopped him.....?

"Oh no." The voice laughed, and the sound was like water in 
sunlight, beautiful but cold. "I am not one of them."

"Then why are you....?"

"Because you can't do it." The couch shifted as someone sat down, 
and leant towards him confidingly. Fingertips touched his hand as a 
breath tickled his cheek. "You can't do it." A whisper that made the 
whole world still. "But I can."

Silence. A siren sounded in the distance, then faded away into 
nothingness again. There was a warm trickle on his hand from where 
he'd cut it on the glass, though he couldn't remember having done 
it.

A hand touched his knee, and the voice was so close now. "Don't you 
want me to?" A whisper, both chilling and inviting.

He opened his mouth to say yes, but he couldn't get the word out. 
The gun had fallen to the floor, and lay amongst the glass, just 
another product of drink-induced folly. 

"I can give you the truth, Fox." 

The hand touched his forehead lightly, and an image of a dark girl 
in braids filled his mind, as if radiating from the touch. She was 
laughing and running, her hair flying in the wind. And then there 
was a woman with red hair....

"I can.... remove the men who keep you from _her..._" A movement on 
his forehead as of a finger pointing. "Or who threaten _her_."

"Can you find....?" Mulder leant forward eagerly, though he still 
didn't take his eyes from the gun, trying to anchor himself on it. 

"I can...." The words cut off as if strangled, and there was a short 
pause. When the voice continued to speak it was taut and grudging, 
no longer a sly sinuous whisper. "I can not find her. That is.... 
beyond my powers. But I can destroy the men who took her. I can 
destroy the man who nearly killed your partner last night."

"Why?" 

"Because you want it." The serpent voice was back, and the breath on 
his neck.

Mulder slowly raised his hand to his mouth and licked the blood off 
on his tongue. He wasn't ready to deny it - not yet.

"What are you trying to do?" He could hear the sharp note of 
desperation in his voice, even though he tried to be calm. He could 
still feel the sharp pang of blood on his tongue. "Who are you?"

"You know me, though you have never seen my face."

"Who are you?" More blood. He needed it like an anchor, though it 
repulsed him now. His voice rose to a shout. "Tell me. Who are you?"

"You can call me...." Breath chilled his face, and there was the 
sound of laughter. "Call me Fox. I want what you want."

"I am not you!" Mulder whirled round and grabbed the figure. His 
fingers dug into the cold flesh. "You are not me! I do _not_ 
want....."

The image flashed. Dead eyes, staring from the floor. Blood 
spattered on the walls. A cigarette dropping from a lifeless 
hand.... 

"No!" He shook his head violently, snatching his hands away as if 
burnt. The room warped and swayed, and his head lolled back against 
the couch. "You are not me," he muttered. Blood tickled his hand, 
but he didn't lick it off.

"If you say so." The couch creaked with movement, and the voice was 
whispering, close. "Call me.... what about Reynardine?" 

The laugh was beautiful and inviting, but it made him shiver. He 
knew there was something about that name, but it was just so hard to 
think. 

"What do you.... What do you want?" Why was it so difficult to 
speak, now? 

"I _told_ you." The voice was still silky smooth, cutting clearly 
through the clouds which swirled in the darkness. "I want what you 
want - to punish those that deserve punishment.  There is no justice 
for them, but I..... I can give you justice. I can do what you know 
is right."

The voice filled everything. There was nothing else. Clouds. A 
whirling maelstrom of nothingness that was once his room. A stab of 
pain in his finger....

Pain in his finger....

Mulder squeezed his finger, feeling the blood well out, and focused 
on that, clinging to it like a drowning man. It was like a beacon, 
stopping him from falling into the soft arms of promise offered by 
the words.

"I don't...." His tongue felt heavy, and his eyelids wanted nothing 
more than to droop, but he fought it. He had to fight it. "I don't 
want it. I don't.... " He spoke more to himself than to the voice in 
the dark. He wasn't sure he was telling the truth, but knew it was a 
decision he would come to by himself, alone, later. He would not be 
pushed. "There would be no purpose to it but revenge."

"Justice." It was purred like honey. Impossible to resist. "You want 
it. It is right."

Justice.... A flash. Luther Lee Boggs in the gas chamber. He'd made 
Scully cry, and _he_ died. It was justice. 

Justice....

He was shaking now,  trembling, fighting. He lifted his hand to his 
mouth again, and forced the finger into his resisting mouth. Blood. 
The sharp, beautiful, horrible taste of blood. He _needed_ it. It 
was all he had against the words. 

Not justice. Blood. Death. Murder.

"No!" The clouds cleared, and he sat up straighter, making his voice 
firmer than he could remember it had been. "I do _not_ want this. 
Leave me alone."

"Very well." The couch creaked as the other man stood up. A finger 
reached out and touched Mulder's cheek and he froze, unable to 
resist it. "But I know you, Fox." A sibilant soft sound on the name 
that wasn't his. "Perhaps I will listen to your thoughts and not 
your words." 

The voice receded, though any footsteps were feather soft and 
scarcely there at all.

"Perhaps I will, anyway....."

**********

Wednesday morning
____

There had been another face, but now there was only his. The shadows 
fell away. Only a dream. He would smile.

"Mulder." It was the softest breath of sound, barely there at all, 
but it would be enough. He would smile, and....

Silence. He was still, not moving. His eyes were shadowed, though 
whether gazing at some infinite distance or at something deep 
within, she couldn't tell. His chin was dark with stubble, and his 
face was etched from stone, hard and tense.

"Mulder?" 

Nothing.

The face from the nightmare flashed up again and seemed to 
superimpose itself over his face. It warped slightly, adjusted 
itself to fit, then seemed to click into place. The look. The 
stubble. The eyes.... It just wasn't him. Why didn't he move?

"Mulder?" Panic gave her a voice at last, and she spoke high and 
shrill, still more than half in the grip of troubled sleep. 
"Mulder?"

He shifted in his chair, seeming to drag himself back from whatever 
had held him. His mouth moved, and the muscles round his eyes, and 
she could see he was nothing like the nightmare face - nothing at 
all. 

"Scully." He sounded tired, as if it was such a struggle to speak, 
but his smile seemed sincere. He reached out a hand as if to touch 
her arm, but stopped before making contact. "Scully.... Scully...." 
He said her name slowly as if savouring every sound of her name. She 
couldn't read his eyes.

"Mulder...." 

Silence. What could she say? There was so much they needed to talk 
about - so much they couldn't talk about, not just yet. She needed 
time. And something about his face told her he did too. 

She opened her mouth to speak, to break the claustrophobic silence, 
but he made a noise at the same time, and she shut her mouth again, 
chewing her lip. She would run away, let him make the first move. 
Her head still hurt too much to push. 

How....?" He paused, looking at her as if offering to defer to her, 
to let her go first, but then he shrugged, accepting her silence. 
"How are you feeling?" He leant forward, his voice so soft, his eyes 
intense, but still he didn't touch her. "How's your head?"

"I'm fine, Mulder." She smiled, and some of the tension left her at 
his words. She gestured at the room, the bed. "Be catching you up 
soon."

There was no smile in return. He moved his hand slowly, as if 
fighting, but at last made contact, his fingertips stroking her 
forehead round the edges of the bandage. "I was.... When I 
heard....." His eyes were welling bright, and his throat was working 
convulsively, struggling with words.

"I'm fine, Mulder." She said it more harshly than she'd intended, 
but she had to stop him. She wasn't ready to talk about _that_.  "It 
was just an accident. I'll be okay."

"Yes." His fingers left her face, and she could see his fists in his 
lap, tight clenched and white with tension. "You're okay." His eyes 
were dark.

Silence. His fist uncurled and he raised the hand to his mouth, 
chewing gently on the side of a finger. He was unfocused, acting as 
if this was a subconscious gesture of habit, but she had never seen 
it before. 

Under two days, and so much had changed. What else....?

Two days?

"Mulder?" There was a note of panic on her voice. The room swayed in 
time with her heart beat. "What....?" 

But how could she ask him? How could she explain this sudden flash 
of panic that it had been so much longer? The memory was so close 
now, so close she could almost touch it. Waking up in the hospital, 
Duane Barry's cries still recent in her ears, only to find it had 
been three whole months. Hands, grasping.... A face, staring.... The 
nightmare had started with that too, then.

"Mulder....?" 

Help me, Mulder. Hold me. Tell me.... It's so close, the nightmare. 
The cool breeze on my cheek. The stars.... The stars made the past 
so real again. I wanted to lay the past to rest, but it's.... it's 
all rushing out of control again.

I just want to be Starbuck again.

"It's okay, Scully." His voice was calm again, though his eyes were 
still troubled. There was  a small streak of blood on his lower lip, 
where he'd pulled his finger away. "You'll be okay. It was just an 
accident."

Just an accident. Just an accident. She repeated it silently over 
and over, knowing it was true, willing herself to really believe it. 
Just an accident.... The hands, the face, the nightmares.... She 
knew where they were coming from. It was just so soon after.... 

"Why aren't you in Arkansas?" she asked abruptly, desperate to 
change the subject. She wasn't ready to follow _that_ line of 
thought through, not just yet, not with Mulder so close, so able to 
read her every emotion on her face. "We were going to go yesterday."

"We're not doing that any more." His hands were clenched white 
again. He didn't let her see his eyes. 

"Why not?" A small spark of anger rose in her at his words. The case 
had filled her with dread, but for him to have made the decision for 
her was.... It was not what she wanted. She'd been ready to face it 
in her own way.

"It wasn't interesting." He shot a quick glance at her, and there 
was something akin to desperation in his eyes. He was _begging_ her 
not to push. 

"But, Mulder." She was torn, and it made her harsh. "You said.... I 
thought you hoped the woman could help you find...."

Samantha. The word hung  unsaid, the air pulsing with tension. He 
swallowed hard, his eyes brimming, but his mask didn't crack.

"It was nothing." The chair scraped against the floor as he turned 
away slightly. She could hear his words, but his face was no longer 
visible. "It wasn't.... It wasn't what I thought it was. It wasn't 
worth it."

She tried to speak, but there were tears in her eyes. She was 
floating in the bed, so much emotion under the surface, so many 
things they were not ready to talk about. 

Just two days, and so much had changed....

There had been that look in his eyes, then. A mixture of hope and 
fear. A look she'd been before. A look whose meaning she knew, 
although she hadn't pushed. Neither of them had mentioned his 
sister's name.

"There's a woman." His voice had been breathless. Had he been 
planning to rush off without her, had she not come to his apartment 
at just the right time? "Hannah Gordon. In Arkansas." A deep shaking 
breath. "She was missing since she was twelve - that's fifteen years 
ago. She was found a few months ago, in a coma." He'd run a hand 
through his hair, and she'd caught a tremble to his movements, 
though his words had been calm enough, hardly different from how he 
normally told her of a case. "She woke up a few weeks ago, with no 
memory of anything, but just recently...." 

"She thinks she was abducted by....," she'd tried to finish for him. 
She'd intended to smile, to show her support for him by going along 
with him, anticipating his words, but something had struck her like 
a physical blow and the words hadn't come.

Abducted, abducted, abducted..... Flashes of pain in a vast empty 
expanse of memory.

"Aliens." He'd been staring into his own past, not noticing hers. "I 
want to see her.... Help her remember.... She might...."

"She might not want to remember. She might want to forget it and 
move on." She'd spoken more harshly than she'd intended, but he had 
been so transparent. His desperate need radiated from him like a 
beacon. He was the one who wanted - who needed - answers.....

But all she'd wanted, suddenly more than anything else, had been to 
forget. To lay the past to rest. To move on.

She hadn't told him. 

His eyes had clouded then, and she'd remembered how the truth had 
brought him pain too, and knew he understood at least part of what 
she had felt. "I know. I won't push her. But I.... What if she knows 
something, Scully? I can't let this go by. You know I can't."

"I know." She'd smiled, although inside she'd been in turmoil, and 
had squeezed his hand, though whether to comfort him or to derive 
comfort, she hadn't known. Their clasped hands had trembled. 

A sob rose in her throat at the memory. Mulder gave no sign of 
hearing her. 

She was just so _tired_.....

"Mulder?" She stretched a hand towards him, but was unable to reach 
him. Memory had drained her anger. He had wanted this case so badly, 
and she could see how much he was hurting. She shouldn't have 
pushed. "I'm glad you're here."

He turned to face her at last. His hand was near his mouth again. "I 
should have been...."

She held a finger up before her lips. "You're here now. That's all 
that matters."

He leant forward as if to touch her, but instead his fingertips 
brushed the cross that lay at her throat. His eyes were distant, 
troubled. His mouth moved, but no sounds came out. 

"Mulder?" He was near enough now. She lifted her hand and rested it 
on his outstretched arm. "It will be okay."

He nodded slowly, but his eyes were looking beyond her again. 
Morning sunlight streamed through the window, and specks of dust 
danced in the light.

"It's light...." His tone was almost one of wonder. He moved his 
hand into the beam, and his eyes were.... defiant? 

The light hurt her eyes, and she turned away. 

**********

end of part 2

**********


Wednesday night
____

A woman was crying, her face twisted with grief. 

He didn't want to be here. 

"Agent Mulder?" A police officer's voice. He didn't turn towards 
him. "Why are you....?" An awkward cough. "Is the FBI involved in 
this?"

Red lights pulsed like a heart beat in the night. The woman's face 
was shiny with tears, shining in the light like so much blood. 

"Agent Mulder?" More insistent now. A light touch on his shoulder.

He shook his head, shutting his eyes to escape her grief. "No. I 
was.... in the area. I thought it might be...." He ran out of words, 
and shrugged, covering his silence, hoping the other man wouldn't 
push. What could he say? He couldn't explain his presence to 
himself, let alone a stranger. 

"It doesn't look like a crime." The officer coughed and shifted on 
his feet. "The wife.... She called us saying she _may_ have seen 
someone, but there's no sign of an intruder. The man just.... died. 
She needed a reason - someone to blame. We're not treating it as 
suspicious."

Mulder opened his eyes again, but she was still there. The body 
still hadn't been loaded into the ambulance, but he couldn't bring 
himself to look at _that_.

Red and black, pulsing. Blood in the darkness....

There were eyes, watching. By-standers, staring at the scene of 
death with undisguised fascination. Didn't they _realise_....? 

"Fox." It was a sinuous whisper, close to his ear. "Fox."

He whirled round, both wanting and hating, but there was no-one 
there. Wind whispered in the overhead wires, hissing like the 
sibilant sound at the end of the name he didn't use. Fox, Fox....

But he was alone in a world of a stranger's grief - alone without 
answers.

Did you do this? Is this my fault? Was this me? Questions hammered 
in his brain, and the sight of the woman's grief twisted like a 
dagger in his stomach. Did I do this to her? Did _you_? Tell me....

But there was no-one there. Not any more. Not since....

There had been some light in his apartment this time, and he had 
seen the smile before he had heard the voice. He had been horrified 
- without words, without breath. He had been so sure it had been a 
dream, before.

"Fox. Look at me, Fox." The man - Reynardine - had reached out a 
hand and grasped his resisting chin, turning him to face him. "You 
thought I was an illusion of the bottle. I am not. You can not 
escape your desires."

"I said...." He'd been floundering, all coherent thoughts clouded at 
the touch, at the proximity of that smile. "I said I didn't want 
it."

"But you will, Fox." The touch had been gentle, fingers on his 
throat, but he'd known it could crush in an instant. He'd been 
frozen in those eyes, unable to move. "You will, when you see what I 
can do."

"No. I will _not_ become like them." He'd made his voice loud, 
defensive. There was still enough of him that was tempted. The feel 
of the gun on his lips.... "I will _not_ sink to their level."

"You are so naive, Fox." Reynardine had laughed, shaking his head as 
if with pity. "But I can read beneath your words. I have done what 
you wanted."

"You've killed the Cancer Man?" Horror had mingled with.... with 
satisfaction. It horrified him now, to think of that. 

"Ah, so it _was_ what you wanted." A finger had run down his cheek 
and the eyes had danced like flashing swords. "I thought you 
said...." A laugh. "But you were joking. Of course. When you 
pretended that you did not want it...."

"I didn't want it." He'd pulled away from the touch at last, mind 
reeling. "I don't want it." 

Blood had flashed before his eyes, and the image of the man's dead 
eyes, staring up through the smoke. He'd struck his hand across his 
eyes to wipe out the image, and had tried to turn away, not wanting 
to hear any more. It was too soon after the gun. It was all too 
close. He needed to hide.

"You do, Fox." There was no touch this time, but cool breath on his 
neck. The voice came from behind him. "And you will get it, if you 
agree. I have just given you a little.... preview. An earnest of 
things to come. A little taste of our future.... dealings."

"Dealings?" He'd been lost, his voice stammering, no semblance of 
control. "What do you want me....?"

"Nothing." A hand on his shoulder, reassuring, almost patronising. 
"It was just a turn of phrase. I want only what you want. You will 
owe me...." A pause. "Nothing." There had been the smallest of 
breaths then, two syllables exhaled silently, caressing the back of 
his neck. It had made him shudder, but the fingers had dug in when 
he'd tried to pull away.

"What have you done?" His voice had sounded beseeching in his own 
head, lost and childish. The touch had made it so hard to fight. 

"Brought justice to someone who would have evaded it. Someone who 
hurt your partner. The man who put her in the hospital."

"How can I know? I can't.... You could be lying." He'd been 
desperate, clutching at vain hope. If it was a lie, then he didn't 
need to think and the temptation was nothing. "You can't prove it."

"I can take you there. I can show you. You will believe." The voice 
had been smooth as oil, unruffled by the challenge. 

"I'm not going anywhere with you!" He'd wrenched away from the grip, 
and had tried to step away. His legs had felt as if they were wading 
through syrup, and his mind.... His mind had been sluggish. 

"You think I am one of _them_, trying to trap you." Reynardine had 
made no attempt to follow him. His eyes had danced with amusement, 
and he'd held up Mulder's own gun.  "I could have killed you many 
times before now, had I wanted to."

"There are more ways to trap someone than to kill them." Just for a 
second it had seemed clear. They were trying to frame him for 
murder.

"If that were true, they would hardly need your presence. They are 
more clever than that. The noose would tighten around your neck 
without your knowledge, and by the time you found out the knot would 
be unbreakable." 

He'd opened his mouth, fighting, but was without words. The man had 
been everywhere, inside him, under his skin,  needling into his 
mind.

And then the voice had been close again, carried by noiseless 
footsteps, cool breath on his face. "Can you afford to ignore me? 
You are hiding, Fox - convincing yourself I offer nothing just so 
you can hide from your desires. But if what I offer is real....? Can 
you bear yet another not knowing in your life?" A finger had brushed 
his forehead, and the words had made a quick flash of a girl with 
braids disappearing into a bright light. "Can you hide from the 
truth?"

But there was no truth here, only questions. He had followed the 
voice and found only doubt. 

Did you do this? Did you kill this man? Did I want this? 

He wanted to throw back his head and shout his questions to the 
empty air. Reynardine had led him here, a voice in the darkness, 
always ahead of him, and had left him alone. But he was here 
somewhere, he was sure of it. He kept seeing his eyes in the crowd, 
but a second glance always showed them to be the eyes of a 
bystander, gazing at the scene with horrified fascination.

Do I want this? Is it worth it? Is this justice?

Scully in the hospital bed, in pain but smiling. The wife's grief, 
tears running as if they would never be eased. She would _never_ get 
her loved one back. His mother had cried like that, when....

He swallowed, turning his back on the scene, trying to think above 
the raging tide of emotions. Think. Focus. Rise above the fear.

But it was so difficult. Half an hour past, and he was still 
sluggish from the other man's sinuous voice.

Half an hour....

He started, pulling himself back fully to the present. The colours 
grew brighter, sharper, and the sounds swelled as if only now was he 
really here. 

"What time did he die?" His voice was abrupt as he called across to 
the police officer. The ambulance had gone, though he hadn't noticed 
it leave. 

"Just after ten o'clock." The officer was fidgety. He seemed anxious 
to leave, anxious for Mulder to leave. "Like I said, the coroner's 
initial assessment is that it was natural causes."

Just after ten o'clock. And Reynardine had been in his apartment 
barely minutes after that. 

"He didn't kill him." He spoke aloud, muttering under his breath, 
but his voice was carried away by the wind and the officer didn't 
react. "He couldn't have killed him. His offer means nothing."

He could see a flash of red in his mind's eye, and hear her voice. 
"Mulder, there's no way he could have killed this man, not unless he 
could be in two places at once and kill without leaving a trace. He 
was probably listening in to police frequencies and exploited a 
recent death to make out he was involved. But he's not, Mulder." A 
warm smile, to show how ridiculous she thought his claims were. 
"This is not worth wasting another minute of our time on. Let's go 
home."

"But, Scully...." He would _object_. Normally, he would object. 
Clinging to every glimmer of a conspiracy, of extreme possibility. 
He wouldn't want it to be a trick.

But now.... It was different now.

If it wasn't true, then he didn't have to think - didn't have to ask 
himself if it _was_ what he wanted after all.  If he believed, he'd 
have to ask.

He didn't want to believe.

********** 

Friday morning
____

There was a voice in the office - a strange voice. 

Scully paused, hand a fraction above the door handle. He wasn't 
alone. She wouldn't have to tell him just yet. She could hide from 
her doubts a little while longer. 

And if she didn't speak of them, perhaps they would go away.

"They won't." A little voice hammered inside her head, pounding with 
the rhythm of the dull ache that would not release her from its 
grasp. "They won't. You can't hide...."

Cold stars in the darkness. Wet grass underfoot. A plane rumbling 
overhead....

"No!" She spoke aloud, her voice almost a sob although she had meant 
to sound so strong, so in control. She would _not_ think of that.... 
of that night just before....

"Scully?" The door opened. Mulder's eyes spoke his concern. 
"Shouldn't you...? I mean, I thought you'd want to stay at home 
until after the weekend."

"I'm fine, Mulder." There was a more of a sharp edge to her voice 
than she'd intended - more than he deserved. She was talking more to 
herself - to the voice that wouldn't let her be, relentlessly 
hammering the doubts.

She didn't move. She wasn't sure she could move.

"Scully?" There was a rising note of anxiety in his voice. He opened 
his mouth as if to say more, then shut it again. She knew he was 
scared of saying too much and implying she was less than capable of 
looking after herself. The confusion in his eyes made her want to 
cry. 

She had to face it. She didn't even know why it filled her with such 
dread. It was another question she wasn't ready to ask. 

"I'm fine, Mulder." She forced a smile, finding to her surprise it 
wasn't so hard. Mulder smiled in return, although his eyes were 
still troubled. "I want to be here."

Deep breaths. Clench fists, tight, tight. Step forward, over the 
threshold....

"Just don't expect me to run after genetic mutants for a few days, 
okay?" A laugh. Did it sound as strained to him as it did to her?

"No mutants." He reached a hand as if to touch her arm, to guide her 
to a chair, but awkwardly let it fall again. "I'll tell them to come 
back next week."

He was trying so hard, but it couldn't work. His eyes.... He was 
looking at her as if she was porcelain, ready to shatter at the 
slightest breath. His hands were clasping convulsively. She knew 
what it was costing him not to reach out and help her. Had she done 
this to him? Was she blind in this, too - so ready to see concern as 
over-protectiveness?

A hand touched her arm, and there was a scrape as a chair was pulled 
out. "Agent Scully?" A strange voice, new to her. "Let me help you."

She took the proffered chair gratefully, the throbbing doubts in her 
head surging painfully. Mulder turned his head away, muscles 
tensing. She knew she'd hurt him. It was all so.... so difficult. 
She wasn't ready to face it.

"Scully, this is Agent Kelleher - Anthony." Mulder's voice was 
tight. "Tony, this is...."

"Dana Scully." Agent Kelleher grabbed her hand and shook it. It was 
a slow movement, gentle and almost languorous. His fingers were long 
and elegant. "The charming Agent Scully. I've heard so much about 
you."

Scully turned to Mulder. "We'll talk later," she whispered, 
warningly, remembering how he'd said the same to her once in similar 
circumstances, but his eyes were distant, not seeing her. Her half-
smile died on her lips.

"Mulder's helping me on a case." Kelleher leant against the edge of 
the desk. He was close - too close. "Though I guess that means he'll 
solve it by himself. He normally does."

"_And_ Scully." There was a sharp edge to Mulder's voice. "We solve 
cases together."

Scully shifted on the chair, pulling away from Kelleher, closer to 
Mulder. There was something in his tone of voice. It was soothing 
balm to her doubts. It made her flinch at the memory of  Kelleher's 
touch, resenting it. 

"And Dana, of course." Kelleher's voice was.... It almost sounded as 
if he was humouring Mulder, though the smile he turned on her was 
dazzling. "We'll all be working _closely_ together for a while."

Mulder made a sharp sound in his throat, but said nothing. She could 
see his muscles, tense in his face. She smiled at him, her first 
truly sincere smile, thanking him for letting her handle it herself. 
She knew how difficult it was for him not to protect her like an 
eight-year-old girl needed protecting. 

"What is your case, Agent Kelleher?" She made her voice cool and 
professional, surprised to find how easily Agent Scully clicked into 
place, cloaking the doubts of Dana. 

Kelleher reached into his pocket, pulling out an evidence bag, which 
he handed towards Mulder, ignoring Scully. Something gold shone 
through the clear plastic. "They both were wearing a gold cross, 
even though their families say they weren't religious." 

Mulder's eyes flashed fire. He swallowed, and his jaw moved 
convulsively, but he said nothing. 

"Could you start from the beginning please, Agent Kelleher." Her 
voice was icily polite. How easy it was to be strong, now. Maybe the 
doubts and fears would disappear along with the headache. "I would 
like to hear this too."

There was a long silence. She blinked, but kept her eyes unwavering, 
staring into Kelleher's handsome face. She couldn't let herself see 
what Mulder was doing, though she could feel his presence, backing 
her up.

"Okay." Kelleher exhaled, running a hand through his fair hair. 
There was a hint of amusement in his eyes. She didn't know whether 
to count it as a victory. "There have been two deaths. Murders. 
People have been held, ill-treated, then burnt...."

The words faded, pulsing like the tide, surging, then receding to 
nothing.

There was something on Mulder's desk.... A picture. Eyes staring out 
of a photograph. Eyes. Staring eyes....

"It was the fire that killed them, and it was set deliberately...."

Fire. The _smell_.... Eyes staring through the smoke, and the car 
burnt and burnt. It could have been her.

"They both had a cross...."

Protection. Deliver us from evil. Protection. Hands, dragging me. 
Saving me, or.... Help me....

"We have to assume there will be another."

He's in my hands now. Staring eyes, lifeless, two-dimensional. My 
fingers ache. I can rip him apart.

"Scully?"

She emerged from the fog. Her hands were clutching a photograph, her 
knuckles white with the desire to tear it to pieces, to expunge the 
face from her waking nightmares.

"Scully?" His voice was gentle, concerned, though his eyes were.... 
terrified? "What is it?"

"This photograph?" How was it possible her voice could sound so 
calm? Her heart was pounding in her ears. "Who is this man?" 

Mulder swallowed. He twisted a pencil round and round in his 
fingers. His eyes were following its movement, never looking at her. 
"No-one," he said at last. His voice was almost too casual. "Just 
someone who died the night before last."

"Oh." She stared at the eyes on the picture, imagining them smiling, 
willing them to warp and change from the eyes of her nightmares. She 
took a deep breath, hoping Mulder wouldn't notice the tremor in her 
exhalation. "Is it to do with the case?"

"No!" He almost shouted the denial. The pencil snapped. He ran the 
tip of his tongue over his lips, breathing deeply. "No," he 
repeated, calm now. "It's not a case. I was.... passing the house 
when I saw the ambulance, the night before last. The police were 
there. I was.... interested. I found out about him afterwards. His 
wife thought it was murder, but it was just natural causes. The 
coroner says so. It's not a case. It's nothing. It doesn't mean 
anything." His voice was rising, almost taking on a  note of 
hysteria. Had her reaction been _that_ obvious? 

"Oh." The picture trembled as she laid it down. She smiled shakily, 
glad that Mulder wasn't looking to see the meaning in her eyes. "I 
was just wondering if he was one of the...." She suppressed her 
shudder. "Burnt people."

He shook his head. She sensed he'd wanted to shout a denial again, 
but he kept it in. "It's nothing. Not important." He let out a great 
breath, and it was as if all the muscles in his body relaxed. "It's 
nothing," he repeated, smiling. She hadn't realised how tense he'd 
looked until she saw him now.

It's nothing. It's nothing.... She let his words repeat in her head, 
trying to make herself believe them. It's nothing. Those eyes.... 
She'd been barely conscious, even hallucinating. She would see those 
eyes in a thousand innocent faces. It was nothing. 

"I'm sorry." She turned to Kelleher, voice all control. She knew her 
moment of panic would have confirmed his obvious opinion of her. 
"What were you saying?" Her mouth was dry with the memory of the 
fire, and she licked them, suddenly desperate for some liquid. 

"Can I get you some coffee, Dana?" Kelleher leant forward 
solicitously, his fingers brushing her arm. His eyes flashed 
sideways, sending a message towards Mulder, though whether of 
reproach or triumph she couldn't tell. "Someone should have offered 
earlier."

She kept her voice polite, even grateful, and smiled at him. "Yes, 
please. That's just what I need. Cream and no sugar, please." She 
didn't let herself look at Mulder. She could hear him shifting on 
his seat and knew she'd hurt him again, but this time it was 
necessary.

Footsteps squeaked towards the door. She turned to face him, 
following him with a smile. Her muscles were tense.

"Scully," Mulder began, as soon as Kelleher had gone. She could hear 
the hurt in his voice, although he was trying so hard to sound 
unconcerned.  "Scully, I...."

"Mulder." She silenced him, her voice an urgent whisper. "I just 
wanted to talk to you alone. That's all." She pushed herself out of 
the chair, pausing just a second to steady the throbbing in her 
head, then walked over to his side. He lifted his hand as if to help 
her, but let it fall again without making contact.

"What about?" He ran a hand through his hair. His eyes were dark, 
anxious. She remembered what he'd been like in the hospital and knew 
she wasn't the only one with secrets.

But she couldn't talk about _that_. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

"I just need to know...." She swallowed, leaning against the desk 
for support. "This case.... Is it an X-File?"

"No." His hands were edgy and twitchy. He ran them through his hair 
again. "It's a favour. Tony and I.... We were at the Academy 
together. He's a friend, even though...." He gestured towards the 
door, shrugging.

"Even though he has something of a.... of an attitude problem 
towards women." She rescued him, smiling, then sobered, seeing where 
he was going. "I'll be okay, Mulder." She touched him gently on the 
arm. "I can deal with people like him."

"I know." His voice was hot with protest. "I know you can...."

"I know, Mulder." She didn't move her hand. She could feel his arm 
through the thin material of his sleeve. "I know you know. Thank 
you."

Their eyes met, and they smiled. It was true contact at last. At 
that moment, there was nothing else.

"He came to me a few days ago." Mulder pulled away first. His voice 
was strangely tentative, as if reluctant to break the silence, but 
scared to let it continue. "He really needs to crack this case. He's 
hoping for promotion." He turned away, breaking the bond between 
their eyes. "When the other thing.... When it turned out to be 
nothing...."

"You thought you'd help him." She touched his hand, refusing to 
accept his withdrawal.  "Don't be used, Mulder. Remember Jerry 
Lamana."

He still wouldn't let her read his eyes, but there was a sharp 
intake of breath, well disguised, and she knew she'd mis-stepped. 
Did he still feel guilt about his ex-partner's death? Was this some 
attempt to atone? 

"Mulder...." It had to be talked about. He couldn't hide from her 
forever.

Just like you can't hide from yourself....

"And Tom Colton." There was a strange note to Mulder's laugh, but 
she was grateful for it. She could smile and suppress _that_ train 
of thought. "Don't forget him. That was done as a favour too."

She grimaced, and their eyes met for a second, another brief spark 
of contact, but his eyes were troubled and he quickly looked away. A 
clock ticked on the wall, suddenly loud in the claustrophobic 
silence.

"Mulder." She _had_ to ask.. "Mulder, about this woman in 
Arkansas...." Deep breath, clench fists, ignore the fear in his 
eyes. "You're not just accepting a case - any case - to hide from 
your disappointment over that?" Her finger brushed the back of his 
hand. It was like touching stone, still and unresponsive. "I know 
you hoped so much."

"I told you. That was nothing!" There was desperation in his eyes, 
in his voice. She'd heard him say the same words, the same tone, 
just recently, but didn't want to pursue the implications. 

The fear in his eyes. The hands that couldn't bring themselves to 
touch her.... Was _this_ what it was all about?

"Mulder." She leant forward, voice little more than a whisper. The 
moment was his alone. "I know why you're doing this." 

His breath was warm on her cheek. It wavered slightly, shaking. He 
opened his mouth as if to speak but no words came out. She couldn't 
bring herself to see his eyes, not yet.

"I know you're afraid I'll be angry." She smiled, surprised at how 
easy it was. Was she telling the truth after all? "But I'm not, 
Mulder. I'm not angry. I'm.... touched. Just because I don't want to 
be over-protected doesn't mean I don't want to be...." She glanced 
at her hands, clenched in her lap, and willed them to relax. She 
couldn't find the right word. "It doesn't mean I don't want to 
be.... considered," she said, at last. 

She paused, wondering. He was trying so hard. She'd just meant it to 
lessen that terrible anxiety behind his eyes. But as she spoke she 
began to realise the truth of her words. She'd been too defensive - 
gone too far the other way. It was a revelation for herself too, of 
a sort.

Mulder was silent. He was staring at his hands, eyes dark with 
guilt. Had she done this to him - made his every kindness a source 
of friction, of guilt?

"You're helping Agent Kelleher because the case is local. That's it, 
isn't it?" He didn't deny it. His neck, his shoulders, were so 
tense. "You think it will be easier for me after...." She took a 
deep breath. "After my accident."

"I'm sorry." His eyes were moist, and he reached out a finger and 
touched her cheek. His fingertip trembled. "When I heard.... " The 
finger moved. He was barely touching her, little more than hovering 
above the skin. "Dana, you could have...."

"Thank you, Mulder." He flinched at the abruptness in her voice. 
Another unwitting hurt. She hadn't meant it like that, but she 
couldn't bear him to say the word - couldn't even bear to think it. 
"You're right." Softer this time - as soft as she could make it. 
"This...." She shuddered, knowing he would understand without words. 
"It's made me think. I can't do everything. It's not weak to admit 
that." She was defensive, still talking as much to herself as to 
Mulder. "Sometimes I need to remember that before I get too... cut 
off."

"Cut off?" His voice was strangled. There was such guilt in his 
eyes, but he seemed less tense. She knew she'd done the right thing, 
confronting the issue. 

"Cut off from...." 

From human warmth. From comfort. From concern.... From herself? She 
trailed off into silence. She wasn't ready to tell him. 

"Coffee?" 

She started at Agent Kelleher's voice, stepping away from Mulder 
almost guiltily. The coffee smelled inviting and she clung to that, 
a haven from questions she wasn't ready to ask, not yet. 

"Have autopsies been done?" She fired the question without preamble. 
It was the first thing to come into her head. She needed something 
to focus on - an anchor in the sea of doubts.

"Scully's never happier than when slicing and dicing." Mulder's 
voice was low, a stage whisper to Kelleher. There was still a shadow 
behind his smile, but it was a beginning. "I advise you to stay away 
from her if you want to keep your body parts intact." The shadow 
deepened, though his eyes were still smiling. 

"Yes, they have, Dana." Kelleher ignored Mulder. He was close again, 
his blue eyes intense. "I can take you to talk to the coroner if you 
like."

"Thank you, Agent Kelleher." She stared at him unblinking. She 
wouldn't let herself think about the implications. That was 
something to face later.

"So, Mulder." Kelleher's voice was confident, even smug. "Did you 
solve it while I was away?"

Mulder gave a small smile, but said nothing. He seemed tired, the 
usual wry remarks drained out of him. It wasn't enough to....

She shivered suddenly. Someone was watching her.

"What do you think about the crosses?" Kelleher again, though his 
voice seemed to come from a great distance.

The eyes.... The eyes on the photograph, staring at her, lifeless. 
Just like....

"No!" She struck out with a fumbling hand and turned the picture 
over. 

Silence. She was transfixed, pinned like a butterfly by their 
scrutiny. There was such fear in Mulder's eyes.

"I'm okay." She laughed, a terrible sound closer to hysteria. "It's 
just.... He reminded me...." Her face ached with the attempt to hold 
the smile. If she smiled enough, would she believe it? "I thought he 
looked like the man who was driving the car that...." Deep breath. 
Why is Mulder looking at me like that? "That crashed into me. The 
man who pulled me out."

She shut her eyes, lost in a horror she couldn't forget. There was a 
crash from Mulder's direction. Why wasn't he _saying_ anything? 

"I'm just imagining it." Her voice was so small, but she needed it 
so much to be loud, to fill the whole world with its certainty. 

I'm just imagining it. It's nothing.... Tell me, Mulder. I need you 
to tell me. I can do it myself, but I just need....

Half a shattered mug rocked rhythmically on the floor, small sounds 
beating like her heart.

"It's okay, Dana." Kelleher's voice was like welcome balm. "It 
happens. I was knocked out once. Afterwards I could have sworn I'd 
seen Barney looking down on me."

"The most heinous political force in the twentieth century," she 
quoted in a small voice. She wasn't ready to smile, but _this_.... 
He would smile, and the fears would fall away.

Silence. The mug rocked itself into stillness. 

"Mulder?" She hadn't meant to call for him, but couldn't stop 
herself. It was still too soon. She _needed_ his support.

"No." His voice was distant. Was he speaking to her, even now? "No. 
It's not...."

"Mulder!" It was almost a shout. The eyes were boring through her 
memory. She was lost, and she needed him.

"The autopsy. Yes. Are you going?" There was no colour in his face. 
He moved his mouth in what was probably supposed to be a smile. 
"There's nothing here. This...." He reached out for the picture and 
tore it up without looking at it. "This is nothing."

Kelleher smiled at her, and she was grateful for that.

**********

end of part 3


**********

Friday, early afternoon
____

The cross dangled in the light. Mulder had held it so long, stared 
at it unseeingly for so long, that the chain had seared a red line 
across his fingers.

The reflections burnt him, hurt him with memories.

He had only touched it once, long ago now. Minutes? Maybe hours. Out 
in the corridor Scully had spoken words not meant for him, and her 
retreating footsteps had echoed in his head, echoing, echoing, 
leaving him alone to the darkness.

But not alone.

It had caught the light then, the cross. Crumpled in an evidence 
bag, discarded on the table, it was nothing, but it was.... it was 
an anchor. 

His fingers had travelled towards it, slowly, shakily, as if 
fighting for every movement. He needed the cross, though he feared 
it still. It was memory. It was Scully. Resting in the hospital bed, 
breathing by herself, her eyes full of.... full of something that 
still would bring a smile to his face, any time but now. The cross - 
_her_ cross - had dangled from her fingers as they had exchanged 
something that was for themselves alone. 

"Scully." His finger had shaken as he'd opened the bag. A trickle of 
moisture snaked down from his brow. Her beliefs. The strength of 
_her_ beliefs. He'd needed them. More than anything, he needed them.

"Scully." The chain had snaked into his palm. He'd been breathing 
fast, unsure why. "Scully. I need your beliefs."

And slowly, slowly, his fingers had reached out to stroke the 
reflecting gold, to embrace the light.

It had hit him with the force of a physical blow the instant he made 
contact. 

Alone. Tendrils of darkness from all sides, dancing, teasing, 
offering help, but then laughing, retreating beyond reach.

"Come back...." Reaching out into the darkness, pleading, grasping 
at nothing. There were no words in the cry, but the feeling was 
everything. The need was beyond words, vivid as a shout. "Help me. 
Come back to me...."

"No!" The cross had fallen from his nerveless fingers, the clatter 
of its fall over-loud in the silent room. He'd passed a shaking hand 
over his face.

Memories. That's all it was. He'd repeated it then as he repeated it 
now, clinging to a reassurance he so desperately needed. Memories. 
Loneliness. The unutterable terrible void of loneliness, alone in 
the dark, his light ripped away by cruel hands who would kill her. 
He hadn't held a cross since then. It was just memories. Memories. 
Please.... Only memories.

But he hadn't touched it since then. He needed it, but he couldn't 
hold it. The chain was twisted through his fingers, hurting him. The 
light in the gold reflected Scully's beliefs.

Scully....

He shut his eyes, scared of the memory, scared of what it would make 
him do. Her eyes, earlier. He'd never seen her so disturbed, so 
close to breaking down. _They_ had hurt her in worse ways than the 
merely physical. A blow on the head would heal. But the fear he'd 
seen in her eyes, even through her mask of control.... It was 
terrible. It was....

"No!" He slammed a fist against the desk, clinging to the pain to 
silence that train of thought. 

The horror. Think of the horror. Cling to that instead. Remember....

"I thought he looked like the man who was driving the car...." The 
mug had fallen from his hands at Scully's words. Horror had beaten 
at his mind like so many wings, blinding him. The picture - the man 
whose death he had seen two nights ago - was the man who had hurt 
Scully, just like Reynardine had said. 

"Was it me?" He didn't have to force the horror to return. It was 
clamouring its questions, drowning everything else. "Did _I_ kill 
him?"

He'd been so sure Reynardine was lying. He had taken a convenient 
death and lied about it, trying to convince him it was something 
more - that his offer was real. And if it was a lie, he could ignore 
it, shut the question away and refuse to address it, refuse to 
accept to fact that he was....

He shut his eyes, turning away from the cross. He didn't want his 
admission to be seen by anything that was close to Scully.

He was tempted.

And if it was true - if the man _had_ been killed for him....? Even 
with the horror of his widow's grief, was he still....?

The cross flashed like Scully's eyes, taking the thought from him. 
It was a question he would not allow himself to answer - would not 
even allow himself to ask.

"Fox...." The voice whispered in his memory, as loud as if it was 
with him in the room. He didn't turn round, though the back of his 
neck was prickling with the memory of that chilling silken touch. 
"Fox....."

"Scully." He called up her image. The cross shook in his hand. "Help 
me. Tell me...."

"I give you the strength of my beliefs." He fought to hear her voice 
speak the imagined words, to see her eyes untroubled, her face 
strong and calm. "You know this is wrong. Together we will fight 
them the _right_ way." He chewed his lip, forcing her image to 
smile. "And we will win, Mulder. We will win."

"Scully...." He could fight no more. The image crumbled and in its 
place was Scully as she had been today, eyes haunted by the fiery 
death that had almost claimed her - a fiery death she should never 
have been exposed to. He couldn't hold her. He couldn't tell her. 
All he could do was....

"Do it, Fox. Say yes. It's the only way. Does a man who hurt her 
deserve to live?" The voice spoke in his mind like a physical touch, 
though he knew it was only his imagination.

"Scully...." He raised his hands, slowly, slowly raising the cross. 
It flashed fire into his soul, and his fingers were cramped with 
pain, reluctant to move. 

Scully's smile. The strength of her beliefs. Protection. His anchor. 

The chain was long, not needing a clasp, and it brushed his hair as 
he began to lower it over his head. His hands were shaking and he 
was fighting, fighting against a huge weight of memory, of 
reluctance.

He held his breath. Everything was suspended, as if the very air was 
watching his battle. Sweat poured down his face. Suddenly everything 
seemed to depend on this. If he put it on he was accepting her 
values - he was throwing away the offer for ever. 

And protecting....?

An image flashed into his head, sharp as a touch. Tears dropping 
onto a photograph of a young girl with braids, with the memory of 
another girl who'd been safely returned still fresh in his mind. 
Crying in the dark for a little girl who never came back. The floor 
hard beneath his knees, and cold stone walls soaring up towards the 
cruel sky.

There had been a cross above him them, light shining through it on 
the window. It hadn't smiled at him. She hadn't been returned.

"No!" There were tears in his eyes now. He was breathless, his voice 
hoarse. The cross clattered onto the floor, where it lay among the 
broken shards of pottery. 

He reached for his jacket, fumbling blindly. The room was stifling, 
enclosing him like a press of suffocating bodies. The air seemed to 
be whispering his name, touching his skin with feather-light touches 
of breath. 

It was nothing, the offer. He wouldn't go that way. To cling to the 
cross would be.... would be to show _him_ that he believed it - that 
he doubted his own resolve. 

It was nothing. He wouldn't let himself think any other way, not any 
more.

He couldn't.

There were red shards in the dark pool on the floor, and round it 
all the chain coiled like a serpent.

**********

Friday afternoon
____

The crying was still loud in Scully's memory, and the grief-ravaged 
face still haunted her. Coming into the morgue, she'd nearly 
collided with the woman, and had reached out an unthinking defensive 
hand to ward away contact. 

"I'm sorry." The woman hadn't looked at her. Her eyes had been lost 
in grief, tears choking her words. "I'm sorry...."

But Scully had stood, speechless, frozen, knowing the woman needed 
so much, but unable to give her anything. 

It was the eyes that haunted her now - eyes that had lost their 
life, their every hope. Eyes that had looked into the face of death, 
searching, hoping that the lifeless face belonged to someone else, 
knowing all along it belonged to her loved one.

"Who was that woman?" A mother, a wife, a lover, a friend.... "Who 
has she lost?" She wanted, she needed, to know. So many times she 
had opened her mouth to ask, but the words just clamoured silently 
in her mind, refusing to be spoken aloud. 

A mother with a daughter. Is that what it was? Hesitant fingers 
reaching out to touch the cold cheek that once glowed red with life, 
falling tears the only movement in the frozen stillness.

A mother....

Her mother's voice, hoarse with long crying, from beside the 
hospital bed. "I couldn't bear to lose another daughter...."

"Agent Scully?" The coroner's voice roused her from memory, 
recalling her to a fresh horror. "This is the one. Allan Wasserman."

The metal of the steel slab shone dully in the harsh white light. 

"There's no question about the cause of death." The coroner's voice 
was emotionless and professional, and she clung to that as a life 
line. "There was a _lot_ of smoke in the lungs. Wood smoke. Burns of 
course, as you can see, but it was the smoke that killed him. He was 
burnt alive."

The sheet was white. So clean, so pure, in this place of death.

"It was murder?" Her voice was calm, but she reached out a hand and 
held into the metal slab as if it was her only support. It chilled 
her fingers, made her focus. She didn't let herself think of what 
was on it.

"Oh yes." The coroner laughed, a short dry sound. "It was murder. 
Unless he accidentally fell on a bonfire with his hands cuffed 
behind his back."

A spark of anger shot through her at that, and she was glad of it - 
glad of any emotion that could distract from the horror. Handcuffs? 
Agent Kelleher had told her nothing. 

"Were there any other injuries?" She focused on the anger, using it. 
She would show Agent Kelleher. She would make progress on the case, 
even though it....

Flame sheeted across her vision, and her mother's tears were loud in 
her ears, but she held onto the anger, determined not to lose it. 

".... on the body." She was breathing fast, but the memory faded. It 
had only stolen a few words, a few seconds of concentration. 
"Nothing serious. Painful, of course. Some blood loss, but not 
fatal."

"And the other one was the same?" She was winning. She was in 
control. 

But she still hadn't _looked_.

"Just the same." 

Silence. She knew he was expecting more - knew she should give more 
- but she couldn't look. The anger had faded, and she was left with 
nothing. It was all she could do to keep the horror away. She 
couldn't think as well.

Fire. Fire and the smell of burning.... Tears....

"Who do you think killed them?" There was a desperate edge to her 
question. As long as she was asking, she was in control - a 
pathologist viewing a body not a victim in a car.

Burning....

"I don't know." There was a touch of irritation behind his voice. 
His eyes were cool and appraising, and she knew suddenly that he 
knew she hadn't looked. "That's your job, isn't it? I just determine 
the cause of death."

"But the cause of death can be the best insight into the mind of the 
killer." She was protesting, her voice confident. She was right, and 
she knew it, and that did something to silence her fears, to make 
her emotions match her tone of voice. 

"Yes." The coroner's voice was calm again. There was a hint of 
smugness behind his smile. "Isn't that why you're here - to study 
the body - to look for your insight?"

The confidence ebbed away. She would have to look.

Her nails pressed in, red on her palms. They were waiting for her. 
Sterile white walls, shiny metal, the coroner's smile.... Everything 
was still, breathless, waiting for her. 

She could do it. 

The doubts, the fears, were nothing. Just a temporary product of her 
aching head, throbbing, throbbing, pounding away her control. They 
were nothing. She was strong. 

She _would_ do it.

She turned her head, quickly, abruptly, before the fears could 
change her mind. 

A body. Just a body. Just like so many hundreds of others. Burnt 
flesh, like.... No! You've seen burns before, Dana. You're a 
scientist. This is evidence. Assess it. Think. Don't think of....

Burning, burning.... Trapped in a car as the flames.... Screaming 
for help, voice swallowed up by the smoke. Burning, burning....

And through it all a mother's tears....

The drawer slid shut. She was beyond seeing, but the noise of it, 
the gentle click as it slid home, could still register. The flames 
faded.

"There really is nothing there." The coroner's voice was gentle. His 
eyes travelled to the bandage on her forehead, and she hated the 
pity she saw there. "The man was burnt. That's all we can tell. You 
will get your insights elsewhere, not here."

She _needed_ to tell him to reopen it, but she was beyond words. She 
was lost. Control was beyond her grasp.

"You can come back tomorrow, Doctor Scully." The coroner took a step 
back, his tone professional. "I know how a headache makes it hard to 
think."

She straightened her back, clutching back some control. It was his 
voice - professional and distant, letting her erect her walls again. 
If it had been pity and sympathy.... They were too much like a 
mother's comforting arms, making her a child again. She was lost 
with kindness. 

"Yes." She even managed a smile, of sorts. "I've not been long out 
of the hospital. I.... Maybe I came back to work too early." It cost 
her a lot to admit it, but it was better than the alternative. She 
had to cling to that hope. 

"It will be better in the morning, Doctor Scully." He shook her 
hand. His touch was brisk and cool, and that too she was glad of. 

"Yes." She let her fingers brush the edges of her bandage. "Yes..."

She couldn't let herself think any other way.

**********

Friday evening
____

Mulder swallowed hard. The silver cutlery was warm in his grip now, 
but his mouth was dry and tasteless. He had not eaten, not tasted as 
much as a mouthful, even yet. 

"You sure you don't want any, Mulder?" Kelleher gestured with the 
wine bottle. It was red, too - he knew that. A deep thick red, 
bleeding inside, even though the dark green glass tried to disguise 
it, turning it black.

He cleared his throat, forcing his voice back. "No," he murmured. 
"Just water." The memory of the whisky was still too strong, and the 
horror that came from that night.

Kelleher shrugged, topping up his own glass. Scully had refused too. 
She was sipping a glass of water as her fork played with a plate of 
green leaves. Her face was pale, weary.

"So...." Kelleher's voice was loud as he smiled round the table, but 
there was a struggle behind the smile, now. "What have you got on 
the case?" An awkward laugh, too loud, defensive. He gestured at the 
expensive surroundings of the restaurant. "You have to sing for your 
supper."

Scully caught her breath, a tiny gasp barely audible, but then she 
steadied. She raised the fork to her mouth almost defiantly, and her 
hand didn't tremble. "Nothing yet," she replied. Her eyes didn't 
leave Kelleher's face. "I.... viewed the body of the last victim, 
Allan Wasserman." The slight pause was expertly veiled. "There's no 
question about the cause of death. You must give us more. I need to 
know about the crime scene - about other evidence. The bodies alone 
give us nothing."

Kelleher took a mouthful and chewed it slowly. Scully's hand had 
fallen back onto the white table cloth, the fork neglected and 
forgotten on the side of the plate. 

"I told Mulder." Kelleher swallowed, then took a sip of wine. "I 
told him everything."

"Then you must tell me too." Her voice was cold steel, but beneath 
the table her left hand was clutching the table cloth into a tight 
ball. Her white fingers were shaking, close to Mulder's knee. He 
wanted so much to grasp that hand, to assure her that everything 
would be okay, but he couldn't. Looking at her face, he wondered it 
he needed the reassurance more than she did. She at least could 
speak.

"I'll take you tomorrow." Kelleher leant towards her. There was a 
light of amusement in his eyes. "We will go to the crime scene 
together." His fingers reached towards her hand, but she picked the 
fork up again, evading his touch. "_If_ you're up to it," Kelleher 
added, with heavy emphasis, undeterred.

The fork skewered a tomato and scraped against the plate. The noise 
echoed in his ears like an unearthly scream. 

"I will be up to it." There was only the smallest tremor in Scully's 
voice. "I'm fine."

Kelleher subsided, but Mulder recognised both the truth and the lie 
in her words, and suddenly wanted to cry aloud with the unbearable 
sadness of their situation. Denial was the only way to cope. If he 
held her, if she held him, the barriers would break and they would 
be lost, overcome with the losses of the past years. Strength was a 
facade, but it was a necessity.

And now it was crumbling.

He looked at the plate. He had to eat, had to act as if nothing was 
wrong. If he shouted aloud with the normality of it all, maybe, just 
maybe, he would believe.

"Mulder?" Kelleher's voice. "Any ideas?"

The blood was everywhere now. The gaping cut in the steak was 
glistening red, but the blood had trickled out like a river, soaking 
everything. He just _couldn't_.

"Mulder?" Scully's fingers shook as she touched his hand, but her 
voice was calm and quiet. 

He cut through a potato, slicing off the blood-soaked half, leaving 
the pale creamy flesh, burnt brown on the edges. 

"I was just.... thinking." He cleared his throat. His smile was all 
for Scully. He knew she would not believe, but she would accept. 
Like with her "I'm fine," there was comfort to be gained from the 
ability to keep up the facade. 

"What about?" Kelleher's voice was muffled by a mouthful of food. 
"The case?"

Candlelight scorched his eyes, but behind the flames was darkness. 
Shadowed faces in dark corners bent over their food, but their eyes 
were glistening. Sibilant whispers of distant conversations drifted 
through the darkness.

Fox, Fox, Fox.....

Eyes of candle flame, eyes of strangers, eyes of.... 

"No" The fork fell from his hand. The potato had left a taste like 
ash in his mouth. "Wrong."

Eyes of a friend, pure blue and troubled. Her mouth opened, but she 
didn't speak. He could feel her fear, but at the same time he needed 
her eyes - needed to remember.

"Wrong." He took a sip of water and the icy cold lanced like a sword 
slashing his throat. "They were wrong." He swallowed. "Evil."

"Who?" There was an edge to Kelleher's voice. He'd forgotten about 
him. Scully was everything.

"The cross." He anchored himself on the gold at Scully's throat. 
"That's what it means. Someone - the killer - was driving out evil. 
He forced the cross over their heads. They were screaming. Just to 
touch it made them.... " He shuddered, remembering the utter 
loneliness that had radiated from the cold touch of the metal. "They 
couldn't. It was against what they stood for. They couldn't live. 
They couldn't be allowed to live with the evil in them. Without the 
evil they were.... they were nothing. They were an empty shell, 
needing it. They couldn't live."

Silence. A hundred eyes shone coldly behind the candle flames. A 
waiter walked past and the breath of air of his passing raised the 
hair on the back of his neck. 

"Mulder...." Scully's hand fell to her side. He knew she couldn't 
bring herself to touch him. What has she seen in his eyes?

And then Kelleher laughed. The sound shone through the darkness like 
a beacon, offering a way out.

"Still Spooky, Mulder? You got all that from the cross?" Kelleher 
turned to Scully, speaking to her although she didn't meet his eyes. 
"How do you work with him?" His smile faded and there was a sober 
note behind his voice - almost wistful. "And it'll be right, too. It 
always is when he sees into a killer's mind like that."

Scully raised her eyes to Mulder's, but he looked away. He needed 
them as an anchor, but not like this. The anxiety he saw in her 
eyes.... It was too dangerous. 

"Seeing into the killer's mind." His voice was faltering, but he 
forced a smile. "Yes. That's what _he_ thinks. He thinks they're 
evil. He sees them like that." He picked up his fork and stabbed 
blindly. "It doesn't mean they _are_."

It was a lump of meat. He swallowed hard, fighting nausea, then 
raised it to his mouth, forcing the fork not to shake. 

"But he thinks they are?" Kelleher put his cutlery down. The humour 
had gone and he was rapt, focused on the case. "What sort of person 
are we looking for here? A crazed preacher?"

The iron taste of blood flooded his senses, drowning the horror, and 
the nausea disappeared. He chewed, slowly at first, but then faster. 
His knife sliced through the meat, seeking more. 

"It's just an idea." Mulder spoke fast. The next lump was already on 
his fork, and he was hungry. "It might not be right. It's just an 
idea I had when holding...." He shivered. "When looking at the 
cross."

It was even better, the second mouthful. It was cold now, but that 
only intensified its taste. 

"No. The killer is evil." Scully's voice was uncharacteristically 
tentative. Her hand closed round the cross at her neck until her 
knuckles were white. "He burns people alive. Maybe the victims 
return to a faith they thought they had lost. Maybe they find that 
in extremity the cross offers them their only hope." 

The red meat was in his mouth. He couldn't speak. He didn't know 
_how_ to speak, not to her - not to that.

Her breath was loud in the silence. When she spoke again, her voice 
was firmer, defensive. "It's just an idea." Her eyes challenged 
anyone to deny it, and her hand returned to the table.

"Maybe." Kelleher leant back in his chair. His eyes were clouded, 
his usual self-assurance gone. He looked lost, floundering in 
undercurrents he couldn't comprehend.

Silence. The sounds of his chewing were loud in Mulder's head. No-
one else was eating.

"Wine?" Kelleher leant forward, his eyes hopeful, but then he 
subsided again. "No. I forgot. You don't drink."

Silence. Someone at another table laughed, and conversation swelled 
all round them. Smiling eyes behind candle flames, secret in the 
darkness. Whisper, whisper.... Rustling like wind in the wires, a 
shivering whisper of sound.

Fox, Fox, Fox....

"Mulder?" Scully's soft voice made the whispers change until they 
were what they were again - the distant sounds of half-heard 
conversations. She touched him with a concerned hand and he realised 
his fork was frozen, half-way to his mouth. 

"I'm sorry." He managed a real smile this time, grateful for her 
hand, her voice. He owed her an explanation, of  a sort. "The 
candles. It's dark in here - too dark to see who else is in here. I 
thought I saw someone I knew, but I didn't. It's nothing. They're 
not here."

They're not here.... They're not here....

As she removed her hand, he could see the imprint of her cross, red 
in her palm. 

"This is an excellent steak." He clutched desperately at the small 
talk, clinging to it as a distraction. "You have good taste in 
restaurants, Tony."

Kelleher leant towards Scully. His glance at Mulder was almost 
grateful. "Does Mulder still always manage to find the 
seediest....?"

But then the words faded out. There was a figure in the darkness. It 
was there, brooding, still as stone. The candle flame was between 
them and he couldn't _see_.

His chewing slowed. The taste was beautiful, but it was cold. Dead. 
Cold blood. To be savoured, but to be....

Scully laughed. Her words were not for him.

The figure raised a hand and a finger beckoned. The candle guttered 
as a waiter walked past, his jacket catching the table cloth, but 
didn't go out. The waiter walked a mere breath away from the figure 
but didn't deviate in his path.

He wanted to spit it out. Cold meat. Cold, cold blood. But it had 
taste still, and he needed that.

The figure took a step forward, but the candle flame was still in 
front if its face. It beckoned again, its finger reaching into his 
soul. It was coming, coming, but he couldn't see it - couldn't see 
its face. 

He needed to see it.

The fork fell with a clatter. Some distant part of him was aware 
that Scully had gasped, but all that mattered was the light. He 
needed to see it, and the candle.... the candle....

He reached out for the candle, blindly, eyes focused only on the 
darkness beyond. His fingers grasped, shaking, and the flame moved 
but didn't go out. He still couldn't _see_.

"Mulder!" 

Soft hands closed round his wrist, pulling him away from the searing 
trickle of burning pain that seared across the back of his hand. He 
still couldn't see.

"Mulder! What are you doing?"

Her hands were cool and competent and they called to him, trying to 
draw his eyes back from the darkness beyond the candle light - a 
darkness he raked with his eyes - a darkness that was just darkness, 
empty darkness.

The figure had gone.

"Mulder!"

The pain shot up his arm, demanding attention. Scully was shouting 
something, loud and urgent, but he could only smell the molten wax, 
only feel the darkness.

Soft footsteps sounded behind his chair. Just a waiter, or another 
guest. He didn't look round.

"I'm sorry, Scully," he murmured. He looked at her for the first 
time, expecting to see the fear in her eyes again, but she was all 
control - all Doctor Scully. "I'm sorry. The light.... It was 
dazzling me. I just wanted to move it."

A small gust of air chilled the back of his neck. Distant 
conversation whispered and murmured, the sounds coming together and 
taking shape.

"Later, Fox. Later....."

He leant towards Scully's touch. He wouldn't let himself believe 
that.

**********

end of part 4


**********

Saturday morning, very early
_____

He couldn't remember what his name was. He opened his mouth 
silently, clutching at the syllables, but they wouldn't come. 

It wasn't right. Nothing was right. 

He shivered, pulling the thin clothes around the frail body that was 
his, yet somehow not his. It was cold. The vast expanse of night 
stared down at him implacably, its gaze reaching in even to the 
darkest corner where he huddled, worn down by tiredness, kept awake 
by fear.

Fear. They were coming.

Light flashed and he knew it was memory, knew it was the true horror 
of his past that would never let him go. 

Flash....

Eyes staring down. Cold steel, cold eyes. Pain. Such terrible, 
terrible pain.

"No!" His voice was a high frightened whimper. He huddled into the 
corner, hard stone digging into his thin and wasted body. "No! They 
mustn't come. They mustn't find me...."

They came with guns and handcuffs and their harsh cruel hands, and 
they wanted him again. They were somewhere. They were everywhere. 
They had come, their true intent cloaked in smiles, but he had seen 
them and he had run.

He was still running.

"They mustn't find me!" His fear whimpered shrill in his ears. "I 
would rather die."

But the fear reached out like a choking hand, and he couldn't 
breathe for the horror of it.

"Help me!"

Mulder rolled over, feeling the warm leather beneath his cheek where 
his eyes still showed him crumbling stone work. Television murmured 
in the background, but it was quiet still, quieter than the fear of 
his dream.

"Help me!" 

He sat up, rubbing a shaking hand over his face to drag himself back 
to wakefulness. A dream. It was only a dream. Just the lingering 
fragments of sleep speaking in his mind. Nothing.

"Help me!"

Light. He needed light. The television was showing a war movie, 
silent in the darkness, waiting for the dawn attack. He reached out 
for the lamp, his hand still trembling with the after effects of the 
nightmare.

"No." A hand closed around his wrist, one long finger stroking close 
to the stinging burns on the back of his hand.

"Why not?" He put all the anger he could muster into his question. 
He remembered how the voice and the touch could erode his will. 

"Because I do not wish you to see me."

"You came back." He'd meant to fight, but his voice sounded so 
resigned in his own head. Had he ever really believed his own 
denial. So soon, and he was lost already.

"You can not run away, Fox. You tell yourself I am only a dream, but 
you can not hide. I will always return."

Mulder leant his head back on the couch, feeling nothing of the 
horror of the previous day, when he had been fighting the truth. He 
had accepted it at last. Reynardine was real. The offer was real. He 
was dealing with a known question, not a nameless horror. It was a 
comfort, of a sort.

"And if I....?" He spoke at last, trying to make his voice 
objective, as if dealing with a case. "If I refuse what you offer?"

"Then I will come back until you accept." The voice was quiet, close 
to his ear.  He felt a hand brush across his arm, a movement of air 
only without a touch. "I am part of you now, Fox. You will not be 
without me."

"Part of me?" The control was cracking already. Eyes glittered in 
the dark. "But I didn't.... I didn't ask for you. I didn't ask for 
this."

"Ah, but you did, Fox." A cold finger ran down his cheek and all his 
resolution crumbled. "I heard your need. I came to it. I came to 
give you want you want."

There was a soft metallic scrape and something pressed against his 
lips. He moved his head, feeling, exploring. It was a gun. Memory of 
that night flooded from the cold touch of the metal, and he lent 
towards them even as his mind cried out to him to shy away.

"No...." His voice was shaky, wavering. "I didn't _mean_ that. It 
was a mistake. It was the drink.  I _told_ you...."

"You told me nothing, Fox." The gun slid away, but the voice would 
leave him no peace. "You can deny your desire to yourself, but not 
to me. You want their blood. I know you better than you know 
yourself."

Mulder pulled away, turning towards the light of the television. A 
soldier had died, and he clung to that, making himself see the 
horror of any death. The soldier's loved ones would cry. He frowned, 
making himself remember the tears of the woman whose husband had 
died two nights before. He couldn't ever let himself forget that.

"Yes." There was a hint of satisfaction to Reynardine's voice. "I 
did that. I killed him for you. I killed him for your partner. He 
hurt her."

The hand was back again, cold on his face, and the television was 
blanked out by a sudden brief flash of fire, and the sounds of her 
screams. 

"No." He pulled away, his voice desperate. If it was anything but 
_fire_.... "He pulled her out. She said so. He saved her."

"Yes. He pulled her out." A laugh. "It was not supposed to happen, 
the fire. He pulled her out so he could hurt her again. She is of no 
use to them dead. They can hurt her to keep you away from the truth, 
like they did this time."

"The truth?" Dread was closing on his heart like a vice. He was 
aware of his every breath.

"Yes, Fox." The voice spoke as to a child, amusingly slow to 
understand. "The truth. Did you never wonder why it was _now_ that 
they hurt her? Why it was only now they used her to stop you?"

The darkness swirled around him. He couldn't speak. He had not let 
himself think of that, not since.... not since that night. 

"Yes, Fox. Arkansas." The voice fell to a whisper, dark and intense. 
"She is crying out to you in your dreams. Can you not hear her?"

He wanted to move away, but he was frozen, held by the words. 
Reynardine's voice rose and fell, a soft murmur in behind the 
images, but he couldn't hear the words. The cold was everything, and 
the fear. She was cowering in a ruined building, clutching thin 
clothes to her frail body. She was crying out for help, her mind 
screaming, though her mouth did not. He had seen this before. He had 
_been_ her. In his dreams, he had known her fear, and her need.

"Help me!"

The flowing hum of words fell silent, and the image faded, leaving 
only an echo of a scream and the ache of a desperate need.

"Sam.... Samantha?" There were tears in his eyes, and a wild hope.

"No. Not your sister. Hannah Gordon. The abductee." Mulder sank back 
against the couch. Despair flooded though him, though he had never 
really believed, not really. "But she is seeking you, Fox. That's 
why they could not let you go to Arkansas to see her. That is why 
she ran from them, when they came to her hospital room. She is 
running to you. Where did she learn your name?"

Samantha. The answer screamed in his head. He couldn't say it.

"Where did she learn your name, Fox?" The voice grew even quieter, 
even more deadly. "What does this mean?"

"It's a lie!" he stammered, pulling away. His mind was struggling 
for control. "You're lying. You show me things that aren't true. 
Your words.... It's hypnosis. I won't believe."

"Maybe." The voice was warm with a sudden smile. "You will learn. 
But can you afford to think that? Have I lied to you yet?"

He wanted to cry out his protest, but a finger brushed his cheek and 
he couldn't speak. 

"I wonder what she is thinking, now." Reynardine's voice was casual, 
emotionless. "Alone. Cold. Afraid. Do the stars remind her of what 
they did to her?"

The fingers paused and the voice reached into his mind, drowning it 
with light. A little girl screamed as her ravaged eyes begged for 
mercy but only felt the cold steel digging in to her body. The pain 
was everything and he couldn't think. Nothing else mattered.

Nothing else....

"I'll kill them!" He slammed his fist against the coffee table as 
tears blinded his vision. "I'll _kill_ them!"

Silence. The echo of the words hung in the darkness. He couldn't 
unsay them. 

"Scully!" He cried silently for her, searching his memory for the 
image of her face, but she was nowhere. His words had driven her 
away. 

"Who first?" The voice was just a breath away. It insinuated into 
his very soul. "Who shall I kill first?"

Mulder pulled away, blindly, panicking. He still couldn't find 
Scully. "No.... Not kill them. I didn't mean kill them. I didn't 
mean it. Don't do it."

He didn't question whether Reynardine _could_ do it. He was beyond 
that now. At night, in the darkness, all things were possible.

"Why not?" The voice was everywhere. "What is stopping you? You want 
them removed."

It's not right! His mind screamed out his protest. It's murder. It's 
wrong. Scully's eyes and her hand on the cross. 

"Are you going to say it is _wrong_?" Reynardine laughed, and his 
protest died on his lips. It was paltry, now - worthy of contempt. 
"You who carry a gun? You who have killed? You who have condemned 
men to the gas chamber by a stroke of your pen? You have killed more 
men than most people would ever dream of, and you say this is 
_wrong_?"

"That was the law." He was shifting on the couch, defensive. "That 
was justice, not murder."

"These men have no law. They have enough blood on their hands to 
deserve a hundred death penalties, but they will evade all justice. 
They will...."

"They can't die!" Mulder cut in, desperate. He couldn't let 
Reynardine continue that line of argument or he would be lost. It 
was too close - too like his own late-night thoughts. "They must be 
left alive. They might...."

"They might what?" The voice caressed him, indulgent, speaking as to 
a child.

"They have answers," he shouted. "They can tell me! They know where 
my sister is!"

Reynardine laughed, a bitter laugh of contempt and disappointment. 
"And you claim the moral high ground. You tell yourself that they 
are wrong and you are right. Yours is a selfish reason, Fox. They 
must not die as it is in _your_ interest that they live? And you 
condemn _them_ for deciding what is right?"

A voice spoke in his memory then - his own voice, speaking into a 
cloud of smoke, harsh with hatred. "Who are you to decide what is 
right?" 

"Who are _you_?" The voice spoke now, but whether it was 
Reynardine's or the voice from his memory, he couldn't tell. 

"Is that why you did not kill him when you had the chance, Fox?" 
Reynardine's voice was so quiet it could almost have been his own. 
"Because you recognised then that if he deserved to die, then you 
did too? Because you too cloak your own selfish interests in the 
rhetoric of morality and righteousness?"

The gun had fallen to his side, and he had left the man alive, still 
smoking. His resignation letter had been printed out just after. "I 
hate what I've become," he'd told Skinner then.

Had he known then a truth he had forgotten since? If anyone deserved 
to die, was it....?

"Ah, but it is not true, Fox." The touch brought warmth and promise 
and the voice was like light in the darkness. "I know you, Fox. 
Remember that. I know you better than you know yourself, and I know 
that is not your reason. I have faith in you, Fox."

The voice leant towards him. He didn't fight. He needed that right 
now.

"But it does not matter." Reynardine laughed and the sound was like 
sunshine. "There is no need even to think about such issues. It is 
beside the point. Even left alive, they would not tell you. They 
tell you nothing. Think, Fox. How much of what you learn has come 
from them? How much has come in spite of them?"

Mulder opened his mouth, but couldn't speak. The true answer was the 
answer he was not ready to say, not yet.

"They ruin everything, Fox." The voice was quiet and sinuous again, 
needling into his mind. "They rely on you to accept things. They 
come at you like a hunter after a rabbit, knowing you will offer no 
more resistance than to freeze. You can not stop a bullet with a 
velvet paw, Fox. Why should you stay within the law when they do 
not?"

The voice was like an alluring finger, beckoning. His resistance 
crumbled. He leant towards it, listening. It spoke truth.

"I will do it then, Fox." The voice spoke with an air of finality, 
as if all was won. "You agree."

"I...." His mind struggled, seeking a way out. The voice was 
enmeshing him, trammelling up his feet like a net. "I...."

An ambulance sounded in the distance, and he clung to that sound, 
breaking the connection. An ambulance. Injury. Death. A weeping wife 
with the light taken from her life....

"Yes." There was an edge to Reynardine's voice - a tone almost of 
menace. "There is that matter too. The first step is taken. I 
have.... acted for you already. You owe it to me."

"I owe you nothing!" Mulder's voice was loud with hot protest. He 
pulled away at last, breaking the connection. "I didn't agree to 
that death. I owe you nothing."

Reynardine laughed. His finger brushed Mulder's arm. "Just a turn of 
phrase, Fox. You owe me nothing. There is no price." The voice was a 
whisper close to his ear, and a cold breath brushed his cheek.  Two 
exhalations, like two silent syllables. "What I offer you I offer 
freely. But the blood is on your hands already, Fox. It is too late 
for you."

"No!" He needed to pull away, but was held by the voice. Dawn was 
glimmering in the sky, and through the pale dead light it seemed as 
if blood was dripping off his hands, pooling on the floor. It was 
lapping round his knees, rising, rising....

"No, Fox." Pale hands closed round his wrists and the blood drained 
away. "There is no need for guilt. It is right. Come to me, and I 
will teach you." The couch shifted as the figure stood up, and a 
hand came through the darkness, reaching out to him. "Come, Fox. Say 
yes."

Mulder stood up slowly and took a step forward. The grey light from 
the window followed him, making shadows where before there had only 
been darkness. The hand retreated into the darkness. He still 
couldn't see his face.

He couldn't see his face....

"No!" He spoke loudly, firmly. "I will not sell my soul to someone 
whose face I do not know." The light was growing and his mind was 
clearer. He could see Scully's face at last. "I will not sell my 
soul to anyone. What I do, I do because it is my own choice." He 
turned away from the voice, and walked towards the window. The glass 
was cold against his forehead.

"You will learn, Fox." The voice was distant now, but as cold and 
deadly as he had ever heard it. "You _will_ change your mind."

The morning air was cold but it cleared his thoughts, making the 
night but a shadowy memory, like a dream. 

Cold. Shivering in a ruin, under the sky....

"Remember, Fox." The air whispered through the open crack of window 
like a seductive breath, stroking his skin. "Remember...."

********** 

Saturday morning
____

The rain ran down the glass in a thousand meandering tracks, 
distorting the world outside the window, grey and lifeless, still in 
the deadly grip of a wet dawn. 

Scully shivered. Her fingers were white, pressed hard against the 
window, and the cold glass seemed to reach out to her. Rain sheeted 
across its surface, washing away the grime of a whole city, leaving 
it pure and untainted, shining with reflected light.

"Come. Wash away your fears. Come...."

The wind changed direction and the rain beat out its siren call 
against the window. A serpentine trickle became a stream became a 
roaring river of rebirth, surging just out of reach, sweeping away 
the greyness in a golden burst of life.

"Come...."

She wanted it. She needed it.

Tears trickled down her face, and she reached out towards the 
promise. There was nothing between them, not any longer. Just a thin 
sheet of glass, and that would give with the slightest push.

But when she pushed....

The scream was everywhere - the darkness and the scream. Blood 
poured down her arms as the glass shattered, and the breaking 
glass... The laugh was in every sound of breaking glass, the eyes 
were in its every blood-stained reflection.

Duane Barry.

"Come...."

The voice was harsh now, not bothering to hide its true intent now 
it had tricked her. The golden river was a surging black wave of 
horror, tinged with a spreading pool of blood.

"Mulder! I need your help!" She opened her mouth to scream, but her 
voice was as nothing against the roaring wave. "Mulder!"

But the rain and the river and the blood and the probing questioning 
invading hands were everywhere. There was no escape.

"Mulder!"

The rain ran down the glass in a thousand meandering tracks, 
distorting the world outside the window, grey and lifeless, still in 
the deadly grip of a wet dawn. 

Scully shivered, blinking to clear away the horror of the dream. The 
glass was warm against her face, warmed by the long nightmare hours 
of resting against the glass, fighting to stay awake, fighting to 
escape the dreams.

At least it hadn't been fire, not this time.

She stood up, nearly falling again on limbs that had grown cramped 
and stiff from long hours sitting in the wooden chair. Her heart was 
still beating fast in her ears and her palms were sticky and 
anxious.

Six o'clock. Just a few hours to wait. Then, she would put on her 
suit, pick up her case, put on her mask and become Special Agent 
Scully - Doctor Scully. People would talk to her, she would talk, 
and the noise would distract the memories that refused to leave her 
alone.

But now.... Now, they would not release her from their grip. They 
were everywhere, in every sound, every sight, every touch.

A car passed on the street outside, but she didn't see it. All she 
heard was the sound of an engine. _Her_ car had sounded like that, 
four nights ago. Well after ten o'clock and she'd got into her car, 
more than half in the grip of a dream - of a terrible compulsion - 
and had started driving. Her headlights had parted the darkness, 
leading like a beacon, showing her the way to.... to what?

She had so wanted it to be happiness.

Why was it _this_ case - this case in Arkansas - that had started 
it? Why had Mulder's words, talking so enthusiastically about 
reawakening the memories of some poor girl who'd been though Hell, 
reawakened something in _her_ - something she had so carefully 
repressed?

It had pressed upon her like lead that evening, the weight growing 
with every minute. His words had replayed themselves endlessly in 
her mind, bringing with it the dark choking fingers of memory that 
deprived her off all peace.

"No!" She'd slammed her fist against the table, consumed with sudden 
fury, screaming out a silent protest. "I will _not_ live like this. 
I want to forget. I want to lay the past to rest!"

I want to forget. I want to forget....

She repeated those words now, pulling the blanket closer round her 
shoulder, pulling herself away from the evening and back to the 
present. A man walked past the window with a dog and she focused on 
that, devouring his every movement as an anchor in reality.

"I will not think of...."

But the images flowed - the memory flowed. She'd opened the door to 
them and there was no stopping them. 

Skyland Mountain. Her hands had been clutching at the steering wheel 
as if it was the only thing keeping her afloat. Skyland Mountain. 
Ascend to the stars.

She had driven there like one possessed, hoping so desperately, 
afraid so desperately. She had hoped....

What had she hoped?

She almost laughed now, a bitter laugh closer to hysteria. Had she 
really hoped? Had she really thought that revisiting the place would 
lay her memories to rest - turn the unknown into a known - allow her 
to come to terms with it and move on?

The darkness had pressed upon her and she had sunk to her knees 
under the weight of a million stars. The wind had raked her cheek 
like a cruel hand, and the distant rumble of a plane overhead had 
seemed to her more dreadful than she could even begin to 
contemplate. 

Her memory had been blank, her imagination terrible.

Had she screamed for help to the empty air, bleeding there on that 
piece of bare earth there? Had his feet trampled that blade of grass 
as she waited for them to take her? Had her eyes gazed up at these 
stars, looking at a horror too great for her memory to hold? Had 
that stone dug into her cheek as she lay on the ground, awaiting 
death?

Questions, questions, hammering in her mind, drowning all coherent 
thought. They'd forced her to flee the place, then, driving blindly, 
barely seeing the road. 

Had _he_ driven along this road? The rushing sound of the ground 
beneath the wheels - was what she had heard, locked up in the 
darkness, alone with the fear and the sounds? Was this the place 
he'd killed a patrolman? Or this? Or this?

Then there had been a light, blinding, dazzling, shining off the 
rear-view mirror and filling her mind with horror. 

A light. Hands. They were coming for her. 

"Not again! No!" Her mind had screamed in its panic. She'd clutched 
blindly at the steering, trying to escape, but unable to think. The 
light took away her every thought - that and the memory.

And then had come a crash, and then the darkness....

Scully stepped forward to the window, seeking the grey light, 
pulling herself out of the darkness of memory. She ran a shaking 
hand through her hair, breathing fast. She felt impossibly drained, 
exhausted by the very act of remembering.

She hadn't let herself think of that night, not once, not since 
waking up and seeing her mother's face in the hospital.

A car passed on the road, its lights bright to illuminate the rain, 
but this time it was just a car. The sound raised no memories. 

She breathed out long and slow, and slowly stretched out a hand and 
touched the window. She had half expected it to burn her touch with 
the flashing memory of shattering glass, but it was just cold - cold 
and reassuring. She allowed herself a smile, though it was a shaky 
one still. 

Memory. She had fallen into the abyss and looked the monster in the 
face, and found instead that....

That facing the memory reduced its horror?

She shivered, pulling the blanket close around her body. The horror 
was still there, and always would be. But now.... It was different 
now. She had faced the memory and could see things clearly now.

It was nothing. Things that had seemed so important were nothing. 
The horror of the hands that had pulled her from the car - of the 
face that had looked down on her.... That was nothing. It was just 
that coming after.... coming so soon after....

She bit her lip, still finding it impossible to face the memory 
without some of its old horror. 

"Skyland Mountain." She said the name aloud, fast, her fist white 
and tense with control. This time, she would not run away. "Skyland 
Mountain. My abduction."

She had revisited Skyland Mountain. She forced herself to run 
through the events dispassionately, as if it was a case. She had 
revisited the scene of her abduction. The memory had overwhelmed 
her. And then, distracted by the memory, she had crashed.  That was 
it. That was all it was. Anything else - any other horror - was just 
a case of transferring the raw emotions of her abduction onto an 
innocent situation.

The hands had saved her, pulling her from the fire. The eyes had 
stared down at her, helping her. The forgetfulness of 
unconsciousness had saved her from pain. The darkness was in her 
memory, not in the present - not in the future.

And now she had faced the memory.

Her finger moved across the glass, absently tracing a path through 
the distorting raindrops.

She had faced the memory.

She didn't know if she could believe this, not yet, but it was a 
place to start, and she needed that. 

She smiled.

**********

end of part 5


**********

Saturday morning
____

There was a movement in the corner, he was sure of it. His attention 
was riveted, held by the darkness in his peripheral vision, but he 
couldn't move, couldn't turn his head to look closer. 

He didn't want to look closer. For the first time in his life, he 
didn't want to ask the question. He had always feared the answers - 
how could he not? Long years of questions had led to answers more 
horrible than he had ever imagined - had shown him the darkness at 
the core of his own family - but still he had asked them, sinking 
deeper into the terrible reality of his "truth." 

But this time....

The modem screeched, and his own thoughts cried out, as twisted and 
distorted as the sound itself. "It isn't true! It's a lie! I won't 
ask!"

He would _not_ let himself ask the question. Earlier, in the 
darkness of his apartment, he had asked, and had nearly been lost. 
He could not let that happen again. Not if the answer was the 
darkness at the core of his own soul. 

Not if the answer might be a yes.

Yes....

Voices twisted in his imagination - his own voice, but at the same 
time not his voice. "Yes. I agree. Kill them. I have asked myself, 
and I have decided. It _is_ what I want." How easy it would be to 
say the words.  How difficult it would be to live, afterwards. 

But it was tempting. It was horrible, but it was tempting. 

Voices hummed from somewhere near or somewhere distant, but they 
were nothing. It was too soon still - too early in the morning - to 
close to.... to the voice. His mind was still sluggish from the feel 
of the touch. 

He wouldn't ask. He _had_ to ask. He couldn't ask.

"Mulder?" Footsteps sounded on the floor and the voice was close - 
close enough to set his heart beating fast with anxiety. A hand 
tapped his shoulder and he flinched violently at the contact. The 
memory was still too recent.

"Fro...." Mulder coughed, forcing his voice to return. He even 
managed to feign a smile, though he knew his very future could rest 
on the man's answer. "Frohike. What have you got?" 

Frohike frowned. His eyes were anxious and concerned, darting round 
the room as if to exchange a glance with his colleagues. "Are you 
okay, Mulder?" he said at last. "We were talking to you, and.... " 
He laughed awkwardly, though there was no real amusement in his 
eyes. "You didn't hear us. You looked as if you'd seen a ghost."

Mulder ran a hand across his face, as if he could drive the demons 
away with a touch. "Well, I was never sure you guys were for real." 
His voice was muffled by his hand and he hoped they would not hear 
the tone of voice behind the words.

"We're less Spooky than you, Mulder." Frohike's shoulder's relaxed 
and the tension eased, though to Mulder it seemed as if the whole 
room was pulsing with the sound of his heartbeat. "I was real last 
time I tried to walk through the walls into Agent Scully's 
apartment." 

"What have you got?" Mulder had meant to joke further, but the words 
just fired out like bullets, impossible to stop. "What have you 
found about.... about them?"

It's not true. It's a lie. It's not true! He clenched his fists at 
his sides, repeating the words like a mantra. It's not true. It 
mustn't be true.

"Your source is correct." He didn't notice who was speaking. All 
that mattered was the words - words that sent his last defences 
crumbling. "The woman - Hannah Gordon - she wasn't hard to find out 
about. Some "specialists" came to visit her in the hospital, but 
when they got to her room she was missing. She still hasn't been 
found." 

"Did they...." He swallowed hard, fighting for control. "Did she say 
anything, before she ran away. Anything about....?"

"They told her you and Agent Scully were planning to visit her." He 
saw the eyes behind the voice - three pairs of sympathetic eyes. 
"She seemed to.... to react to the news. As if she trusted you. As 
if she was happy to talk." 

It was true. He had no weapons left.

"It is right." Reynardine's words were loud in his imagination. "It 
is right, to do this thing. Have I ever lied to you?"

"Yes!" Only now it was snatched from him did he realise how much he 
was clinging to this hope - how in his mind a mere imagining had 
become a firm vision of the future. "Yes," he would say, as the 
touch and voice shrivelled away and became nothing. "You have lied 
to me. I have proof. You have lied to me, so your promises - your 
urgings - are nothing. I will not listen to you."

But now....

"And the other one is true too. This was harder to find." Each word 
was a nail hammering into a coffin. He was screaming inside, though 
he knew he could never show it. "The man in the photograph - one of 
our sources recognises him. Respectable businessman by day, but 
part-time hit-man for our old friends in the shadow government. And 
you say he's dead? He deserved it, probably. Why are you interested 
in him?"

"Because...." He reached a hand out for the support of the wall. 
"Because he.... " He coughed, desperately buying time. What could he 
say? It's the man who hurt Scully. It's the man whose blood is on my 
hands. It's the man who proves the offer is real. It's the man whose 
death.... "I was just wondering," he said, at last, giving up. "It's 
nothing."

But it wasn't. It was everything. 

He deserved it. He deserved it. The words echoed in his head, 
brushing across his memory like cold fingers. He could almost feel a 
presence behind him, breathing on his neck, whispering his name, 
watching his every thought.

Fox.... Fox.... They deserve it. Would I lie to you?

The walls had crumbled. There was no defence left. The offer was 
real. The dealing had been true.

He would have to ask. He would have to ask himself the question.

And if he wasn't strong enough to come to the right answer....?

**********

Saturday, late morning
_____

Mulder's finger was moving in the ash, his eyes distant. Line down, 
line across.... line down, line across.... line down, line 
across.... A cross. The movement drew Scully's eyes and she stood 
there, mesmerised, wondering.

"Mulder?" Her voice was almost tentative. There was something in his 
face, in his whole manner. It filled her with trepidation. "Why are 
we here?" 

"What?" He spoke abruptly, as if he'd forgotten she was there. He 
snatched his finger back, staring at it with an unreadable 
expression. "We're here.... The crime scene. I want to get the feel 
of it. A man _died_ here, Scully. Burnt."

"I know." She shut her eyes for a second, steadying herself, then 
opened them again. She didn't think Mulder had noticed. Although she 
knew now the reason for her extreme reactions to any reminders of 
her accident, the knowledge didn't make them any less painful. "But 
it was three days ago. Forensics have been over it. There's 
nothing...."

"There's the feel of it." Mulder was still crouching and he turned 
his face towards her. His eyes were dark and intense. "I _need_ to 
feel it."

But I don't! I don't want this! To be burnt to death.... It's still 
too soon! Scully had to chew her lip to stop saying the words. She 
knew she couldn't run away from this. It was her job to deal with 
death. It would be her job for as long as....

She gasped, afraid to take that thought any further. For as long 
as....? It was not the time to think of that, not now, not with 
Mulder so close. How would he cope if she...?

"Why, Mulder?" Desperation made her voice  harsh, but she _had_ to 
silence that train of thought. "Why do you have to feel it? Someone 
died. We've been here an hour already. There's nothing here. Why do 
you need to.... to immerse yourself in death like this? What do you 
get out of it?"

Mulder turned away. His finger reached out and traced a long slow 
line in the dust, then he harshly dashed it away. His hand was 
shaking and the splashes of burns were red and angry. "I need to," 
he said, at last. "I need to do this. I need to think about.... 
about everything that man went through in his last minutes. I can't 
explain." There was a note of desperation on his voice, as if he was 
begging her not to ask further. "I _need_ this, Scully." 

She reached out a hand to touch his shoulder, but let it fall. She 
could hear the desperate painful need in his voice, but she couldn't 
understand. "Have you found it yet, what you were looking for?" she 
asked, quietly. She dug her fingers into her palm to silence the 
irritation. It wasn't fair. She hadn't told him how much the thought 
of death by fire still disturbed her. 

Mulder was unmoving, silent. He opened his mouth to speak, but shut 
it without saying anything. His eyes were focused on the swirling 
tracks of his fingers in the ash as if they were a life buoy to a 
drowning man.

"Mulder?" Her voice was tight with rising fear. His reaction.... 
She'd assumed his evident stress was just a reaction to her accident 
- to her own emotions. But if it was something more....? It was too 
soon. 

"The atmosphere." She could barely hear his words. "Can't you feel 
it, Scully? The atmosphere in this place. It's as if life is 
suspended - as if death is in the air, watching us - as if it 
notices our every breath."

"It's just an old warehouse, Mulder." She made her voice abrupt and 
rational. She was not prepared to think about his words. "Someone 
died here. That's all."

"There was a place like that in Oxford." Mulder ignored her words. 
He glanced at her quickly and his eyes were pleading - as if begging 
her not to interrupt him. "New College cloisters. There was a dark 
corner behind a tree and it was always cold and dark, even in the 
summer, and always silent. Utterly silent. The floor was tomb stones 
and there were dark brooding carvings with intense eyes. It was as 
if centuries of dead souls were whispering in the air, brushing my 
face. I.... I used to go there to think."

"Mulder." She tried to smile, but it was beyond her. Tears pricked 
her eyes unexpectedly. To think in a place of death.... When had 
Mulder's life been free of shadow? 

"I saw a play there once." Mulder shut his eyes but his voice was 
firm. There was none of the dark meanderings of memory in his tone. 
It was as if he knew exactly where he was going, though he feared 
the destination. "Macbeth. They used to perform plays outside in the 
summer. I went with...."

"Phoebe." Scully made a grimace of mock horror, meaning it as a 
friendly gesture, but Mulder wasn't looking.

"Do you know the play, Scully?" Mulder spoke as if he hadn't heard 
her. There was an intensity in his voice that scared her. "There's a 
line.... I never forgot it. 'The instruments of darkness tell us 
truths - win us with honest trifles - to betray us in deepest 
consequence.' Is this.... Do you believe this, Scully?"

"Mulder...." Scully rubbed a hand through her hair, floundering. His 
voice was as if everything rested on her answer. "I don't.... I 
don't understand."

"The witches - they win him with small truths. He is led to believe 
that.... that murder is what he wants, even though his conscience 
tells him its wrong - even though the very thought of it appals him. 
And then he is lost. He is hated and he is doomed and he is damned. 
Worst, he hates himself."

"Mulder....?" She was afraid to touch him. He was tense, reacting to 
every movement, every sound.

"Can something evil tell the truth, Scully? If its every word has 
been truth, can anything it says be discounted? If it says 
something, and then it is proved true, and then it suggests 
something else....?" He swung round desperately, as if he'd heard a 
sound in the shadows - a sound that appalled him. When he spoke 
again his voice was loud, defiant. "Or are the truths just proof of 
its intent - just attempts to ensnare us? Does a truth make the evil 
even more to be resisted?"

"I don't know. Mulder, I don't know." She hardly knew what she was 
saying. She was lost, out of her depth. "It's only a play."

"A play." He swallowed hard. "Yes. But I've.... I've always found 
the question fascinating. I was just wondering what you thought."

"I think...." His eyes begged for an answer, and she searched 
desperately for something to say. "I think each issue should be 
judged on its own merits. If someone suggests you do something you 
think is wrong, the fact that the same person told the truth on 
another matter entirely shouldn't even come into it." She had no 
idea if she was even answering the right question, but his eyes were 
boring into hers, absorbing her every word. "Macbeth was wrong, 
because he went against his own conscience. He knew it was wrong, 
but he still committed murder."

Mulder let out a long breath and she could see the tension in his 
shoulders relax. "The truths don't matter." It was the smallest 
whisper, as if speaking to himself. "It's still wrong." His eyes 
were staring into the dark corner again, but there was nothing there 
- nothing to prompt the look of pure defiance she could see in his 
face.

"Mulder?" Scully looked around desperately. The ashes had disturbed 
her just a short time ago but now they seemed a haven of security - 
a certainty in the doubts. She stared at them, seeing Mulder's 
fingers tracing a cross in her memory. "The case? Is this about the 
case?" He'd spoken about evil then, too - the night in the 
restaurant.

"No." Mulder stood up and his mouth curved into a weak smile, though 
he looked away, not meeting her gaze. "Just the play, that's all it 
is." He coughed, raising his hand to his mouth, and didn't lower it. 
"Just the play. The atmosphere here.... It made me remember. 
It's....  an intense memory. I saw the play at a bad time."

His body language cried out to her not to push. Knowing Phoebe was 
still an open wound, she silently touched the back of his hand, but 
said nothing. There were still so many questions, but she couldn't 
ask them, not yet. There were still things she was not ready to tell 
him either.

"Come on, Mulder." She spoke softly. "Let's go. There's nothing here 
that we don't already know. There's nothing for us here." It was 
hard to suppress a shudder. They _were_ getting something here, but 
it was only painful reminders and dark memories. It still took so 
much for her to be so close to the ashes and not see again the 
burning light against her closed eyelids.

Silence. He was frozen still, scarcely breathing. His eyes were 
intense, staring beyond her, a look of.... An unreadable expression 
- fear, defiance, relief, wanting, horror.... None of them - all of 
them.

"Mulder?"

He took a step forward and she had to move sideways out of the way. 
His hand began to rise up from his side, but then he snatched it 
back fiercely. "Scully?" He wrenched his eyes back to hers. "Yes. 
Let's go." He spoke louder than necessary. "There's nothing here - 
nothing worth wasting any more time on."

"What were you looking at?" She turned round, searching the 
direction of his gaze. There was nothing there but an open door into 
the darkness of another room. "Was there someone there?"

"No!" A shout. "No! No-one." Then he reached out and grabbed her 
shoulders with a tight tight grip. The fear was back in his eyes 
again. "There's no-one there? No-one? You saw no-one?"

"No-one." She shrugged, trying to escape from his painful fingers. 
"There's no-one there, Mulder."

Mulder let his hands fall to his sides. He turned away, his back to 
the dark door, and wouldn't look round. "There's no-one there. Have 
you seen any plays by Christopher Marlowe, Scully?"

The sheer unexpectedness of the question made her laugh - a brief 
light in the darkness. "Marlowe. What did he write?"

"He wrote Doct.... He lived the same time as Shakespeare, that's why 
I was thinking of him. He was murdered in a brawl. People say it was 
a conspiracy." Mulder's laugh sounded forced, but she couldn't see 
his face - couldn't be sure. "Probably Cancerman's distant ancestor 
that killed him."

"Probably." She smiled, wondering if this was some sort of peace 
offering - an attempt at a joke to ease the inexplicable tension. 
"Imagine Cancerman dressed like they did then."

"I know Marlowe's play." Mulder was shouting again, his voice 
filling the whole warehouse. He still had his back to her. "I 
remember. I know what it means."

"What play, Mulder?" She moved to face him, grabbing his arm. "What 
are you talking about? Damn it, Mulder. Look at me!"

He shook his head, meeting her eyes at last. She could see he had no 
words of explanation. She knew she ought to push, but it was still 
too soon. Her own doubts were crying out for attention. 

Silence. 

Mulder. What's happening to us? Why are we falling apart?

"Come on, Mulder. Let's go." Her voice was so weary. She didn't 
understand what had happened. She didn't want to understand. 

She was so tired of fighting, and for what?

**********

Saturday afternoon
____

The gun gleamed at Kelleher's side. He nodded slowly, as if 
reassuring himself of its presence, then let his jacket fall back, 
covering it. 

"Is it....?" Scully coughed to strengthen her voice. Her throat was 
dry and painful. "Do you expect him to resist?"

The door remained silent and closed. No-one came.

"I don't know. You can't be too careful, though." Kelleher spoke 
softly and slowly, though he didn't look at her. He was tense, eyes 
focused on the door. "If he's innocent, why isn't he answering the 
door?"

Scully let her fingers brush across her own gun, trying to calm 
herself with its cold touch. She hadn't touched it since.... since 
_then_.

"It doesn't fit." Mulder's voice, low and intense.  He was holding 
onto the railing with both hands, completely unfocused on the 
possible danger. "It's not right. It's too...."

"Too ordinary? Too mundane?" Kelleher flashed, with a hard edge of 
annoyance in his tone. "This is life, Mulder. Not everything is one 
of your X-Files. Someone called to say this man was seen fighting 
with the last victim a few days before he was killed, so we have got 
to talk to him. It's routine. It's old fashioned police work. But 
it's necessary and it brings results." He lowered his voice 
suddenly, continuing in a harsh whisper. "You said you'd help, 
Mulder. It's not fair to pick and choose - to want to help only on 
the glamorous parts."

"But it doesn't matter. He's not in. There's no-one here." Scully 
could hear the shake in her voice, though she tried so hard to be 
calm, to make peace. She brushed the gun again, needing it. The 
windows were staring on her like eyes from a dark and unreadable 
face. "There's no-one here. We may as well...."

"There _is_ someone here." Mulder's voice was almost casual, as if 
he spoke of something of no importance. "I saw them. I was looking 
into the shadows. I saw someone at a window. Just a person." He 
breathed out heavily. "Just a person."

"Who else would it be?" Kelleher's laugh sounded forced, but Scully 
recognised he was trying to make a tacit apology for his earlier 
annoyance. She flashed a quick glance at Mulder, signalling that he 
ought to accept it, but his eyes were distant, as if staring into 
the dark unknown behind the reflecting glass.

Silence. Scully clenched her fists tightly. Her heart was beating 
fast. The windows were like a mirror reflecting memory.

"Are you sure there's someone in there?" She spoke intensely, 
desperately, turning to face Mulder, putting her back to the house. 
Her fingers sought the gun again and this time she didn't pull them 
away. "We've knocked three times now."

Mulder nodded, but said nothing. His eyes were focused, even gentle, 
and he reached out and let his fingers touch her arm. She suddenly 
felt he could see into her mind, and understood completely.

"Mulder." She mouthed the word, silent but warning, and pulled away 
from his touch. She didn't want him to understand, not yet.

But the _eyes_....

She shivered. It was worse now. Her back was to the glass, and she 
couldn't _see_ them, only feel their stare like daggers in memory.

Flash....

Eyes. Staring, accusing eyes, tears issuing forth like a river. Eyes 
that had wept at the death of one daughter. Eyes that should never 
ever have to weep at the death of another. 

It was always her mother's eyes now, never the eyes that had pulled 
her from the fire. These had been laid to rest in the rain of the 
early morning. They were nothing now.

But her mother's....

"Mr Acheson! FBI! Open up!" 

Kelleher's voice made her start, and she blinked, stilling the 
memory. Her hand tightened on her gun. If the man was in there.... 
if he was watching.... if there was danger....

Her mother.

Her hand shook. She'd been aware of the doubts and fears clawing at 
her ever since the accident, but she hadn't faced it before - hadn't 
let herself face it before. For years now she had stared death in 
the face every day. Had she ever really thought what it would do to 
her mother if she.... if she was killed? 

And now she'd thought, could she do it again? Could she face danger, 
knowing that? Could she stay....?

"Scully?" There was such concern in Mulder's voice, but he didn't 
touch her. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Mulder." There was a desperate edge to her voice, but she 
knew he would accept her words not the truth behind them. She had 
pushed away his concern, his protectiveness, too often.

"You should go back to the car, Dana." Kelleher spoke what Mulder 
would not. "If he's in there, and is resisting us...."

"It could be dangerous." The gun was warm now - warm and moist in 
her hand. "You think it could be dangerous."

Kelleher spoke slowly and gently, as to a child. "Like I said, we 
can never be too careful. It's better if you...."

"You think I can't cope with danger." Her voice was taut and 
trembling, though whether with anger or fear she couldn't tell, not 
yet. "You think I.... I can't deal with this?"

Her knuckles were white on the gun. It was too close. To have him 
express the same doubts she'd been having.... She had barely 
admitted them to herself and now they were being thrown at her, loud 
and inescapable.

"I just don't think this is the place for you right now. I would 
hate you to get hurt." Kelleher didn't take his eyes off the door, 
but she could hear the concern in his voice. He was sincere. That 
was the worst thing about it. He meant to be kind.

"You think I can't deal with danger because I'm a woman?" She spoke 
in a deadly whisper. "You say you want to protect me. Can't you see 
how patronising that is? I can cope with as much as you can."

And she meant it. She didn't know how long it would last, but she 
meant it. _She_ could doubt her nerve, but to have a stranger saying 
it.... It was too much. 

"She's right, Tony." Mulder's voice was close behind her. "She's 
better at this sort of thing than I am. She's saved my life more 
times than I can count."

"Mulder," she muttered, warningly, turning round to face him. She 
intended to glare at him for stepping in on her battle, for 
protecting her, but she couldn't do it. He was just doing what any 
friend would do, supporting her. 

"Of course, she's nearly killed me too." It was only now she saw it 
that she realised how little he'd smiled in the last few days. It 
was just a shadow of a smile, and a small wry laugh, but it was a 
start. "I wouldn't annoy her if I were you. Did I tell you how she 
shot me?"

And then she heard it, and nothing else mattered. Footsteps behind 
the door. A small human sound. A scrape. There was nothing but the 
sound, and the gun in her hand, and the memory of Kelleher's words.

She had to cling onto the words. If she let herself think of her 
mother's....

"But I deserved it. I was trying to kill." Mulder's voice was so 
soft she wasn't sure she was supposed to hear it. She didn't let 
herself think of its meaning. 

"Mulder!" she hissed. He was behind her, and she didn't turn round. 
"Concentrate! Someone's there!"

There was no movement behind her. Nothing. She knew he hadn't 
touched his gun - hadn't even looked at it. She'd caught him earlier 
looking at hers as if the sight of it hurt his eyes.

"FBI! Open up! We need to talk to you!" Kelleher knocked again. He 
took a small step to one side, placing himself partially between her 
and the door. It angered her, but she wasn't ready to push forward, 
not yet. There was still enough of her that was relieved.

The door opened a crack, and Scully's heart pounded, pulsing like 
words in her head - Leave me alone! Don't hurt me! It was all she 
could do not to raise the gun and thrust it through the opening into 
the darkness. Her finger ached with the need to ensure her safety.

"Mr Acheson?" Kelleher showed his ID. His other hand was on his gun, 
but he kept it by his side. "I need to ask you a few questions about 
Mr Allan Wasserman."

"How can you come here?" A female voice spoke from the shadows, 
hoarse and accusing. "What sort of people are you?"

Kelleher swallowed hard. "Mrs Acheson?" His voice was quieter now, 
less assured. "We just need to...."

"I know what you said." The woman stepped into the light, wincing as 
if it hurt her eyes. Her face was red and puffy. "I know Allan 
Wasserman was murdered. We hated the man, but would not wish that on 
anyone. Once, maybe...." Her voice was choked, scarcely coherent. 
"Not now."

"Can we talk....?"

"He's dead." The woman's eyes flashed with hatred. "He's dead, and 
you didn't bother to find out. Who sent you here? Who was it who 
told you they hated each other? Which one of our "friends" did 
that?"

"I'm sorry, Mrs Acheson, but we need to talk to you. I'm sure you 
understand that." Kelleher's voice was soothing, even charming. 
Scully anchored herself on that, needing it, hating herself for 
needing it. If she let herself look at the woman's grief-drenched 
eyes again....

"I understand nothing," the woman snapped. There was such hatred in 
her face. "My husband died three days _before_ Allan was murdered. 
That day they were fighting in the street - that was his last day 
alive."

"Murdered?" There was a sudden intensity to Mulder's voice. She 
didn't understand him. Was he echoing the woman's words, but if so, 
why the question?

"No." The woman's voice softened, grief conquering anger. "A heart 
attack. His last words.... he spoke of it as if it was a person 
attacking him. Like cold hands reaching inside and crushing his 
heart. It smiled as he died."

Mulder made a strangled noise. A question?

"Yes, it." The woman looked straight at Mulder. Tears were pouring 
down her face. "That's what he said. It... it was so random. He 
wanted to rationalise it, I guess. It was just a heart attack."

Just a random heart attack. Something started inside her at that. 
There was horror, but amid that - something.... 

"I'm sorry, Mrs Acheson. I'm sorry we troubled you. I'm sorry about 
your loss." Kelleher's voice was all control and Scully was glad of 
that. She was beyond speaking. 

And Mulder.... He was unmoving, as if lost in some waking nightmare. 

The door shut. Scully breathed out, feeling as if only now could she 
get enough air. The woman's grief, her tears, had choked her.

"Mulder?" She spoke quietly. Her words, her touch, were for him 
alone. "What's the matter? Are you okay?" She searched her mind for 
something - anything - to restore a semblance of normality, and 
forced a smile. "Don't tell me you're trying to work out how Daniel 
Acheson came back as a ghost to kill Allan Wasserman?" 

"No." He came back to her. She had never seen his eyes so intense, 
staring at her as if his very life depended on it. "Not a ghost. 
A...."

"A what, Mulder?" She shivered. She could still hear the memory of 
his voice speaking about evil. "What is it?"

Mulder's face softened, as if pleading for forgiveness. "Nothing," 
he said, abruptly, though his eyes belied his words. "Nothing."

He turned and walked away.

**********

end of part 6

**********

Saturday afternoon, a few hours later
____

It was cold now - cold coffee, dark and bitter. Its surface 
reflected the light and distorted it, light into dark. Mulder held 
onto the mug, wrapping his hands around it until his fingers ached, 
needing it.

"You haven't told me why you're here, Agent Mulder." There was an 
edge of irritation to Anne Wasserman's voice, and he realised he'd 
been silent for too long, lost in thought. "You say you've no leads 
yet on Allan's death, but you're here. Why?"

"I...." He looked round the room desperately. He'd come here as if 
drawn by a terrible compulsion, but now he was here.... He couldn't. 
He just couldn't. "I.... We've just been to see Mrs Acheson," he 
managed at last.

"Oh?" The sound was hostile. The woman's hand moved fiercely, 
rhythmically, white skin against the black fur of the cat sleeping 
on her lap. "What did she say? Did she speak ill of the dead?"

"No!" His hand shook and a drop of coffee spilled onto his leg. "She 
didn't. I was just...." He took a deep breath. He _had_ to say it. 
"They hated each other. It's a coincidence...."

"What are you implying?" The woman's voice was steel. "That my 
husband....?"

The cat woke up with a start, interrupting her. It jumped to the 
floor like a fluid black waterfall, then froze, fear and hostility 
in its look, in its very fur. 

"Ebony!" There was no anger in Anne Wasserman's voice now, only fear 
and longing. The cat streaked from the room, ignoring her. "I _need_ 
her," she said, tears in her eyes. "She's my comfort, now. I thought 
I'd lost her too, last week, but she came back. The same night Allan 
died."

"I'm sorry." Mulder opened his mouth to speak, but the words 
wouldn't come. The window was open behind him, and the breeze was 
stroking the back of his neck. He felt an overwhelming urge to sink 
down into the couch and hide from its touch.

"I'll take your mug." The woman stood up, brushing cat hair off the 
chair as she rose. There was a desperate edge to her efficient 
voice, as if such social niceties were the facade that was keeping 
her together.

The wind whispered in the trees outside. It hissed in the leaves, 
soft, sibilant. Was that his name, and the cold touch of the voice 
that uttered it?

"So, what were you saying?" There was a warning note to her words, 
and he knew she remembered. "About my husband....?"

"He hated Mr Acheson." Mulder ran his hand through his hair. He was 
awkward, bereft. The mug had been something to cling to. "Did he 
ever...." He took a deep breath, afraid to look. "Did he ever wish 
him dead?"

"He bore grudges. He had a temper." The woman rubbed her cheek, 
absently touching the yellow of a week-old bruise. "But he would 
never have.... He wasn't a bad man. You could see by looking at him. 
He would never have been able to kill. It was not in his nature."

There was a mirror on the wall opposite, and it held him suddenly. 
He was a silhouette against the window, and he couldn't _see_. 

"That's what they say about all murderers." He was speaking softly, 
more to himself. "He was such a normal man. I would never have 
guessed. He didn't look like a killer." He half stood up, leaning 
towards the mirror, then sank back again. "What does a killer look 
like?"

"He was so troubled the week before." Anne Wasserman spoke as if in 
a dream, lost in memory, unaware of his presence. She showed no 
signs of having heard his words. "I was scared. He wasn't sleeping. 
He pushed me away." Tears started in her eyes. "It was as if he was 
wrestling with something that.... that tore him in two. But 
then...." She smiled through the tears. "Whatever it was, he dealt 
with it. I don't know.... It was if all that fight he had with 
Daniel Acheson somehow allowed him to let out all the emotions he'd 
been keeping inside him. After that, he was calm. Not quite content, 
but calm. He was like that until.... until he was killed."

"Because he'd decided...." Mulder whispered into the wind. It 
ruffled his hair, chilling him. Why did the woman keep the house so 
cold? Did it numb the grief, or was it.... was the cold something 
else?

"Decided what?" Her voice was hard again, and her eyes focused and 
angry. "Decided to kill Daniel? Is that what you mean?"

"He was better. He was happier." The thoughts were hammering in his 
head, leaving him no peace. He hadn't intended to speak them aloud, 
but was beyond controlling them. "Does that mean....?"

"It means that he was happier the night Daniel died. I know my 
husband. If he had killed him, he would _not_ have been calm. The 
very thought would have horrified him." The eyes were as hostile as 
the voice. He felt defenceless, pinned to the couch by her accusing 
stare. "You have no right to suggest otherwise."

"I...." He opened his mouth, but had no words. He chewed his lip, 
floundering in doubts. He shouldn't have come. This wasn't about the 
case. It was about him. What right did he have to embroil someone 
else in his own darkness?

"There is no point to this," she continued, harsh and unforgiving. 
There was a shake to her voice, and her hands clenched and 
unclenched convulsively. Her control was on the verge of breaking. 
"The man died of a heart attack. I don't know...." She ran a shaking 
hand through her hair. "I don't know why I let you even make me 
_think_ about this. He died. My husband was murdered. There is no 
connection."

"But someone might think there is a connection." He tried so hard to 
make his voice reasonable. "Maybe your husband was killed by someone 
out of revenge for Daniel Acheson's death - by someone who _thought_ 
he killed him."

"Why are you saying this? Why?" The woman jumped up. She was close 
to hysteria now. "How can you think this? The man had a heart 
attack. No sane person could think it was my husband's fault."

"It smiled as he died." Mrs Acheson's words echoed in his ears and 
he whispered them now, wonderingly. "It reached in and crushed his 
heart."

"What are you trying to do to me?" Her scream filled the whole house 
and she ran at him, fists flailing. "How can you do this? What sort 
of a man are you?"

The wind wrapped its long fingers round his throat, and he could 
offer no defence. The leaves seemed to whisper his name accusingly.

Fox, Fox.... You can kill. You think of death and revenge. You 
project that on everything, distorting the truth. It is you who have 
acted wrongly, Fox....

"Get out!" Her face was twisted with grief and fury. "Get out of my 
house!"

A fist smashed into his cheekbone, once, twice, making his eyes 
water. Her rings cut into his skin and the blood trickled down his 
face - blood and tears.

He thought he heard laughter carried on the wind, but outside it was 
grey and dead. There was no-one there.

**********

Saturday afternoon, late
____

A heart attack.

Scully knew she couldn't smile, not at something like that, but the 
simple words, endlessly replayed in her memory, were just what she 
needed right now. She had to hold it in her memory, cling to the 
implications when the doubts assailed her.

A heart attack. Natural causes. No guilt. No blame.

Her heels clicked on the hard floor of the FBI corridors. An agent 
whose name she didn't know smiled at her and she smiled back, 
finding it easy - easier than she had expected. 

She hadn't even had to look at the body. 

"It was a heart attack, no doubt of that." The coroner had looked 
surprised that anyone should even ask. "No way at all Daniel Acheson 
could have been murdered. He was a little young for it, but.... " 
He'd shrugged, no need to elaborate. 

It could happen to anyone. She'd filled in the blank in his words, 
staring around the morgue almost eagerly. Dull steel drawers of 
death - a heart attack, a stroke, pneumonia, an accident....

Death struck like the arrows of a blind archer. One dies. A thousand 
are spared. One dies.... 

She'd leant forward eagerly, almost smiling. Maybe later, when she 
had time to think, she would think it strange that death had been 
her salvation - her beacon amidst her doubts. But then.... Then and 
now she clung to it, welcoming it.

She could give up her job, and still die, still make her mother cry. 
The bodies in the morgue - they were not in dangerous occupations, 
yet still they had died. The weeping mother in the reception area - 
her daughter had been cut down by a drunk driver, not an assassin's 
bullet. 

And _her_ mother...?

She paused in her step, remembering. Her mother's tears in the 
hospital as she'd spoken about losing her only daughter. It was 
still so clear, feeding her doubts. How could she...?

"An accident!" she whispered fiercely. "It was an accident." 

Just an accident. How everything - all her doubts and fears - came 
from that one source. An accident given more significance than it 
deserved by her ab.... by the place she had visited, before. An 
accident that had made her consider her own mortality and doubt her 
future with the X-Files. An accident. A random, unavoidable 
thing.... like a heart attack.

She would stay. 

She smiled, feeling the confidence that comes from a mind made up - 
a decision emerging from the confusion of doubts she had not even 
put a name to but which had swirled around her these last few days, 
obscuring everything.

The familiar corridor seemed to embrace her. A scuffed tile on the 
floor, a chipped piece of plaster on the wall, the empty filing 
cabinet that had been about to be removed for three years now.... 
Familiar, loved things, imbued with the warm security of home. The 
X-Files. Her choice.

She paused outside the door, frowning, concentrating.

The X-Files. Her choice.... She repeated the words, firmly and 
urgently. The doubts were still clawing at the fringes of her mind. 
She would _not_ let them in.

"Mulder!" She swung the door open fast, speaking abruptly to silence 
her thoughts. She didn't even know if he was in there. He'd been so 
distant before he'd disappeared.

"Scully!" It was a startled yelp. He slammed an atlas shut guiltily, 
his hand pressing protectively on the cover. He wouldn't look at 
her, turning his face away, wincing. It was almost as if the light 
hurt his eyes.

He wasn't quick enough.

"Mulder." She was at his side in an instant, reaching out a finger 
to touch his face. Pulling his round gently to face her, she ran a 
finger softly down his cheek. "What have you done to your face?"

His eyes were wary, even guilty. He mumbled something incoherent.

"Nothing?" Although she didn't hear the word, she knew him - knew 
what it was. "It's not nothing, Mulder. Nothing doesn't draw blood. 
Nothing doesn't give you a bruise like that." She smiled, testing 
him. "Unless it was a ghost. Were you attacked by a ghost, Mulder?" 
She peered at the cuts again. "A ghost wearing rings."

He was trying - she could see he was trying - but he couldn't do it. 
There was no joke, just the faintest glimmer of a wan smile. His 
mouth opened, then closed again without a word.

"Mulder." Her voice was low and warning, but it was with sadness 
rather than anger. He was concealing things again, she knew that, 
but how could she be angry? She had concealed so much.

He was silent, but he didn't pull away from her touch. She couldn't 
read his expression.

"Where were you, Mulder?" She snatched her hand back, folding her 
arms across her chest, trying a different approach. Stern, even hurt 
at his desertion of her. "When I was talking to the coroner, where 
were you? We're partners, Mulder, but you just left without telling 
me." 

"I was...." He looked contrite, lost, but she couldn't afford 
sympathy, not yet. They kept so much from each other. It couldn't be 
allowed to continue. "I was talking to Allan Wasserman's wife. I was 
asking...." He swallowed hard, staring intently at his hands. "I was 
asking about the feud he had with Daniel Acheson. I was asking if 
her husband hated him enough to kill...."

"Mulder!" It was sincere now, the emotion in her voice. "Daniel 
Acheson died of natural causes. I spoke to the coroner myself. 
There's no doubt about it at all. It was a heart attack. Natural 
causes." She took several deep breaths, trying to calm herself. He 
_had_ to have died of natural causes, or all her certainties would 
come crashing down. So much depended on that. "It was a heart 
attack, Mulder," she repeated, quieter now. "I don't know why you 
need to see more."

Please don't try to see more. I don't want to see more.... She dug 
her nails into her palms, repairing the breach in her hard-won 
confidence. Mulder gave no sign of noticing her reaction.

"I don't know, Scully." He looked at her at last, and his eyes were 
lost. "I don't know why.  I don't want to. It just seemed so.... so 
right at the time. I wish I hadn't...."

"Is this how you got that?" She gestured at his cheek, suddenly 
understanding. "You went to a bereaved wife and accused her husband 
of a murder he would never have committed?" She sank down on a 
chair, sighing, uncomprehending. "I just don't understand you, 
Mulder. I really don't."

He was silent. His finger was absently tracing a path on the cover 
of the atlas. Not a cross this time, but a path, meandering from the 
far corner until it left the book and found its end clasped with his 
other hand close to his body. She was held by it, mesmerised. There 
was such need in his eyes.

"Mulder." She wrenched her attention back, giving it another try. 
She knew she ought to feel angry, but she was just so tired. "Okay. 
Maybe the stress of the fight was a contributing factor to his heart 
attack. Maybe. But that's all it was. That's all it _could_ be. 
There's no way that man was killed...."

"Maybe someone thought he was." His voice was urgent, but he still 
wasn't looking at her. _Why_ wasn't he looking at her? "Maybe that's 
why Allan Wasserman was burnt. Someone is punishing - I mean, 
someone thinks they are punishing - murderers who would escape 
justice because no-one else would recognise what they did as a 
crime. That's why the cross...." His hands were tightly clenched. He 
paused, and when he spoke again his voice was barely audible. 
"Someone who kills deserves punishment, don't they, even if our laws 
can't punish? It's never right?"

"Mulder." She leant forward. There was no other emotion now than 
concern. She would have laughed at such a theory in the past, but 
how could she do that, now? "Do you have _one_ piece of evidence 
that Wasserman killed Acheson?" It was rhetorical question. She 
could tell from his face that he did not. "Do you have one piece of 
evidence that Wasserman's murder has anything to do with Acheson's 
death? And have you forgotten that another man was burnt in the same 
way as Wasserman?" She touched his hand, her voice gentle. "We're 
hunting a serial killer here. Daniel Acheson is just.... just a lead 
that came to nothing."

And a man whose death laid her doubts to rest.... She couldn't help 
a small smile at that. 

Mulder looked away, staring at his hands. She could barely hear his 
words. "People can murder without raising a finger. People can.... 
Look like natural causes. People...." He shuddered. "Things. _I_ 
know."

Silence. A long, long silence. Her mind was racing. It was worse 
than she thought.

"I think you should go home, Mulder." She spoke softly, putting 
everything she was into her look. "I think _we_ should go home. It's 
been a difficult week - more than I think you accept."

"Home?" The word came out as if it had been ripped from his throat. 
There was longing in his eyes, but there was also.... fear? "Home? 
He.... _It_.... " He bit his lip into silence. 

Her finger brushed the back of his hand. To know that she had nearly 
died.... To see her wrestle with the effects of that.... To be 
unable to offer the comfort he so badly needed to offer.... It must 
have been as hard on him as it had been on her. She'd been too 
wrapped up in her own fears to notice.

"Mulder?" She crouched down beside his chair, her face so close to 
him. She _had_ to confide, she knew that now. What affected her, 
affected him. "I've had a difficult time these last few days. My.... 
accident." He started at that, almost guiltily. "No, Mulder." It was 
difficult to keep her voice calm, but he needed it - _she_ needed 
it. "I want to talk about it. My accident made me doubt a lot of 
things. I know it's been difficult for you, seeing it. But now...." 
She took a deep breath. "I think I've worked it through. I.... I 
won't be leaving, Mulder. I'll stay with you."

"Stay?" He spoke like a drowning man, clinging to the one syllable 
that offered hope. "Stay? Even....?" He shook his head.

She took the plunge, reaching up and touching the bruise on his 
face, oh so gently. "Yes, Mulder. I'll stay. I'll...." She held his 
eyes, almost defiantly. "I'll help you."

But with what? Help _me_, Mulder. Tell me... She put a silent appeal 
into her eyes, begging him to tell her. She'd wrestled with....

"Mulder." She leapt on the word, defiantly. She would _not_ confine 
such things to silent thought, not again. They would _talk_ about 
them. "I've wrestled with doubts. I've done it alone. I shouldn't 
have done it alone. I should have told you. It's wrong to be scared 
of.... of what?" She shook her head, wondering. "What are we scared 
of, Mulder? Why is it so hard to confide? Why do we destroy 
ourselves like this?"

Silence. His eyes were shining, full of tears. There was such 
longing there. "I can't, Scully." His face clouded with shame. 
"I.... You'd...."

"I'd what, Mulder? What could happen if we got closer - if we truly 
confided in each other?" Nothing else mattered. The whole world 
seemed suspended, watching their future rest on a word. "I'd leave 
you?" His silence was all the answer she needed. "I told you, I 
wouldn't leave you. Whatever it was."

He lifted his hand up, slowly, slowly. It was as if he was drawn 
towards her, towards her throat, but was fighting too - fighting 
something that would stop him. She knew what it was. The weight of a 
lifetime of emotional barriers - of keeping people at a distance.

"Mulder." She mouthed his name. Unshed tears deprived her of words. 
His eyes.... What was he looking at so intently? Not _her_. 
Something at her throat. Her cross?

"Scully." It was a cry of pain. He snatched his hand back as if the 
very air burnt him. "I can't...."

**********

Saturday night
____

He couldn't find her. He didn't know where she was. He couldn't feel 
her.

Mulder turned over, wrapping his arms tightly around his body as if 
seeking protection from the cold, seeking a new position on the 
black leather couch. He _needed_ sleep. Not yet ten o'clock and 
still fully clothed, but he needed it - not sleep itself but what 
came with sleep.

"She is crying out to you in your dreams. Can you not hear her?" The 
voice was only in memory now, but it was no less terrible, no less 
seductive. 

He needed to know. He had traced a thousand routes between Arkansas 
and Washington on the atlas, let his finger linger above a thousand 
places where she could be cowering now, hiding in the dark, needing 
help. But it wasn't the same. Last night, in his dream, in his 
waking dream, he had seen her and felt her fear. He needed that 
again. 

Needed it, and feared it.

"I'll kill them!" He could still hear his own words, still fear the 
shame. "I'll kill them...."

He could hear the voice now - hear it in his imagination. "You want 
to know about her? Well, she is dead. They caught up with her, and 
killed her. They raped her first, of course. They laughed as they 
did it. She knew where your sister was, you know that, do you not?"

He rolled over again, clenching his fists to regain control, 
repeating over and over in his mind what he would say. "_If_ you are 
right," he would say, not letting the fingers touch him, "then I 
will not rest until they are punished, but I will pursue them by the 
law. I will not descend to their level, or the cause is meaningless. 
Deep Throat, Melissa, my father.... They didn't die for a cause of 
cheap revenge and common murder. I owe them more than that."

But it was so difficult. The wind was whispering across his face, 
and even now, even just practised in imagination, it was so 
difficult to say - so difficult to mean.

If that was the truth about Hannah Gordon, could he afford to learn 
it? Did he have to accept it - he was too weak to learn the truth 
and still do what was right?

"No!" He pushed himself up to a sitting position, abandoning all 
attempts to sleep. He stared into the darkness defiantly, although 
he was fairly sure no-one was there. "I need to know," he told the 
flickering dead eye of the television screen. "Whatever the answer 
is, I can do what is right."

"You do not care about her." He swung round violently, sure he had 
heard a voice, but there was nothing there. The air was still. He 
bit his lip, telling himself it was just his conscience speaking in 
his head. "You do not care what happens to her. It is just because 
she may have news about your sister that you care. Selfish reasons 
again, Mulder."

Selfish. The darkness enclosed him, speaking to him, its suffocating 
fingers at his throat. Selfish. We know, Fox. We know you. How many 
sleepless nights have we watched your thoughts? 

He stood up and staggered blindly across the room to the window, 
suddenly needing the light from the street below. But there were 
voices there too, in the soft touch of the breeze and the distant 
noises of the night. 

"No!" He spoke aloud, retreating. He sank to his knees on the floor, 
between the couch and the window, neither in the light nor the dark. 
His fingers dug into the cut on his cheek, seeking the comfort of 
freshly drawn blood. It showed him he was awake. It showed him he 
was alive. It showed him.... it showed him he was.

The voices faded and he was alone. Somewhere, someone laughed. 
Outside? Inside...? Somewhere.

He shut his eyes, summoning up the image of the flames, even though 
they made him shudder with fear. He needed that now. It was why he 
had jumped straight to that explanation of the case, even though 
nothing about it made sense. It was _his_ need, not the needs to the 
case. His need.

If Wasserman had killed Acheson.... If the other man who'd been 
burnt to death had also killed someone.... It was a punishment. It 
was something to cling to, to keep him strong. If  all else failed - 
if his sense of morality crumbled - he would have the fear of 
punishment to keep him from the darkness. It was a shield against 
the persuasive argument he knew would come.

But he needed....

The sudden shrill sound of the phone cut through his thoughts like a 
knife. He grabbed at it, clutching it as if it offered salvation, 
but emotions choked him and he couldn't speak. He was breathing too 
fast to think.

"Mulder?" Scully's voice. Scully. Blue eyes and a cross.

"Scully." 

There were no more words he could say, though inside his words were 
pouring out like a torrent....

Scully. Help me, Scully. I need your strength. I know this is wrong, 
what he offers me, but it's so.... I just need you to _tell_ me. I 
need you by my side, to support me. I need the strength of your 
beliefs.

"Mulder?" An edge to her voice now, high and anxious. "Are you 
okay?"

A question. Reaching out her hand, asking him, begging him to 
confide in her. He had so nearly told her everything, earlier, 
before he had remembered. She thought it was an accident. She needed 
to think it was an accident, he could see it in her eyes. If he told 
her, he would have to tell her about _that._ He couldn't do that to 
her.

"I'm okay, Scully." He searched his mind for an excuse. He couldn't 
cause her any worry, not after everything. "I was just.... I'd 
fallen asleep. I'm just a little.... I'm not quite awake."

A finger of air brushed the back of his neck. He flinched, but 
couldn't get out of the draught.

"Kelleher called me." There was still a note of concern to her 
voice, but it was well concealed. To anyone else, she would have 
seemed all professional calm. "He says there's been another murder. 
Another person found burnt."

"He called you?" Even amid everything he could smile at that. It was 
not what he would have expected.

"Yes." She gave a wry laugh, but there was an awkwardness about her 
voice that he couldn't explain. "I think he was apologising for his 
attitude earlier, when he assumed I couldn't cope. I could cope. I 
could." Her voice rose, defensively. "He saw that."

It was whispering his name - "Fox, Fox, Fox...." He shook his head 
violently. Just his imagination. Please. Not now. Not with Scully so 
close.... Just his imagination. 

"Mulder?" She was anxious again. How long had he been silent?

"Fox. Do not talk to her." A cold finger pressed against his lips, 
silencing him. "We have some unfinished business, you and I."

His mind reeled at the touch. An image flashed. Hannah Gordon, blood 
on her face, eyes wild and staring, terrified. Her mouth opened in a 
silent plea - "Help me!" His hands were cold and numb, unable to 
hold on to the phone.

"Mulder?" Urgent now, shouting. The image blanked out at the sound 
of her voice and he clutched to the phone as if it was his only 
hope. "Mulder? What's the matter?"

"Scully!" He pushed forward desperately. The finger didn't resist, 
moving silently away from his lips. He was almost disappointed, 
deprived of his show of resistance. "Scully...."

"Are you okay, Mulder?" She fired off questions fast and urgent. 
"Are you sick? Are you hurt? Is someone there with you? Is someone 
threatening you?"

Is someone with you? She didn't _know_.... 

"Mulder? Shall I come over? Kelleher will handle the crime scene. We 
can talk."

He couldn't speak. Horror choked his every coherent thought. She 
hadn't _heard_....

The laugh was loud and beautiful, not needing to whisper. "You see, 
Fox? There is no time. Come. We have things to discuss."

"Mulder?" It was a world away, the voice from the phone. "Please 
tell me what's wrong." 

"Scully." He didn't know how he got her name past his lips. He 
needed her strength so much, but this.... He couldn't speak to her, 
not now.

Did you hear a voice, Scully. Did you? The question filled his whole 
mind, but he couldn't ask it. Not if the answer might be "no". He 
was not ready to face that, not yet.

"Come, Fox...." The whisper hissed across the skin at the back of 
his neck then brushed against his cheek, caressing the cuts. 
"Come...."

"No!" He didn't know it he screamed it in his mind or cried it out 
loud, but his next words were spoken aloud, wrenched from his throat 
for the benefit of Scully. "I'll see you later, Scully. I've.... 
I've got to go. I'm sorry."

The phone fell from his nerveless fingers as he stood up, clasping 
his hands over his ears, knowing this was not enough to shut out the 
voice. But it was a token - a sign of resistance.

"I will _not_ listen to you!" He stared wildly into the darkness, 
letting himself see only the memory of Scully's face, hear the 
memory of her voice. "I have said no!"

As he fumbled with the door handle, laughter touched his face like 
so many feathered wings.

**********

end of part 7

**********

Saturday night, an hour later
____

When the arm snaked around his throat, Mulder didn't fight at first. 
He had run so far, grown so weary, that nothing mattered any more. 
He had tried. He had shown his resistance. It was all he could do.

A breath hissed close to his ear, a muffled curse, and a harsh kick 
landed on the back of his knee, making his legs buckle. He fell 
forward into the dirt-strewn street, but the arm tightened round his 
throat, holding him up.

"Your money." The voice was harsh, coarse - not _his_, not 
Reynardine's. "Reach in to your pocket, or...." A knife flashed 
through the air, held just out of reach, its meaning plain.

It wasn't him. He was still free. An hour running into.... into 
somewhere, and he had escaped him. The wind was silent, no 
whispering hissing sounds of his own name somewhere on the very 
fringes of hearing. He wanted to smile, almost at peace.

"Move!" It was an impatient shout. The arm tightened round his 
throat, forcing a choking cough from his mouth. It was suddenly hard 
to breathe, even to think.

His arms were limp at his sides. He didn't fight, didn't move. He 
shut his eyes, seeing Scully's face, sorrowing.

"The money! Now!" The knife quavered. There was an edge of panic to 
the voice. "Move! I'll _kill_ you!"

The darkness was cloudy, spinning. He could see Scully's hair like a 
beacon in the night, and wondered if this memory would be the last 
sight he saw. He had no money. His gun, his wallet, even his jacket 
- he'd left them all in his desperate flight from.... from _him_.

There was so little....

"No!" He couldn't form any words, but he shouted his denial in the 
silence of his mind, throwing himself sideways with all the force he 
could muster. The arm tightened round his throat, forcing tears from 
his eyes, and for a second he wondered if he'd miscalculated, but 
then the pressure lessened as his attacker, thrown off balance, fell 
to the ground.

The knife! Have to get the knife! He muttered orders to himself, 
trying to steady himself. There was so little air. He was dizzy, 
gasping for air, gagging.... So hard to think, to actually do 
something. So hard.

The knife flashed.

There was no time to think. Still gasping, he flung up his arm to 
stop the blow, feeling the knife slash into the flesh of his 
forearm. Blood trickled onto his hand, warm and sticky.

It was what he needed. The pain lanced through the weariness of his 
mind, freeing him from the numbing aftermath of Reynardine's touch. 
It anchored him in the present, in himself.

"No!" He was shouting aloud now, a cry of anger directed at his 
attacker not himself. 

It was so easy now he was trying. A punch to the face, a grab of the 
wrist, a knee in the groin and he was on top. The knife was in his 
left hand, the good hand, and the attacker was lying in the dirt. 

At his mercy.

"You will kill him, of course." 

It hit him like a physical blow, hurting more than the knife wound. 
The voice. Reynardine. _Here_. But he had run....

The knife trembled. The world was spinning, out of control.

"He tried to kill you. He would kill you, were the situations 
reversed. Why spare him?" A confiding whisper close to his ear. 
"None will blame you. It is self-defence, is it not?"

The attacker's eyes were wide, terrified, fixed on the knife blade. 
He didn't fight. He was barely more than a boy.

"Fox. Do it, Fox." A finger reached out and touched his wounded arm, 
coming away red with blood. "See what he did to you." The finger ran 
a slow lingering trail down his face from brow to lips to chin. 
"Taste it, Fox. Savour the revenge."

"No!" He'd meant it as a shout, but the words came out more like a 
moan. He whirled round into the darkness, but the figure slipped 
away, ever behind him. "I will _not_. You say you know me, and you 
must know this. I wouldn't ever be tempted by something like this."

Silence. The shadow was there in his peripheral vision, but he 
couldn't see him. He was alone. Scuffling footsteps pounded away 
into the distance as the attacker, eyes wide with incomprehension, 
fled into the night. He was alone.

But not alone. Ever behind him, out of sight, the serpent was there.

"You should have done it, Fox. You have missed your chance." A 
confiding whisper. "But I know why you let the chance go. I 
understand."

"You do not understand!" His voice grew firm with confidence. He was 
sure of his resolve at last, sure the man could not snare him with 
promises. "If you thought you could trap me with this, you've made a 
bad mistake. He was nothing. Even in the heat of the moment, I would 
never kill for something so petty. Never." 

"If it pleases you to believe that...." The voice was a breath 
again, shifting from left to right. There was a street light behind 
him, and he watched the shadow flicker on the ground in front of 
him. He needed that. It showed he was real. 

"What do you mean?" There was the slightest tremor in his 
confidence. His left hand was clamped against his right arm, and 
blood oozed between the fingers.

"It is only understandable that you should want to believe that. It 
is so much more.... flattering than the truth." A hand stoked his 
hair. He saw it in the shadow as well as feeling. The shadow was 
man-shaped, at least. "But I know the truth, Fox. I just wanted to 
teach you tonight."

"The.... the truth?" It was all falling apart again. He shut his 
eyes, trying to hide.

"You can not kill, Fox. Not with your own hands. As you saw, you 
have not the stomach for it." The hand brushed his forehead and he 
had a sudden flash of a gun pointing at a man through a cloud of 
smoke, and a finger relaxing on the trigger. "You have wondered so 
often why you could not kill him, then." The whisper penetrated his 
every thought. "Have you never thought it was because you were 
too...." A soft laugh. "Too squeamish. You wanted to. You knew it 
was right. But you couldn't actually _do_ it."

His mind screamed an objection, but he couldn't find the words. 
There was nothing he could say.

"And your resistance to me, Fox." It was relentless, knowing exactly 
where to strike. "I know your every thought. I see the nameless 
horror you have for the thing you want. You want it. It is right. 
But still it disgusts you. You do not know why. You are defensive 
and say it is because it is wrong, but you can not think what you 
mean by this. You can not say _why_ it is wrong. It just is."

He couldn't speak. The words.... They were right. He had an 
argument, a shield for a situation like this, but he could no longer 
remember it. He was defenceless, alone in the dark.

"It is the act of killing that makes it seem wrong to you, Fox. I 
know this. You can not take a knife in your hand and kill a man who 
has done you wrong - a man whose death you desire. You have learnt 
this tonight. But I...." A hand snaked down and picked up the knife. 
The steel flashed its gleam through the darkness. "I can do it for 
you. You get all the advantages, but none of the horror. Did you 
truly feel that before this evening? Have you learnt?"

"I...." He couldn't answer. He knew his words would not be what he 
wanted them to be. He tried to hear Scully's voice so he could frame 
his words around what she would say, but he couldn't find her.

Footsteps sounded in the distance, and voices, shouts. A question. 
Directed at him? He didn't hear the words. 

"Think, Fox." The whisper receded. It was faint, but it was 
everywhere, all sides at once. "Think on it. Remember. Tomorrow...."

Voices approached him, cautious, concerned, but it didn't matter. He 
was alone.

**********

Saturday night, very late
___

He was lost, floating in the darkness, but _some_ images came to 
him, flashing through the darkness with a vividness that was almost 
painful.

Flash....

The knife, gleaming in the night. It was clutched in his hand, and 
he looked at it, feeling something he couldn't understand. Contempt? 
Amusement? An alien emotion, suffusing him, but not his.

Flash....

Tears pouring down the face of the dying man - a man whose face he 
had viewed once before at the end of a knife blade. A man? Barely a 
man. He was no more than sixteen. Just a boy, whose terrified eyed 
darted around, raking the darkness for the face of his murderer.

He needed to cry in horror at that, but the sound that came out of 
his mouth was laughter. Only laughter. 

Flash....

Blood. Everywhere the blood. Blood from a dozen knife wounds 
trickling from a dead boy. Blood on his hands....

Blood.

"Did I?" It was so hard to speak. He tried so hard to wrench himself 
away from the vision that could _not_ be a reality. "Did I do that?"

The couch was beneath his cheek. The couch was.... The couch _had_ 
to be beneath his cheek, though his desperate questing mind could 
not feel its touch. 

It's a dream. It's a dream. It's a dream.... He muttered the words 
over and over like a mantra, willing them to be true, willing his 
eyes to see anything but the darkness that was everywhere.

A dream. Not the dream he wanted, but a dream.

The whisper touched his cheek then, indistinguishable from the 
breeze at first, but forming itself slowly into words that were 
inescapable, taking over the whole world.

"Or a reality, Fox? Or a memory?"

********** 
 
Sunday morning
____

What had she expected, as her trembling fingers had turned the key 
in his lock? What had she expected to find here?

An empty apartment, like last night - lifeless and cold, chilled by 
the dark air whistling through the crack of an open window? 

No, not that. She shook her head, wondering where that thought had 
come from. The air had been still last night - still and.... and not 
quite cold, although it had chilled her, made her shiver. But the 
wind.... She had only _heard_ the wind, entwining with his voice on 
the phone.

Mulder, waiting for her - confused, anxious.... innocent? Mulder, 
ready to talk, to tell her everything?

"We'll sort it out together, Mulder." She would touch his hand, 
offering support with her eyes, her touch, her whole being. "We'll 
get through this. I'm glad you were honest with me."

Was this what she'd expected?

She smiled sadly, recognising her fantasy as what it was - something 
to be hoped, never to be expected. Mulder would not confide, not 
willingly. She'd have to drag the truth out inch by inch, and every 
word would hurt him. 

But Mulder, sleeping, peaceful.... She had never expected _this_. 
That he should be able to sleep, after....

"Mulder." It was louder than she'd intended, but she had to silence 
that train of thought. Despite appearances, she couldn't judge. 
"Mulder, it's me." A touch on his shoulder. "Wake up."

"Scully?" He was awake in an instant, all wide-eyed panic. 
"Where....?" He didn't even _look_ at her. His eyes were darting 
around, searching every corner of the room as if he expected.... as 
if he expected what?

She bit her lip. She'd practised how she would say it so many times 
now, but she couldn't do it. Not just like that. Not without giving 
him chance to....

To confess? The voice whispered in the back of her mind, unwanted 
but unavoidable. To confess....? Did she trust him so little, even 
after everything?

"Scully? What's wrong?" He was focused on her now, anxious. He 
pushed himself up to a sitting position, wincing with pain as he 
moved. For the first time, she noticed there was a bandage on his 
right arm.

"Your arm!" For a moment, all she felt was concern. The doubts were 
nothing. He was hurt, and that was all that mattered. "What 
happened? Are you okay?"

He nodded slowly, his eyes wary, but then he smiled, though there 
was still a shadow in his voice. "It's just a cut. And, before you 
say anything, I _did_ go to the hospital. They stitched me up and 
threw me out." He rubbed his forehead. "I took a pill to help me 
sleep."

She smiled, and just for second felt genuine relief at that, but 
then.....

"Oh my God!" She gasped aloud in horrified realisation, maybe even 
uttered the words aloud. If he had a cut on his arm....

"I went for a run last night." His eyes _seemed_ sincere, but his 
face was still closed to her. "I just needed to think. I ran into a 
part of town I...."

"There was a murder last night." She clenched her fists, talking 
fast. She needed to tell him that she knew. If his explanation was 
going to be a lie.... It was something she would rather not know 
that about him.

He flinched, looking almost.... relieved? "I know. You told me." His 
hand reached out as though to touch her arm, but then fell back 
awkwardly. "I'm sorry I couldn't come to the crime scene last night. 
Was it.... was it the same as the others?"

She shook her head to clear the confusion, unable, for a moment, to 
remember what he was talking about. She felt a sudden pang of guilt 
for forgetting the case so quickly. A murder was still a murder, was 
still important, even if the suspect wasn't.... even if it wasn't so 
close to her. 

"Scully?" He leant forward, anxious, prompting. How long had she 
been silent, lost in thought?

She nodded, coughing to clear her throat. "It was the same. The man 
had been burnt." She ran a hand through her hair to hide her 
awkwardness. "There was a cross, same as the others.... I think."

"You think?" He seemed genuinely confused. His voice shook.

"I didn't go, Mulder." There was an angry edge to her voice now. Why 
did he make everything so difficult? "I couldn't. How could I, after 
you hung up on me like that? I came round to see you, Mulder. I 
waited nearly an hour." She made her voice rise to a shout. It was 
either that or tears. "Where were you, Mulder. Didn't you even think 
of me?"

"I thought of you.... This is all about.... I needed...." He was a 
little boy, whimpering and lost, shouted at by his father. "I needed 
time.... Time to think. I needed to be away from here."

"Away from me?" It was harsh - too harsh. She took several deep 
breaths, deliberately calming herself. They could _not_ discuss this 
in anger. "Away from me, Mulder?" she repeated quietly, touching his 
arm. "Can't you tell me what happened last night. Whatever the 
appearances are, I won't judge you."

"Appearances?" His head snapped up at that. Was it guilt in his 
eyes, or fear? "What do you mean? What has happened?"

"You don't know, Mulder?" She touched his face, turning it so she 
could see deep into his eyes. It was fear, she was almost sure of 
it. "You really don't know?"

But if it had been guilt, what then? Could she have supported him, 
even then?

"A youth was killed last night, Mulder." The words rushed out, 
ending the need to answer that question. "More like a boy, though he 
had quite a criminal record. He was stabbed to death. Your 
fingerprints were all over the knife. Yours and his, and no-one 
else's."

It didn't sound like her voice. It couldn't be her voice. If it was 
her voice then the words were true....

"They need to talk to you, Mulder, you must understand that. I 
persuaded them to let me come in first. They're outside, waiting. If 
we don't go out soon, they'll come."

She couldn't look at him. She had to know, but she couldn't bear it. 
If it was guilt, she didn't want to see it. Why wasn't he denying 
it?

"How did you get that cut on your arm, Mulder?" Her voice was low 
and deadly. It had to be. Anything else and it would tremble into 
tears.

"I was running, Scully." He sounded so lost, so scared. "A boy 
attacked me, tried to rob me. I got the knife off him. I.... I 
didn't kill him, Scully. I wasn't even tempted when _he_...."

She said nothing. There was nothing she could say. She let her 
silence prompt him into continuing.

"I didn't even hurt him, Scully. I didn't...." It rose at the end, 
almost like a question. 

"Then how...." She paused, making her voice softer. He needed to 
know she wasn't assuming the worst of him - _she_ needed it. "How 
did it happen, Mulder?"

"I don't know! I didn't...." His voice faded to a whisper, and she 
knew he was speaking to himself, too lost in horror to realise that 
she could hear. "A knife? It's not his style."

"Who, Mulder?" She leant forward, refusing to listen to his body 
language that was screaming at her not to push. "Who? Is someone 
trying to frame you, is that it? Has someone been threatening you?" 
She was gentle but insistent, suppressing the anger that wanted to 
fill her. "Have you got close to something you've not told me 
about?"

"I don't...." He looked at her as if she was the only thing keeping 
him alive. "Scully, I don't know. I didn't.... I think...?"

"Mulder." Realisation dawned, and with it a crashing wave of an 
emotion she'd never anticipated. She'd been prepared for accusation, 
outrage, sympathy, but not this.... sadness. "You're afraid you 
might have done it, aren't you?"

"I don't.... I can't remember. I let him go, Scully, I know that. 
But afterwards....?" He stared at his hands in horror, twisting his 
fingers as if wiping them clean. "What if it was so horrible that I 
blanked it out...?"

"Mulder, stop." She grabbed his wrists, stilling the convulsive 
movement. "Listen to me. We have to approach this rationally. _This_ 
is doing no good."

His head sank forward. He whispered two words that were no more than 
a breath of air, devoid of sound. Although she could not hear them, 
she guessed what they were - guessed the plea he could never say 
aloud.

"I want to help you, Mulder." Tears started in her eyes. "But I need 
you to help me. I need you to tell me _how_ I can help you. I need 
to know what you need help with."

He met her gaze and his eyes were full of longing, but he shook his 
head, slowly, painfully. His mouth opened, two words again, but this 
time she couldn't read them.

There was a harsh knock at the door. Their time was up.

********** 

end of part 8

**********

Sunday morning, a few hours later
___

The very air seemed to pulse with stern disapproval. She could hear 
it in the sound of every turned page, in the convulsive tapping of 
the pencil on the table.

_Why_ wasn't he saying anything?

Scully uncrossed her legs, then crossed them again, smoothing her 
skirt down with anxious hands. She glanced sideways at Mulder, but 
he was staring straight ahead, seeing nothing. 

"Sir?" She couldn't keep quiet any longer. Anger was threatening to 
burst out of her. "Mulder didn't...."

"Mulder didn't report it." Skinner's voice was stern as he laid the 
file on his desk, slamming his hand down on top of it. "Why didn't 
you report it, Agent Mulder?"

"I thought...." Mulder sounded so vague, so frightened. His eyes 
were darting round the room anxiously, as if searching. "I forgot."

"You forgot?" Skinner shouted, pushing himself up from the chair. 
She had seldom seem him as angry. "You did not forget, Agent 
Mulder." He ripped at the file, pulling out a single sheet and waved 
it accusingly. "The doctor who treated you said he was going to tell 
the police, but you assured him you would deal with it yourself. He 
says you were very insistent. So don't give me this...."

"Sir." She'd never had such a struggle to keep her voice respectful. 
"This is not fair. May I remind you that Agent Mulder is no longer 
under suspicion." 

The very act of saying the words did something to calm her, to make 
her breathing less furious. The _relief_.... She had seldom felt 
such relief as when they found out, though even then it had been 
tempered with anger. Even with the evidence, the police has still 
looked at him with suspicion in their eyes.

"Just look at it," she'd wanted to shout, needing desperately to 
protect Mulder from the accusation in their eyes. "Look at the 
security videos, and the reports. Look at them, and believe them."

She could still see the black-and-white image of Mulder arriving at 
the hospital, alone and vulnerable, brought in by strangers when she 
should have been the one by his side, protecting him. It had pained 
her to see it, but it had been the thing that had saved him. The 
video, the doctor's reports, confirmed beyond doubt that Mulder was 
already at the hospital at the time the victim had been caught, 
alive, on a security camera in town, and had been there still when 
the body had been found ten minutes later.

He was innocent. But why did he look so guilty?

"I know." Skinner's voice returned her to the present. It was 
quieter now, but still stern. "I'm aware he isn't under suspicion, 
but...." He turned to face Mulder, his voice taking on a harsh edge. 
"You should never have been under suspicion in the first place. By 
not reporting the earlier incident, you could have caused a major 
embarrassment for the Bureau."

Silence. Skinner's tone demanded an answer, but Mulder gave no sign 
even of having heard him. 

"Sir...." She dug her nails into her palms. She _had_ to speak. 
"It's...."

"It's for Agent Mulder to answer," Skinner snapped. "I appreciate 
your.... loyalty to Agent Mulder. Normally that would be admirable. 
But now...." He was round the desk in an instant, towering over 
Mulder, close and intimidating. "Answer me, Agent Mulder."

"I'm sorry, Sir." Scully let out a breath at the sound of his voice. 
"I meant to. The pain...." He gestured to his bandaged arm. "I took 
a pill to make me sleep. I.... I forgot."

There was something wrong about it, she could tell. The pill, the 
pain.... even the deep sleep.... She knew the truth of his words, 
but something didn't ring true. His body language was all wrong. He 
was scared, desperate for no-one to notice.

"Well, make sure you don't forget again, Agent Mulder." Skinner gave 
him a sharp look. His words were carefully enunciated, deliberate, 
as if signalling that he could see through the act but was letting 
it pass, this time.

"I won't." He was trying so hard to smile, nearly succeeding. He 
raised his bandaged arm.  "I've got a reminder."

Silence. Skinner returned to his desk, his face closed against them, 
dismissing them.

She would _not_ let it end like that. He couldn't ignore it.

"Sir." She stood up, her chin high and defiant. "You can't leave it 
like this. If Mulder's...." She swallowed, shooting a quick glance 
at him, suddenly anxious that he'd be angry at her going into battle 
for him, but she couldn't meet his eye. His arm was still raised, 
and he was staring at it, rapt. "If Mulder's prints were on that 
knife," she continued, "if this boy had earlier attacked Mulder...." 
She stepped forward, resting her hands on Skinner's desk. "Shouldn't 
we be investigating, Sir. If someone's trying to frame Mulder...."

He laughed at that. To her fury, Skinner laughed at that - a bitter 
laugh with no humour in it, but that did nothing to lessen her 
anger. "Agent Scully, I know the people Agent Mulder tends to.... 
alienate. If they had wanted to frame him then there would have been 
no mistakes - no convenient videos showing the truth - no hope."

No hope. She couldn't suppress a shiver at that. Mulder being 
Mulder, no hope was an ever-present fear. She had nearly lost him so 
often.... 

"But Sir...." She spoke abruptly. Her accident was still too recent 
for her to let herself think over _that_. "Shouldn't we....?"

"The police are handling it, Agent Scully." Skinner's voice brooked 
no argument, but his eyes.... His eyes were different, full of 
disquiet. It was as if he was signalling some message she couldn't 
understand.

Scully bit her lip, unsure how to proceed - whether to listen to his 
words or his eyes. She opened her mouth, then shut it, saying 
nothing.

"Go home now." She nearly gasped when Skinner spoke. His voice was 
soft, concerned. "It's Sunday. I know how hard this week has been. 
Get some rest." Then he coughed, as if consciously pulling himself 
back behind the stern professional mask. "You'll be better able to 
work tomorrow if you're fresh."

She smiled, accepting his words as an olive branch, and moved 
towards the door. She'd expected to hear the scrape of a chair, the 
sound of his footsteps on the floor, but there was nothing. 
"Mulder?" she prompted, making her voice calmer than it felt. She 
didn't even know if he'd heard her. He was like an empty shell, not 
there at all.

"Agent Mulder....?" There was an edge of concern to Skinner's voice, 
and she suddenly understood the message his eyes had been trying to 
convey. Not some dark warning, but just concern - plain concern. 
"Are you....?"

Mulder was silent. He was frowning with concentration, staring 
intently at the door to his right. "No...." She heard the word more 
as an exhalation of breath, unsure if she had imagined it. 

The door.... What was it he could _see_ there? She followed his 
eyes, seeing nothing, though she could almost feel the evil that 
emanated from there. It was Cancerman's door, and she imagined his 
eyes like daggers striking into her heart. Was that it? Was that all 
it was, Mulder's reluctance to talk? Was that all....?

All? Even amidst everything, she could almost laugh at that - a 
laugh closer to a sob. What were their lives like if this could be 
called all - if an enemy spying on their every move was nothing?

"Mulder." She spoke firmly, defiantly, proclaiming her choice to 
stay with this life, whatever the cost. "Come on."

"Home." It wasn't a question - more an order, even a plea. Again it 
was little more than a hiss of breath, not meant to be heard. "Go. 
Home."

"Yes, I'll take you home, Mulder." She didn't care who was 
listening. It was past the point of covering up, of pretending 
nothing was wrong. "You're sick. I'll take a look at that cut." She 
turned to Skinner, her voice defensive, defying him to challenge. 
"It's probably infected. He's hurt. It's too soon."

Too soon to interrogate him. Too soon to reproach.... It was 
something _she_ needed to believe too. His behaviour _had_ to be 
caused by his injury. If not, then it was.... it was not something 
she wanted to have to face.

"I'm okay." Mulder's eyes jerked into focus. It was as if he had 
been released from a spell. "I'm.... I've got to go. There's 
someone...." His eyes flicked away, almost guiltily. "Something I've 
got to do. I've just thought of it. The case...."
 
His footsteps on the floor and the sound of the closing door left 
her bereft, confused. 

Angry.

"Mulder!" She was out of the door in an instant, sparing no 
explanation for Skinner. "Mulder! Stop!" Nothing. Just his back, 
walking away. "Mulder!" There was a catch in her voice. It always 
hurt, too, as well as making her furious. To be shut out, left 
behind.... "Mulder. Please stop. Please talk to me."

His pace slowed, then stopped. She reached up to grab his shoulder 
to pull him round, but let her hand fall. Not yet. She'd lost too 
much initiative by begging. Let him hear the anger in her voice, not 
see the hurt in her face.

"I just want you to explain something to me, Mulder," she snapped, 
relentless. "I want you to explain why you never told the police you 
were innocent. I want you to explain why you seemed so surprised 
when you saw those videos. I want you to explain your behaviour 
since then. I want you to explain why you let me take the burden of 
defending you in there. I want.... Damn it, Mulder!" She pulled him 
round roughly. Her eyes were blazing and she wanted him to see it. 
"I want you to stop shutting me out."

"I'm sorry." His face was so lost, his voice so traumatised, that 
she had to look away, knowing she would lose the anger if she let 
herself feel his emotions. "I'm sorry you had to defend me. Don't."

It was so unexpected. The anger drained from her and in its 
place.... what? Weariness? There was just so much pain - one horror 
after enough. "Don't defend you, Mulder? You're innocent. Of course 
I must defend you." The weariness came out in her voice, as if she 
was speaking of it as she would a chore, a duty. She touched his 
arm, her voice sincere. "I _want_ to defend you, Mulder. It's 
my...."

She bit her lip, cutting off the words. She couldn't tell him. Not 
that she saw him sometimes as a lost twelve year old, needing a 
mother to love him, a father to protect him. He'd been alone for so 
long. He could be so vulnerable. It was her role to protect him, to 
share with him her hard-won strength. She gave him strength, but it 
gave her strength, too, this realisation that he needed her. After 
the doubts of the last week, she was grateful for that.

"Why were you afraid, Mulder?" she whispered. It was Sunday and the 
corridor was deserted, but the moment was for them alone. "When you 
found out the boy was dead...?"

"A dream. I had a dream." His words were slow and painful. She knew 
what a battle he was fighting - how hard it was for him to confide 
his feelings. "Last night. I dreamt the murder. I saw his face, and 
the knife. I thought...." He swallowed hard. "I thought it might be 
a memory."

Was that all it was? She wanted to laugh at the shattering of the 
tension, but knew it would hurt him, make him think she wasn't 
taking him seriously. "Of course you had a dream, Mulder. The boy 
attacked you - with a knife." She stressed the last words, 
reinforcing her meaning. "Of course his face was in your mind. It's 
only natural it would find its way into your dreams."

For a second he looked at her, desperately, hopefully, but then his 
eyes clouded again. "But if I dreamt about killing him, then it 
shows I subconsciously wanted him dead, so I'm g...."

"You are _not_ guilty." She stamped her foot for emphasis, though 
there were tears starting in her eyes. Was there no end to his 
capacity for guilt? "The only person who is guilty is the person who 
pushed that knife in. The only person, Mulder. No-one else."

He turned away, leaning into the wall for support. "But if the 
person with the knife...." She had to strain to hear his words. "If 
someone else asked them...."

"It's over, Mulder." She refused to listen to his question. Why was 
he tormenting himself over hypotheticals? "You didn't kill him. No-
one thinks you did. That's the end of it." He flinched at her words 
and she realised he was mistaking her firmness for anger. "There's 
no need for guilt, Mulder," she murmured, moving closer. "You've 
done nothing to be ashamed of. I trust you, Mulder."

A sound escaped his throat at that - a harsh sound, almost a sob. 
"You trust me?" he said at last, the words painfully wrenched from 
his throat. She couldn't begin to understand his expression. A 
desperate hope was battling with a look of utter shame - horrified 
shame. 

"Yes. I trust you, Mulder." She ignored the little voice that 
reminded her that she too had doubted him earlier in the morning. "I 
trust you."

His eyes were bright with unshed tears. Slowly he raised a shaking 
hand and touched her cheek, looking at her as if he was drinking in 
her every feature, terrified he would forget.

"Scully, I...." He swallowed, but it wasn't enough to stop a tear 
escaping. "I.... don't know if you should."

He lowered his hand, but despite his words, he was struggling to 
smile. There was _some_ hope in his eyes - a little. 

When he walked away, she didn't follow. She knew him too well for 
that.

**********

Sunday morning, a little later
____

"Where are you? I need you. Talk to me!"

Mulder pounded his fist against the wall, emphasising each word, 
crying out into the silence. He needed the anger. He needed to hate.

No-one came.

But there was a voice. Scully's voice, playing endlessly over and 
over in his memory. "I trust you, Mulder." White skin and blue eyes, 
clear and pure. "I trust you. I trust you."

He shut his eyes, holding onto the image until it felt so real he 
could almost touch her face. He assumed her memory like a shield. 
Scully.... His light, his strength. Scully who trusted him to do 
what was right. Scully whose image would lead him to banish the 
temptation for ever. Scully....

"Scully...." He spoke her name out loud, reaching out unconsciously, 
his hand coming up against the cold glass of the window. "Help me be 
strong. Help me to stay angry."

"Help you?" He had expected it, longed for it, but the voice still 
filled him with horror and with wanting. "_I_ can help you, Fox."

"You!" He clung to the anger, needing it. It fed Scully's image, 
keeping it strong. "Why did you do it? Tell me that. Why?" 

The answer was a hiss, a cold breath on his neck. No words. 

"Damn you!" A small chuckle at that, infuriating. "I called you this 
time. I want answers." He pushed against the window with the flat of 
his hand, tensing himself up to whirl round, to catch Reynardine 
unawares.

"Do not turn round." The voice was steel, utterly chilling. A hand 
closed around his upper arm, squeezing the flesh with an incredible 
strength. "It is light. I do not wish you to see me."

"You do not wish?" The touch was weakening him, but he held onto 
enough of the anger. "But _I_ wish. I called you here."

"You can not call me, Fox." The hand still held him, the fingers 
slowly moving up and down his flesh. "You have given me nothing. I 
have given you everything, but you do not own me."

Scully.... His mind cried out to her, trying to hold on to the 
memory of her trust, but she was slipping away. The anger, the 
rehearsed confrontation.... They were so difficult to cling to, now. 

"You...." It came out as a small frightened croak, and he coughed, 
trying to cover it. "You have given me nothing that I wanted. Why 
did you kill that boy?"

"Did I kill him? Perhaps it was you. Is there blood on your hands, 
Fox? Do you carry the memory inside you?" A feather-light brush of 
fingers on his hair, and a quick flash, barely a second, of a boy's 
terrified eyes as the knife shone above him.

"I didn't...." So soon and he was lost already, frightened and 
needing Scully. "The video...."

The fingers dug in, and the full length of a body pressed against 
his back, driving him against the window. "Ah, but you know my 
powers, Fox." The voice was a whisper, almost is his ear. "Is it not 
within my capabilities to.... enhance a video. To show a man who 
wasn't there and this to put his death somewhat later than it really 
happened?"

"You're.... you're lying." He tried to pull away, but was pinioned 
between the body and the window. "I didn't do it. Scully said so. 
You're trying.... " It came out like an anguished sob, though he was 
trying so hard for control. He knew he was clutching at straws. "I 
don't know what you're trying to do, but I know how you do it. 
Hypnosis of some sort. I.... I know what it is. I won't be trapped 
by it." 

"Why do you fight, Fox?" It was a long-suffering sigh, as if talking 
to a child. "Why do you refuse to accept the truth. Does it matter 
who killed that boy? You? Me? What does it matter. We are the same, 
Fox. If I did it, it was for you."

"No!" He pressed against the glass, trying to escape. "I told you! I 
didn't want him dead. Not _him_."

"Not him? You stress that word. Why, Fox?" A finger slowly traced 
the back of his neck. "Is it because you _did_ want the death of 
that other man, even though you denied it then. Is it because you 
_do_ want the deaths of other men now?" A seductive whisper. "Who do 
you want to die, Fox? Tell me, and I shall do it."

Scully! Help me, Scully.... Red hair, blue eyes.... Trust. I trust 
you, Mulder. Trust. Scully.... Come back. I can't _see_ you....

"You do not answer, Fox. Are you still scared I will deceive you, 
even though I have killed two for you to show my sincerity? Do you 
still think I am trying to frame you?" A condescending laugh. "Poor 
Fox. How lonely to be so without the ability to trust."

Trust. Scully. A memory? Mouth opening and shutting, but the words 
were gone. Her eyes were soft, but what had she said? Scully.... 

He shut his eyes, summoning up all his strength for the fight, 
clinging to her faded image. "You say you have killed for me, but 
you didn't." He took several deep breaths, willing his voice to 
sound less panicky. "You killed because you chose to. I didn't tell 
you to. You haven't won me yet."

"Won?" The laughter was everywhere, like fingers crawling over his 
skin. "You think I want to win you? Poor dear Fox, so alone he can 
not trust a gift freely offered! You heard me say there was no cost, 
did you not? Why would I lie to you?"

"But you don't deny it." The cold glass against his forehead was 
sharpening her image, giving him strength. "You frame your answer in 
questions, but you don't deny it. You want to own me - winning me 
with an offer I don't...." He faltered. Even without the breath on 
his neck, he couldn't quite bring himself to say it.

"You say I do not deny it." It struck, sensing his weakness. "But 
last night, _you_ were the one who did not deny. When I suggested 
the only reason you had not killed that boy was because you were 
squeamish, did you deny it? As you have done, I took your lack of 
denial as a yes. Would you have done any differently, Fox?"

Scully! Help me.... I didn't say no. I didn't say no. Was it.... Am 
I guilty? I need you to tell me, like you did before. Scully....

"If you didn't kill him...." He hardly knew where the words were 
coming from. He was desperate for some hope. "You suggested you 
didn't. Now you say.... If you didn't, then it's not my fault. You 
didn't.... It's a coincidence."

He could hear the amusement in the silence, prompting him to 
continue.

"Someone could have killed him.... Wearing gloves. Not smearing my 
prints. Or killed him with another knife, then the boy's was found 
and mistaken for the murder weapon...."  

Prints. The word hung in the air, bringing him to a halt. He didn't 
want to think about _that_. If Reynardine killed the boy and there 
were no prints....

But he'd asked him who he was before. He couldn't try again. 
Reynardine _was_. He was afraid to ask any further - afraid of the 
answers. He was afraid to believe.

Silence. He'd lost Scully's image, lost himself.

"Have you finished?" Reynardine's voice was amused, tolerant. "A 
coincidence? You sound like your charming partner. Will you not 
believe, Fox? I can do these things. You should believe this. Leave 
the denial to your partner, as long as she..." He left the words 
hanging, suggestively. 

"As long as....?" He repeated the word. There was something about 
Reynardine's tone of voice - a shadow of some sort. "What do you 
know about Scully? If you've hurt her...."

The fingers squeezed into his arm, holding him still. He was 
suddenly sure he was falling straight into a trap, but he couldn't 
turn back. Not if there was any threat to Scully. The cost was too 
much. 

"I have not hurt your partner, Fox. _They_ are the ones who did 
that. Remember how this all started, Fox. _They_ have not forgotten, 
even if you have."

Forgotten. Guilt choked him, depriving him of breath. The threat to 
Scully. The woman who knew about Samantha.... They were everything. 
Against them, the question of whether he would be charged with 
murder was nothing - of no importance at all. He was lost in his own 
selfishness.

"Scully." He spoke through tears. His reflection in the window 
seemed to blur and dance, becoming two, then one again. It was 
distorted, grotesque like a gargoyle. It held him, fascinated, as if 
he was seeing the face of his own selfishness.

"It is _them_, Fox. Not you." The voice was a welcome balm, offering 
hope in the darkness. "They are the ones who threaten her. They are 
waiting, even now. Can you see how it will be?"

A hand reached from behind, holding his head steady. His imagination 
flashed an image. Two men, laughing in Scully's apartment. Cruel 
faces. They had guns, held as easily as if they were part of them. 
One of them sat on her bed. Her gold cross trickled through his 
fingers, and he was laughing.

The gold cross....

The image vanished into darkness and the hand snatched away. 

"Have they....?"

"No. Not yet. They will hold her safety over you like a sword. They 
will stop you from doing anything. They will own you."

"As you would own me." He was weary now, and bitter, wanting only to 
be free to go to her. 

"But that would be a choice, dear Fox." So silken and persuasive. "I 
would _give_ you something - powers men can normally only dream of. 
I can remove your enemies with no repercussions. The perfect murder 
- no punishment, no guilt. Who would not want this? Most men would 
envy you."

It was relentlessly logical, playing on reason not emotions. It was 
so like Scully's way of proceeding.... Impossible to resist.

"They own you already. You are manipulated into every step you take. 
That boy was nothing. Can you feel the joy that would come of 
knowing you had finally done something to cripple them - after all 
these years, something to make them sit up and take notice? It is 
the only way, Fox. You say you want the truth, but you merely pay 
lip-service to the idea until you are prepared to act."

I don't want.... I don't.... Scully....! His mind was screaming, but 
his mouth was moving, framing words he didn't want to say. "I.... 
d...."

"No, Fox. No." A hand snaked round his face, closing on his mouth. 
"Do not say it, not yet. I want you to be sure this is what you 
want." A laugh. "See? I am not tricking you. I am not forcing you. 
The choice is so much more.... valuable when it is your own free 
will, taken with proper thought."

He was reeling, not comprehending. He couldn't speak.

"And something might happen, Fox. Who knows? Maybe there will be 
something tonight you would wish to see before deciding."

The hand slid up from his mouth, pressing itself over his eyes, but 
the darkness was as nothing against the fear in his mind. 

He'd said no.... Reynardine had stopped him. He wasn't forcing... So 
the temptation - the urge to say yes.... It came from inside him. It 
wasn't Reynardine,  pushing him. It was his own heart of darkness.

The hand moved from his arm, squeezing hard on a nerve at the back 
of his neck, driving him to his knees. Tears welled in his eyes, 
blurring his vision even as the fingers stroked their way off his 
face, gently uncovering his eyes.

By the time he was able to turn round, he knew no-one was there. He 
searched his memory for Scully, but she was gone.

**********

end of part 9

**********

Sunday afternoon
____

"Scully!" 

It was no more than a breath, almost a sob of relief, but it was all 
she heard. Kelleher's voice, though louder, faded into nothing.

"Mulder." She took a step towards him. He was silhouetted in the 
open door and she was unable to read his face. "What's the matter? 
Has anything happened - anything else?"

"Scully.... Scully." He spoke slowly, as if unable to progress past 
the simple repetition of her name. "You're here. I thought.... " He 
stepped forward, reaching out. "You didn't go home."

"No." She smiled, her voice firm and confident. There was so much 
they needed to discuss, but this wasn't the place, not with 
Kelleher's eyes following her every move. "I stayed. Agent Kelleher 
wanted me to take a look at the body they found last night." She 
shrugged, apologetically. "I know it's Sunday, but...."

"But we need to solve this case," Kelleher interrupted, impatiently. 
"Three deaths now and we have no leads. They won't autopsy it until 
tomorrow and Dana offered to help." He stepped close to her - too 
close, still - but she detect no hint of condescending amusement in 
his voice. 

"There's nothing, though." She shut her eyes briefly to steady 
herself. The sight of the burned flesh had shaken her, though she 
had anchored herself on the memory of Mulder's fear, telling herself 
he needed her to be strong. It had worked, almost. "This man was 
killed just like the others - the beatings, the fire, the cross. 
There's nothing new."

Silence. Mulder stepped forward as if drawn, and the light fell on 
his face at last. She'd thought there had been relief in his voice 
before, but his face showed nothing but horror. Slowly, oh so 
slowly, he raised a faltering hand towards her face.

"Mulder?" An urgent whisper, with an anxious glance towards 
Kelleher. His eyes narrowed, missing nothing.

"It's not there...." Mulder's voice was no more than a whisper. 
"It's gone, like he....." He bit his lip. Nothing.

"What, Mulder?" His hand was at the level of her throat, and she 
grabbed it, trying to focus him by her touch. "What's gone?"

"Your cross. You're not wearing it." He stared at her pleadingly, 
and his voice was suddenly loud and urgent. "Where is it?" he almost 
shouted. 

She ran a hand across her throat, her eyes never leaving Mulder's 
face. His eyes followed her hand, lingering on her touch. "I must 
have forgotten," she said, trying to smile. "It's probably at home 
by the bed. I don't always wear it. It's nothing to worry about."

He stared at her in utter silence. His lips moved, as if repeating 
her last sentence, but his eyes showed how little he believed it.

It was too much. Despite Kelleher's presence, she couldn't let it 
pass. With no more than a glance at Kelleher, she grabbed Mulder's 
arm, pushing him into the doorway.

"What's the matter, Mulder?" she whispered urgently. "Please...." 
She reached up and felt his forehead, and was disappointed to find 
his temperature seemed normal. If it was a fever, as least it could 
be cured. But this.... Oh God! She just didn't know.

"Your head...." He stretched out his hand until it was _this_ close 
to touching her hair, then let it fall again. "When you were 
hurt...." He looked away awkwardly, the words tumbling out in a 
rush, ashamed and embarrassed. "I don't want you to get hurt again, 
Scully."

She took a deep breath, but it was to control her own shame rather 
than any anger. She worried about him - of course she did. She would 
do anything to protect him. Why had she made him so ashamed of 
wanting to protect _her_? 

"I know you don't, Mulder," she said, at last, smiling. "But I'm not 
in any danger here. It's the FBI morgue not a stake-out." 

"They're in your apartment.... They might be. He said...." He 
grabbed her upper arm and his fingers dug into the flesh with the 
force of his urgency. "They're waiting. I want to come...." His eyes 
flooded with guilt, and he relaxed his grip, looking away. "Please 
be careful, Scully. I couldn't...." 

There was a long silence, but he didn't finish. She took a deep 
breath, steadying herself. She just didn't understand. 

"Why? Why should they be there? We're not on to anything here, are 
we? Or you....?" She couldn't prevent an edge of accusation creeping 
into her voice. She shut her out of so much, and it still hurt. "Are 
_you_ on to something you're not telling me?"

"No!" His voice was hot with denial. "I'm not. I'm not close to 
anything. I didn't...." Suddenly it was a whisper again, cracking. 
His eyes were shiny and moist. "Nothing. Just this case. Not the.... 
not any other."

Maybe her hand was hot, that she couldn't feel a fever. There _had_ 
to be something. "It's okay, Mulder," she soothed, low and 
comforting as to a child. Strange how often she thought of him like 
that, protecting him from hurt. "I'll be careful. I'm glad you told 
me." She dug her nails into her palm, summoning up the courage. "I 
know there's more. Why don't we go home now and talk...."

She touched him, and he flinched. An inarticulate cry of pain, 
leaving her reeling, hurt.

"What are you planning next, Tony?" She hadn't thought he could 
string two syllables together, but it was his voice, coherent, loud. 
He turned his back on her, speaking to Kelleher.

"I don't know." There was a strange note to Kelleher's voice - 
almost hostile, though she couldn't understand why. "I have a few 
ideas. The latest victim was taken outside his place of work. I'm 
hoping someone saw something." He took a step forward, accusation 
unmistakable now. "You said you'd do a profile."

"Have you investigated.... That heart attack.... Did this man also 
have an enemy who died? Did the first victim?" Mulder made no 
reaction to Kelleher's hostility. His tone was urgent, as if he 
needed the answer, but dreaded it too.

Kelleher tried to exchange a glance with Scully, but she looked 
away, refusing. "We've covered that, Mulder," he said, almost 
contemptuously. "That was just a coincidence. Natural causes. 
Nothing."

"But if it wasn't?" Mulder's voice was intense. It was so like his 
normal behaviour on a case, but the tension in his body belied that. 
"It doesn't even have to _be_ that. If the killer just thought that. 
Think about the cross. He was driving out evil - punishing. I feel 
it." 

She couldn't see his face, but his voice was terrible. I feel it.... 
I feel it.... What did he mean? 

Kelleher laughed. "Why should he think that? Why would anyone think 
that? It was natural causes, for God's sake."

Scully reached for the door. Mulder's face was still turned away, 
but she could see his throat working convulsively. "It seemed...." 
he managed at last. It was not normal behaviour now - far from it. 
"It felt right. I needed...."

Kelleher.... How dare he? Kelleher was smiling.

"You asked him to do a profile." She stepped forward, hearing her 
anger in the rapping of her heels. "If Mulder thinks this is it, 
then...." She paused for just a second, remembering. _She_ had 
laughed at the theory too. "We should at least consider it," she 
continued, deliberately. "He's been right on things I would have 
laughed at, once."

Mulder flashed a quick glance at her, and there was gratitude there 
- gratitude and surprise. She smiled, glad that even in the midst of 
everything, they could still connect.

Kelleher grunted. "Okay, he can look into it if he wants, but I want 
to follow other lines of enquiry," he said, speaking as if he was 
granting a great favour. "We'll see who gets there first."

"It's not a race, Agent Kelleher." She didn't like the way he was 
looking at her - as if inviting her to share a joke at Mulder's 
expense. It reminded her of another case, a lifetime ago. "We're all 
on the same side here - the victims' side," she reminded him, less 
anger in her voice than she felt.

Kelleher ran his hand through his hair, as if considering. "I know," 
he said, at last. "I'm sorry." He turned towards Mulder, smiling 
awkwardly. "I'm sorry, Mulder. It's just.... I need results here. 
You said you'd leave those X-File ideas behind on this one. I guess 
I'd hoped...." He shrugged, running out of words. 

Silence. Mulder raised his hand, then let it fall, reaching out but 
struggling. His eyes were.... God! She couldn't see his eyes. He was 
shut off again, looking away. Just a minute ago he'd been so driven 
on the case, but now....

"Mulder!" She was at his side in an instant. It couldn't go on like 
this. "Mulder, what's the matter?"

His lips moved wordlessly. Three syllables. She'd seen them on his 
lips enough before to know them. 

Samantha.

She bit her lip, wondering whether to tell him she'd seen. Where had 
this come from? They'd spoken about it so little, but she knew he'd 
hoped much of the case in Arkansas. Had the disappointment there 
hurt him worse than she knew?

"Mulder." She touched his arm, trying not to feel hurt at the way he 
flinched. "Please...."

"You said you trusted me." His voice was wild and urgent. He showed 
no signs of remembering that Kelleher could hear every word. 
"Earlier, you said...."

"I trust you, Mulder." She took a deep breath, wondering how far to 
push. Could it do any harm? Things could hardly get worse than this. 
"And you said.... You weren't sure you deserved my trust," she 
prompted, deciding. "Why was that, Mulder?"

"Modell." She could barely hear him - could scarcely believe she'd 
heard him right. Modell? That was over three months ago now? Where 
had _that_ come from? "I could have killed you," he murmured, 
reaching for the support of the wall. "Maybe I _thought_ those 
things...."

Silence. He was breathing deeply, but there was no other sound. She 
couldn't begin to understand what had prompted this. Every second 
that passed was like a hammer-blow, reproaching her for having no 
answer.

"Mulder...." She was lost - utterly lost - but she had to say 
something. "What happened then.... We've been over this, Mulder. He 
made you think those things - he made you act like that. It wasn't 
your fault. None of it."

"He suggested." She caught a quick glimpse of his eyes, and they 
were terrified. "I could feel him in my mind. But what if.... if he 
could only control me by suggesting things I already believed, 
somewhere deep inside? Maybe it was me all along. We've blamed him, 
but it was me.... " His words tumbled out, a scarcely coherent 
torrent. "He was just the trigger. I was so quick to hate him, but 
now...."

"That's not true. You have nothing to feel guilty about. You mustn't 
feel guilt for something you couldn't control." 

As soon as she'd spoken she regretted it. He had seemed unaware of 
her, pouring out the truth without thought. His pain was terrible to 
see, but at least he was talking. She shouldn't have interrupted.

"But if...." He swallowed hard. "Scully, if someone was suggesting 
something, and it seemed so right when he was saying it, but it's 
wrong.... but it seems right.... and you want to fight but can't.... 
but part of you doesn't want to....?" He started, looking at her for 
the first time. "Like Modell did," he said, defensively.

She shook her head, floundering. She was getting close, she was sure 
of it, but it wasn't the time. Kelleher.... She could almost feel 
his eyes on her back. 

"Mulder." She moved close, whispering. "Like I said, I trust you. 
Modell.... I don't know how he did it, but he was clever. You 
mustn't feel any guilt about what happened."

Mulder nodded, a distant look in his eyes. "Yes. He's clever," he 
muttered, his voice rising with something that could have been hope. 

Kelleher's steps sounded close behind her, and he gave a deliberate 
cough, reminding them they had work to do. She refused to 
acknowledge him.

"I'm.... I'm fine." Mulder answered her unspoken concern with a 
smile that didn't reach his eyes, not quite. "Thank you, Scully." He 
stepped away from the wall, shutting his eyes for a second as if to 
steady himself, but when he opened them they were focused. "Shall we 
get to work?"

She stood her ground, refusing to be dismissed. "Tonight, Mulder," 
she whispered, too low for Kelleher to hear. "Tonight." They would 
talk tonight. She would accept nothing less.

Mulder looked away, his eyes shadowed.

**********

Sunday afternoon, late
____

How long had he been sitting there, his hand resting on the phone, 
thoughts swirling in his head, rendering time meaningless?

Mulder raised his hand, feeling the life run painfully back into the 
numb fingers, then lowered it again, running it across the lines of 
writing on the papers on his desk. Writing. Names and dates.... 

Deaths.

He had needed to find this truth so badly, but now he knew it, he 
feared it - feared his need. 

Holding the papers in trembling fingers, he forced himself to read 
again the words that were already seared into his memory.

"Alex Simms, aged 45, died 3 June 1996, after a sudden illness." He 
read the words aloud, needing to feel the name as a real person, but 
his mind was on the truths behind the newspaper announcement. Alex 
Simms, married to the ex-wife of the first victim, died of a heart 
attack no-one could have predicted.

And the next one.... The next one roused in him the stirrings of a 
fear he would _not_ think about.

"Jackson Griffiths, aged 51...." His voice faded out, unable to read 
the date on which the latest victim's boss had died. The date.... 
Five days ago. The darkness of a night with a gun, and a voice.... A 
voice coming fresh from one death to cause another?

"No!" He slammed his fist against the desk, the impact jarring his 
wounded arm and driving tears from his eyes. It didn't matter. Pain 
kept him focused, safe from the lethargy that came with the voice.

He blinked away the tears, staring at the names, forcing himself to 
remember what they stood for.

Punishment. Murder led to punishment. Revenge led to revenge. An eye 
for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.

"God!" He ran his good hand through his hair as if he could drive 
out the darkness with the force of his touch. "Punishment. Is 
that....?"

Was it all that was stopping him? This intense need to know that the 
men had been burnt as a punishment for an unseen crime.... Was it 
because somehow he knew that, without fear of the repercussions, he 
would agree to Reynardine's offer without a second thought?

"I trust you, Mulder. I trust you." He summoned Scully's words into 
his memory and lingered on them, drinking in their meaning, but he 
could no longer believe them.

He leant forward, head resting on his hand, shut his eyes, and let 
the darkness....

"Mulder?" It retreated, the darkness, held at bay by the light of 
Scully's voice, by a soft touch on his shoulders. 

He looked up. She was real.

"It's okay, Mulder." Her voice was more confident than her eyes. "I 
went home. There was no-one there. The doors and windows were all 
okay." She paused, continuing awkwardly, gesturing with her eyes to 
the man who had followed her into the office. "Agent Kelleher went 
with me. We were following a lead, and it took us close to home."

He smiled, meaning it. Once he might have felt a spark of jealousy 
that she had accepted Kelleher's protection, but not now. Her safety 
was too important for that.

Then he sobered suddenly, remembering the cross. She still wasn't 
wearing it. He touched her hand, trying to hide his sudden fear. "Be 
careful," he whispered.

"We have a lead, Mulder." Kelleher stepped forward, eyes shining 
with undisguised triumph. "A man was seen acting suspiciously 
outside the last victim's work place. He was there for hours, as if 
waiting." He pulled out a notebook. "We have a fairly good 
description. Good enough to take round the neighbourhood, asking."

"What about you, Mulder?" Scully crouched down beside him, her voice 
gentle. She had wanted to stay with him, but he had asked her to go 
with Kelleher. He wasn't ready to face her questions. "Did you find 
what you were looking for?" she asked, gesturing to the papers on 
his desk.

Did I find....? He licked his lips, trying to regain his voice. 
Scully's eyes.... How could he keep secrets from a look like that?

"I found something," he stammered, wrenching his eyes away. It was 
so difficult to say, now. He shut his eyes, concentrating on the 
words. "All of the victims.... In every case, someone they didn't 
get on with died unexpectedly just a few days before.... before they 
were taken and.... and burnt." 

"Died?" Kelleher leant forward, his voice sharp. "Murdered?"

Mulder swallowed, judging his words carefully. He felt trapped, 
surrounded by questions. Just like Reynardine, always asking things 
he didn't want to think about. "Not murdered in a way that most 
people would accept," he said, slowly. "They were passed off as 
heart attacks, but...."

"That again!" He could hear Scully's sharp intake of breath at 
Kelleher's contemptuous snort. "Damn it, Mulder. Once you get to a 
certain age, everyone knows someone who dies of a heart attack. It's 
just coincidence."

"Where do you want to go from here?" Scully ignored Kelleher. There 
was a strange look on her face, and he remembered that her father 
had died of a heart attack too. 

"I don't know." He was caught unawares by the question. He'd thought 
only of how the discovery would affect him, not how it would affect 
the case. "I guess we can look for similar deaths.... predict who 
the next victim will be...."

"Similar deaths?" Kelleher was pacing up and down the room, raising 
his hands in frustration. "You mean, follow up every single death in 
the whole city, then trace every person who may have had some sort 
of grudge against them...." He gave a scathing laugh. "Do you know 
how long that would take, Mulder? It would cover half the 
population."

"Strange deaths." Mulder couldn't suppress a shiver. Scully  looked 
at him sharply, but he looked away, fighting to express himself in 
words. "They look.... explainable, but there's something.... 
Remember what that woman said.... as if her husband had been killed 
by an invisible hand. It struck and left no trace."

Kelleher opened his mouth, then closed it again. He gave an unsteady 
smile, as if he regretted his hostility. "You were involved in a 
strange death last night," he said, laughing.

Scully gave a cry of protest, but he didn't hear her words. His own 
denial was screaming in his head, some words silent, some aloud, but 
which was which he didn't know. "I wasn't. That wasn't me. There 
were no prints, but.... Not me. Nothing to do with me. I'm not like 
them. They chose to kill. I didn't. No risk. I said no. Not me."

".... proof, Agent Kelleher." Scully, finishing with a glare of 
defiance.

What had she been saying? Had she heard...? Had he spoken aloud? Was 
he.... Was it true?

"I'm sorry." Kelleher shifted awkwardly on his feet, a confused look 
on his face. "It was a joke. I didn't mean to imply anything."

Mulder sank forward, supporting his head on his good hand. It was 
too much. He was just too tired to fight.

"Mulder?" Scully rose to her feet, her voice taut with worry.

God! She'd been through so much recently. She shouldn't have to be 
burdened with worrying about him too. She was all strength on the 
outside, but he knew she must be feeling the strain inside. 

"I'm okay." He smiled, rising unsteadily to his feet. "My arm 
hurts," he said, truthfully. "I want to go home."

Home. Cold fingers touching his mind. A voice....

He shivered.

**********

Sunday evening
____

The night was like fingers pressing on his throat, strangling him. 
He was surrounded by malevolence. Them, watching, threatening. 
_Him_....

Mulder shut his eyes, but he could still see it. Neatly typed words 
on the envelope he'd found in the middle of his couch, stark white 
against the black. Just two words.....

"Next time....?"

And in the envelope, something else. 

He'd held it for but a second, feeling the chain snake around his 
fingers, seeing the light reflect of the tiny cross. Scully's cross. 
It had hurt him with its memories, with its implications. He was 
utterly aware of the feel of it resting in his pocket. 

And the words.... They hammered in his head, giving him no respite 
from the horrible images they conjured up. "Next time...?" Next time 
they could take more than her cross. 

Lights from police cars flashed in his memory, shining on the blood-
stained shards of glass in an apartment that had lost its soul. He 
didn't think he could..... He _knew_ he couldn't live through that 
again.

"Scully...." he whispered in the dark, alert for the faintest 
whisper that would announce the presence of.... of what? Her hope? 
His damnation?

If Reynardine had come just after the phone call, then.... 

He clenched his fists, intense shame mixed with disappointment. 
Disappointment that he hadn't come - hadn't given him the chance 
this time? Would he have said yes? He shook his head, wondering. 
They had threatened Scully. Did they deserve to live?

"You got our message." He replayed the phone call in his head, 
forcing himself to avoid answering that question. The voice had been 
level and uninflected.

"Next time....?" he'd repeated, horrified at the confirmation. He'd 
almost convinced himself the cross had been left by Reynardine, 
playing tricks.

"You just let yourself fill in the blank, Agent Mulder." A chuckle, 
dark and incongruous. "You know what we can do."

"Leave her alone. Don't hurt her," he'd shouted, hot with anger. His 
eyes had searched desperately around the room, although he knew his 
gun was locked away. He hadn't been able to live with seeing it so 
close, not since that night. "I've done what you wanted. I've 
stayed."

I've stayed.... The words pulled him out of his memory, and he 
clenched his fist tighter, imagining the feel of the gun that he 
couldn't allow himself to touch. Tears started in his eyes at the 
constant memory of what they had made him lose.

I've stayed....

"Have you, Agent Mulder?" The voice pulled him back into the past, 
harsh and relentless. "We know you've stayed in the flesh, but have 
you been.... reaching out, as it were, into places you should have 
avoided?"

"I haven't...." He'd tried so hard to sound strong, but his voice 
had cracked. The threat had closed on him like a vice. 

"But if things should change, would you still?" The voice over the 
phone had been suddenly sharp and deadly as a dagger. "You would be 
advised to remember that."

Remember that? He'd been speechless, recognising the threat but not 
understanding.

"Remember, Agent Mulder. Stay away, or next time...?"

He'd heard a thousand deaths in the click of the phone call being 
cut off - heard Scully scream in a thousand forms of agony.

But Reynardine hadn't come.

"Scully...." He touched the pocket containing the cross, but then 
pulled away, burnt by the images of what it implied. Instead, he 
fell to his knees on the floor and tilted his head back, letting the 
dark air touch the tear tracks on his face.

Scully.... I need to protect you, Scully. They're threatening you. 
They don't deserve to live. It's wrong, but.... but it's right, too. 
I'd be doing it for you.... You and Samantha.... They took my hope 
away.

A breath of air caressed his cheek and he whirled round, hopefully, 
fearfully, but there was no-one there. Just a window open to the 
night.

"Scully....."

Footsteps sounded in the corridor, blocking out the light under the 
door, but they passed by, the murmur of distant laughter sounding 
from a lifetime away. 

"Melissa...." He whispered her name, struck by the searing image of 
memory. Another dark night, footsteps at the door, and a voice.... 
"Willingly walking deeper into darkness can not help her at all," 
she'd said, her eyes flashing fire so like her sisters'.

And if he _hadn't_ listened to her....?

Scully, help me.... I'm not strong enough to fight this myself. I 
know it's wrong, but.... Tell me, Scully. Help me.

He pushed himself unsteadily to his feet, moving towards the door.

Not everything. He wouldn't have to tell her everything. Not about 
the "accident", reawakening the horror he'd seen in her eyes in the 
hospital. Not about Reynardine - never about him. Not about how 
close he'd come. Not about.... Oh God! Not about how close he might 
have been to Samantha, had they not made him give it up for....

For Scully. Not that. Never that. 

He ran his hand across his face, wiping away the tears, wishing he 
could wipe away the confusion. He shut the door behind him, heading 
down the corridor.

He could almost hear her voice, though her words.... He couldn't 
hear what she was saying. He was so deep in darkness he couldn't see 
how she could help him out of it. But she would, he knew that. She 
was his hope, and his strength. She would hold him, support him, 
strengthen him, shield him. 

She would save him.

He clawed at the door handle unseeingly, and the night air hit his 
face. For just a second he shrank away, feeling Reynardine's touch 
in every whisper of the wind, but then he stepped forward, bracing 
himself.

"Agent Mulder?" A tremulous voice, little louder than silence. A 
female voice. "Are you Agent Mulder?"

He froze. It felt like an eternity as he turned round, facing into 
the darkness. 

It was a girl - a woman - her clothes ragged, her face white and 
frightened. Her face was cut just like in his dream. 

Hannah Gordon.

Oh God, oh God, oh God.... He dug his nails into his palms in 
horror. The phone call.... "Stay away, or next time....?" 

"Please?" Her voice was little, frightened. She took a step forward, 
eyes glancing briefly towards the street, then back to his face, 
pleading.

Scully.... I can't. I need to. I can't. Scully dead and bleeding, 
her mother crying. An empty apartment. I can't. Walk away. Just walk 
away.

"Agent Mulder?"

Samantha. She might _know_.... A voice in a white light. "Fox! Help 
me, Fox!" Screaming in torment, needing his help. So close. He just 
had to step forward. 

Just. One. Step....

He shut his eyes, mind screaming. When I open them, she's gone. When 
I open them, she's gone.... Can't choose. Scully. Samantha.... Not 
here. Help me. I want to wake up....

And then she gasped, and he opened his eyes to blood. Blood, 
blossoming on her chest like a deadly flower. Her eyes as she sank 
to the floor. Blood.

"Samantha!" He didn't know if he screamed aloud. He raised an arm, 
reaching for the memory of a girl who was torn from him, but he was 
glued to the spot, unable to move. There was a screech of tyres in 
the street, but he couldn't even turn to see her murderer. 

Samantha! So close. I can't.... I'm sorry.....

Her eyes were glazing over, but she looked at him from the ground. 
There was nothing but pain in her expression, but he could feel the 
reproach. 

Samantha! They might be watching. I can't.... Scully. She might 
_not_ know. I'm not deserting you, Samantha. She might not know. I 
can't risk Scully on just a hope. You understand....? Samantha?

A car in the street, pulling up. Footsteps. A voice.... Nothing.

"Mulder?" A familiar voice. Who? Red hair shining like a brand. "Who 
is.... " The face flashed out of view, bending over. "No pulse. 
She's dead."

Dead. Too late. Never know. Dead.

"Mulder?"

Dead. Too late. Nothing she can tell me now.... Safe. Safe to move 
now, but.... but I can't. 

"Mulder? What happened? Who is she?" A hand, shaking his arm. "Talk 
to me, Mulder."

Dead. They killed her. _Them_. I'll kill them, I'll kill them, I'll 
kill them, I'll kill them....

"Mulder? Please.... Just look at me, Mulder." A slight tremble. 
"You're worrying me, Mulder."

"Where are you?" Tears choked the cry, but he screamed with all his 
strength in his mind. "Come to me now! I'll say yes. I agree. I 
don't care what the consequences are. Take me, own me, use me, damn 
me.... Just kill them. Please."

"Mulder." Shaking him, panic in her voice. Who was it? Not _him_. He 
called him "Fox," and his touch was as silk.

"Please.... Why don't you come. I need you. Please...." 

Despair broke the spell and he sank to his knees, his cheeks 
stinging with tears. He coughed, regaining enough of his voice to 
cry aloud.

"Please...." It was supposed to fill the world, but came out as the 
smallest of whimpers. "Yes...."

"Mulder?" Arms enfolded him, rocking him gently, stroking his hair. 
"Shh, it's okay. I'm here."

Scully...?

**********

end of part 10

**********

Sunday night, a short time later
____

"I have to face it. It's time. I have to ask."

Scully gripped the mug until her knuckles were white, hearing the 
words hammering in her head, insistent and rhythmic as Mulder's 
pacing footsteps. His every movement felt dangerous. It was 
something she wasn't sure she could face.

"Mulder?" The coffee trembled. "What.... what happened out there?"

He was tense as a spring, pacing, eyes darting wildly around the 
room as if searching. His step faltered at her words, but he gave no 
other sign of hearing her. _All_ his attention was on.... on what? 

"Mulder?" She placed the full mug on the coffee table and stood up, 
ignoring his body language screaming at her to keep her distance. 
"Please tell me." A pause. "The police.... You'll have to tell 
them."

"They shot her." He didn't look at her, but his words related to 
what she had asked. It was a start. "They shot her, just like...." 
He slammed his fist into the wall, sudden and violent. "_They_...."

"I know." She reached out and touched his arm, her fingers trembling 
slightly, her voice soft. She didn't doubt him now, but earlier, 
before other witnesses had described the unmarked white van, the 
flash of a gunshot.... Had part of her suspected that _he_ had done 
it?  The very thought filled her with guilt, but, even as she'd held 
him at the scene, her eyes had been raking the darkness, searching 
for his gun. 

She faltered, her hand dropping. Did she trust him so little? Did 
she....?

"It was her!" Mulder cried out suddenly, his voice a torrent of 
fury, interrupting her thoughts. Tears were pouring down his face 
and he gave no sign of being aware of her presence. "They killed 
her. She might have known.... She must have known. She came to find 
me. How else could she have known me? They shot her. She might have 
known Samantha, and they shot her.... They shot her."

Her? Samantha....? Oh God! Horror clawed at her throat, depriving 
her of breath. What could she say?

"They shot her! They shot her! They shot her!" The words poured out, 
a terrible litany of despair, and he pounded his hand into the wall 
over and over, hammering like nails into a coffin. "They shot her!" 
Pound. "They shot her!" Pound. "They shot her!" Pound.

"Mulder!" It was enough. The pounding penetrated the lethargy of 
horror, forcing her to move, to speak.... to do _something_ to stop 
this nightmare. "Mulder! Stop!" She reached for him, holding his 
fist, trying to stop him by sheer force. She had never seen such 
anger. "Mulder! Stop this! Stop! Listen!" 

"They killed her!" But it was quieter now, more a sob than a shout. 
His arm stilled, held fast by her grip. "They killed her." 

She was close to losing him. He still wasn't looking at her, wasn't 
even aware of her. She wanted to cry at the sight of his eyes. 

But what could she say? There was nothing, not yet - nothing he 
would hear. For now, there she could only strengthen him with her 
look and her touch.

"She came all the way from Arkansas to find me, and they killed 
her." It _was_ a sob now - a terrible cry of pain. "They wouldn't 
even leave me one word of hope. That's all I needed. Just one word." 
He blinked, as if seeing her for the first time. "Just one word, 
that's all I needed. Why was that a threat to them?"

Arkansas....? But he'd said....?

"She's Hannah Gordon!" She hadn't meant to speak the words aloud - 
to ignore his question - but there was no other thought in her mind. 
Hannah Gordon. Arkansas. The case.... The abduction case. She took a 
deep breath, trying to stifle her fear. "But you said the case was 
nothing."

"It was everything. They.... they wouldn't let me." His hand 
strained against her grip, as if needing to pound the wall, matching 
pain with pain. "They told me to keep away. What could I do?" He 
spoke to the window, to the deserted street, no sign of knowing her. 
"They left me no choice. They threatened Scully. They.... they 
destroy everything. I _hate_ them."

Her heart beat roared in her ears like pounding waves. Threaten 
Scully....? That meant.... Oh God, oh God! Not true. Don't let it be 
true. Not true.

"Mulder?" Her voice was steadier than she could ever have dreamed. 
"They threatened.... they threatened me? Is that why...." She 
swallowed hard. "Is that why you didn't go to Arkansas?"

She could almost see it, the way he retreated inside himself, as if 
seeking sanctuary from.... from what? How did he expect her to 
react? "They said they'd hurt you," he said, at last, his voice 
reluctant and scared. "I'm sorry."

I'm sorry? God! It was _anger_ he expected her to feel. Anger that 
he had tried to protect her? Anger that he hadn't told her? 
Anger....? Oh God, she couldn't. Not when the decision had caused 
him such pain that she could hardly bear to look at his eyes.

"How do you know it's her?" She bit her lip to pull back to words. 
The questions was so inadequate, so prosaic, after his revelation. 

"It's her," he snapped, though she could tell his anger was not 
directed at her. "He told me. I saw her...." He started suddenly, 
paused, then continued, his voice dull. "I saw her photograph. The 
Lone Gunmen told me. They said she reacted when she heard my name. 
She ran away when they came to get her." He caught her off guard 
then, pulling his arm away and slamming into the wall, one solitary 
thud of anger. "_They_ killed her," he cried. "Them."

"Mulder." She was desperate for something - anything - to comfort 
him. "Maybe she didn't.... How did she know your address? How did 
they know....?" She touched his face, as if forcing her words into 
his mind. She _meant_ them, now. "Mulder, how did they know she was 
here? Maybe they told her to come here. Maybe they set this whole 
thing up. Maybe she was just their tool all along."

"Why?" His voice was dead, hopeless. "Why would they do that?"

She swallowed hard, at a  loss. "I don't know," she whispered, 
reluctantly.

Silence. He looked at her, full and intense, his gaze unwavering. He 
raised his hand - his poor bruised and swollen hand - to her cheek, 
touching her softly. There was such fear in his eyes. "They 
said...." He took a deep breath, blinking back tears. "They said 
they'd...." A low sob, desperate. "I didn't talk to her. I didn't. 
It was you."

She shut her eyes, unable to take his pain. She was close to the 
edge herself, buffeted by the waves of sadness and guilt his words 
produced. "Was that the price, Mulder," she whispered, her voice 
small. "You make any move to speak to her, and...." Flames flared in 
the darkness behind her eyelids and she opened her eyes quickly, 
seeking the light. "Is that why you warned me this morning? They 
threatened.... It was me or...." Samantha. "Or her."

Me or Samantha. Me or Samantha.... And he'd chosen..... Tears 
started in her eyes at the horror of the choice he'd been given. The 
quest for Samantha was his life, yet he'd.... God! He'd just stood 
there, making no move to talk to the woman he thought held the 
truth.

"I couldn't let them hurt you, Scully." He was speaking as if 
ashamed about it, and she knew with a crashing sense of guilt that 
she'd made him this way - make him believe concern was over-
protectiveness. 

She opened her mouth, but was without words. She just wanted to.... 
Oh God! What did she want to do? This.... This changed everything. 
It could never be the same again.

"I'm okay, Mulder." Inadequate - deeply inadequate - but the silence 
forced the words from her. "They weren't there. We looked. There was 
no-one in my apartment."

He raised a hand ineffectually to his breast pocket, then let it 
fall, as if that one brush of his finger against the fabric had 
burnt him. "My pocket...." he pleaded, with his voice and his eyes. 
"I can't.... I can't touch it. Not when...." He faded out into a 
sob.

She frowned, reaching into his pocket, her fingers encountering....

"My cross," she murmured. The chain was warm from his body, entwined 
among her fingers, and the small cross sparkled in the light. He 
winced, looking away. 

"They told me." He spoke like a condemned man, hating having to tell 
her, knowing he had to. "They sent it to me. It was proof they could 
do this thing. They were there and left. No-one saw them." He rested 
his head against the glass, as if drained. His voice cracked. "They 
could have killed you, and no-one would have known."

"I'm okay, Mulder," she murmured, but she knew that wasn't the 
issue. 

He was silent, retreating inside himself, but he was calmer. His 
breathing was deep but he no longer felt.... dangerous. The cross 
sparkled in the light, once a comfort but now unsettling, a snake in 
the grass. It had been tainted. She didn't know if she would wear it 
again. It would make her feel uneasy, watched.

Watched? She caught her breath, feeling the pieces falling into 
place. Was that it? A test? Hannah Gordon was merely a tool - a 
means to force Mulder into a choice between.... between the two of 
them, so they could observe his reaction - learn his greatest 
weakness?

"They destroy everything!" His shout was like a clap of thunder in a 
clear sky. His hands balled up into fists, but the window.... God! 
The window. The glass was so close. "Whenever I get anywhere - 
whenever I get close to anything - they will threaten you, hurt 
you...." 

She reached for him in horror, seeing the blood and broken glass in 
her imagination, hearing his laboured breaths as the life poured 
from his wrists. He didn't fight, made no attempt to pound his fury 
into the window. He was on a razor edge between despair and hatred.

"Why can they do this, Scully?" The light made the tear tracks shine 
on his face. "Why?"

There was no answer she could give. The truth of his earlier words 
pounded in her mind, forcing her to say words that she knew would be 
torment to both of them - words that had to be said.

"If they know...." She took a deep breath. "Mulder, you've shown 
them they can control you. Just one threat to me. I'm your weakness, 
they know that now. Maybe I should leave...."

Silence. She'd expected - hoped? - a howl of protest, but he just 
stood there, a silent statue. His lips were moving over and over - 
"no, no, no, no, no....?" But he was silent. 

"Mulder?" Why wasn't he saying anything? She _needed_ to hear his 
denial, or - she twisted her hands guiltily - or his agreement. 

"No!" It was as if all the suppressed violence of his silence was 
released in his cry. "I can't.... Not without...." A slam, too quick 
for her to stop, down onto the desktop. "It's _them_. They take 
everything. They don't deserve to live. They won't.... Not any 
more." His voice fell suddenly, quiet and deadly, even more 
dangerous than his violence. "I've decided," he whispered, like 
steel.

"No." There was no time for thought. She felt his meaning in his 
mood rather than hearing it in his words. "No. You won't."

"Why not?" He bore down on her, eyes blazing, hostile. "Why not, 
Scully? I've been thinking. What reason is there? It's the only way. 
I should have done it then."

"Then?" She stood her ground, though her mind was screaming. She'd 
seen him overcome with grief, pain or guilt, but this hatred.... It 
was more than her experience could cope with. 

"But I will do it now." His eyes flashed away, darting round the 
room. "I will. Do you hear me? I will."

"Then?" She repeated the word, knowing how inadequate it was. What 
was she hoping? To distract him from his purpose by keeping him 
talking, like with an attempted suicide? Slowly, slowly, talk him 
down.... "Then? You mean...." Memory flashed. Melissa's eyes telling 
of so much more than her words. "You mean when I was.... before I 
woke up? Melissa said you were in a dark place - that you would have 
killed and then destroyed yourself, but you pulled yourself out in 
time."

"I should have done it!" He was bitter now, not listening at all. 
"He just smiled. My gun was in his face, and he smiled. He knew I 
wouldn't do it. That's how they get away with it. They know I won't 
do it. This...." Again that desperate searching look around the 
room. "This is what I want. It's my own decision. Free will."

"Mulder?" Her voice was firm now, the situation too serious for any 
weakness. She'd sat at his bedside in a small Arctic hospital, yet 
knew without a doubt that he was in more danger in this instant than 
he had ever been then. "Mulder. Listen to me. Please. Listen."

No sign. Silence. Eyes.... Eyes terrible.

"Mulder! This is not the way. It's wrong." 

He raised his hands to his ears, then let them fall. He met her eyes 
just briefly, and she read apology there, as if, even now, he 
couldn't quite bring himself to shut her out.

"Listen, Mulder." She changed her approach, praying it would work. 
"I understand what you're feeling. I know what it's like." Nails 
into palms, hoping. "I understand."

She could see the tension in his every muscle, but something was 
changing. He was listening. There was something in his eyes. Hatred 
still, but.... hope? Pleading? 

"When I found the man who killed Melissa, I wanted to kill him." She 
kept her eyes on his face, unwavering. She had never told him this 
before, but couldn't let him see her emotion. It was a risk. Even 
mentioning Melissa's death could push him further off the precipice 
of hatred. "I held the gun at him, and I just.... I just wanted to 
kill him as painfully as possible." She swallowed hard, forcing back 
the tears. "But I didn't, Mulder. I realised it would do nothing to 
bring her back. She wouldn't want me to become a murderer in her 
name. I would have lost myself, and.... and I would still have lost 
Melissa."

Oh God, oh God! Her mind whispered over and over like a prayer. 
Please let him believe me. Please let _me_ believe me. That man.... 
He got no justice. If I'd killed him....?

"You don't...." The words came out of his mouth so painfully. 
Something seemed to wash out of him, but whether it was the hatred 
or his strength she shouldn't tell. He sank to his knees, too weary 
to stand. "You don't.... You wouldn't....." He was stammering, 
unable to finish a sentence. 

I don't approve? I wouldn't stay with him if he did this? She filled 
in the blanks in her head, wondering if it was true. She hated what 
they did as much as he did. She would do anything to protect him, 
and would that include murder?

She reached to her throat for the cross, seeking to anchor herself 
in a world in which right and wrong stood out like opposing poles, 
clear and unmistakable, but it wasn't there. It was in her pocket, 
out of reach.

"Scully?" His voice was quiet and lost. "I need.... I need to find a 
strength that is more than you. I _need_ that."

She shook her head, not understanding.

"I need.... I need something in myself. I can't.... I can't _not_ do 
it because of you." He ran his hand across his eyes, his face 
twisted with pain. "Strength.... I need...."

Silence. 

She touched his arm, considering her words carefully. "You mean...? 
Mulder, is it that you're afraid you'll resent me? If you don't do 
this thing because I asked you, and then.... then something happens 
to make you think you should have done it, then...." She swallowed 
hard. "Then you'll hate me for stopping you?"

"I would never hate you, Scully!" His voice was hot with protest. 
"Never. Them! Not you." He stopped, breathing deeply, as if forcing 
control onto his fury, then looked at her, really seeing her. "I 
need to find my own reasons, Scully. If you're the _only_ thing 
stopping me, then...." 

Silence. He stared at her pleadingly, unable to finish. She looked 
away, unable to bear the truth in his eyes. She was his sanity and 
his strength, and it scared the Hell out of him. 

And her. It scared her too. It had been a comfort these last two 
days, knowing he needed her strength. But it was a responsibility 
too, more than she needed. 

"I need to work this out myself, Scully. I need this." He turned 
away, speaking as if he feared her anger again. "I need time. 
Please."

"You want me to go." It wasn't a question, but his silence was all 
the answer she needed. She knew there was nothing to be gained by 
resisting. "I understand. You need.... you need to think."

He nodded slowly, but there was something in his eyes she wouldn't 
let herself think about. Guilt? 

"But I want you to promise me something, Mulder." She made her voice 
firm, no room for arguments. "If you leave here, tell me."

"If I leave...." He repeated her words wonderingly, then did what 
she would never have expected - he laughed, a bitter mirthless 
laugh. "I'll stay here, Scully, I promise. I won't leave, not until 
the light."

She let her eyes convey her thanks, not trusting her voice. The last 
thing she saw through the slit of the closing door was his hand, 
reaching to the light switch, immersing him in darkness.

She blinked back tears in the light of the corridor.

**********

end of part 11

**********

Sunday night, a little later
____

"You are alone, Fox. Good." He could hear the smile in the voice, 
and the touch was.... The touch was....

"No!" Mulder pulled away, wincing. He would _not_ feel the touch - 
would not let the soft fingers reach into his mind and deprive him 
of his will. He focused on the memory of Scully's face, repeating 
his words to her as a mantra necessary to his survival. 

I need to work this out myself, Scully. I need to work this out 
myself, Scully. I need to work this out myself....

"So, you have decided then, Fox." Confident, smug. "Your own free 
will. I told you this morning you might. Now you see what they do, 
your choice is made."

"You told me...?" He stammered the words, remembering. "You knew? 
You knew what was going to happen?"

There was the slightest pause before Reynardine's words, but when 
the words came they were sinuous as ever. "I know them, Fox. I know 
what men like that do. I expected it, as you did." A sad laugh, 
hands reaching through the darkness. "I am sorry for your pain, Fox. 
But them? They feel no sorrow. They feel.... nothing. Should they 
not feel fear? Should they not feel your pain? They deserve no 
less."

"They killed her." A sob of anger and grief. His hands flailed, 
seeking the support of something solid, coming up only against 
tender bruises which made him wince with pain. "They killed her! 
Samantha.... They took her from me again. They killed her."

"Yes." Strong hands caught him, holding him steady, keeping him from 
sinking to his knees. "They killed her. You hate them for that. You 
want to make them feel a fraction of what you are feeling." A 
whisper, hissing close to his ear, the words cutting through the 
image of the bloody body on the ground. "Feel the anger, Fox. Feel 
it. It is good."

"Feel...." It was so difficult to speak. Reynardine's touch stripped 
him bare, leaving him with nothing. "Feel....The.... Anger...." 

"Yes, Fox. That is good. Feel it like a flame of hope in the 
darkness. Feel it, Fox. Focus on it. Feed it. Let it grow." 

He shut his eyes. It flickered, buffeted by unseen winds, guttering. 
Darkness came in waves to overwhelm it, and the darkness had the 
smell of smoke. He breathed deeply, in and out, in and out, 
concentrating, pushing, willing, surrendering, and the flame grew 
and grew until it was a fire that filled his whole mind.

And behind it all, a voice was murmuring, crooning as to a child. 

"That is good, Fox. Let it grow. You have cut yourself off from your 
anger for so long. Listen to it, Fox. Do it." 

"Anger." He forced the words from his throat, blinking against the 
flame of his fury. "She's dead. They killed her." He pulled away 
suddenly with a strength that left his muscles reeling. "And you did 
nothing to stop it! Where were you when I needed you? Where were 
you? Why didn't you...." His voice cracked, tears rising in his 
throat. "Why didn't you come?" he managed at last, his voice 
desperate.

"You needed me." The voice was low with regret. "I heard your need 
but I could not come. Your partner was here. I came as soon as she 
left. You know that, Fox." A small laugh. "Why do you even ask? I am 
here now, am I not?"

"Not then. I don't mean then." He was shaking at the effort of 
fighting. The voice made it so hard to resist. "Earlier - before. 
Before they shot her. Where were you? You could have saved her, I 
know you could. If you can kill them, why not then? Why not kill the 
gunman before he killed her?" He drove his bruised fist into the 
wall, the sudden pain forcing a hoarse cry from his throat, fuelling 
the hatred he knew he _had_ to feel. "You could have saved her. Why 
didn't you save her?"

Silence. A hand snaked through the darkness, soft and soothing, but 
he dashed it away with a wordless cry of hatred.

"You have no answer for that, have you?" He leant forward, pursuing 
his advantage. "There's nothing you can say."

There was a slow intake of breath, then the hand struck, grabbing 
his face, fingers digging into the flesh, pinning him. "I owe you no 
answers, Fox." There was death in the voice. "I have given you so 
much already, and still you distrust me. Would you have me give you 
everything before you have given me anything?"

"You said I would owe you nothing. You said you wanted what I 
wanted." Mulder's voice was strangled, distorted by the cruel 
fingers.

"I made you an offer. All you had to do was say yes, and then I 
would give you everything you wanted." A chilling laugh. "But you 
did not say yes, Fox. You fought. You resisted. You said what I 
offered was evil." The voice was so close now, almost inside him. 
"And now you dare to reproach me for not killing a third person for 
you, all before you say yes? I have been caught in your snares 
before."

He blinked, not understanding. The fingers moved to his throat, 
ripping away his words.

"Yes, Fox. Your snares." The voice was bitter, even hurt. "If I kill 
for you, you pretend you are outraged - claim it was not what you 
wanted - and convince yourself you are morally without reproach. But 
now.... I wanted to kill this time, but, mindful of last time, I 
waited. And you know why I waited? I waited for you, Fox. I waited 
so I could ask you if it was really what you wanted. Twice now I 
have done what your thoughts said you wanted, only for you to 
wriggle out of the responsibility after the fact. Can you blame me 
for wanting to be sure, this time?"

With something like a sob, the fingers relaxed. Mulder slumped 
against the wall, coughing. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." Reynardine's 
words made him scream his apology in his head.

"I _do_ want what you want, Fox." It was quiet again, no trace of 
anger. "That is why I waited - to make sure you want what I want. It 
is unfair to blame me."

He was lost, unable to speak, to find an argument. He found Scully's 
face, then shied from the memory. I need to work this out myself, 
Scully. I need to work this out myself, Scully. I need to work this 
out myself....

I need to work this out myself. Not Scully. Not Reynardine.

"To make sure I want what...." His words were hoarse, but he 
concentrated, giving them all the strength he possessed. "What do 
_you_ want?"

"I want what you want, Fox." Reynardine laughed indulgently. "I told 
you."

"And what do I want? What do you offer me?"

"I offer you everything, Fox. You have seen my powers. I can give 
you everything."

"You offer me nothing." He spat the words out as if they burnt him, 
holding his arms in front of him defensively. "You offer me revenge, 
but that is nothing. You'll kill the man who hurt Scully, but do 
nothing to protect her from hurt. You'll kill the man who shot 
Hannah Gordon, but did nothing to stop her being shot. You offer me 
empty revenge. That's not what I want."

But, deep inside, the vision of Cancerman's dead eyes could still 
make him smile. He shook his head violently, wiping out that image, 
focusing on the anger.

Reynardine sighed, like an adult humouring a deluded child. 
"Fighting again, Fox? When will you realise? You are so quick to 
accuse others - so slow to accuse yourself. Is revenge not enough 
for you? Are you so selfish and grasping that you want other things 
as well? You are not content unless you benefit from the death? You 
are selfish, Fox. Selfish and greedy. I offer you so much and still 
you are not content."

Mulder faltered, floundering, unable to speak. He shut his eyes, and 
Scully was there, her eyes calm and rational. This time he didn't 
fight her.

"No!" He focused on the cross at her neck, imagining it was in his 
hands as he held them up protectively. "That's not.... That doesn't 
make sense. It is not selfish to reject a death that offers me 
nothing, but desire one that offers me something. It's.... it's 
right. It's the difference between defence and murder. It's...."

"If it is murder, then...."

"I hadn't finished!" Mulder shouted, fury blazing in his every word. 
"It's not...." Then he softened, his voice quiet but no less deadly. 
"But you know that, don't you? You knew what you were saying made no 
sense. You were just saying anything you needed to in order to get 
me to agree." He stepped forward, desperate to grab Reynardine by 
the throat, but then stepped back, afraid of the touch. "You veil 
your meaning in rhetoric and cloud my mind with your.... your 
hypnosis, but your arguments.... I reject them. I will not listen to 
them."

"Ah, but you do Fox. You can still feel pleasure at the thought of 
killing the man who destroyed your hope with a bullet tonight - the 
man who killed your best chance of finding your sister."

Dead eyes, staring from the floor. Blood spattered on the walls. A 
cigarette dropping from a lifeless hand....

Oh God, Scully. Help me....

"Yes. Yes, I do." It was a tiny voice, the admission. 

He felt the smile in a soft breath of air. A hand reached through 
the darkness, touching his bruised hand, easing the pain with soft 
waves of lethargy.

"No!" He pushed the hand away with a strength born of desperation. 
"Maybe I might want it, one day. But not through you. If I want 
revenge, it shall be my decision - my deed. I will not be talked 
into it by someone whose motives I don't know. I will not be talked 
into it by anyone. I reject what you offer."

Reynardine laughed. "It would destroy you, if you did it yourself. 
They would find you and kill you. What would that do to your 
partner?"

Scully. God, Scully! He shut his eyes to the memory of her face, 
rejecting the argument. "I know," he said, his voice steady. "I know 
the consequences. It would be for the best. It would ensure I never 
do this thing unless she.... unless there is really no other way."

"That is your partner talking, you know that, Fox?" Reynardine's 
voice was as honey. "Even though she is not here, she preaches to 
you, pushing you into a course you do not truly want. I saw her 
cross." The voice shuddered. "She manipulates you in her own 
misguided view of right and wrong. She tries to own you. You must 
find your own strength, Fox. I will help you."

"I have found my own strength!" He lunged forward, pushing at the 
encroaching hand, reaching for the light switch. "I will not be 
manipulated, by you _or_ by her. I reject you and all that you 
offer."

"You will _not_ do that." The voice was like cold steel, deadly as 
his worse nightmare. Fingers closed like a vice around his wrist, 
imprisoning his hand just inches from the light switch. "You will 
_not_ see my face."

Pain stabbed like daggers up his arm, depriving him of words, but he 
fought. With all his mind, he fought.

"But I will not agree." He forced the words through gritted teeth. 
"I will not be forced."

"No." The grip relaxed a little. His hand was still pinioned, but 
the fingers no longer dug into the bruised flesh. "I do not force 
you. I offer you...."

"You offer me what I want. I know." There was still enough pain to 
keep the waves of acquiescence at bay, and he imbued his voice with 
a bitter irony. "But what do you really offer? If I had agreed, what 
would have been the price?"

"I said no price."

"You _said_ no price." He was seeing clearly at last, confidence 
growing with every word. "That is not the same as saying now that 
there _is_ no price. You can lie, and yet not lie. Is that how you 
do it?"

"Leave it, Fox." The fingers squeezed harder, voice hard and 
warning. "You are so weak."

"Or is that it?" He welcomed the pain like a dagger, keeping him 
alert. "There is no price, because the hunt is all that matters to 
you? You enjoy trying to win me - enjoy watching my face as you say 
these things. And then, when you've persuaded me to do something I 
know is wrong, you'll move onto someone else?"

"Someone else? No, Fox. Just you." The voice breathed close to his 
neck, soft and loving. "Just you."

"Is that what you said to the others?" He shrank back, pressing 
himself against the wall, as far from the voice as he could go. "You 
persuaded them to let you kill their enemies, then you left them. 
Where were you when they were being burnt? Nowhere. You were here, 
trying to win me. You came here fresh from killing for someone else, 
and never looked back."

"The others?" There was such a tone of puzzlement to the voice that 
he faltered, wondering. "Why do you think I have helped others? 
There is just you, Fox. There is no need to be jealous."

"Jealous?" The voice was reaching in again, making him flounder. 
"They died. They were all alone. They.... they went over to the 
darkness, but it left them alone, unprotected. It offered them 
nothing."

Reynardine laughed. "How melodramatic you make it sound, Fox. Is 
that what you think of me? Do you reject what I offer because of a 
fantasy - a wild theory I was involved in something for which you 
have no proof?" 

"No proof." He echoed the words, closing his eyes. They were 
Scully's words, spoken with fond disapproval. "You have no proof, 
Mulder," she would say, her eyes grave. "No-one will believe you 
without proof."

"No proof." He opened his eyes, raking the nothingness that was the 
darkness. "I have no proof of _anything_. I have no proof of your 
intentions. I have no proof of what you say. I refuse to sell my 
soul to a man.... to something that will not show its face."

"You will not?" The hand released its grip and he fell to his knees, 
clutching one bruised arm in the other. 

"No! I will never agree to what you offer. Never." 

Scully. Scully's face.... Help me.... It's so difficult. The 
voice.... He will fight me with his touch and his arguments. Help me 
be strong.

"What makes you think I would fight for you, Fox?" The voice 
receded, quieter and further away, but its contempt was palpable. 
"You are weak. I wanted to deal with a man, but you.... You speak 
with the voice of your partner. You are not worth fighting for."

Silence. He blinked into the darkness, searching for what wasn't 
there. He was alone.

"No!" His mind screamed his denial. "No! Come back! Don't come 
back.... Come back! It's not supposed to be that easy. It can't be 
that easy. Come back and.... and fight. Fight for me."

But he was alone in the rejecting darkness.

**********

Monday morning
____

The metal hand quivered for a second, then clicked into place. Nine 
fifty-five. Another minute gone.

Scully held onto the file, her knuckles tense and white, her eyes 
seeing only black type on white paper, not words. She couldn't 
_read_, not now. She couldn't even think, her thoughts blanked out 
by the insistent mantra that hammered in her head.

I'll call him at ten. I'll call him at ten. I'll call him....

The file fell from her hand, and she reached for the phone, waiting. 

The world narrowed. Nine fifty-six. Black metal hand. White face. 
Relentless tick tick tick....

Tick.... Why hasn't he called?

Tick.... Why isn't he here?

Tick.... How can I call him?

Tick.... What did he decide?

Tick.... Don't I trust him?

Tick....

A noise at the door shattered the waiting silence, making her heart 
pound with sudden hope. Is it....? Has he...?

"Agent Scully?"

Damn! Agent Kelleher. She blinked back her disappointment, forcing 
herself to smile a greeting. Maybe it wasn't so bad after all. A few 
minutes talking with Agent Kelleher, and all the while the minute 
hand would be creeping inexorably closer. It moved so _slowly_ when 
she watched.

"Dana. Hi." Kelleher pulled up a chair, sitting closer to her than 
she liked. "We may have a lead on the case. I thought you would like 
to know."

"Thanks." A subtle glance. One minute gone.

"You know we got a witness description of a man yesterday?" He 
paused, waiting for her acknowledgement before continuing. "Well, I 
got that taken round the neighbourhood, and you know what?"

"Someone recognised him," she continued, dully, annoyed by his 
attempts to get a response. Why should she be interested?

"No, but someone else saw him too, and they saw his car too."

"So you've got him." She felt a spark of interest at that. If the 
case was over there would be nothing getting in the way of them 
talking. 

"Not quite. We only got a partial number, and the make. But we have 
a short list of possible suspects. I'm getting a team to 
investigate. Are you coming?"

Nine fifty-nine. Her palms grew sticky with trepidation. One minute.

"Dana?" His hand touched hers. "Are you coming?"

"No." She surprised herself with the force of her refusal, pulling 
her hand away. "Why do you want me to come? Just a few days ago you 
had nothing but contempt for me - I saw it in your face."

"I would never have contempt for a woman." He leant forward, all 
charm. "I have to admit I doubted your abilities as an agent, but 
that's....."

"Because I'm a woman," she said, her voice like steel. It was ten 
o'clock. She'd.... she'd give it a few more minutes. Keep him 
talking.

"No. Because I didn't know you. I knew Mulder." At least the man had 
the grace to look apologetic. "I was wrong. After seeing you at 
work, I.... I respect you, Dana. I thought it would be Mulder who 
would help me, but...." He shrugged, his face saying what his voice 
did not.

"Don't you say _anything_ against Mulder." She stood up, her voice 
low with warning. 

"I'm not. I like Mulder. It's just.... I hoped...."

"You hoped you could use him to solve your case. When he didn't do 
exactly what you wanted, you had no qualms about attacking him, 
showing no consideration for what he's going through."

"What he's going through?" Kelleher ran his hand through his hair, 
looking genuinely baffled. "What _is_ he going through?"

She laughed then, a bitter laugh that was closer to tears. What 
could she say? That he's been battling alone with the most terrible 
choice of his life? That he's been teetering on the edge of a 
precipice, about to plunge into darkness? That he'd watched 
powerless as hope was dangled so close, only to be snatched away? Oh 
God! What could she say?

"Nothing." The laughter faded and she muttered, eyes blurred with 
tears. "Nothing. Please go."

"Dana...." A soft touch on her arm, voice anxious and pleading.

"Look, just go." She rested her forehead in her hand, although she 
managed to force a smile. "I'll come later. I've just got something 
I have to do first."

Mulder. Call him. After ten now. Call him.

Kelleher gave a small sound of dissatisfaction, but left. She 
counted the seconds in the noise of his retreating footsteps.

She had no excuse. She picked up the phone, pressing the first digit 
of his number, then the second, then....

Oh God! What could she say? She chewed her lip, her mind racing 
again down the dark avenues of possibilities that had kept her awake 
at night.

Mulder? Are you at home? Yes, I know you promised you'd stay, but I 
don't trust you. I've been thinking about what happened, and I fear 
you may have killed already. I know you didn't tell me everything 
last night, and I'm worried quite how much you left out.

Her breath caught on a sob of denial, but even as she uttered the 
sound she knew she was deluding herself. It _was_ what she feared, 
wasn't it? The reason she'd sat awake all night, twisting the sheets 
in her fingers. The reason she needed to call him, but feared the 
conversation - feared that he'd realise her doubts. 

It had been later, hours later, that she had realised. Finally 
drifting to sleep, she had shut her eyes, and seen, in a sudden 
flash of horror, the face - the face of the man at her accident.

But it wasn't an accident, was it? She'd sat bolt upright in bed, 
feeling the icy terror of realisation. He hadn't said. He hadn't 
said anything, but it was too much of a coincidence. That _they_ 
should hold her safety over him on the very same day as she had an 
"accident".... God! It was too much to believe. 

She shook her head slowly, smiling ruefully. What had she felt at 
the discovery? Not horror. Not what she would have expected. Just a 
few days earlier it had been so important to know that it was only 
an accident, but now.... Now she knew, all she felt was fear for 
Mulder not for her. He wasn't coping, therefore she had to. Simple 
as that. Simple.

Simple? Oh God! She gave a short bark of bitter laughter, slamming 
her fist onto the desk. Simple? When her partner could be a....

She took several deep breaths, forcing herself to think of it as a 
problem - something distant and objective, like a case.

The man had pushed her off the road. Fact. Mulder had been given 
threats to her safety. Fact. Mulder had been considering revenge. 
Fact. The man who had pushed her off the road was dead. Fact?

She frowned, wondering. She just didn't know. Mulder had told her he 
was dead when she had seen his picture, but that.... She heaved a 
shuddering breath, trying to feel it as relief. That was just his 
attempt to explain away the picture, right? It didn't mean he was 
really dead. And even if he was, it didn't mean Mulder had done it 
any more than he had killed that mugger.

Did it?

She shut her eyes briefly, hearing again her own defiant words to 
Skinner, willing herself to believe them. "May I remind you that 
Agent Mulder is no longer under suspicion." 

No longer under suspicion. She trusted him. She trusted him. She 
trusted him.

"Oh God!" She spoke aloud, wishing that her silent affirmation of 
trust didn't sound so desperate - so much as if she was trying to 
convince herself of something she was no longer sure of.

Of course she trusted him. He was her partner. He was late to work 
because of.... because of....

She lunged for the phone violently, sending pencils scattering. Her 
breathing was loud in her ears. She _had_ to find out.

The minute hand clicked on to 10.12 as she listened to the tone of 
the phone ringing. One.... two.... three....

**********

end of part 12

**********

Monday morning, an hour later
____

A shadow moved across the light, and there was a small metallic 
scrape.

Him? Mulder whirled round, facing the sound. Fear? Anticipation? He 
couldn't tell. But it was _something_. A spark of life in the dull 
despair of nothingness.

"Mulder?"

Scully, her hair burning in the morning sunlight. Scully, not _him_. 
Scully, bringing with her the life of a warm summer morning - fresh 
air, sounds, smells.

"Scully."

The car moved as she sat down next to him. He couldn't look at her. 
His cell phone was still in his lap from a long morning of staring, 
clinging to the memory of her voice, deriving comfort and fear from 
the thought she was so close.

"Mulder." She sighed. There was a shadow behind her voice, almost a 
fear. "Why are you.... Why are you here? Why aren't you at work? Why 
didn't you call me?"

He looked at her, knowing that once he had done so he would not be 
able to lie to her, though he could never tell her the whole truth. 
"I can't drive," he whispered, the words inadequate to express the 
fear he felt.

Silence. He had expected an outburst of questions or denial, but she 
said nothing. Instead she reached across the car, gently picking up 
his left hand, probing the bruised and swollen flesh. Then, not 
letting it go, she brushed her other hand oh so gently along the 
bandage on his right arm.

"No. I guess you can't," she murmured, her voice soft. 

"I can't drive." He shut his eyes, sparing her from the fear in his 
look. Two hours now since he had reached for the steering wheel and 
found he couldn't hold it. Two hours sitting lost in the car, unable 
to think for the fear.

"It doesn't matter, Mulder. I'll drive you. You know I don't mind. 
You need only have called me to ask." She smiled suddenly and there 
was such relief in her look. He wondered suddenly what she had 
_thought_ he had been doing when he didn't show up for work.

"I can't.... I want...." He couldn't explain. Defensively he reached 
for the wheel and slowly, painfully, wrapped his hands around it. "I 
want to drive."

She laughed, genuinely at first, then awkwardly, then fell silent. 
She shifted in her seat and he knew he had lost her - that she 
didn't understand. How could she? 

"Oh, Mulder." It was so unexpected, so sad, so sympathetic. It 
caught him off guard, making him blink back tears, craving the 
comfort of her arms. "I understand."

He stiffened. How could she? She was humouring him like a child, her 
voice sweet with the condescending irony of a Reynardine. 

"I understand, Mulder." It _sounded_ sincere - sincere enough to 
make his breath catch in his throat. "It's not like that. I know you 
said last night you wanted to find your own strength, but this.... 
this is nothing. It's just driving. Just because you can't drive 
doesn't mean you can't govern your own life. Accepting your 
limitations doesn't make you weak." 

It was too much, this understanding - more than he could take. If 
only she knew how close he'd come.

"You know, Mulder." Her voice was hesitant and she looked down at 
her clasped hands. "I felt like that too, last week - when I 
bristled at any suggestion that I wasn't fully capable. I understand 
why it's so important to you that you can get around independently, 
but does it really matter if you can't? You supported me last week. 
I'll support you now. Are either of us any weaker for it?"

Weak? Scully weak? He wanted to cry at shame for having thought it. 
How arrogant he had been, thinking she needed protecting at every 
step, when he was the weak one, needing her.

"Mulder." Her voice was firm now, confident. She leant over and 
grabbed his shoulders, pulling him to face her. "It is _not_ weak to 
accept our limitations. It is _strong_. It is only when we are 
secure enough in our strength that we can admit our weaknesses."

Weaknesses? He suppressed a sob, shutting his eyes, unable to look 
at her. He'd wanted to find his own strength, but what had he found? 
He was a feather blown in the wind - blown one way by Reynardine's 
deceiving rhetoric, blown the other by Scully's calm words. A long 
night later, and still he was haunted by Reynardine's final words. 
"You are weak. You speak with the voice of your partner. You are not 
worth fighting for."

Scully. It had been Scully who had saved him - the memory of her 
face, her words. It hadn't come from him. He had _no_ strength.

He couldn't even drive.

"Mulder?" There was a note of fear in Scully's voice. "That is it, 
isn't it? That _is_ what's scaring you? There's nothing else.... is 
there?"

He laughed harshly, surprising himself. Nothing else? He was weak, 
lifeless, nothing - not enough of a catch for Reynardine to fight 
for. Wasn't that enough?

Silence. A car sped past, music and laughter blaring from the open 
window. He followed it with listless eyes, wondering if he would 
ever feel alive again.

"Mulder?" Her hand hovered shakily above his arm, then withdrew. She 
plucked at the material of her skirt convulsively, awkwardly. "I 
know it's not the time, but I...." She swallowed hard. "I need to 
know. Did you leave home last night, after I left?"

Leave home? Oh God! Realisation flooded through him, and with it 
regret. She was asking if he'd taken his revenge. He could have done 
it. He could have said yes, killed with a word, and still not lied 
to her. "No, I didn't leave home all night, I swear," he could have 
said to her, and from that she would believe his innocence.

Oh God! He could have had them both. Reynardine's offer and Scully's 
approval, all without lying. 

"No!" He turned to her desperately, willing away that temptation. It 
was too late for regret. "I didn't leave. I couldn't." He raised his 
arms, forcing a smile that he hoped wasn't a grimace. "I can't 
drive, remember."

She breathed out long and deep, but her eyes were still troubled. 
There was something more - something worse.

"That man." Her voice was so tentative it was little more than a 
whisper of dread. "That man whose photo you had? He's the man who 
pushed me off the road, isn't he? It wasn't an accident, and you 
knew that all along?" Her voice phrased it as a question, but her 
eyes spoke of her deadly certainty.

He looked at her, pleading silently with her to stop, but there was 
nothing he could say. She knew the only answer he could give, and he 
knew he deserved every last harsh word of her anger.

She twisted her hands in her lap. There was more fear than anger 
there, though he couldn't understand it. "When I asked about him, 
you said he had died." She faltered. When she spoke again her voice 
was fast, as if she didn't want to think about the implications of 
her words. "That was just as excuse, wasn't it? You didn't want to 
tell me the truth, so you made up a plausible reason why his picture 
was on your desk?"

He was pinned by her eyes. The previous night had stripped him of 
his defences, leaving him without the thought to lie. "He died," he 
whispered, wishing he could hide from the pain in her eyes.

She chewed on her lip, frowning, thoughtful. 

Oh God, I've lost her. She thinks I killed him. Maybe I did kill 
him. Him and the mugger and.... and Hannah Gordon. The reproach in 
her eyes when I didn't go forward to help her. I see it now. I'll 
see it now, if I dare look at her. If I open my eyes....

"The car wasn't supposed to burn." There was such hope in her voice, 
though she was speaking of the fire that had nearly killed her. "I'm 
no use to them dead. It was just supposed to be a warning. When it 
burnt, he pulled me out, but it wasn't supposed to happen."

He looked at her, wondering. Could the hope in her voice be matched 
by the look in her eyes? "That's what R...." he started, then bit 
his words off abruptly.

"He made a mistake and so they punished him. They killed him." Her 
eyes were shining with revelation. "It _was_ an accident, in a way. 
It wasn't meant to go the way it did, and so they killed him."

How could he look at her hopeful eyes, knowing what he did? It was 
all he could do not to sob as he turned away. The only way he could 
explain the relief in her voice was if she too had been doubting 
him. 

"That's what it was," she said, firmly, though there was a hint of a 
tremor of doubt in her voice now. "It was them. It wasn't....."

It wasn't me, that's what she means. It wasn't me. So she's thought 
of it - feared it was me. How long before she doubts again? How long 
before I lose her? 

He leant to one side, resting his head on the cool glass of the car 
window, deriving no comfort from it. If she was going to leave him, 
then what was there left? He had said no, but had sunk deep enough 
into the darkness for her to still doubt him. He could have said 
yes. Why hadn't he said yes? If he was going to lose her anyway....?

"Mulder?" She shook her head abruptly, her hand recalling him to the 
present, dragging him out of the dark of might-have-been. "Come on. 
Let's get into my car. Kelleher has a lead."

He tried to match her smile, but there was just nothing.

**********

Monday evening, early
____

How long? How long would he remain silent?

Scully flashed him a quick glance, then turned back to the road. But 
his image stayed with her, superimposed over the plain grey surface 
roaring past in an endless torrent beneath the wheels. Rigid 
muscles. Blank face. Staring eyes. Eyes that cried vulnerability, 
body language that screamed to her to keep away.

She bit her lip, blinking back the tears that had been so close to 
the surface the whole day. He'd given up so much for her last night, 
and now.... God! What had she expected? That they would become 
closer? Maybe. That he would resent her for it? She could understand 
that, though it would hurt her. But this....? This utter distance, 
this failure to connect.... It was more than she could deal with.

"Mulder?" She whispered his name silently, half hoping that on some 
unconscious level he would hear her, that he would respond.

Silence.

She sighed, from sadness rather than anger. It was her again. Her 
responsibility to make the first move - her responsibility to reach 
out to him across the void.

"Mulder?" She removed one hand from the wheel, touching his hand as 
it lay lifeless on his lap. 

He started visibly, but at least he turned, at least he looked at 
her. "Scully. I'm sorry. I was.... thinking."

She opened her mouth to speak, but could think of nothing to say. 
How had he spent the day? She had shadowed him as much as she could, 
hovering protectively at his side as he'd sat lethargically in the 
office staring at files she knew he wasn't reading, but she couldn't 
be with him all the time. What had he been doing? What had he been 
_thinking_?

"What about?" The words came out unintentionally, but she was glad 
that they had. She needed to ask. He would hold his pain so tight to 
his chest that it would overcome him, unless she forced him to share 
it. 

He looked away. "Hannah Gordon. Samantha. _Them_." A shrug, his 
voice so listless, so sad. She hadn't expected him to reply.

Hannah Gordon. She took a deep breath, knuckles white on the 
steering wheel. "I saw her today, Mulder. Her parents have 
identified her. I've asked for permission to observe the autopsy."

She waited for the reaction, but there was none. No words, no 
outburst, no cry. Nothing. 

"Did you hear that, Mulder?" God, he had to react. Why wasn't he 
reacting? Last night.... 

"They won't let you do it, Scully." It was a dull monotone, no life 
in it. "If there's anything in her body that shows what they did to 
her, they will find a way. The body will disappear. Someone else 
will do the autopsy and the results will be incomplete. You know 
what they're like."

She'd expected as much - feared as much - but his voice.... This 
morning, she'd thought she'd understood him, but this was something 
new. He was dangling off a cliff and whenever she reached him, he 
slipped and fell away from her.

"I know what they're like, but we will fight it." She gave her voice 
more confidence than she felt, knowing he needed it. "We'll go to 
Skinner, to everyone. We won't let them cover this one up. We'll 
find out what happened to her."

And to Samantha, she added silently. She wasn't at all convinced 
Hannah Gordon had known anything about Samantha, but Mulder believed 
it, and that was all that mattered.

"We won't. It's too late. I said no." The same dead voice. "It's 
over."

It was defeat, she knew that now. His hope had been snatched from 
him, and he could face an endless future having her safety used 
against him whenever he got close again. No wonder he felt there was 
nothing left.

"It's not over, Mulder." She wanted to hold him, to comfort him, to 
whisper strength back into him, but she was driving, unable to touch 
him with anything but her words. "Don't do their job for them. There 
are still answers out there."

Silence. Just a slow exhalation. No words.

"Mulder!" Fear made her harsher than she'd intended, but she had to 
be firm, to cut through his lethargy. "A woman died. I was hurt. 
Samantha's still out there. There's still work to be done. Don't you 
care?"

He made a small noise at that - a sob? "I can't care."

Oh God! She clenched the wheel tight against his words. What did he 
mean?

"I can't care, Scully." The words came out in a torrent of pain, 
without needing her prompting. "If I let myself care, then I will 
hate them, and if I hate them...."

She swallowed, fighting back the tears that constricted her throat. 
"If you hate them, you will wish you had killed them. You will 
regret your decision."

He turned to her then, blinking in surprise - the first spark of 
life she'd seen in him. Then he sighed, the light fading from his 
eyes. "My decision? You don't know...."

"I know, Mulder. I know you were so tempted last night to...." She 
struggled for a non-judgmental way of saying it. "To use different - 
more violent - methods in your quest for the truth. I know you 
decided against it. I know you're feeling as if you've left yourself 
with no hope, by deciding not to fight." She touched his arm 
briefly, willing him to feel her sincerity. "But you _can_ fight 
them still. Just because you won't use murder doesn't mean you have 
no weapons left. You can still care, Mulder. You can still hate. Use 
that hate to get justice."

"There is no justice." Mulder's voice was dull, but there was 
something there - the smallest hint that she was getting through.

"Then we will make sure that changes," she told him, firmly, wishing 
she could believe it. There had been no justice for Melissa, or for 
her.

He was silent, breathing deeply. She couldn't look at him. The 
street signs told her they were nearly there, and she had to be 
alert, looking for the place.

"Scully?" It was a tentative whisper, but at least he was talking - 
it was _his_ initiative - his attempt to connect.

"Yes?" She peered over her shoulder, reversing into place at the 
side of the road. They were there. Kelleher was already in his car, 
waiting. They had so little time.

"Why do I need you to tell me that? Why can't I find that for 
myself? Why can't I see clearly?"

She bit her lip. She'd begged him so often to confide, but now that 
he did she had no idea how to begin. He sounded so plaintive, so 
lost, so.... so unlike Mulder.

"You've been through a lot, Mulder." She touched his hand, praying 
it was what he needed. "It's hard to see clearly. It will get 
easier, I promise you. You mustn't doubt yourself. You've been so 
strong for me in the past, when I've needed it." To her surprise, it 
cost her nothing to admit that, although even a few days ago she 
would have been unable to say the words. "It's no weakness for you 
to need my support now."

He looked at her, long and slow, and his lips moved in what was 
probably a weak smile. "Thank you," he said, frowning, as if 
struggling to accept the truth of what she said.

Silence. They were lost in each other's eyes, communicating without 
words.

"Let's go in." Mulder broke contact first, a flicker of fear on his 
face. "We have a murderer to catch."

She sighed, watching him fumble with the door handle. Kelleher's 
team had found their suspect, they had their warrant, and, after a 
long day of waiting, were going in.

But his hands.... He should never have been allowed to come. If 
anything went wrong....

She clambered out of the car, slamming the door to silence that 
thought. He was so insecure in his own strength right now. How could 
she tell him how scared she was for him?

No. She glanced at Kelleher and his team, taking comfort in the guns 
at their sides. No need to say anything, not yet.

**********

Monday evening, a little later
____

It was a hoarse cry of utter despair, head thrown back, eyes tightly 
shut against the horror.

"Please! Where are you? Help me. Kill them. Please."

He was naked, white skin streaked with blood, hands tightly shackled 
behind his back. The camera trembled, moving in closer for a loving 
close-up of his tortured face.

"Who are you calling?" A gloved hand reached into the picture, 
though the voice was distorted, off-camera. "You said you were 
innocent."

"Help me. Please. You promised." The man's fear was beyond 
recognising a question. He cried out to the empty air, screaming for 
help that didn't come.

"See how the Devil neglects his own." The voice had a different 
tone, as if addressing someone else, even teaching them. "They all 
cry for him, but he never comes."

"You promised me everything." The man's body was racked with sobs. 
His voice was quiet now, but all the more despairing. "Why won't you 
save me?"

"Because you are evil," the voice hissed. The camera moved in, 
lingering on every drop of terrified sweat on the man's brow. "You 
have been touched by evil, and so you must confess, be purified and 
die."

A knife flashed in the corner of the screen, it's shiny surface red 
with blood.

"No! Don't kill me. Don't....."

"Mulder." Red hair, pale face, crouching in front of the screen, her 
eyes concerned. She reached out and froze the image in an eternal 
silence of screaming. "Come on."

He stared past her, mesmerised by the screaming face. "I can't. I've 
got to watch this." He searched his mind for a reason she would 
accept. "It's evidence."

She nodded slowly. "Yes, it is. But we've learnt all we need from it 
now. We can study it later, along with all the other videos. For 
now, all we need to know it that this man _is_ our killer."

She was fingering the video case as she spoke. It turned round and 
round in her hands so that the name on the side appeared, then 
disappeared, appeared then disappeared. A black scrawl, shaky, ill-
formed. "The trial of Allan Wasserman. June 10 1996." Behind her on 
the shelf were other videos, other familiar names.

He knew she was hoping he would speak - he could feel it in the 
quality of the silence. "Yes," he murmured, vaguely. "Not alone, 
though."

"No. Not alone." It as not a question, but her voice rose slightly 
at the end, almost with surprise. He wondered if she hadn't fully 
realised this fact. There had been more than one voice on the video.

The knife filled half the screen. It was frozen, not descending, not 
retreating. There was dried blood as well as fresh on the blade. 

"Mulder?" She dropped the video case, though her hands clenched and 
unclenched convulsively, as if she was unsure what to do with them. 
"You were right on this one. I can see that now." She gestured 
behind her at the screen. "They really seem to think he's a murderer 
- that they are his judges, trying him. It's just as you said, 
Mulder. You were right."

He nodded slowly. He knew what she was trying to do and was grateful 
for it, but it wasn't what he needed. He could feel no satisfaction 
from being right. He was watching the death of a man who had been 
tempted as he had - who had succumbed. Maybe he should feel relief 
that he had escaped in time, but instead he felt nothing. 

"Dana." Kelleher's voice. The man's look had been almost hostile all 
day, and now he was ignoring him entirely, speaking only to Scully. 
"Come on. Get him out of here."

She took a sharp intake of breath, but when she spoke her voice was 
calm - firm but not angry. "Mulder was right about the case," she 
said. "You laughed, but he was right."

Kelleher gave an impatient bark of laughter. "Yeah, Spooky, right? 
But that doesn't matter right now. What matters is that we know this 
is our killer, and he's not here now. It stands to reason that he'll 
be returning soon. We've got to get into position."

"Yes, I know." She stood up, reaching out a hand. There was nothing 
between him and the screen. "Come on, Mulder. We've got to go."

The mouth was wide open with screaming as the knife blade shone. He 
could see down the throat into the very soul. 

"He called for him." It was so important suddenly that she 
understood. "Can't you see it, Scully? They all called for him, but 
he didn't come. He promised them everything, but when they were won, 
he just left them. He left them to die. He killed them as much as 
they did."

Kelleher snorted with indignation, his footsteps receding noisily 
towards the door. Mulder was breathing fast, surprised that, after 
everything, he could still feel a spark of hatred. 

"Who, Mulder?" Scully's voice was so soft. She crouched beside him, 
touching the back of his hand with her fingers. "What do you see in 
that video that I don't?"

He swallowed hard. What do I see? Nothing, Scully. Just everything. 
The lies of a deceiver who knew just what to say to manipulate me. 
The knowledge that, at the end, he didn't even want me. The 
knowledge that I have neither the strength to stay firm in the light 
nor to embrace the dark, but must exist in a grey half-life in 
between, weak. I see it all. I see it in the knife, in the scream, 
in the pain.

"Nothing, Scully." He stood unsteadily to his feet. "Nothing 
important. Nothing yet." He forced a smile. "We've got a bad guy to 
catch."

She stiffened, her face frozen in guilt. The look was there for but 
a second before she collected herself, returned to normal, but he 
had seen it. He thought he knew what was coming.

"You want me to go," he muttered, not a question.

"You can barely use your hands." Her voice was firm, though he could 
see the apology in her eyes. She gestured to the video. "You've seen 
what this man is capable of. He is probably armed. He's definitely 
dangerous. You shouldn't be involved in this situation."
 
He opened his mouth to protest, but it was more from habit than 
anything else. What could he say? She was right. He was weak, 
useless. 

"Damn it, Mulder, I don't want you to get hurt." Scully's eyes 
flashed fire, and he knew she had misinterpreted his silence. "It 
would jeopardise the arrest, having someone who isn't fully fit. It 
would put the rest of us in danger. It would put me in danger."

Scully in danger? Oh God, not that! An image flashed unbidden into 
his mind. Scully, eyes wide with fear, her approaching death 
reflected in the knife blade that descended on her throat. He 
shivered, looking for the familiar whisper touch on his neck, but 
there was nothing. Only Scully, and her eyes were troubled.

"It's just this once, Mulder," she said, her voice soft now. "I know 
how hard it is to admit things like this. I feel like that too, 
sometimes - last week. When I think you're being over-protective, 
I.... I react in a way I shouldn't. True strength comes from being 
able to admit your weaknesses - to know which battles to withdraw 
from."

True strength? He laughed bitterly, closer to tears. Scully looked 
at him, frowning, not understanding.

"Mulder." She tried again, her eyes pleading. "Please don't take 
this badly. I know how it must seem, coming on top of everything - 
after what you said in the car this morning. But please.... It's 
just this once. It's just one arrest that you're not physically fit 
for. There's no deeper meaning than that. In a few days you'll be 
fine." She gave a strained laugh. "Next time it will be you 
suggesting I take things easy."

He walked towards the door, still not trusting himself to speak. Her 
words were as slippery as grease. He heard them, but they slid 
through him and escaped, making no impression. She knew so little 
about him.

"I'll call you as soon as anything happens, Mulder." He couldn't see 
her face, but her voice smiled. "After all, you're the one who 
solved this case. You were right all along."

He stopped in the doorway, turned round and looked at her. She was 
still trying. Even after everything, she was still trying. He gave 
her a quick smile, and this time it was sincere - a sincerity born 
of intense gratitude - a rush of intense fondness and admiration. 
Her faith in him was all he had left.

She sighed, tension visibly flowing out of her body, touching him 
gently on the arm. "It's nearly over, Mulder. Then we can...." 

"It's over." He whispered an echo to her words, already losing her. 
Her touch on his arm became the memory of Reynardine's, and he felt 
the aching void of emptiness. "It's over. He's gone. No second 
chances."

"Mulder?" She was frowning again. Such a brief moment free from 
trouble - just seconds this time. "What was that? What did you say?"

He shook his head desolately. "Nothing," he murmured. "Just.... 
nothing."

Nothing.

**********

Monday evening, a little later
____

Someone was watching him.

Reynardine?

Mulder whirled round, eyes wild with.... hope? Fear? The light 
breeze whispered on his face, but there were no words. Nothing. No-
one.

The engine rumbled into life, and the taxi pulled away, leaving him 
alone in the darkness. He glanced up at his dark window, feeling the 
loneliness of the small apartment beat down on him in waves. The 
television would drone its unwanted message, videos would display 
their images of human affection that were denied to him in the 
flesh,  but all the while he would be dead, waiting for the spark of 
life that would come only with Scully's phone call, only with 
Reynardine's promises. He was tossed between them, unable to exist 
without them.

Weak.

He took a step forward, feeling as if he was wading through glue. He 
didn't want to go home, to be surrounded with the memory of his 
weakness. He wanted to be.... Oh God! Not alone. With.... with 
Scully? 

Another step. The grass was trampled and battered. Paramedics, 
police, the coroner, looking for answers that would never be found, 
not now. Hannah Gordon was dead. Just there, that spot there. Was 
that dark patch a shadow or a pool of her blood?

Another step. Keys in his hand. Keys, fumbled, difficult to hold. He 
gripped them tighter, feeling the stab of pain as his tendon flexed 
in his arm, pulling on the stitches.

Another step. It was unlocked after all, the door into the entrance 
hall. Why was it so dark? Barely ten o'clock and dark and silent, 
brooding, waiting. No light. Why was the light off? He reached out a 
hand, then let it fall. It hurt too much to grope for the light 
switch. What was the point? The bulb had gone, probably. 

Another step. A faint strip of light beneath a door at the end of 
the corridor. The others, dark and silent. A breath of air touched 
his face, but this time he didn't look up. Reynardine wasn't coming 
back. 

Another step. The unmistakable touch of a draught on his face, cool 
and dark. The back door. The breeze made him feel the pain of his 
father's death. He'd rushed through that door that night, chasing 
Krycek. He'd nearly been killed, and no-one had noticed. Not one 
anxious face, enquiring. Just solitary lives, not caring. 

And he'd nearly killed, then, too - nearly become a murderer. If 
Reynardine had....? If Scully....? The sound of her gun as she shot 
him to keep him from revenge. His breath caught on a sob at the 
memory. If she knew the whole truth, she would hate him.

The night air reached out and touched him. The darkness rustled in 
the direction of the open door. 

Another step. His hand reached falteringly for the comfort of his 
gun. He knew he couldn't hold it, though the thought of it was an 
oasis of strength in the desert of his weakness. Yet even that was 
wrong. If his only strength came from a gun....?

Another step....

And then the rustling in the shadows exploded, loud and 
unmistakable. He heard the rushing noise of.... of something 
sweeping through the air and man-shaped shadows moved ghost-like in 
the darkness. One... Two.... More?

"Scully!" His mind flailed for her steadying strength, needing it, 
but a hand clamped itself over his mouth, depriving him even of the 
comfort of hearing her name.

And then the darkness exploded in pain, and then came a deeper 
darkness that was beyond pain.

**********

end of part 13

**********

Monday night
____

"Dana?"

Kelleher. She sighed, feeling the utter wrongness of the situation. 
It should have been Mulder sitting next to her in the car, his body 
tense with the coming confrontation, though his voice was light, 
joking. She didn't want to be here.

"Dana?" More concerned now. "Are you okay with this?"

She whirled round to face him, unable to keep the anger from her 
eyes. "Yes," she snapped, through clenched teeth. "Why shouldn't I 
be?"

The tension pulsed in the darkness, making her want to shout aloud. 
Why did he keep asking? She was strong enough for this. Why did he 
feel the need to hover protectively? With Mulder it was... well, it 
was Mulder, but with Kelleher it was.... it was.... She clenched her 
fists tight, unable to express her feelings even to herself. It was 
still too close.

Kelleher opened his mouth defiantly, but then subsided. She turned 
away, unable to look at him. She could see the protectiveness in his 
eyes, but couldn't bear to face the implications. Mulder was so 
troubled she _had_ to be strong - strong for him. But had she really 
overcome her doubts of the previous week, or just temporarily 
suppressed them for his sake?

And when Mulder was not there....?

The radio crackled into life - a few brief words. "Suspect sighted. 
Heading your way."

Oh God, Oh God! This was it. She reached for the comfort of her gun 
but was unable to find the reassurance she so desperately needed.

How will you react, Dana? The question hammered inside her head. How 
will you react when face to face with a killer? Will you cower and 
shake as the fears surge up and threaten to overwhelm you? Or will 
you be Scully again, firm and strong, even though the fear flutters 
inside, never to be expressed?

Which will it be?

She took a deep breath, hearing the shake in it. Either way was the 
fear. _That_ was inevitable. Only the fool-hardy outgrew the fear. 
But would she master it....?

Kelleher's fingers tapped rhythmically against the steering wheel. 
She glanced at him, seeing the tight set of his jaw, the fast rise 
and fall of his chest, and knew he felt fear too. It was comforting 
to her, and she drank in the sight, needing it.

And then there were lights - bright lights, dazzling.

A car. A killer's car. And the killer of at least three men was 
inside it, and she was going to approach him. They didn't know if he 
would be armed....

She glanced at Kelleher, meeting his gaze for a second, giving him a 
small smile. It was no time for resentment, not now. They could 
never be friends, not after the things he'd said about Mulder, 
but.... Oh God! They could _die_. What was the point in hostility?

The car door opened and the man climbed out. His movement were 
urgent, hurried, but not fearful. He gave no sign of noticing the 
silent watchers in the dark car across the street. His hand reached 
to his pocket and he patted it, smiled. A white beam from the street 
light illuminated his features. It was a face that could be death.

Kelleher looked at her, his eye brows raised questioningly. It was a 
peace gesture, and she recognised it as such, warmed to it. 

She glanced silently in the mirror, recognising the dark silent 
shapes which had appeared at either end of the street. Back-up, 
waiting, their eyes missing nothing.

It was time. Oh God! It was time.

"Now," she whispered,  careful not to make it sound like a question. 
He had given her the initiative and she had to rise to it.

She checked her gun, and stepped out into the street. 

Sounds, sights.... Everything suddenly seemed amplified, out of 
proportion. The click of her door shutting.... God! He couldn't miss 
it. How could he miss it? The sound of her shoes on the ground - 
soft shoes, the gentlest of thuds, pounding like the drums of an 
army.

"Mr Hagen?" Was that her voice? It was so firm, so confident. "We're 
from the FBI. We would like to ask you some questions."

He froze, his back to her. Fear pounded in her head, making her 
vision pulse. She was acutely aware of Mulder's absence. She was 
working in the dark - working with a partner she didn't know.

"Put your hands up and turn around slowly." She pulled her gun out, 
pointing it at the man's back. It shook slightly, then settled. 

Slowly, so painfully slowly, the man raised one arm. It trembled 
visibly in the light. From the fringes of her vision she could see 
Kelleher's gun, see how much restraint it took him not to take over.

"And the other hand, Mr Hagen." Confidence washed over her like 
soothing rain. She was in control. She could do it. It hadn't even 
been close.

"No!" It was a sudden hoarse cry, faster than thought. The world 
toppled and spun and there was pain - pain everywhere.

What....? Her fear whimpered a thousand questions in her mind. What? 
How....?

Ground - cold ground under her. Pain radiating from the impact. 
Shouting, somewhere - more than her tired mind could comprehend. A 
hand at her throat. Eyes, wild eyes, staring their hatred, leaning 
over her.

And the flash of a knife, raised high above her, dangling there 
while all time stopped.

"I do not answer to your ungodly laws." The man's voice was a spit 
of contempt. "I do God's work. I will not be stopped."

The knife flashed. It held her, mesmerised. She saw death in the 
reflection, and her mother's tears.

"Put the knife down." The shouting resolved itself and became 
Kelleher's voice, hoarse. There were footsteps too - running 
footsteps. "You are surrounded. Put the knife down, or we will 
shoot."

The knife trembled, lowered a little, trembled again. An image 
blinded her - Mulder, his hands useless, needing her strength. What 
would he do if....?

"This is your last chance, Hagen."

Kelleher. Damn Kelleher, with his patronising eyes and his soft 
warning. "Are you sure you're okay with this, Dana?" A sudden fury 
filled her. She would _not_ let it end like this.

"No!" She had no idea where she got the strength for the shout, but 
it released something in her. Ignoring the knife, she lashed with 
her fists, kicked with her legs, hitting out wildly, blinded with 
anger.

Thump.... The fingers on her throat spasmed. Thump.... A hoarse cry 
of pain. Thump.... A clatter of.... something? Thump....  

"Dana?" 

And there was air in her lungs - sweet cool air, flooding her lungs. 
She was staring up into the eyes of night. There was no knife, no 
cruel face looking down at her.

"We've got him, Dana." There was a shake in Kelleher's voice. It was 
_his_ turn for fear now. "That was...." An awkward cough. "Well 
done, Agent Scully."

She couldn't speak. She turned her head, seeing the knife glitter 
abandoned on the ground. When she blinked she saw again the flash of 
its descent, felt the chill of approaching death.

"Are you hurt?"

She pushed herself to her feet, feeling the ache of bruises all over 
her body. She was strong. She had taken on a killer and won. She was 
strong....

But why did she feel like crying?

"I'm fine." It was so hard to say the words as if she meant them. 
She coughed, forcing away the hoarseness in her voice, and tried 
again. "I'm fine, Agent Kelleher."

I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine.... How many times had she said those 
words? How seldom had she really meant them?

She forced a weak smile, remembering what she had said to Mulder 
when she had urged him to go home. She touched Kelleher gently on 
the sleeve, acknowledging his concern. "No, I'm not fine," she 
admitted. "I'm bruised. I'm shaken. But I'll be okay." She smiled 
again. "I'll be okay."

When I see Mulder....

She turned her back on his questioning eyes, reaching for her phone. 
She needed to see Mulder. If he was still troubled, then she could 
be his strength - forget her fears in the face of his greater need. 

But if.... Oh God! If he was strong.... The feel of his arms 
after.... after Donnie Pfaster....

**********

Voices rose and fell, rose and fell, distant, incomprehensible. 
There was anger there, and anxiety. Not a soothing sound, though it 
flowed like a river at the fringes of his hearing.

He couldn't hear what they were saying. It bothered him, intensely, 
irrationally, stabbing him like the pain in his head that struck 
with the rhythm of every heartbeat. 

What? Stab. Who? Stab. Where? Stab. How? Stab.

He moved his head, forcing himself to think, to focus, hearing the 
groan that the movement forced from his lips. 

Think, Mulder. Think. Anxious voices. Pain. Pain and anxious voices. 
Pain.

A hospital? But then where was....?

Soft voice. Gentle hand on his. Warm words calling him back to 
consciousness. His first sight the most beautiful and welcome. 

God! He forced his eyes open, suddenly terrified. Where was Scully? 
It hurt, and where was Scully? Where was....?

No voice. No hand. No words. No sight.

No-one.

Just the smallest finger of light, stabbing his vision like a 
needle, cruel in the darkness. He was surrounded by light - light 
just a hand's breadth away - but was wrapped in darkness. 

What? Why? How? Scully....?

Think, Mulder. Think. Darkness. Light.... A blindfold, shutting out 
the light, the smallest needle creeping round the edge, low in his 
vision, next to his nose. 

A blindfold? God! He fought the rising panic as perception returned, 
slow and fuzzy. Hands tied behind his back. Rattle of metal and a 
stab of pain from his bruised wrist. Pulsing pain in his head 
radiating fire at every movement. Cold, bitter cold, from the ground 
against his skin. Something around his....

God! He felt the horror like a physical touch. The bitter cold from 
the ground against his skin. His skin. His naked skin. No clothes, 
no defence, no strength. Nothing.

The voices rose and fell. A door slammed. Footsteps sounded close, 
then receded. 

Scully! I remember. I know who they are. I.... I don't want to die. 
I didn't say yes. I don't want to die. The tears on your face when 
they leave you my body....  

Fear gave him strength. He pushed himself into a sitting position, 
feeling the effort like pulsing fire in his brain, then slowly, 
painfully, managed to stand. He was dizzy, nauseous, hurt, scared, 
but he was standing. He had _some_ strength.

He knew how close he was to the edge when he could laugh at that. He 
was going to die, and he could take comfort from something like 
_that_. It was terrible. It was shaming. It was....

It was hope.

He stepped forward, seeing Scully's face, calling to him. He would 
find her. She would find him. They would....

He would die.

"No!" He spoke aloud, determined. He had been stripped of so much, 
but now, when he had nothing else, he could see he had _some_ 
strength. He would _not_ die - not without a fight.

He took another step urgently, but something tightened around his 
ankle, pulling him off balance. Instinctively, he tried to flail his 
arms, but they were held tight behind him, the movement tugging 
painfully on his shoulders.

Helplessly, he crashed backwards into the arms of the waiting 
darkness.

**********

Monday night, very late
____

It smelt of new carpet. Every breath she took filled her lungs with 
the smell. She knew she would never be able to face that smell again 
without being overwhelmed by the emotions of this night.

And the next night? And the next? And the next? How long? How long 
before she could smile again? How long before Mulder....?

"But you must know something, sir!" There were no tears in her 
voice, just anger. "That man.... The smell of smoke in your office. 
He is always there. He must have hinted, said something."

"I promise you, Agent Scully. I don't know anything." Skinner's eyes 
were still shadowed with sleep, although his voice was alert, 
serious. He had been yawning, hastily dressed, when he had opened 
the door to her desperate hammering.

"But if you don't, then...." She swallowed, forcing back the grief. 
More than anything, she needed the anger to keep her focused. 
"They've taken him, sir. I don't know why. Please try to remember, 
sir. Were there _any_ hints?"

"I've told you, Agent Scully, I don't know anything." Skinner took 
off his glasses, rubbing them on his sleeve, then put them on again. 
He leant back against a packing case, looking almost reluctant to 
meet her eyes. "Are you sure they're the ones who took him?"

"Of course it's them!" Anger surged. How could he even question her 
on that? "They've taken so much from him. They're trying to destroy 
him piece by piece and, because he still survived, they took him. Of 
course it was them."

"But why?" Skinner's voice was cautious. Could he be flinching from 
her anger? "As you say, I.... know certain things, and I've seen no 
sign of fear in their movements. Normally, when they strike, it is 
because Mulder threatens something close to them. I've seen no sign 
that they feel threatened by him, not recently."

It was too much. She hated herself for the weakness, but the tears 
flowed unchecked. No threat! He had suffered so much - they had both 
suffered so much - this last week, yet they were still no threat. It 
made everything seem to futile, so worthless. That he could die over 
no threat...  

Skinner averted his eyes, as if refraining from noticing her tears. 
"We shouldn't jump to hasty conclusions, Agent Scully. It's best if 
we stay calm and assess all possibilities." He caught her eye for a 
moment, his expression firm but sympathetic. "Best for Mulder," he 
added.

"Why should I stay calm?" She paced up and down the sparsely 
furnished apartment. "We've stayed calm for too long - let them get 
away with it. This time we need anger...." She paused, looking at 
him with all the intensity she could muster. "Do you know what they 
did to him this time, sir?"

He looked at his feet, unable to hold her gaze. Was it guilt? 

"They threatened me." Her voice was firm, unforgiving. Even if he 
knew already, he needed to be reminded of the pain they caused. 
"That so-called accident? That was them. They taunted Mulder about 
it, threatening to hurt me worse next time unless he gave up a case 
he wanted to investigate."

Skinner licked his lips, frowned, but said nothing.

"And you know what, sir? That case.... He thought it was about his 
sister. He thought it would lead him to a woman who knew her. You 
saw how he was in your office yesterday?" No response. "_That_ was 
what they did do him, forcing him with this choice."

Skinner flinched at that, though she couldn't read his expression. 
"So that incident last night....?" he began.

"That incident...." She quoted his word sarcastically, clinging to 
the anger and hatred. "That was them too, of course. They shot her 
in front of him. She died before his eyes. He thought he'd lose his 
sister if he didn't speak to her, but lose me if he did."

He was silent, stunned. She had never seen Skinner at a loss for 
words before, but could feel no satisfaction at the sight.

"And yet you say he is no threat to them?" Hatred was threatening to 
overcome her. "They did all this to someone who's no threat?" She 
stamped her foot. Tear trickled down her face but she was beyond 
trying to hide them. "If I could get my hands on the men who did 
this...."

"You would do what, Agent Scully?" Skinner stood up. He was still 
breathing deeply, but was in control again - the stern superior. It 
was a comfort, in a way. "Would you have them make a murderer of 
you? Would you let them destroy you?" He gave a harsh laugh. "I 
would have expected that of Mulder, not of you."

Of Mulder? Oh God! The battle he'd been going through.... She 
remembered her words to him in the terrible fury of the previous 
night - how she'd urged him against violence. She gave a small sob. 
It was just so difficult....

"I know nothing about this, Agent Scully, I swear," Skinner 
continued gently. He paused, coughed. "I know what you said, but are 
you sure it's them? You _are_ just closing a case. It could be 
related to that."

She clenched her fists, resisting the anger this time. She knew 
Skinner was right - that Mulder needed her calm and rational. "We 
have one suspect already in custody but we're sure he has at least 
one accomplice. But...." The anger burst out, showing itself in hot 
protest. "Why would they take Mulder?"

She shut her eyes against the image, but it was even stronger in the 
darkness of her own mind. The terrible video. The man, naked and 
whimpering, calling for help that didn't come. But this time the 
face on the man was Mulder's. She couldn't suppress a sob at the 
vision.

It couldn't be.... It mustn't....

"There are many reasons, Agent Scully. You know that." Skinner's 
voice was just what she needed - a firm anchor in the sea of fears. 
"They have a thousand ways of finding out about the people who are 
searching for them. Maybe they saw him at a crime scene. Maybe they 
knew how close you were getting and wanted a hostage. Maybe...."

"They see themselves as working for God." Her voice was dull, 
reciting the truth, trying not to feel the implication. "They see 
themselves as punishing murderers. They only take people they think 
are evil."

It was so hard. The memory of Mulder's guilt-ridden eyes after the 
mugger's death still haunted her. She knew he wasn't guilty, but.... 
God! She couldn't let herself think that way. He had given them more 
reason to assume his guilt than the other men had. They would find 
him guilty, and they would burn him. Burn him. Fire....

It could _not_ be that. She refused to accept it.

"And are they murderers, the people they've taken?" Skinner asked 
quietly, as if reading her fears.

"No!" After all the doubts, this at least was something she was sure 
of. "They each had a.... an enemy die of natural causes. That's all 
it was. The killers obviously thought otherwise."

Skinner came as close as he ever did to smiling, his eyes 
reassuring. "Listen to yourself, Agent Scully. Listen to what you're 
saying. Doesn't it all fit together?" He paused, as if awaiting her 
answer, but she was thinking, unable to speak. "Even _you_ feared 
his guilt, didn't you, Agent Scully?"

She opened her mouth to protest, but could find no words. She _had_ 
doubted him, just for a second. And if the killers had been 
watching....?

She reached for the support of the wall, seeing again the blood on 
the ground at the back door of his apartment complex. Voices 
jabbered in memory. The shrill neighbour who'd seen someone being 
bundled into a car. The hum of speculation from by-standers, 
terrible words floating to her across the darkness. "Is he dead?" 
"Did you see anything?" "The FBI are involved." "Strange guy. Did he 
resist arrest? Is that what it was?"

And Kelleher. Kelleher crouching down, his fingers marked with 
Mulder's blood, his eyes swimming with the guilt of having 
misunderstood so much.

And she? Had she misunderstood too? Had he expected this, somehow? 
He had watched that video with such.... such recognition. Had he 
been crying for help even as she sent him away?

And if he died....?

"You should talk to the man you arrested and see if he knows 
anything," Skinner said, his voice firm and professional. She clung 
to that, needing it. It made her straighten her back, silence her 
fears and respond to him in the way he clearly expected. "And only 
if he doesn't...."

His silence spoke his meaning. If he didn't, then.... 

Oh God! Them. The pain they inflicted without remorse. The terrible 
desire for revenge. 

She touched her gun, seeking strength, failing to find it.

**********

end of part 14

**********

It was the softest of touches, but it was everything. Darkness, 
pain, fear.... and a touch, like a drop of water in a wilderness - a 
touch, calling him back to life - a touch....

He moved his lips, struggling to find the strength for a sound. 
"Scully?" Too soft for her to hear, but she didn't need it. She was 
there. She would see the movement, and she would smile, and the 
darkness would fall away.

No answer. But the touch.... Soft fingers on his chest, comforting.

"Scully?" He managed a sound this time, though it was still as 
nothing to the force of his need.

Her hair shone in the sunlight. She had fallen asleep, touching him. 
Slowly she would wake up and smile, and her words would be comfort 
and light and home. "Mulder, it's okay. You're okay, Mulder. I'm 
here. You're safe."

He sighed, moving his head a fraction. Imagination tricking him 
again. They were not _her_ words. She would smile and her eyes would 
speak that message of comfort, but her words would be different - a 
ritual lightness, fencing round their true feelings.

"How are you feeling, Mulder?" He could hear her clear in the 
memory. A simple question, hiding the worry that showed in the heavy 
shadow of her eyes.

And then he would smile, and would give her some humorous answer. 
What would he say? "I feel like.... like.... like...." 

God! He couldn't _think_. He needed more than her touch, more than 
the memory of past words. Why wasn't she speaking? Why?

"Scully!" Urgent now, though the movement sent hammer-blows of pain 
through his head.

"Shh. Lie still. You are hurt." The touch became a voice. Not 
Scully. Reynardine.

Reynardine!

He hated himself for the joy he felt. Reynardine had come back. He 
was still wanted. He was worth fighting for. He had value.

"You came back," he said, wonderingly.  

"I am so sorry you are hurt." The finger snaked up and down his 
chest, cold and mesmerising. "I am sorry you were.... upset."

"You came back," he repeated, but this time there was bitterness in 
his words. There was such confidence in the touch - such 
calculation. He would not let himself be manipulated again.

"I will always come back, Fox." There was a breath on his neck. "You 
knew that always. You are special to me. You will never be without 
me."

"Are you coming to rescue me?" Bitter. He pulled away, trying to 
curl up against the voice. He could feel the eyes raking his naked 
body. "Are you offering to kill the people who took me?"

"Is that what you want?" 

He was silent, struggling. No. He ought to say no. No deal. No 
offer. No promise. He _ought_ to....

"Is it?" The voice was like his father's, chilling, leaving no 
option. 

It would be self-defence. Not murder. Justifiable. Killing the 
guilty to save the.... to save a life. It was.... right?

But he couldn't say it. He had resisted for so long. Scully....

"It is no matter." The voice was low and regretful. "The question is 
academic - just a point for you to ponder. I can not do it. It is 
not within my powers."

Can't do it? Oh God, Scully! I'm going to die. I'm going....

And then the anger flamed, fierce and unexpected. "You can't do it? 
You mean, you won't do it. You could kill them without a second's 
thought, if you so desired, but you don't. And why don't you? 
Because there is some right in it." His voice pounded in his head, a 
hammering pain, but anger carried him through it. It took but a few 
deep breaths to steady his voice when it faltered. "You want to 
persuade me to agree to a killing that has no justification but 
revenge. This killing could be seen as self-defence, so it is of no 
interest to you."

"Ah, Fox, Fox." The fingers flicked his cheek playfully, and there 
was the sound of laughter. "You think so poorly of me? I am hurt."

"Poorly?" He didn't even falter. Even at the touch, he didn't 
falter. "I think the truth. Your arguments.... You have never once 
urged me to kill to prevent future harm, always to avenge past 
injuries. You want to win me to unjustifiable murder, not defence. 
Why is that? Why is that more valuable to you?"

"Valuable? I told you I gain nothing." There was the slightest hint 
of anger in the voice, but the touch was still soft, on his neck, 
his shoulder, his arm, however he shrank away.

His strength ran out in a stab of pain, though the anger was still 
there. "You gain something," he said, more like a sob than the 
accusing shout it was in his mind. "I don't know what it is. I don't 
know. But I won't listen to you."

"No?" It was so quiet, so menacing. The hand travelled up his body, 
lingering close to the centre of pain that was the side of his head. 
The slightest flick of the finger would bring agony.

"No. I won't listen to you." He stiffened in preparation for an 
agony that didn't come. "You have manipulated me all along. Even in 
leaving - in pretending to leave - yesterday you manipulated me. I 
am...."

I am strong now. He whispered the words silently, afraid Reynardine 
would view them as a challenge. I am strong now. The past day's 
sense of weakness was just a manipulation too. I am strong. I can 
resist....?

"Do you know what people like this do? The voice was casual, 
uninterested. "You think this is pain?" A sharp tap on the open 
wound at the side of his head, leaving his eyes stinging with tears. 
"This is nothing. Do you know what it is to hear your own joints 
crack, or to see the marrow ooze from your broken bones, or to feel 
the trickle of blood from your sightless eyes?"

He was beyond words, beyond thought, screaming silently with an 
agony that issued from the touch on his forehead. Imagination, 
hypnosis, truth, a lie? 

"Help me!" He cried with all his strength, though it came out as the 
smallest of groans. Fear and pain robbed him of everything.

The hand slid away, fingers lingering a second longer. The pain 
blanked out, leaving him with a throbbing in his head and his arms 
that was nothing.

"_That_ was nothing." It was a whisper, almost inside him. "It can 
be worse."

"Why are you telling me this?" He sounded like a frightened child, 
still shaky from the pain. "You said you wouldn't save me."

"No." Silken and serpentine. "But I can avenge you."

"Avenge?" He hated the hope he heard in his voice.

"You will die knowing you were avenged. I will ensure the last thing 
you hear is their screams."

You will die. You will die. You will die.... He let the words echo 
in his head, clinging to their meaning, using them to fuel the 
anger. "I will die," he said aloud. "You refuse to save me. Why 
should I listen to anything else you offer?"

"So because I can not give you everything, you will not listen to 
anything? Selfish, Fox. Always making demands on me, grasping."

"I will _not_ listen to you!" It was as near to a shout as he could 
make it. "I will not be manipulated this way again. I can see 
clearly now."

Laughter. Harsh, mocking laughter.

I can see clearly. I can. I can. He clung to the image of his own 
strength. He was winning. He was resisting. It was his own strength. 
Scully was an ever-present memory, but the strength had been his 
own. He had not yet clung to her.

But still the laughter. Why the laughter? Don't laugh at me, please.

"Oh my poor deluded Fox!" It spoke with such pitying amusement. "You 
are blindfolded, but you say you see clearly. You are tied up, yet 
you tell yourself you are strong. You are going to be killed, yet 
you think of yourself as winning." There were two hands on his body 
now, fingers probing his skin. "What a joy you are, Fox."

"Don't laugh at me!" It was going to sound so strong, but it was 
just like a petulant school boy. He floundered, trying to regain 
some control. "It's a mistake. You can't pretend you want what's 
best for me now, not when you laugh."

"But I do, Fox, I do." There was still a small tremor of laughter. 
"There is just such a wonderful irony about this. You are so blind."

He was silent, resisting without words. To speak was to lose his 
advantage. If he laughed again....

"Why do you still resist, Fox?" The voice was deadly serious now, a 
breath away from his ear. "What is stopping you. You will die 
anyway. There will be no time for guilt, no time for regrets, no 
time for punishment. What have you got to lose?"

He flinched, pulling himself tighter into a ball. He knew how 
defensive, how weak it looked, but it was the only way. 

"You are dead, Fox. They will kill you, whatever you decide. There 
is no way out."

"They will not kill me," he protested hotly, not really believing 
it. "I didn't agree to what you did. I'm innocent."

"Then how did they find you? _If_ they are who you think they are, 
how did they find you? How did they recognise you unless you have 
something about you that proclaims to them that you are one whom 
they wish to kill? They have sentenced you already, Fox. They did 
that before they took you."

"Did you lead them to me?" He was up against the wall, unable to 
flinch further, forced to endure. "Is that what you do? You persuade 
people to kill, then set them up to be killed themselves? Is it a 
game for you, or do you _get_ something from their deaths?"

"I did not lead them." The voice was dark with what sounded like 
genuine feeling. "It pains me, what they do. Your enemy is my enemy, 
Fox."

Then why don't you kill them? Why don't you help me? Why didn't you 
help them? He was screaming the questions silently, but kept them 
in. He had enough strength for that.

"Fox, it is no matter why you are here. All that matters is that you 
_will_ die. Whatever you decide, you will die. You have nothing to 
lose."

"I have nothing to gain either." He could feel his confidence 
surging with every word. At the end of everything, he was finding 
his own strength. "If I die, I will die...."

"Weak." Reynardine's voice spat with contempt. "Not fighting. 
Letting them get away with it." A hand caressed his face. "I know 
how much you fear weakness, Fox."

Weakness? Oh God.... "Not weak." A sob. No. Not a sob. Stronger, 
Mulder. Think. Focus. "Not weak," he tried again, louder this time. 
"Strong. Resisting your manipulation. Strong.... My own strength."

"So be it." It sounded so casual, so unconcerned. "It is your 
choice."

He stiffened, distrusting. So easy. It couldn't be so easy. Why had 
it been so easy? His words, his thoughts, had come clearly, without 
a fight. Was it strength, or was it....

"No!" He whispered the reassurance to himself. It was strength. He 
was winning. Naked and alone, stripped of everything right at the 
end, he had found the strength of his own beliefs.

And now he was alone. No touch. No words. Alone.

He shifted, uncurling himself just a fraction, letting his mind 
reach into the darkness. "Are you there?" he thought, silently, 
afraid to speak it aloud.

"Yes, Fox. I am here. I am here, should you wish to change your 
mind."

"I would never...."

And then he saw it, heard it, felt it. A hand stroked his forehead 
and words murmured like a river, bringing with it a flash of an 
image, vivid and terrible.

Scully, hair strewn on the dark floor, eyes wide with fear. Light 
flashing as a knife raised high into the air, then began its 
inexorable descent. Her mouth opened and....

Nothing. Just the darkness of the blindfold and the memory of the 
knife.

Oh God! Scully....

"What was that?" His voice was losing its control, but what did it 
matter? "Was that you? Was that real? What happened to her?"

Silence. Just a casual brush of the fingers on his head, and the 
sound of her voice, crying out in horror. 

"Tell me? Is she hurt, is that what you're telling me? Is she?" The 
fabric of the blindfold was wet with tears and desperation. "Tell 
me!" he shouted, voice cracking.

"I thought you said you would not listen to me." There was amusement 
in the voice, terrible to hear. "And yet now you are begging. If you 
could see yourself, Fox."

"I don't care. Just tell me. I've got to know. Is she okay?" He was 
past caring about anything else. It was so tawdry and futile, this 
desire to seem strong. 

A soft stroke, a murmur of words, and.... Blood. Kelleher kneeling 
down, eyes haunted, staring at a splash of blood on the ground. The 
lights of a police car pulsed and voices hummed out of hearing. One 
word came through, clear and terrible - "Dead."

Scully.

"What happened? Is she hurt? Is she....?"

"No. She is not.... " A chuckle. "Hurt."

"Then she's....." A sob choked him. He couldn't say the word, 
couldn't make it real.

"I have never lied to you. When I showed you Hannah Gordon, that was 
real. This is real. It has happened."

Scully, eyes bright with amusement as he expounded a theory. 
"Mulder, you're crazy," she smiled, eyes warm and fond, always there 
supporting him even when she didn't believe him.

Always there for him.... 

"You spoke with the voice of your partner when you resisted me, but 
if your partner was no longer here...."

The sound of a phone in the darkness. "Mulder, it's me." A voice, 
anchoring him, reaching out to him, saving him. A smile.

No longer here....

"It was their associate, the men who have you. It was such a simple 
arrest, but he had a knife. Your partner was closest to him. They 
got him, afterwards. Will he get what he deserves?"

The feel of the trigger beneath his finger. A single tear on her 
cheek. "Mulder, fight him. You're stronger than this." 

Stronger....

"He was one of them. There were three who would kill you. Now there 
are two, and they seek a third again before they kill you. But the 
man who took a knife to your partner is one of them too. They all 
have blood on their hands."

Scully, the cross at her throat, her calm voice opposing murder. 
"You would lose yourself, Mulder," her voice said, but her eyes.... 
He could read the truth in her eyes. "You would lose me, Mulder. If 
you do this, I would no longer respect you, and if I couldn't 
respect you, I would have to leave you."

Leave me. But you've already....

"Do you want revenge?"

Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. Hands on the throat of the man who killed 
her, watching the life ebb away, savouring the terror in his eyes.

"I would show you every last drop of his terror, if you wish. I 
would hide it from you, if that is what you prefer."

Scully, face pale, lying in a hospital bed, her life despaired of. A 
cross, nestling at his own throat as he carried it for her, waiting.

The strength of her beliefs. The strength. Strength....

"I can't." He wrenched the words out, hearing them shake. "Strong 
for her. You.... you laughed. Pretence.... You pretended. No."

"Does that matter? It will make your decision more valuable. Not 
manipulated. Not forced. You see I have my own motives, yet you give 
yourself freely to what I offer. Free will, Fox. No deception. Just 
a deal."

There was nothing. He was alone. There was nothing more he could 
lose. But revenge.... He could claw something back from the brink. 

He opened his mouth to speak, but the words wouldn't come. The 
memory of Scully's face, the feel of her cross.... They were still 
too recent. How could he see her face, and do this?

But the _blood_. The scream. How could he see her face and _not_ do 
this?

Her memory was everything, and it paralysed him.

"Fox. Come on. Say it." There was a note of urgency to Reynardine's 
voice, almost of fear. There was no touch now, and the voice was 
faint. 

And then he heard it. Distant footsteps. Voice coming closer. 

It was death.

There was no-one to hear his answer.

**********

end of part 15

**********

Tuesday morning, very early
____

Mulder had never spoken of it - never would speak about it. The fact 
that she knew was something she kept to herself, though the memory 
of the cold words of the file came to her at night sometimes, 
tormenting her with images of what might have been.

".... the presence of severe bruising around the throat, consistent 
with Agent Mulder's admitted attack...."

She paused at the door of the interview room, shutting her eyes to 
steady herself. Had it been like this for him, too, coming face to 
face with the person whose one word could make the difference 
between hope and despair? Had he too resolved to be calm before 
cracking, taking Duane Barry's neck in his hands, and threatening to 
squeeze the life out of him if he didn't tell? 

She understood. Oh God, she understood. If this man knew where 
Mulder was.....

"Stay calm. Stay calm." She spoke silently to herself, hearing the 
words with the voice of Skinner. She took a deep breath, preparing 
herself. She would play it cautiously. She _had_ to play it 
cautiously.

But it would be so difficult. If he knew and wouldn't tell.... Her 
fingers flexed at the thought of his throat.

"Did you kill those people?" She was speaking before the door was 
fully open, dispensing with procedure, dispensing with introduction. 

"Yes." George Hagen's eyes were defiant. He was barely in his 
twenties, fair-haired and lean.

She pulled out a chair, hearing its legs scrape on the bare floor, 
the movement covering her awkwardness. The starkness of his answer 
had thrown her.

Ask about Mulder. Ask about Mulder. Ask him.... She heard the demand 
in the sound of her breathing, but she silenced it. Not yet. If she 
asked now and the answer was...? God! She needed to cling to some 
hope. She needed to understand.

"Why?" Simple. One word. It was all she could say past the emotion.

"They were sinners." He spoke with the smug assurance of the 
fanatic. "They had accepted evil into their lives. Your laws would 
not punish them, so we did."

She shivered. The thought of Mulder in the hands of these men.... 
They would give him no chance. They would....

"We?" She spoke abruptly, needing to silence her thoughts. 

"There must be Three." His voice was solemn, as if quoting. "I was 
chosen...."

"Chosen by God?" She couldn't hide her contempt. _Her_ God didn't 
sanction murder of innocents.

"Chosen by the leader. He is chosen by God."

"And your leader....?" She paused, the implication of his words 
sinking in, bringing her first glimmer of hope. There must be 
three.... And one was here in front of her. Would they kill with 
two?

"He is chosen by God. We do God's work." His eyes were shining, 
though there was something in his voice - a small tremor of fear?

"And how does he find the.... sinners you must kill?" She leant 
forward, forcing herself to stay focused. All her thoughts were on 
Mulder, but she couldn't ask, not yet. If she asked, and the answer 
was yes, then she was be in no state to ask his reasons. She needed 
to understand the reasons, to get into his mind.

"This is not for me to understand." Hagen blinked, another sign of 
the truth beneath his facade. "God speaks to him. He has a gift. He 
can smell the evil."

She clenched her fists until the nails dug red into her palm, 
praying she was doing the right thing. "How is it really, George? 
Does he have a contact somewhere, maybe in the hospital or the 
police? Does he pick a death and then seek out someone who could 
possibly have gained by it? Or does that even matter? Is it just 
anyone? He kills just for the sake of killing, but dresses it up in 
this.... this lie?"

And then she saw his eyes....

Oh God! Not that. Not right.... She shut her eyes for a second, 
seeing again the image of Mulder's face, calling for help that 
didn't come. She whispered her apology, washed with guilt. She was 
supposed to be getting into his head, winning his trust.

"He smells the evil." The tremor was gone from Hagen's voice. There 
was such assurance in his eyes now. "I have seen it. He accuses 
them, and they cry out to the Devil by name. They call for help, but 
the Devil doesn't care for his own. He never saves them."

Scully! Help me! Scully!.... She shuddered, his voice as terrible in 
imagination as in reality. Calling for help that didn't come....

"So you murder them when they are defenceless?" she asked, bitterly. 
She had lost him, no need to pretend now. 

"But we don't murder them!" he exclaimed, his face almost beatific. 
"We purify them. With the cross we make them renounce the Devil, 
then we kill them. We have to kill them, for their sakes. If we 
didn't, they would be tempted again. We must kill them when they are 
purified, then they will go to Heaven."

"So you are saving them from their sin?" She made her voice gentle, 
luring him into her trap. He nodded eagerly. "But you just said you 
were punishing them."

"We.... we are punishing them." He was stammering now, eyes 
shadowed. "Jesus says we must punish people. Those who kill must be 
killed. An eye for an eye."

"Is that what he told you?" She was torn between laughing and crying 
at the naivety of the man. If it hadn't been for Mulder.... "I know 
my Bible too, and those words are not in mine." She let her voice 
fall unconsciously into the lilting speech patterns of the priest of 
her childhood. "It has been said that you take an eye for an eye, a 
tooth for a tooth, but I tell you now that you should not resist 
evil. If someone should hit you on one cheek, you should offer him 
the other as well."

"You are lying!" His eyes were fire. "The Devil can quote Scripture 
to his own ends."

"I understand." She made her voice soft, though it was such a 
strain. Her hands were itching to hold him, to shake the truth out 
of him, but it wasn't time. "I know what it's like to need someone 
to look up to, someone to follow. I know what he says is compelling 
- giving you a purpose in life. I understand...."

And she did. Part of her did. She blinked, and when she looked at 
him again she saw only a frightened deluded child, dazzled by a 
leader. She knew it was an impression that wouldn't last.

"I follow him because he is right!" he shouted, defiantly.

"The law will go lightly on you if you tell us everything." Her 
muscles were aching with the tension. It was getting close. "We 
understand why you did what you did. The law will be lenient. We 
know you were just doing what he told you."

Silence. His eyes were wild, wandering. She hardly dared breathe. It 
was so close now....

"I'll tell you everything." 

Relief surged through her, though she knew it wasn't over yet. He 
might not even know about Mulder, and, even if he did, she would 
still have to pray there were in time. 

"I'll tell you everything. Why shouldn't I? I have nothing to be 
ashamed of. If the law finds it to be a crime, then I shall have the 
comfort of knowing I am a martyr."

"Then tell me where....."

"But I shall _not_ betray my leader!" The sudden shout echoed off 
the stark walls of the small room, clanging like the death knell of 
her hopes. "You are trying to turn me against him - I know your 
wiles. You speak with the voice of the Devil as befits the company 
you keep." 

The company? Oh God! No! He meant.... God! Mulder?

"Where is he?" It was the smallest of whimpers. It should have been 
a shout.

"The man who used to be your partner?" There was no desperation in 
his voice now. It was as if he had taken all her confidence into 
himself. "Why do you care about him?"

"Used to be?" Dread choked her voice. Naked flesh and blood on a 
video. "Is he dead?"

"He has a new partner now. He sold himself to the Devil. The Devil 
killed for him to cement their bargain."

"He's not!" She pushed the chair back, hearing it crash to the 
floor. "He didn't! He's innocent, just like the others. If anyone's 
evil it's your leader, saying these things." She took a great 
heaving breath, but it did nothing to stop the fury. "This is 
_nothing_ to do with God. It's just.... just murder!"

"He is evil. Our leader has felt it on him. God has chosen him to 
die."

"No!" She slammed her fist on the table, hard. "What has he done? He 
didn't kill that.... He didn't do anything. He's innocent." She 
reached for the cross at his neck, thrusting it forward defiantly. 
She was floundering, seeking words that could speak to _him_ - speak 
his language. "See? I have faith in God, and _I_ have faith in 
Mulder. Would God let me close to him if he was evil?"

"He is evil. It is not for me to ask what he's done. Our leader has 
spoken and he will die." Hagen spoke in the voice that would brook 
no argument. "They will find a third and then they will purify him."

"Tell me where he is." She was so close to him, face just inches 
from his. She held his collar in her fist. "Where is he? Tell me! 
Tell me!"

The eyes were wide and defiant. No words.

A door opened. Footsteps. A voice.... Nothing.

"If he _dies_...." She twisted the material, wishing it could be the 
flesh of his throat. "If we find him too late, I will....."

"Dana....." Soft. A hand on her shoulder. Skinner?

"He knows where Mulder is. He won't tell me." The words came out 
more like a sob. She didn't relax her grip. "They're going to kill 
him. He's so scared of fire."

"Let him go, Agent Scully." The use of her professional name shook 
her, did something to recall her from the depths of her anger. She 
relaxed her grip just a little. "You're too close to this." He 
whispered, trying not to let Hagen hear. "You know we have a better 
chance of getting through if we're reasonable with him."

"We can't reason with him!" she cried bitterly, tears in her eyes. 
"He thinks he's right. They're.... They've condemned him already. 
They won't give him a chance."

And the fire was flickering, with the smell of burning flesh and the 
sound of his screams.

"Then we've got to win him that chance, haven't we, Agent Scully?"

Silence. Her fingers shook with the twist of the material. Hagen's 
eyes were wide and staring, but he had no trouble breathing. She 
cursed silently. Even in blind fury she had too much restraint to do 
any real damage.

She let go slowly, flexing her tired fingers. Defeat threatened to 
choke her. He wouldn't talk and there was nothing she could do about 
it. Nothing.

"But how, sir?" she asked, quietly.

He couldn't meet her eyes. She blinked hard, but didn't cry.

**********

It was painful and blinding and it hurt his eyes. Light. Intense 
light. An explosion of light on his darkness-weakened eyes, 
throbbing in his head.

Mulder blinked, his eyes watering from the onslaught. The light 
swirled and slowly, painfully, took on form. 

And there were faces. Three faces, not even covered, staring 
impassive, immobile. Such human faces too, glimpsed through the 
pulsing of light in his head. Pulse. Dark hair. Pulse. Thin lips. 
Pulse. An irregular arch of eyebrow. Pulse. A cheekbone.  

Shouldn't death look less human? White bones and grinning caverns of 
mouth and eyes. Flesh falling off and decaying, leaving....

Scully. Oh God, Scully.

A knife flashed in the light - just the slightest of warning 
movements - then withdrew. It had flashed like that in.... God! Her 
last sight. Eyes widening in fear as another knife in another hand 
descended on her throat.

Blood filled his vision.

"You killed...." He put all his pain into the croak. "Killed. 
Murderers."

"You call us murderers?" A voice at last - a normal voice, human, 
ordinary. The knife flashed again. He couldn't look at it 

"You killed...."

"We are not murderers!" The man stepped forward, his voice terrible. 
"Look at us. Look at our faces in the light. We have no shame. We do 
not hide our deeds in the dark Our proceedings are documented, 
recorded." He gestured to the lifeless staring eye of the camera.

Scully. Her touch on his arm as he had watched the video, a lifetime 
away. "You are murderers," he spat out, needing to hold onto the 
anger. The alternative was a grief that was more than he could 
contemplate.

The man crouched down. He had dark hair and smooth skin - handsome. 
His words were confident, as if speaking an incontrovertible fact. 
"We destroy evil. We.... purify it. And you are evil"

He gave a scarcely perceptible nod to the man on his left who 
stepped up, resting his huge hand almost casually at Mulder's 
throat. The fingers dug into the flesh, gently, almost teasingly.

I'm not. I'm not. He cried out silently, the pressure on his throat 
just enough to make him fight for breath. I'm not evil. Breath. I'm 
not. Breath. I'm not....

"Answer!" The large man's voice was low and angry. He didn't loosen 
his grip on Mulder's throat, but his other fist drove into his 
stomach, fast and heavy. The light wavered as the breath rushed from 
his body, then the fingers tightened, preventing him from regaining 
it.

"Yes." The first man - the leader? - said approvingly. "Our new 
brother's tactics are a bit.... heavy-handed, but his intentions are 
admirable. You must answer. You must confess."

Confess? God! He couldn't breathe. The light was swaying, and the 
pain was everywhere. 

"Confess." Cold and insistent. "Confess now, and spare yourself the 
coming pain."

He was beyond seeing, but heard the sound of movement, heard the 
small grunt of reluctant acquiescence. The fingers relaxed, then 
disappeared, leaving him gasping, his chest crying out in pain. 
There was a choking smell in the air - incense? - and it reached 
into his lungs, choking them.

"Confess. Don't think of trying to deny it. You have been touched by 
evil. The stench of it called out to me, bringing you to us." The 
face wrinkled with disgust. "I can smell it still, even in this 
sanctuary."

He was beyond words, his body racked with coughs. His mind was 
screaming his protest, refusing to listen to the words. 

"See how the very air rejects you." The man's voice was relentless. 
"Evil is uncomfortable here. The devil can not enter the house of 
the Lord."

Can not....? But....? In his nightmare he called for Scully, but she 
wasn't there. There was nothing. Just the words and the face - the 
red-tinged face of violence, the impassive face with the lifeless 
dark camera eye, and the.... the other. The one whose words meant 
nothing. The one whose words _had_ to mean nothing.

"You can't deny it. I smell your evil. The souls of those you killed 
cried out to me. I heard them die, and in their death they accused 
you." No touch, this time. No pain. Just the voice what was 
everywhere, raking into his naked flesh. "_You_ are a murderer."

"I didn't kill...." Aloud? Silent? He couldn't tell.

"You killed. A boy, a few nights ago, who was knifed." Soft as a 
breath. "Like this...." 

The knife flashed but an instant, then was on him, cutting almost 
gently into the skin on his chest. A slow slow course, snaking down 
to his stomach, not deep.  

"And there was a man, earlier still. His heart was crushed. Like 
this...."

It shone high into the air, silver light and red, then descended, a 
sudden flash aiming straight at his heart. Then, at the last minute, 
it slowed, the point just resting on his flesh. A small bead of 
blood welled up at the point, then more as the pressure 
increased....

Blood on a knife. Scully....

"You killed them both. We know that. However you hide in the 
darkness, we can see the evil. It cries out to be purified."

The knife pushed in, the tiniest fraction of an inch, then another, 
then withdrew, blood flowing in its wake. The camera stared 
impassively, lingering.

The man.... God! He _smiled_, pityingly. "You do not argue. The last 
one.... He tried to defend himself. He said he only killed those who 
deserved it. He said he was doing the same work as we are."

Deserved it? He was silent, his mind wandering down the pathways of 
memory - to a time when there was life - to a time there was Scully. 
The man who'd pushed her off the road. The man with the cigarettes, 
smoking down the barrel of a gun. That her last years should be in 
the shadow of fear....

"But he was not doing God's work!" A sudden shout, face alight with 
fury. "He was serving evil, just like you. You killed from petty and 
selfish ideas of revenge. We kill to punish evil." A fist landed on 
his face, hard and unexpected, driving tears from his eyes. "Like 
you."

"I didn't kill...." Blood trickled into his mouth, and his words 
faded into a mumble. I didn't kill. I didn't kill.... He repeated it 
silently like a prayer, seeing only Scully's face, hearing again her 
trust in him.

"You killed. God has given me the gift of seeing. I felt the ways of 
their death." His hand reached out and closed round the bandage on 
his arm, squeezing like a vice on the wound. Blood seeped out, 
staining the white. "I saw they had given you cause to hate them. 
You killed by will if not by your own hand."

Pain pulsed up his arm, his mind floundering in silent panic. I 
didn't. I said no. I didn't. I didn't. I didn't, Scully.

"I trust you, Mulder. I trust you." Her voice spoke in his memory, 
but he could barely see her face. She was swallowed up in darkness, 
taking his strength.

"We know your guilt. There is nothing you can say. We know, and you 
will be purified."

"Killed." Not purified. Killed. Killed without living long enough to 
avenge Scully. Scully....

Oh God, Scully. It will be _fire_. Flames. Flames flickering, 
burning. The smell of burning flesh. I can't.....

The man's voice dropped to a whisper, close and sinuous as a 
Reynardine. The voice held promise of warmth and safety and life. 
"But if you confess you will go to heaven. Recant, and you will be 
saved." 

No fire? No fire, Scully. And what is the cost?

"Recant?" He hated the note of hope he heard in his voice. "Saved?"

"You will die, but you will be saved." The camera closed in, 
staring, its eye like death. "You must die, you know that. Once you 
are purified, you must be killed, to keep you firm in your resolve, 
to avoid backsliding."

Fire. Silent. Can't speak. Won't speak. Fire whatever I say.  
Reynardine...?

And then there was another change, terrifying, loud as thunder. The 
eyes were blazing in the light, burning like the fire that would 
kill him.

"Do you know what it is like to burn in Hell?" Shouting, shouting, 
throbbing its torment in his head. "Did he tell you what he would do 
to your soul?"

He? Soul? He was floundering, losing control. Help me, Scully. Help 
me. But you're.... Oh God! Alone.... 

"Yes." Quieter now, but no less terrible. "We know about him." A 
small pause. A bead of blood dripped from the end of the knife. 
"What did he offer you? What did he tell you about the price?" 

There was no price. No price.... He said.... What did he say? Two 
silent syllables. No price. Not yet? Oh God! Burning, burning....

"No, I thought not. The devil never tells the price. He only offers 
dreams to damnation."

No! Not that. Man-shaped. Man-shadow. Hands. Voice. Touch. Breath. 

"He didn't tell you about the fires of Hell?"

A rush of sound as something flashed through the air, and then an 
onslaught of agony. Fists? Feet? A knife? He couldn't _see_. Eyes 
tight shut against the pain, he couldn't see.

And Reynardine's voice loud in his memory....

"Do you know what it is to hear your own joints crack, or to see the 
marrow ooze from your broken bones, or to feel the trickle of blood 
from your sightless eyes?"

Crack. Crack of broken joints? Crack of whip? Crack of....?

Trickle of blood? Trickle of sight? Trickle of an ebbing life?

A scream of incoherent pain. Who....?

"This pain is nothing."

A voice. Who? Silent, still. No new pain, but pain everywhere, 
everything. 

"This pain is as nothing to the pains of Hell."

Scully! No strength. I need....  No. A sob. Not here. Rey....

"But through fire you can be purified. It will burn your sin 
away.... If you confess."

Confess. Confess to what? I can't remember, Scully. It hurts. I.... 
can't.... remem... ber. You died. They died. Was that me?

"You do not call for him?" The voice was soft, offering a soothing 
balm to his pain. "The others called for him. He didn't come. When a 
soul is won, he has no further need for them. He forgets them. He 
spares no concern for you."

But I'm not won, Scully. I can see your face now, ghostly, just 
there if I reach out.... He didn't win me, did he? I chose the 
strength of _your_ beliefs, not his. Didn't I?

It was so hard to speak, but the eyes were accusing. He needed a 
protest. He coughed, licked his lips, groaned. "I'm not...."

"Not won?" A pitying laugh. "Oh, you are. I smell the evil on you. 
You said yes when the devil offered his temptation."

I didn't. I didn't. I didn't. I said no. They're wrong on this. 
They're wrong. And if they're wrong on this....

"I will not confess to something I didn't do." Every word brought 
pain, but he didn't waver. "You will kill me anyway. Why should I 
confess?"

"You will." There was utter confidence there. "They all do, 
eventually. No-one can save your body, but we.... we can save your 
soul."

No-one can save....? No smile in the hospital, pulling him from the 
nightmare. No fiery hair as a beacon to him in the darkness. No 
Scully.

No-one could save....

But avenge? He shut his eyes, suddenly craving the whisper touch of 
promise.

They would kill him anyway. As least if he said yes....

Nothing to lose. Nothing. Nothing in life. 

And after death?

He didn't believe. He couldn't believe. He didn't _want_ to believe.

And Scully was gone.

**********

end of part 16

**********

Tuesday morning
____

The tortured eyes held her and she was unable to blink, unable to 
look away.

"Help me! Come to me! Save me!"

There was so much pain. Her fingers were shaking, unable to press 
the buttons on the remote control, forcing her to listen to the 
cries again and again.

"Help me! Why don't you come?"

It was always the same. The cries were always the same, though the 
face, the tortured face, was different. Three different men, three 
so-called trials, three deaths.

And the fourth....?

She chewed her lip, as if fighting the tears, but it was a habit 
only, now. The horror of the videos had scoured all tears from her. 
She wondered if she'd ever be able to cry again - if she'd ever be 
able to forget them.

"He will not come. We will purify you and no-one will save you."

God! It was so difficult. The voice was beyond reasoning with. He 
spoke of saving and he spoke of punishing in the same breath. He was 
deluded, utterly deluded, set firmly in his conviction of 
righteousness when anyone could see how wrong he was. He spoke 
contradictions in every sentence, spoke of things she knew could not 
exist.

A dangerous, dangerous man.

Was he trying to reason with him, to get into his mind? She frowned, 
trying to see Mulder, the light of intensity in his eye, leaning 
forward, needling the man's composure, challenging his certainties. 
She tried so hard to see it, but the picture wouldn't come. There 
was only the tortured face of the video....

"No! I don't want to die. Don't kill me. What do you want me to 
confess to? I'll confess! Just.... don't hurt me again!"

Shaking, she clamped her hands over her ears, though the words still 
echoed in her head. Torture could break the strongest of men.

Her eyes travelled to the clock, hating the hands for still moving. 
Past eleven. They had had him for over twelve hours now.

Twelve hours. Her imagination gave her no peace. Twelve hours of 
beatings. Twelve hours of the cold cold touch of the knife on his 
flesh. Twelve hours of the whip. Twelve hours.... God! This was the 
worst of all. Twelve hours alone in the dark with the threat of the 
fire, needing her, but alone.

Twelve hours.

And she had found nothing. A long night of torment watching the 
videos and for what? There were no clues. No landmarks. No names. No 
background noises to pinpoint their location. Nothing. Just hour 
after hour of pain and death.

They had videoed the fire too.

She shut her eyes, but the flames surged in the darkness. Could she 
smell his burning flesh?

**********

"They are coming."

The voice was the faintest whisper.... somewhere. His breathing and 
heartbeat were loud in his ears, pounding inexorably the last hours 
of his life, making other sounds.... unimportant. 

"They are close now. They have set your fire. They return for you."

His eyes were shut, tight shut against the light. He'd opened them 
once, just for a second, forcing his head round to look at his body. 
White skin. Dark bruises. Blood - a little, not much. He'd viewed it 
with detachment, too weary, too hurt to care.

"They will kill you. You have so little time."

Urgent now, demanding attention. A cool hand brushed across his 
chest, the fingers bringing peace in their wake, easing the 
throbbing pain.

"Reynardine?" He whispered the name through his cracked lips. He 
made attempt to move, to open his eyes. He lay where he had been 
thrown, though he had curled up slightly against the light that hurt 
his eyes.

"They are coming. You must decide."

The hand touched his hair, but he winced, remembering Scully's 
touch. He licked his lips, trying in vain to force strength into his 
voice, and groaned his defiance, a wordless no.

"Why do you still say no?" The voice was so sad, so confused. "What 
reason could you have, now?"

What reason? He shook his head, wonderingly. What reason? It just 
seemed so right to resist. Was it just habit? Or was there something 
else.... something about Scully?

Scully. Oh God! Scully.... He had only the memory of tears now, no 
more left for him to shed.

"Is it because you think your partner will disapprove?" A soft hand 
on his face, comforting. _So_ like Scully's, but not. "She is not 
here. She will never know, not now."

Scully's face, Scully's voice, Scully's light.... His mind groped in 
the darkness, seeking her, but she was gone, snuffed out. He had 
lost her already. There could be nothing worse, nothing more.

"Scully." He tried to utter her name, but there was nothing there. 
His voice was out of his control, unable to utter the simple two 
syllables of her name.

Scully. Gone. Alone. Alone....

"Is it because you fear you will be punished?" There was a sharper 
edge to the voice now, though the touch was still gentle. "You still 
fear that, you who will die within the hour?"

Fear of punishment? He heard her words, though they seemed to come 
with _his_ voice. "They would destroy you on a murder charge." Fear 
of punishment? Oh God, not that! It couldn't be that. So weak that 
it was only fear keeping him from his desires.

"Not fear...." He tried to speak, though whether he made a sound or 
not, he couldn't tell. "Not fear. Can't be fear. Not weak."

But there was no punishment, no fear.... Hope surged in his heart, 
radiating from the fingers that brushed his chest. Killing without 
punishment. No repercussions.

"Is it because you do not trust me?" A distinct note of menace now. 
"You have accused me of manipulating you? You distrust my motives? 
You feel I have played you false?" He tried to nod, tried to pull 
away, but the voice continued, laughing. "But what does it matter, 
Fox? I offer you vengeance. Does it matter what my motives are? The 
product is the same, and that is vengeance. Vengeance for you. 
Vengeance for your partner."

He licked his dry lips just as an image flashed into his head - an 
image of the bleeding corpses of everyone who had hurt Scully. It 
was so like savouring the taste of revenge - a taste that pleased 
him even as it horrified him, like blood on the steak, a lifetime of 
nights ago.

"What other reason could you have, Fox?" The voice was faster, even 
urgent. "Not that you are squeamish at the act of killing, for that 
I will do myself. Not that they will lead you to the truth?" A soft 
laugh. "_These_ men know no truth of yours, and you would be dead 
even if they did."

The flames flickered in his imagination, burning away his guilt, his 
grief, his truth. No truth, not now. No Scully. No Samantha. Too 
late.

"Or do you still say it is wrong?" 

Wrong. Yes! He flinched in instinctive distaste. It's wrong. Scully 
said.... Scully's cross. Wrong. Murder.

"Oh, Fox, there is no time to argue morals with you." Reynardine's 
voice grew regretful. "I could tell you it was right - that 
murderers deserve punishment. I could quote Scripture, reminding you 
that the Bible demands an eye for an eye. But does it matter? Does 
it matter? You are dying, Fox. They will kill you. Do people like 
them deserve to be treated according to weak ideas of what is 
right?"

Weak? He heard a sound like a sob - a sound that must have issued 
from his own throat. It was all falling apart, his objections 
tumbling one by one, revealed as weak and petty.

And there was no Scully....

A door slammed, a distant thud.

"They are coming, Fox. Say yes now. Decide. Let us seal the bargain 
and let _them_ pay the price."

_Something_ penetrated. Through the pain and the dark and the 
confusion, something made him pause. "Bargain?" he whispered, unable 
to do more. 

Footsteps....

Reynardine laughed, a harsh pitying sound. "Bargain? Oh Fox, what 
price can I ask of you? You are dying." A pause. "Unless you believe 
the claims of those madmen with their talk of punishment after 
death? Is that it, Fox? You are held back by fear of something you 
do not even believe in, just because a deluded killer suggests it? 
Are you _that_ weak - _that_ motivated by fear?"

Footsteps....

"Listen, Fox. Feel." It was so urgent now. "Feel my touch. Hear my 
words. I laugh, I cry, I get angry. I would bruise if you hit me. 
Should they enter, they would see me. I am real, Fox." He laughed. 
"If I was, as they say, "from the devil", would I not have won you 
ere now? Could I not have taken you against your will? Would I have 
allowed you free will?"

Footsteps....

"Open your eyes, Fox. Forget your fears, your doubts. Be strong in 
what you want. You owe it to your partner to be strong. Say yes, and 
look into my face. Say yes, and seal the bargain."

Footsteps. A key turning in the lock....

"Say yes, Fox." An urgent whisper, scarcely audible. "I am here. You 
have so little time. Say yes, and I will hear you. I will come."

Footsteps. Hands grabbed him - rough hands, not the beautiful touch 
of Reynardine. He was pulled, dragged to his knees, fingers knotted 
in his hair, pulling his head back.

"Look at us." That voice again - the leader. "Look into the light."

He opened his eyes, blinked, winced, shut them again. The light.... 
Oh God! He needed the darkness. Not the light. The light was death. 
His death by fire in the light. Scully on a metal slab in the light. 
Samantha drifting in the light....

"We have passed sentence. You will die. Your place of purification 
has been prepared."

His eyes were screwed tight shut against the vision of the fire. 

"If you will not accept the light, we will have to force it on you. 
We will force the evil from you. Evil can not bear the cross."

There was the smallest rattle of a chain, and he knew what it was. A 
cross. He didn't need to open his eyes. He had held it in his hands, 
long days before, and knew the pain it caused. It was a symbol of 
Scully, and she was gone.

"Open your eyes!" The shout pulsed in his head, red and painful. 
"Open his eyes."

Rough fingers pulled at his eyes, forcing them open, forcing him to 
stare. Light reflected off the cross, hurting his eyes, making him 
shudder.

Now, Fox. Fight them. Now....

Reynardine? He tried desperately to turn his head, but it was held 
firm. No-one reacted. The words.... The voice of his hope, silent in 
his head? Something more?

"You will accept the cross. It will drive out the evil. The stench 
of it sickens me."

It was closer now, closer. A gold stroke down. A gold stroke across. 
A gold chain, a binding chain. Closer....

Fight, Fox. You accept it all without a fight! Let your last breath 
be to strike a blow. Become a player after a lifetime of weakness.

The chain. The cross. The fire. Fingers in his eyes. A face. 
Scully....? No Scully. 

Decide, Fox. Decide.... Have you decided?

He threw back his head, fighting the hands that held him, shouting 
with a strength that was no more than a whimper....

"Yes!"

But kill them now. Let me see. Before I change my mind. Let me see. 
Kill them now. Let me see them. Please. If I must die, kill me too, 
but kill them now. Before I change my mind.

The chain touched him, brushing lightly against his hair, the cross 
swaying before his eyes, sparking light.

"Yes. Come to me. I have decided. Come to me so I can see your 
face." The fear fell away and he was strong at last - deciding 
inexorably, not fighting indecision. He would die, but he had made a 
choice.

But why didn't he come?

The gold links touched the back of his neck.

"Come to me. I want to see your face." He was shouting, pleading, 
begging silently in his mind. "I want to cement the bargain. I want 
you to kill them now, or I will not deal."

Why didn't he come?

The chain settled on his neck. The cross was still in the hands of 
the.... of the _killer_. Slowly, deliberately, he lowered it towards 
Mulder's chest.

"Come....!"

And then a soft breath touched his face and the whisper of comfort 
washed over him, and he knew he had come. He had answered him. He 
had accepted the choice.

Look at me..... It was silent, everywhere. Look at me. Seal the 
bargain. Look me in the face....

The cross filled his vision, slowly, ceremonially approaching. He 
_had_ to wrench his eyes away, fighting, fighting the fingers and 
the pain and the touch and the.... and the memory of her cross.
 
The cross....

Slowly, painfully, he moved his eyes, straining against his bonds, 
struggling to raise his arms and reach out to the hope. A hand 
touched his face, turning him. His eyes were streaming, stabbed by 
the light. He couldn't _see_....

He felt the cross like a cold knife slash on his chest, but he 
couldn't _see_.

And then there was nothing. The lights blinked out with a crash that 
was everything and everywhere. Something struck him on the 
shoulders, hard, painful, sending him sprawling. Blows rained from 
the screaming darkness, hitting his body mercilessly.

It was darkness. He was beyond seeing, beyond comprehending. 

Something wet trickled down his face, and the darkness was alive 
with screams.

Where....?

**********

Tuesday morning
____

It was too late. It was too late. It was too late....

Scully's lungs were thick with dust, but still she couldn't cry. Her 
mind was numb. She took a step forward, tripping on a piece of 
rubble, sinking to her knees. Blood welled up on her palms from the 
harsh surface, but she stared at it, not comprehending.

Mulder was dead. She had come too late.

She shut her eyes, desperately trying to recover the hope of but an 
hour ago. Kelleher's eyes as he'd burst into the office....

"We've got something," he'd almost shouted. "I think this is it."

It had been slow to sink in. The screaming and the crackle of flames 
had deafened her, slowed down her thinking. She had blinked 
wordlessly at him, silent.

"A fingerprint on one of the video cases," he'd continued, 
breathlessly. "It's been identified as belonging to a Peter 
Chisholm. He's not long been released from prison on condition that 
he keeps seeing a psychiatrist." He'd paused for breath, letting the 
hope sink in. "He used to claim that God told him to commit his 
crimes."

"Where does he live?" Her voice had still been thick, hard to 
control. The videos had shown the interrogations taking place in a 
normal room in a house.

"Not far. I've already sent a team over there."

But they had been too late.

She looked around her, still not really connecting. The sky was 
blue, she saw with a distant appreciation. The sun would shine on 
Mulder's eyes and his smile, and his hair would gleam in the light. 

"What kept you, Scully? Daylight already?" he'd smile, and she would 
untie his arms and help him to his feet, supporting him, giving him 
her strength.

And the defiant eyes of the men who had been about to hurt him would 
stare impotently as they were led away.

"Oh, Mulder." A sob caught in her throat, then became a cough. A 
painful, wracking cough that drove tears from her eyes even as the 
grief could not.

Kelleher was standing awkwardly nearby, his hands twisting 
anxiously. She glanced at him, seeing the grief and sympathy in his 
eyes, but looked away, flinching. She knew he wanted to comfort her, 
to hold her, but the very thought repulsed her. Better never to get 
close to anyone again than to know this grief at the loss.

"Mulder." She whispered his name again, clinging to it. It was all 
she had. They hadn't even found her his body. 

"He could still be...." Kelleher. His words faded into an awkward 
cough. 

She didn't answer. What use was it? The house was just a pile of 
rubble. No-one could have lived through that.

"Oh, Mulder." She was whispering like a broken record, unable to say 
anything else. "Mulder. Mulder...."

There was a shout from the rescue team and voiced babbled excitedly. 
Rising and falling, with expression.... Alive. 

She wondered if she could ever feel alive again.

**********

end of part 17

**********

He was floating in a sea of darkness, a sea of pain. He didn't know 
where he was. There was something over his mouth, something on his 
chest, something.... something dark. He couldn't breathe. He 
couldn't think. He couldn't move. Where was the fire?

"Mulder?"

There was the softest of touches on his forehead, fingers brushing 
strands of hair from his face. The touch was hers. The voice was 
hers. The light....

"Mulder? It's okay, Mulder."

It's okay. It's okay. She says so. She's here. It's okay. The 
darkness is.... If I just open my eyes.... If I just turn my head 
towards her voice....

"Don't try to move, Mulder."

He couldn't _see_ her. He opened his mouth to call to her, but all 
the sound he could make was a small groan - a groan that cried out 
his plea. 

Scully. Where are you, Scully? I need to see you. There's 
something.... something I can't remember.... I need to know it's 
really you.

"Lie still, Mulder." It _was_ her, wasn't it? Shouting at him when 
everything hurt, firm in the darkness. "We're trying to get you out. 
We don't know how badly you're hurt. Please don't try to move."

Get me out? Where? Images assaulted his mind - images and memories. 
A cross, burning in the light. Screams in the darkness as blows 
rained down from above. Scully....

Scully? 

Oh God! He had to _see_ her. His heart pounded loud in his head as 
he flailed towards her voice. He licked his lips, desperately 
willing sound to come to his throat. I thought you were dead. I 
thought you were dead. That's why I.... I thought you were dead.

He _needed_ to say it, but it was nothing but a silent scream in his 
head. Just one word from his parched lips. "Dead."

She laughed then, a sad laugh. He could hear the tears in it. "No, 
you're not dead, Mulder. Not dead."

And he saw her then - a flash of shining hair through a slit of his 
eyes. It was _light_, he saw with amazement. Light above him. Blue 
sky. But he'd been in a room....

"Not dead." He mouthed the words, unable to make any sound. "You're 
not dead. But he said...."

And then the horror started beating around him like choking wings. 
He'd said.... He'd lied.... What had he said? What had he done?

He had to know. Oh God, he had to know.

He strained his ears, listening. Her voice had been all to him, but 
there were others - other sounds that had been nothing but were now 
everything to him. Scraping of rubble. Voices.

A voice. "That's all. All dead."

They're dead, Scully. All of them. How many? Who killed....? Did he 
kill them for me, all at once? Did they destroy him? Am I lost? Tell 
me, Scully. Please.

He could hear the whimpering sound of his own breath, fighting to 
talk. _Why_ couldn't he speak? Why couldn't he ask her?

"Shh, Mulder." Moisture fell onto his face like drops of rain. 
"Please don't move. It's okay. We're nearly there. You'll be okay."

Soothing, soothing words, but not what he needed. He shut his eyes, 
hoping, praying for the reassurance he needed to hear, but there was 
nothing.

And then there was a screech and the pressure lifted on his chest, 
and not even Scully's voice could keep him from the darkness.

**********

Wednesday morning
____

It was sleep now, just sleep, but it did little to comfort her. His 
chest rose and fell, rose and fell, and his bruised lips were 
slightly parted, dark against his pale skin. 

What could she say? He would awaken, and what could she say?

She twisted the video round and round in her hands, unable, even 
now, to look at the scrawled writing on the case. Not that she 
needed to. She had seen it once and would never forget it. It was 
imprinted like a photograph in her mind, every last nuance of it. 
"Fox Mulder. Trial. June 17th 1996." Black ink. A flourish on the M. 
A smudge on the 7.

Why had it survived? Out of the ruins of the devastated house, why 
had this survived - this torturing reminder? 

It had destroyed so much. Three dead - the men who had taken him - 
men who deserved to die. She could feel no grief for them. But 
Mulder.... She bit her lip, the memory even now able to bring tears 
to her eyes. He had been lucky. Three broken ribs. Concussion. A 
broken leg. Internal bleeding that had been a problem but was now 
under control. Nothing dangerous, not now.

"Oh, Mulder." She whispered aloud in her grief, remembering. 
Nothing? Lucky? Oh God! The sight of his poor bruised naked body, 
his tormented eyes....

It would haunt her dreams for ever, she knew that - knew that with a 
certainty. To have _seen_ that.... How could she look at him again 
without seeing him like that? How could she live with herself for 
having.... She shuddered, seeking the right word. Violated? No. It 
wasn't too strong. She had violated him by watching.

But she had _needed_ to. He had left her no choice.

"Please, Scully. Please. I need to know. Please look at it." His 
heart rate had soared with the pleading in his voice. He had not 
been out of danger, then.

"I can't." The very thought had filled her with horror. "They're 
dead now. We don't need it as evidence. We have the other videos. 
I'll destroy it." There would be repercussions, she knew that, but 
that was of no importance. She could not let anyone see him like 
that.

"Please, Scully. I need to know. I can't.... They won't let me see 
it, not yet. I need you to look for me. Don't watch it all." His 
eyes at those words.... They showed her that he shared her horror, 
but was guided by some other fear that surpassed even that. "Please 
don't. Just look at the very end. Just the last few minutes. No 
more."

"I can't...." But she'd been wavering, rebelling instinctively 
against his plea, but seeing his urgency. His heart, his breathing, 
his blood pressure.... A nurse had rushed in, eyes dark with 
concern.

"Please, Scully. You must. Just the last few minutes. I _need_ to 
know."

And now she had looked, and the sight would not leave her.

"Scully...." The smallest of groans now, pulling her into the 
present, forcing her to be strong.

"I'm here, Mulder." It was firm, her voice. She knew beyond a doubt 
that when this was over, when she was at home, no need to keep 
Mulder together, it would all come crashing down.  She had 
suppressed too many of her own fears, responding to Mulder's greater 
need.

"Did you watch it, Scully?" Urgency made his voice lucid - none of 
the drugged confusion she would have expected. 

She nodded, suddenly unable to speak. Memory flickered like the 
video screen, flickering over Mulder's tortured naked body. She 
should never have had to see him like that.

"What happened?" His hands pawed at the bed, struggling in vain to 
sit up. "Right at the end, what happened?"

She swallowed hard. Maybe she wouldn't have to talk about it. Maybe 
it was only this that he needed to know, not.... not what came 
before. "The film went blank, Mulder. When the house collapsed." She 
swallowed again, suppressing _those_ fears. They had found no clear 
cause for that, not yet. Unless they had rigged it with explosives, 
anticipating capture...?

"Before that, Scully. What happened just before that. The cross...."

There was a bunch of flowers beside the bed - red petals, yellow 
centres. She concentrated on them, desperately trying to speak of 
what she'd seen without _feeling_ the image. 

"I don't know, Mulder." She licked her lips, her voice suddenly 
hoarse. "They put a cross round your neck" Red petals, curled back 
at the end. Thin veins. "Then it stopped."

"Did I _say_ anything?" His hands were clenched, tight, trembling. 
"I need to know."

Was that it? He was scared he'd cracked under torture - confessed to 
something he hadn't done? She breathed out shakily, relieved that, 
after everything, she could give him _some_ comfort. "You didn't say 
anything. Your lips were moving, but you didn't say anything. I 
think...." Green leaves, feathery round the edges, so delicate. Was 
this what he needed to hear? "I think you were defying them right to 
the end. You were strong, Mulder. I could see it in your eyes. You 
didn't give in to them."

His lips moved silently. Two words, eyes still dark with fear. Two 
words - an echo of her last words? "To them?"

"No. You were strong, Mulder." She reached out and touched his hand. 
The tense muscles didn't relax at her touch. "I know what they said 
to you - trying to force you to confess to something you hadn't 
done. I know how tempting it must be to say what they want to hear, 
just to stop the pain. But you didn't, Mulder. You refused to let 
them win."

He was silent, his eyes still full of desperate questions. He opened 
his mouth, but then shut it again.  No words. She still found it so 
hard to look at him and not see the memory.

"It's over, Mulder." But she could hear the shake in her voice, and 
knew she wasn't telling the truth. 

Silence. He was biting his lip, his breathing loud and shaky. There 
was such fear in his eyes. 

"What is it, Mulder?" She leant forward, forcing him to look at her. 
"Tell me. We need to talk about.... about things."

But she felt the fear inside her head. Was she ready to cope with 
the burden of what he needed to tell her? The video was bad enough. 
How long could she be strong for him?

"They're dead?" His words were abrupt, surprising her. "The men 
who.... who took me. They're all dead?"

"Yes, they're dead. They're no threat to you now."

"All of them?" His eyes were still so troubled. "Even the one who 
attacked.... the one who you...."

"No, not him." She unconsciously moved a hand to her throat, 
remembering the flash of the knife. She couldn't remember having 
told him about it. "He's still in custody."

He grabbed her sleeve, though she knew the sudden movement would 
have hurt his arm. "Are you sure he's not dead?" 

She had to laugh at that, though she felt an instant stab of guilt 
at that. The fear in his eyes was real. Was this the reason? "He's 
definitely not dead. Kelleher should be talking to him right now. 
Shall I call him and ask him to check?" She gave him a smile, but he 
didn't return it. She had never known him like this. "He's not dead, 
Mulder, but he's as good as dead. He's locked up. He's no threat to 
you any more."

She understood now - or thought she did. It took little effort to 
imagine the scene. Their colleague taken, knowing they were being 
tracked, knowing Mulder could well be rescued.... What had they 
said? "We will come after you, whatever it takes." Face close to 
his, crack of whip on his skin. "You will never be free from your 
punishment." 

The video was on her lap, its proximity burning on her body. Were 
those words there? Was that reaction? What fear could she see there, 
if she looked? She needed to understand, but she couldn't look.

Mulder sighed, swallowed. She looked at him, seeing his face more 
relaxed, the terrible tension gone from his muscles. He was still 
far too pale, his eyes still shadowed, but there was _something_ 
there - something to hope for. Had she said the right thing at last 
- got through to him?

"It will be okay, Mulder." She touched his forehead gently, 
pretending to check his temperature. "It _will_ be okay." There was 
still a tremor there, but this time not all of the confidence was 
feigned.

He sighed, looked away. His lips moved. An unspoken yes? But then he 
stiffened, sudden fear making his eyes painful to behold. "The 
others.... How did they die?"

"Mulder!" If it had been any other time, she'd have laughed at the 
question. It was so Mulder, seeing problems in the obvious. "The 
whole house fell on them. It's a miracle anyone survived...." Oh 
God! Tears pricked her eyes, sudden and unexpected. For a terrible 
few minutes - an eternity too long - she had thought him dead too.

"They weren't killed....?" He swallowed hard. "Are you sure they 
weren't dead _before_ that?" His voice was so intense. "I need to 
know this, Scully. I need to know wh...." A pause. "What killed 
them. Can't you understand? I need to know everything about it."

She opened her mouth, then shut it again, her mind searching 
desperately for how to proceed. Part of her _did_ understand. He 
needed to know every detail of what had happened, so he could 
process it and move on. But to actually _talk_ to him about it - to 
tell him that his questions could not be answered.... It was more 
than she wanted to do.

But she couldn't give him false reassurance - couldn't patronise 
him, protect him,. sweep his concerns aside. She had seen how 
secrecy could destroy them. "I don't know," she said at last, her 
hand reassuringly on his. "No-one knows what happened. The house 
collapsed. Maybe they did it to escape capture. Maybe it was..... 
something else. I don't know."

"So it could have been...." His words faded into silence, his eyes 
wild and scared.

"We'll find the answers, Mulder. I promise you. We'll find out 
everything you need to know in order to.... to heal."

Silence. Her eyes were drawn inexorably to the video on her lap. 
_It_ held the answers - some of them. It, and.... and him. Normally 
she would back off, refuse to push. But now.... Now it was 
different. She'd thought things through, seen the dangers. She _had_ 
to ask him.

"Mulder." He couldn't look at him. She felt so awkward, breaking 
their unspoken rule. "I don't know what you're so afraid of here. 
That you cracked under torture? You didn't. That they'll come after 
you? They won't. That you're....." Her voice cracked with the 
realisation. "Is that it, Mulder? Are you afraid you _are_ guilty of 
what they accused you of?"

He was trying not to answer, but his head moved, slowly, barely at 
all. A nod?

"Oh, Mulder." It was enough to make the tears flow. That they could 
_do_ this to him, and escape proper justice. "You're not guilty. 
I've talked to one of these men. They're completely deluded. They 
found out about that mugger's death, and blamed you, just as the 
police did for a while. _That's_ why they took you. Don't you even 
think of believing them when they said they can sense evil." Her 
voice rose to a shout. There was anger there too, though she 
couldn't understand it. "Don't you even think of believing that, 
Mulder. It's not true!"

"You don't understand, Scully." There was no accusation in his 
voice, just a deep and terrible grief.

The anger faded away, leaving only sadness - sadness and sympathy. 
"I do understand, Mulder," she murmured, realising that she did. So 
much had happened that she had forgotten his battle. "I know what 
you've been.... working through recently. I know you have wished 
people dead. But that's not the same. You didn't _act_ on that wish. 
Just because you were tempted doesn't make you a.... a murderer."

He was silent, eyes brimming with tears. He was so pale still, his 
face still marred with dark bruises. It had been too much, too soon.

"Mulder." She spoke softly, reaching out to stroke his hair. "I know 
you, Mulder. I trust you. I know you have nothing you should feel 
guilty about."

He made a sound - a sob? His face was turned away and she couldn't 
read him. 

"You need to rest now, Mulder." Her other hand fingered the video, 
hating it, needing it. "We'll talk about it later."

He was silent, but his eyes were open, spilling tears onto his 
cheeks.

**********

He was floating in the void of darkness, held up by the arms of a 
voice. 

"You are mine now."

Reynardine? But different now. Cruel. Harsh. Achingly familiar - 
like a dark gargoyle-echo of his own voice. 

Choking fingers of darkness reached for him, and everywhere was the 
stench of decay.

"You are mine now. You said yes. I killed for you, and you are 
mine."

Scully! He flailed desperately for her image, and she was there - 
ghostly pale, scarcely there at all. She was beyond smiling, but she 
gave him strength - strength to move his agonised lips and cry his 
denial.

"No! I didn't. I didn't say _anything_. Scully said so. She looked, 
and she said so."

The fingers tightened. He was immobile, unable to breathe, unable to 
see anything but the darkness now. No Scully.

"You spoke your need." Terrible now. Everywhere. "You spoke it in 
your mind. It was like a scream to me. I heard, and I came."

"No!" He was beyond breathing now, but still he could cry - his 
whole waning strength into the denial.

And then there was light in the darkness. Flames, cruel and 
flickering. A forked tongue of flame reached out and licked his 
ankles and the pain was beyond everything.

"I didn't say yes!" Pain made him babble in his mind. "I would have 
said yes. I will have to bear the guilt of that knowledge forever. 
But I did not _say_ yes. You came too late." Gold down, gold across, 
gold chain. Why couldn't he see it now? "I was wearing the cross. 
You touched it and it.... it destroyed you. I felt the force of your 
destruction. You are gone. You are.... You are dead."

The fire embraced his legs. The darkness still wrapped itself around 
his eyes and he couldn't cry.

And the voice laughed, surging with the flames. "You mean I was 
exorcised, Fox? How melodramatic. I expected better of you."

"But you are gone!" Panic, fluttering about him like the abrasive 
touch of smoke on his lungs. "I haven't felt your touch in two days. 
You are.... This is a dream. A dream. I am in a hospital. Scully is 
here. So close I could touch her...."

Flames entwined his wrists, keeping him from her. He could feel his 
skin blister and burst, but the weeping was no relief. 

"You said yes." They lashed on his chest now. "You asked me to kill 
them without delay. I did what you asked. To kill so many 
required.... crude methods. The house could not strand the strain."

The flames were nearly at his face now. His whole body was one mass 
of agony, but still he forced out his futile denial. He _had_ to.

"But the other...." Smoke in his lungs, consuming his words. "The 
other one.... Not dead.... Scully said...."

"One death is enough to buy you, Fox." The voice was the flame and 
the flame was the voice. "Why should I give you four?"

And they were everywhere. They lashed at his eyes, his mouth, his 
hair. His eyes were seared, sightless. His tongue crumbled into ash 
in his mouth. It was death, and worse than death, for he was still 
alive. 

And then everything fell away, and there was just peace, and 
darkness and the sound of cool running water, and a voice like 
soothing balm. It murmured to him, its words like a flowing river, 
soothing but beyond his comprehension.

Scully? Was I dreaming? It's okay now? Isn't it? Isn't it?

Then the voice took form, and it was cool and soothing, but the 
menace was still there. 

"You are won, Fox. But you see how patient I am? I have finished 
with you in life. You can seek me, but I am gone. Every night 
without me.... To you it will be proof that what I say is true. In 
my absence you will know my presence. I go because you are won."

There was a rustle, no more than the whisper of leaves in the trees, 
then silence.

Silence.

"Reynardine?" He threw back his head and screamed into the darkness. 
"Reynardine?"

A hand was on his hair, but it wasn't his.

He was alone. He was won. He was lost.

He was....

"Mulder?"

The darkness fell away at the sound of her voice. White walls. White 
ceiling. White sheets. And Scully, white face, eyes shadowed with 
weariness. The video was still on her lap. How long....?

"Scully." He touched her face, his hand trembling, wondering, scared 
she was just a mirage in the desert of damnation. "Scully. 
Scully...."

"Shh, Mulder." So soothing. "It's okay. It was only a dream."

Only a dream? He looked round wildly, searching for the other touch, 
for the voice as soft as the air, but there was nothing. The words 
echoed from the darkness. "In my absence you will know my presence."

And nothing could stop the tears.

"Mulder." Patiently stroking his hair, holding him. Scully, his 
strength. "Mulder. It was only a dream. It's okay. Only a dream."

He leant into her touch, trying so hard to smile. 

Only a dream....

How could he believe anything else?

**********

END

**********

AUTHOR'S NOTES: 

THE TITLE: "Malleus Maleficarum" is the name of the most influential 
of the mediaeval witch hunting tracts. The title is usually 
translated as "The Hammer of the Witches", but I use it here in its 
more general translation - "destroying evil-doers."

REYNARDINE: As we know from "Jose Chung", Reynard is the old French 
name for a fox, which is, of course, the point Reynardine was trying 
to make when he suggested that Mulder call him by that name. The 
form "Reynardine", which means "little fox", comes from a 
traditional English folk song (one of my favourites) called, 
appropriately enough "Reynardine". This is one of the family of folk 
tales which feature the sly but handsome Mr Fox, usually a man, but 
with distinctly vulpine tendencies. Mr Fox seems to make a habit of 
wooing a succession of fair maidens with his wonderful promises, 
luring them to his den, then eating them.

As for the character of Reynardine in this story - I have left his 
true motives and powers deliberately ambiguous. This is necessary. 
I, as an author, can tell no more than Mulder, whose viewpoint I am 
using in these scenes, knows, and that is very little.

However, this is not laziness on my part. For the sake of 
consistency within the story,  I had to have a character Bible (if 
that's the right word) explaining at least some of what he's up to. 
I would prefer to leave it up to the individual reader to decide 
what they want to make of him, but I can email my own version if you 
request it.

But I will not be drawn on what happened at the end. I know what I 
think, but that's just my opinion. To be honest, I don't think it 
really matters. What _does_ matter is what Mulder thinks happened, 
and, as yet, that could go either way. Personally, I would love to 
see how Mulder would react if he managed to convince himself 
(rightly or wrongly) that he had sold his soul to the Devil and was 
irredeemably damned. Would he get religion and react against 
anything, however small, that could be deemed "bad"? Would he get 
fatalistic, giving up on everything? Would he pursue Them with a 
new-found violence, assuming that one more "sin" can't make any 
difference? Oh, the possibilities are endless.....

____

The notes that follow are only for those of you who really like to 
get into an author's mind....

This story was inspired by three different character issues that I 
wanted to explore. I am outlining my thinking here, partly because I 
know some readers love finding out what make authors tick, and 
partly because I'd love to prompt a discussion on these issues.

THE "DARK" MULDER - The "One Breath" temptation.

This is the most obvious theme, so I needn't say much here. I have 
always been fascinated with "One Breath," and, in particular, the 
question of why, in the end, Mulder doesn't kill Cancerman. Now, he 
actually takes his finger off the trigger when Cancerman points out 
that killing him will mean he won't find out what happened to 
Scully, but I really doubt it this is the real reason, just as I 
doubt the reason given in "Talitha Cumi" (ie that the hospital would 
save him.) I've always felt these were excuses - excuses to himself 
- to protect himself from his real reason.

And what reason is that? Well, this is what I've tried to explore in 
this story. Is it fear of punishment? Is it squeamishness? Is it 
fear of Scully's disapproval? Is it a moral belief? If it is _any_ 
of these, how would he react if someone (ie Reynardine) 
systematically challenged all these objections? Bearing in mind that 
he has (apparently) no religious belief, how strong will his 
resolution against murder be under pressure? What is most likely to 
make him change his mind?


STRENGTH v WEAKNESS

a , The "I'm fine" defence mechanism (explored through Scully)

I have always seen Scully's constant "I'm fine" as an expression of 
someone who needs so badly to be seen as strong that they really 
can't cope with any weakness at all. As we see in "Irresistible", 
the things she's been through _have_ disturbed her, but she can't 
bring herself to admit it, even to herself. She _has_ to seem 
strong. She _has_ to push away all concern with an abrupt "I'm 
fine." 

But is this the action of a truly strong person? I think not. I 
think it is the action of a desperate person - so insecure in their 
own strength that their whole self-image can be threatened by one 
little admission of weakness. Again, this is something I did quite 
explicitly in the story, so I needn't say much about it here. In 
short, I wanted to confront Scully with this idea and see how she 
coped with it. To my everlasting relief, she reacted well. Scully, 
at least, has emerged stronger at the end of the story as she has 
accepted the fact that she can admit to her (few) weaknesses without 
it impugning her overall strength.

b,  Mulder's suggestibility

This is perhaps the single most important theme of the story, in 
that it underlies the whole Mulder - Reynardine plot. I've always 
been intrigued by this "trust no-one" business, as it seems that 
Mulder is, at times, remarkably trusting and easily led. He is 
constantly willing to believe anything anyone tells him, even if he 
_knows_ they have their own agenda. (eg "Paper Clip", when Scully 
tells Mulder that Well-Manicured Man is telling him exactly what he 
wants to hear.) I have often wondered if, in "Pusher", Modell would 
have been able to control Scully the way he controlled Mulder. (Are 
there any fanfics on this issue, I wonder...)

Going back to the "One Breath" theme, even there he was being swayed 
by one person after another - Skinner persuading him not to resign, 
X telling him he's to kill the men coming to his apartment (a deed 
that fills Mulder with dread, even as he prepares to do it) then 
Melissa telling him not to. When Scully says she had the strength of 
his beliefs, my immediate question was whether he had the strength 
of his _own_ beliefs. 

Thus came the central emotional issue of this story. Mulder tells 
Scully he needs to find his own strength, but does he? He is pushed 
one way by Reynardine, the other by Scully (or by his idea of 
Scully, which is not quite the same). Can he find a way out that 
truly comes from himself, or is clinging to Scully's strength the 
only way he can resist Reynardine? If so, how will he cope with this 
realisation? At the end, how will he cope with the knowledge that, 
once he thought Scully was dead, he ceased to resist Reynardine? 


THE RELATIONSHIP

(This is my opinion only. Please don't flame me for stepping on this 
controversial territory)

This is the most subtle of the things I was trying to do. Basically, 
I wanted to set up some, for want of a better word, "relationship 
potential" and explore both the hope and the problems of such a 
situation. Now, I stand on the fence in the whole relationship 
issue, neither believing that Mulder and Scully feel "that way" 
about each other, nor believing that they could _never_ feel "that 
way" about each other. Instead, I believe that perhaps they _could_ 
feel like that, but that their characters as they stand at the 
moment (as I see the characters, anyway) ensure that they would have 
an awful lot of barriers to overcome before they could enjoy any 
sort of "normal" or "healthy" relationship with each other.

Thus, in this story, we get some (albeit unstated) relationship 
potential. Mulder thinks constantly about Scully, all his actions 
being motivated by her. He gives up a possible Samantha case for 
her. It is the image of Scully that he calls on to keep him strong 
against Reynardine. And, at the end, it is only when he thinks 
Scully is dead that his resistance crumbles. In this story, she is, 
without a doubt, the most important thing in his life.

So is this love? Probably (though I believe there are more kinds of 
love that just the romantic). However, is it, as it stands, a secure 
foundation for a future relationship? Well, no, not without a lot of 
work. His realisation that Scully is everything to him could be more 
of a barrier to a future relationship. In this story, the Scully he 
clings to is his image of an idealised Scully. It is not a real, 
living and breathing person with needs and emotions. He has not 
learnt to talk to her about normal everyday things. He has not even 
learnt to consider her feelings - her real feelings, as opposed to 
his idea of her feelings. When resisting Reynardine, he bases his 
resistance on his idea of what Scully would say, even though, as we 
see, this is not at all what the _real_ Scully thinks and says about 
the issue. He is dependent on an image, not relating, in a human 
way, to a person.
  
All of which would cause problems for Scully as much as Mulder. If 
Mulder comes out of this believing that Scully is his strength - the 
one person he needs - how will she react? Has he asked her what she 
feels about this? It was not out of laziness that I dropped the 
Scullyangst thread half way through. Scully was distracted by as 
many doubts and fears as Mulder was, at the start of this story. 
However, she was prepared to shelve her own problems in order to be 
there for Mulder when he needed her. How long before she feels the 
strain of being needed so badly and reacts against him? (My theme in 
"Purgatorio", therefore not addressed much in this story). How will 
this fit in with her new-found determination to be honest about her 
emotions and admit to her fears?

So, by the end of this story, I was trying to create the impression 
of two people who could possibly take the recent events and use them 
to get closer (though it is up to you whether you take that as 
closer in a romantic sense or not.) After all, they both gave up a 
lot for the other. However, they still have a lot of obstacles to 
overcome. Can they overcome them and move towards a more "healthy" 
relationship - whether romantic or platonic? Maybe. Who can tell? 

____

I would love to receive feedback on the story or on these notes. I 
love discussing the character issues raised in my stories, whether 
in email or on fictalk. Feel free to disagree too, though please 
don't flame me for what is, after all, just my opinion.

Pellinor at astolat, demon, co, uk (making the necessary changes to punctuation)