X-X-X-X-X

Chapter One: Before and After

X-X-X-X-X


The basement office had been solitary but notorious, so to 
Scully the tic-tac-toe bullpen cubicles on the third floor 
actually felt more anonymous. But even six years in, Mulder 
still had a way of shattering her illusions.

He sauntered over, licking a bit of jelly donut from the end 
of his thumb as he paused to lounge by her thin gray wall.  
"These aren't half bad today," he told her.  "You should get 
one before Agent Tankersley gets back from the DMV."

Scully rested her forehead on the heel of her hand.  "The 
man's name is Ankersley, Mulder."

"Oh, is it?" He licked his thumb again.  "I must've heard 
wrong."

"You can ascertain that he's at the Registry of Motor 
Vehicles this morning, but you can't get his name right."

"The registration sticker on his Beemer expired two days 
ago."  He shoved another bite of donut into his mouth.  
"Ordinarily he might not be in such a hurry to get it taken 
care of, but Dick Roberts was saying in the men's room 
yesterday that he was thinking of turning him in."

"I've always wondered what sorts of things men talk about in 
there," she said.  "Now the mystery is gone."

"Don't you want to know *why* Dick Roberts was thinking of 
turning him in?"

"Not especially."

"Paper clips."

"Excuse me?"

"Tankersley took two boxes of paperclips from the closet last 
week instead of one, so there weren't any left when Roberts 
went looking for them."

"If Roberts knows who has the paperclips, why can't he just 
ask Tank--Ankersley for the other box?"

"He did, and Tankersley lied about having them.  Hence the 
plot to turn him in."

Scully shook her head and focused on her computer screen in 
the hopes of getting Mulder to return to his seat.  He didn't 
take the hint though, instead polishing off his donut and 
draping an arm over the top of her cubicle.

"But I'd much rather be slacking off with Bill Keene," he 
said.  "He's off trying to get his wife pregnant.  For the 
third day in a row, I might add."

She squeezed her eyes shut.  "I don't want to know how you 
know this."

Mulder tapped the knot of his necktie.  "He went home for 
'lunch' the other day and came back wearing a different tie.  
Yesterday it was a different shirt.  I'd think maybe he was 
getting a little action on the side, but he's got about 
sixteen pictures of his wife tacked up over there.  
Seriously, the man should just have her face put on some 
wallpaper and be done with it."

It was times like this that she wondered just what he deduced 
from watching her.  For example, her doctor's appointment the 
following week -- she had the number circled discreetly on 
the calendar with no notation as to the significance, but she 
now held out little hope that Mulder was unaware.

"Mulder, don't you have some actual work to do?"

"No," he said flatly, and she looked up at him.  "I've called 
six farmers today and inquired about the size of their manure 
piles.  Six loads of crap is my limit before lunchtime.  And, 
I might add, in no universe with a sense of justice could any 
of this be construed as actual work."

"Then maybe you'd like to go sweep the restrooms for gossip 
and allow me to do my work in peace."

"Sure, okay, Scully.  I know you can't beat the timed level 
on Mine Sweeper without a lot of practice."

"Out. Now."

He whistled as he turned to take his seat, and Scully quickly 
brought Mine Sweeper up from the task bar to quit the 
program.  

"Hey," he said, sticking his head over the wall between them.

"I wasn't playing!"

"No, look at this," he said as he held out a plain white 
envelope marked "Mulder" on the front.  "Did you see who left 
this?"

"No, what is it?"

"I don't know," he said as he slit it open.  "But it wasn't 
here when I got up ten minutes ago."

Ten minutes ago, she had been in the ladies' room, where she 
was the sole occupant and no one had any juicy office tidbits 
to share.  

Mulder took out what looked to be a short newspaper article. 
"What is it?" she asked again as she stood up to go peer over 
his shoulder.

The headline read, "Famed AIDS researcher dies in car crash."  
Pictured was a white-haired man in a lab coat, and the 
caption identified him as Christopher L. Brandt.  

"I've heard of him," Scully said.  "He was one of the 
youngest researchers ever to be awarded a genius grant, and 
there's talk that he's on the short list every year for the 
Nobel Prize in Medicine for his work developing 
antiretroviral medications.  It's a shame he's dead."

"Yeah," Mulder said, not really paying attention to her as he 
read the article.  "It says the crash is believed to be 
accidental but authorities are investigating anyway.  Not 
everyone was a fan of his research."

"Why would someone leave this for you?"

"I was one of the people who wasn't a fan."

"What?  Why?  His work has saved thousands of lives." 

He didn't answer.

"Mulder?" She glanced up from the article to look at him, but 
he was looking elsewhere. 

She followed his gaze across the room and saw Diana Fowley 
standing there.  In her hands was a plain white envelope.

X-X-X-X

It was raining the first night Mulder broke into the NIH 
research lab, a great booming thunderstorm that hid the sound 
of her voice through the earpiece.  "Did you find them yet?" 
she asked as sheets of water coursed down the high windows.

He couldn't answer because he had a flashlight in his mouth.

They had used a stolen keycard to get into the rooms, but he 
still had to pick the lock on the file cabinets in Brandt's 
office.  His teeth cut into the plastic ridges as he conjured 
up some color commentary.

Excess rainwater trickled from behind his ears, where it 
followed the line of his neck down into his already damp 
collar. 

He wasn't even sure he was rattling the right drawer because 
the cabinets weren't marked from the outside.

"We've got five more minutes before the guard returns," she 
hissed in his ear.

The drawer came free at last and he started pawing through it 
as quickly as he could.  The folders were marked with 
numbers, not names.  He yanked out a handful and opened the 
top file, shaking his head back and forth to scan the page 
with the flashlight. 

The printouts meant nothing to him and he didn't see Amber 
Hathaway's name anywhere on the sheets.  He flipped another 
folder to the top and repeated the process.  A fat raindrop 
fell from his forehead down onto the paper, where it created 
an ink-stained smear.

"We've to get out of here," she said from down the hall.  

He let the flashlight fall onto his stack of folders.  "Not 
yet.  I haven't found her."

"There's no more time!"

"Just one more," he said, reaching for the next drawer.

"Mulder, you can't--"

He never found out what it was he couldn't do because she 
crackled and faded out.  Seconds later, an alarm sounded in 
the building.  He shoved the drawer shut, grabbed the files 
and ran back towards the main door of the lab.  Overhead, the 
fire alarm flashed and blasted its warning.  

He heard voices in the hall.

"Diana?"  He fumbled with the earpiece, shouting over the 
terrible noise.  "Are you there?"

She didn't answer and the piece fell down around his neck 
again as he rounded the corner into the actual lab.  His wet 
sneakers skidded on the floor and he crashed into the door at 
top speed.  

Diana was gone and he didn't see anyone in the hall.

"Come on, come on," he said to himself as he turned the 
keycard over to get the strip aligned.  His fingers shook and 
the flimsy plastic snapped through the reader, but the tiny 
light did not turn green.  

Mulder glanced down the hall and tried again.  The light 
remained red and the door wouldn't open.  He threw his 
shoulder against it, jiggling the knob, but the lock held 
steady.

A shadow appeared down the hall as someone prepared to come 
around the corner.  Mulder ducked down and then risked a 
quick look: two guards, both with walkie-talkies, were 
heading his way.  He pressed his back to the door and fumbled 
with the short-wave again.  "Diana, where are you?  Diana?"

He got no answer and saw no sign of her in the hall.  The 
guards had disappeared but the room started to fill up with 
flashing red lights from outside.  The fire department had 
arrived.

Mulder gave the keycard a few more desperate passes through 
the security lock.  The alarm cut out, leaving only the sound 
of the rushing rain and the men's voices approaching in the 
hall.

He backed away from the door slowly and then ran back across 
the lab.  He leapt the high workbench easily but narrowly 
missed knocking over a shelf of glassware.  The small, 
translucent windows had no handle and no visible method of 
opening.  He pushed at them one after the other down the 
line, but they refused to budge.

"Clear!" someone yelled from outside and down the hall.  
"I'll get the next one!"

Mulder jumped down from the bench and threaded his way 
through the crowded lab until he reached a closet door at the 
back.  He wedged himself in with the industrial-strength 
cleansers and the mop and bucket.  After shoving the stolen 
folders down the front of his jacket, he took out his 
flashlight and scoped the tiny room.  

His heart skipped a beat at the sight of an air-conditioning 
vent.

Outside, the heavy footsteps of the firemen grew closer.  
"I've got nothing.  Check the closet."

Mulder squirmed deeper back among the cleaning supplies, 
tucked the flashlight back in his pants, and tried his 
footing on a twenty-gallon container of glass cleaner.  His 
fingers felt numb and useless as he used his lock pick to 
work the tiny screws.

The grate loosened and he discarded it on the ground.  With a 
deep breath, he hoisted his way into the narrow tunnel, 
squinting against the surge of dust that assaulted his eyes.  
He shimmied in like a snake, his feet just clearing the 
opening at the moment the closet door opened.  

Mulder did not so much as breathe as the seconds ticked off, 
just like counting between the lightning and thunder.  One-
one-thousand, two-one-thousand.

"Nothing here," came the voice from outside.

Mulder exhaled just as the next clap of thunder hit.  He 
allowed himself a short rest, his hot face pressed on the 
dirty, cold metal.  Then he began wiggling forward with the 
files pressed against his belly.  He could feel them 
wrinkling at the edges but there was nothing he could do 
about it.

He followed the vent for almost one hundred feet, far enough 
to bypass the entire Brandt laboratory. He emerged in an 
administrative office closer to the front parking lot.  The 
door here had no doubt been locked earlier too, but it stood 
ajar after the firemen had come through the building.

Mulder peered out into the semi-lit hallway before breaking 
for the emergency staircase.  Voices echoed in the stairwell 
above him, so he hugged the wall and headed for the basement.  
The sign on the door said that an alarm would sound if it 
opened, but he had no other choice.

He pushed the door out and a loud, angry alarm began to 
reverberate off the concrete walls.  "What the hell?" someone 
hollered from several floors above him, but Mulder was 
already free.

Rain beat down on him as he ran, plastering his hair flat 
against his skin.  Sweet, salty water dripped into his open, 
panting mouth.  He hit the thin tree line at the edge of the 
lot and ducked behind a large pine.  "It's me," he said into 
the radio.  "Where are you?"

The bark scraped his back as he looked over at the research 
building.  Maybe she had gotten caught inside.

"Diana," he said again.  "Do you read me?"

The line crackled and he got no intelligible response.  He 
was wondering if he could make it to the highway and hitch 
back when he saw a flash of headlights on the other end of 
the trees.

Keeping a low profile, he worked his way along the edge until 
he reached the car.  A flood of relief went through him as he 
realized it was her.  She was wet too, he realized as he got 
inside.  The humid interior smelled of wet hair and denim.

"What the hell happened?" she asked him as she started the 
engine.

He leaned his head against the leather and closed his eyes.  
His heart still pounded out a disco beat and his hands had 
not stopped trembling.  "You were in the one in the hall," he 
said.  "You tell me."

"The fire alarm went off. I assumed you tripped it."

Maybe he had somehow.  His head hurt and it was hard to 
think.

She glanced over at him, looking at his empty lap.  "You 
didn't find it."

"I just had time to grab these," he replied as he withdrew 
the crumpled folders.  

She stretched over just a bit, tilting her head to try to 
read the pages he'd lifted.  "Those are from Brandt's office?  
What do they mean?"

Mulder studied the printouts as best he could in the passing 
streetlamps. "Beats the hell out of me."

"So help me, Fox, if we broke into the NIH to get his dry 
cleaning bill..."

He grinned and nudged her with his elbow.  "You loved every 
second.  You'll be an addict now, breaking into government 
buildings all over the country.  Today the NIH, tomorrow the 
Pentagon."

"Speak for yourself. There was a time I thought I would work 
for the NIH and now here I am conspiring against it.  I hope 
whatever you find in those files is worth what we risked to 
get them."

Mulder settled back into his seat, a smile on his face and 
the contraband in his lap.  The adrenaline had dulled to a 
mild buzz, leaving him pleasantly tingly.  It was true, he 
supposed, that he enjoyed the risk more than Diana.  The 
X-Files department was his baby, after all, the project he'd 
been trying to get off the ground for almost two years.  

So later, when one of them had to go, it was only logical 
that Diana was the one to leave.

X-X-X-X-X-X

A sharp noise woke Scully and she sat up with a jolt, totally 
disoriented.  For a fraction of a second, she listened in the 
dark, trying to discern what had awakened her.  Her pulse 
thrummed in her throat and she gripped the cushions with both 
hands.

The banging happened again, and this time she identified the 
sound as coming from her front door.  Sleep receded as she 
rose and turned on the nearest lamp on her way to answer the 
pounding.  "Who is it?" she called.

"D.C. Police, Agent Scully."

She cracked the door and found a man with a thin mustache and 
two uniformed officers waiting in the hall.  "Can I help 
you?" she asked without letting them past.

"Detective Rivera," said the man in front as he held up his 
shield for inspection.  "I need to ask you some questions."

"Questions about what?"

He looked up and down the hall.  "Maybe it would be better if 
we talked inside."

"I'm fine right here," she said, still standing behind the 
door.  "What do you want to ask me questions about?"

"It's about Agent Mulder."

"What about him?"

"Have you seen him tonight?"

Scully resisted the urge to look at her clock because she 
didn't want to seem like she was at a loss for information.  
"Why are you asking me about Mulder?"

"Ma'am, I'll consider answering one of your question when you 
answer one of mine.  So let's try this again, hmm?  Have you 
seen Agent Mulder tonight?"

"I, uh, I last saw him at work," she said, hoping she sounded 
sincere.  Her memory was a bit fuzzy on the details.

Rivera made a show of checking his notebook.  "At work," he 
said, "that would be the Hoover building downtown."

"Yes.  Has something happened to Mulder?"

"Not to my knowledge," he said, and glanced up from his 
notes.  "About what time would you say this was that you last 
talked to Agent Mulder?"

"I couldn't say," she said. "I didn't check my watch."

"How was his demeanor at the time?"

She folded her arms.  "I want to know why you're asking about 
Mulder."

"Oh, well, I'm sure I couldn't discuss that out here in the 
hall."

Scully narrowed her eyes at all three of them, but the 
officers' placid expressions gave nothing away.  Without a 
word, she let the door fall open and stepped back so they 
could enter the apartment.  As she turned to shut the door 
behind them, she saw the clock read quarter past three, and 
her stomach seized.  City detectives did not get up in the 
middle of the night unless someone was dead, near-dead or an 
elected official caught in bed with a prostitute.

"I want to know why you're asking about Mulder," she said as 
the two uniformed officers began studying her belongings.  

Rivera went over to the couch but didn't sit down.  "We need 
to talk to him," he said, "and when we went to his place, he 
wasn't there.  I thought maybe you'd know where he went."

"I don't."

"You sure about that?" Rivera asked, looking around.  The 
other two officers paused to watch her answer.

"I'm quite sure.  I told you, I haven't seen Mulder since 
this evening."

"Actually, you didn't tell me that," Rivera said casually.  
"You said you weren't sure about the time you saw him last.  
'I couldn't say,' is what you told me. Isn't that right, 
boys?"

The smaller officer, who looked like he stepped out of an 
extra role on 'The Sopranos,' smirked and picked up the 
paperweight from her desk.

"I can't be sure of the exact time," Scully said, "but it was 
late afternoon to early evening."

"You saw him at work today and not since.  That's your 
story."

"That's the truth."

"No contact since this afternoon.  No phone call?"

"No," she said, putting her hands on her hips.

"And you would have been here if he called?  Didn't leave the 
house for anything?"

"No, I haven't left."

"No email from Mulder?  Nothing like that?"

Her eyes flicked to her computer, which was off.  "No," she 
said.

Rivera followed her gaze to the computer and tilted his head 
as though pondering whether to challenge her reply, but he 
merely turned around again.  

"Why do you need to talk to Mulder?" she asked.

"We think he may have witnessed a crime."

The smirking detective picked up a book from her shelves and 
started leafing through it.  Scully watched him for a second 
before returning her attention to Rivera.  "What crime?" she 
asked.

"A homicide.  A woman was shot to death tonight over in Foggy 
Bottom.  I think you may have known her."  He consulted his 
notes.  "Diana Fowley?"

"Diana Fowley was shot?"

"Sometime this evening, yes she was, ma'am.  Right in her own 
home, too, which is such a shame.  The reason we want to talk 
to Agent Mulder is that a neighbor of hers said she saw 
Mulder leaving Fowley's townhouse right around midnight.  
Midnight happens to be included in the range the time the 
M.E. told us that the murder went down, so we're wondering if 
maybe Agent Mulder might have seen the guy who did it."

Hot prickles broke out across the back of Scully's neck.  All 
three officers were watching her reaction closely, so she 
gave them none.  "How can the witness be sure it was Mulder?"

"You know, I had the same question," Rivera said as he sank 
down onto her sofa.  "But it seems like he'd been there 
before, according to this neighbor.  She'd seen him more than 
once, but of course she didn't know his name.  No, they'd 
never been introduced.  But she did write down this license 
plate number tonight.  See?"  

He held out the notebook for her, and Scully inched close 
enough to see the numbers written there.  It was Mulder's 
plate.

"You have any idea what your partner was doing over at Diana 
Fowley's place so late tonight, Agent Scully?"

"No. I..." She shook her head quickly. "No."

Her phone rang then and the whole room froze.  Scully 
hesitated for a moment, torn between grabbing the receiver 
and letting the machine take the call.

"Someone must think you're up," Rivera said, and she crossed 
the room to the phone.

"Hello?" she said carefully, her back to the cops.  

"Agent Scully."  

Her shoulders sagged as she realized it was Skinner, not 
Mulder, on the line.  "Sir?"

"I'm sorry to bother you at such a late hour, but I need to 
find Agent Mulder right away.  Do you have any idea where he 
is?"

"No, I don't," she said, taking a peek back at the men 
crowding her living room.  "But you're not the only one 
looking for him."

"The cops find you?"

"That's right," she replied as neutrally as she could.  
"They're here now asking about Mulder."

"Dammit, they've been two steps ahead of me ever since the 
call came in.  It's imperative we get to him first, you 
understand?  If you have any way of getting in touch with 
Mulder, I suggest you use it."

"I'll take that under advisement," she said before hanging up 
the phone.

"Not Mulder, I take it," Rivera said as he rose from her 
couch.

"Not Mulder."

"Right.  Of course."  He started ambling toward the door, and 
his backups took the cue to follow.  "I guess we'll just be 
going then, unless..." He turned back and looked at her 
hopefully.  "Unless maybe you feel like giving us the nickel 
tour here, maybe letting us check out your closets."

"I don't think so," Scully answered, yanking open the door so 
they could leave.

"Thought not."  He took out a business card and handed it to 
her.  "If you do talk to Mulder, tell him we have some 
questions, okay?  And the longer this drags on, the tougher 
the questions get."

Scully took the card but didn't answer.  Rivera let the 
uniformed cops go on ahead as he lingered in front of Scully.

"You're sure you want to stick with your story, especially 
the part about how you haven't left the apartment all 
evening?"

"Are you suggesting I'm lying?"

He shrugged.  "I'm not suggesting anything, ma'am, but I do 
find it sort of funny that we come knocking on your door past 
three in the morning, and you answer dressed in a business 
suit."

Scully looked down at her clothes, startled to find he was 
right.  "I fell asleep on the couch," she said.

Rivera pointedly dropped his gaze to her feet.  "In your 
shoes?  You must be some sleeper."

She curled her toes inside her pumps and tightened her hand 
on the doorknob.  "Goodnight, detective."

"Goodnight, ma'am."  He tipped an imaginary cap.  "I'm sure 
I'll be in touch."

X-X-X-X-X

End chapter one.  Continued in chapter two.

Thank you as ever to Amanda for the read-through!

Okay, so there's no serial killer here, but we've got plenty 
of mystery to go around! Fasten your seatbelts because this 
one may get a bit... bumpy. ;-)

Feed the syn? Syn_tax6@yahoo.com