X-X-X-X-X-X

Chapter Ten

X-X-X-X-X-X

Mulder chewed his thumbnail as he walked back and forth in 
the interrogation room.  They had yet to move him to a cell, 
and he wasn't sure whether this was a good or bad sign.  He 
was grubby, hungry, and his head hurt.  He couldn't remember 
the last time he'd slept more than two hours at a stretch.  
The city cops had a good case against him for murder and/or 
conspiracy to commit murder, and his partner, possibly the 
true killer, was out somewhere offering herself up to a known 
evil.

He muttered.  He paced.  He could hardly hold a thought in 
his head and he wondered briefly if this was what it was to 
be schizophrenic -- dizzy, paranoid, but with a certainty 
that clarity was hiding somewhere within the racing thoughts, 
if you could just sit still to listen.

When the answer came to him, it was perfect and insane.  He 
stopped dead in his tracks and grinned like an idiot.

He pressed his cheek tight against the thick pane of glass in 
the door and banged on the metal frame with his fist.  "Hey!" 
he yelled to get the guard's attention.  He felt like Jack 
Nicholson in 'The Shining,' ready to mash his face against 
the window as he went completely mad. 

The large man with the gun cast him a dispassionate gaze and 
didn't move.

"Hey!" Mulder yelled again.  "I want to make a phone call."

Even then, he wasn't sure it would work.  He still wasn't 
convinced even when the door opened an hour later and Skinner 
appeared.  Unlike Mulder, the AD'd had a chance to get 
cleaned up from their adventure in the park.  Skinner wore 
blue jeans and a white shirt with cuffs turned up to the 
elbows.  Tension strained in his neck as he sat down across 
from Mulder.

"I didn't think they could hold you," Mulder said, and 
Skinner looked annoyed.

"Rivera hasn't decided whether to press charges yet.  I think 
he's waiting to prove you're a murderer first so he can hit 
me with the really good stuff.  Right now, we're just two 
guys who happened to run into each other in the park."

"He's not going to prove I'm a murderer.  For one thing, I 
didn't do it."

"Do you think I'd be here if I thought you did?"

"And for the second thing, there weren't any prints on the 
gun."  He watched Skinner carefully, but the other man's 
expression gave nothing away.

"Is that so?"

"He is curious about the fingerprint dust, though," he said, 
and Skinner scowled.

"Shit," he said under his breath.

"It doesn't matter.  If the gun matches the bullet from 
Diana's body, he's still got me dead to rights."

Skinner sat back, looking defeated.  He took off his glasses 
and rubbed the bridge of his nose.  "I don't know what more I 
can do for you."

"Scully was here.  She's gone off in search of the truth, and 
I think we both know where she'd going to look."

Skinner stiffened. "She can't," he said tightly.  "She can't 
know where to contact him."

"She does know," Mulder replied, leaning over the table.  
"Diana had his number.  If we're right about this being some 
sort of setup, then you know how dangerous it could be."  He 
lowered his voice some more.  "She's a loose end."

Skinner hesitated a long moment.  He placed his hands on the 
table and rubbed the surface with his fingertips.  Without 
looking at Mulder, he voiced the other option in the softest 
voice possible.  "And if it's not a setup?"

"Even more reason to get rid of her.  She's dead and I'm 
rotting in prison.  It's the Smoker's god damned wet dream."

Skinner shook his head, denying even the possibility.  "What 
is it you want me to do?" he asked finally.  "If you couldn't 
stop her, I don't know how I can."

"That's why I called," Mulder replied as he hunched over the 
table again.  "I have a plan."

X-X-X-X

Scully dialed the number from her home phone because there 
was no denying he already knew it, the same way he had 
duplicate keys to her apartment, her car, the office, and 
maybe even her thoughts.  She sat at one end of her striped 
sofa and clutched the armrest as the call rang through.  He 
answered on the fourth trill, cutting it abruptly: "Hello."

She couldn't speak.  The one question she wanted answered, he 
would never reveal: why me?

She heard him puff away, and his voice held a trace of 
amusement.  "Agent Scully, how nice to hear from you again."

"I need to talk to you," she managed at last.

"We're talking right now."

"In person."

"Now?  I'm afraid I have a very busy schedule today..."

"You meet me, or I will take the chip out right now."

He made a tsk-tsk noise and she heard him inhale on the 
cigarette again.  "And after all that trouble I went through 
to get it for you.  If you want to play Russian roulette with 
your health, Miss Scully, I don't suppose there is anything I 
can do about it."

She had only one card left to play, but it was the trump 
where the Smoking Man was concerned.  "I want to talk about 
Mulder."

"What about him?"

"He messed up the plan, didn't he?  Walked in on the body?  
Now he's been arrested, but I presume you knew that.  They 
have a good case against him, good enough that he could face 
the death penalty if they push forward with the trial.  I 
don't know why you persist in tossing him back into the sea, 
but he's caught in your net again, this time apparently by 
accident.  If you don't want Mulder to go down for this 
murder, you need to step in quickly."

"Perhaps this arrangement suits me.  At least in jail, it's 
easier to keep track of him. Nice to have the government pick 
up the tab for a change."

"Forget it then," she said, and her finger was on the "off" 
button when he interjected.

"Fine, I'll meet you. I confess I'm curious as to what it is 
that you think I can do to help Mulder.  Shall I just drop 
by?"

The question was accompanied by a particularly long exhale, 
and she pictured him with a white haze halo.

"No."  He was not going to kill her in her own home.  
"Somewhere public.  The diner where we talked last time."

She had no real belief that a public forum constituted 
safety; he could shoot her dead in a room full of people and 
disappear with a cloud of smoke.  Maybe he'd take out the 
witnesses too.  She'd seen his brand of headlines before: 
Mysterious Gunman Opens Fire on Diner, Vanishes.

"The diner," he agreed.  "In an hour."

She pressed the phone so tight against her stomach that it 
hurt, both inside and out.  All the other times she'd 
disappeared, there'd been no real warning, but this time she 
knew well that she might not be coming back.  If the Smoker 
truly wanted to save Mulder, he would have to find another 
lamb to sacrifice.

She picked up the phone and dialed again, a lump forming in 
the back of her throat.  "Mom," she blurted when Maggie 
Scully answered.  "It's me."

"Dana."  Her mother's voice was surprised, relieved.  "Thank 
God.  I've been trying to reach you for days, ever since I 
saw the news."

Scully bit her lip and looked at the furious blinking light 
on her machine.  "I'm sorry," she said.  Sometimes these felt 
like the only words she knew.

"First they say that Mulder is wanted in connection with a 
murder and now they're reporting he's been arrested!  What's 
on Earth is going on?"

"An FBI agent was killed.  Mulder knew her."

"Yes, the reports say he worked with her many years ago, that 
they were...involved romantically."

Scully rested her head in one hand and closed her eyes. 
"That's true, but he didn't kill her."

"I should think not!  But then why did he flee?  That just 
makes him look more guilty."

He was trying to protect me, she thought.  Oh, if she turned 
out to be the killer, it would be the final blow to her 
mother's heart.  It would be better just to disappear.

"I, uh, it's complicated, Mom."

"Someone must be framing him for it," Maggie said with the 
righteous certainty of good mothers.  "Did you know this 
woman -- this Agent Fowley?"

Unbidden, she had a flash of Diana crumpled on the carpet, 
leaking blood like a puddle of fresh ink.  "I knew her."  She 
stood up quickly, taking in a deep breath so she wouldn't be 
sick.  "Look, Mom, I have to go."

"Of course you do.  You have to help Fox."

"Yes, that's what I'm going to do."

"You be careful, Dana.  Whoever did this crime is a 
heartless, vile murderer."

Tears burned the back of her throat.  "Mom," she said in a 
strained whisper.

"What is it, honey?"

Maybe, she thought, I should have just stayed missing the 
first time.

"Dana?  Are you still there?"

Scully wasn't sure she knew the answer.

X-X-X-X-X

They stood, captor and prisoner, on Diana's front stoop as 
Rivera slit the crime scene tape at her door.  "This better 
be worth my time," Rivera said as he took out the key, "or I 
promise you that you won't much like the consequences."

"They can't be any worse than where I am now," Mulder 
replied.  Behind him, his arms had started to ache from the 
cuffs.

As the door slid open, he took one last look at the quiet 
street and the squad car with the officer parked in it.  
Rivera caught him looking.  "You wanted to do this alone, you 
and me," he said, "and I'm granting your request, but he's 
not going anywhere."

"Fine by me," said Mulder, hoping he sounded calm.  "Let's 
just get this over with."

"My sentiments exactly."

Rivera took him by the elbow and pushed him lightly into the 
foyer.  Mulder halted in the shadowed hall.  He had not been 
there since the night of the murder, when the house smelled 
like blood and gunpowder.   "You want to take these off?" 
Mulder asked, indicating his handcuffs.

"Not on your life."  Rivera pulled out a small tape recorder 
and waved it at Mulder.  "I'm going to be taping this whole 
thing."

"That wasn't part of the deal."

"It is now." He switched the machine on.  "This is Detective 
Rivera.  I have Agent Fox Mulder in custody with me, and 
we're at 1232 Oakwood Lane, a condominium owned by victim 
Diana Fowley and the location where her body was recovered on 
November second."

Mulder glanced to the right but he couldn't quite see the 
spot from this angle.  Diana had still been warm, almost 
alive, with her eyes open and her mouth parted.  

"Agent Mulder, you are now admitting you were in this 
apartment the night of November second?" 

The image of Diana lingered, and he almost whispered the 
word: "Yes."

"Excuse me, could you please speak up for the tape?"

"Yes, I was here."

Rivera nodded to himself, as if confirming what he'd known 
all along.  "And what time did you arrive?"

"I'm not sure.  Past midnight."

"What was the purpose of your visit?"

"I wanted to talk to her."

"To Diana Fowley?"

"Yes."  His muscles remembered the force of his anger, how 
tense they had been as he'd charged up the steps.

"Was she expecting you?"

"No, but her lights were on."

"So you came up here to the front door, is that right?  You 
rang the bell?"

"Yes.  No.  I mean, I came up to the front door, but I didn't 
use the bell.  The door was open."

Rivera raised both eyebrows.  "It was unlocked, or it was 
actually standing open?"

"It was ajar.  I pushed it and I called her name as I 
entered."  He stepped further into the house, as he had that 
night.  "I only called once.  When I smelled the blood, I 
knew something was wrong."

"What did you do next?"

"I drew my weapon."  He took another step, feeling the gun in 
his hands as he walked towards the living room.  "I moved in 
the direction of the smell," he said as Rivera followed him. 
"As I came to the doorway here I could see Diana lying on the 
floor with blood around her head.  The room smelled like 
gunfire, and I figured she'd been hit.  I checked the room 
briefly for any signs of the shooter and then I checked her 
pulse."

He walked to the spot where the stain spread across the light 
gray carpet and crouched down.  At his back, his fingertips 
flexed as he remembered touching her pale neck.  "She was 
dead," he said.  "There was nothing I could do."

Rivera stood over him with the tape recorder in hand.  "But 
you didn't call it in.  Why?"

Mulder didn't answer, but his gaze slid to the place on the 
floor where the gun had laid.  "I knew what this would look 
like," he said as he got to his feet again.  "Diana and I had 
quarreled earlier, and now she was dead and I was stuck with 
the body and the murder weapon.  I wanted to have the chance 
to clear my name."

"If that's what you've been up to these past few days, you've 
done a piss-poor job of it.  Why should I believe any of this 
load of bull you're selling?  You said if we came here, you'd 
prove who murdered Agent Fowley.  All you're giving me is a 
fairy tale about you and a dead body."

"I'm getting to that," Mulder said.

"Get there faster.  What did you do next?"

"I went to the kitchen to wash my hands," he said, starting 
back for the door.  "I took the back way, away from the 
lights at the front of the house."  His heartbeat tripled in 
speed as he led the detective down the hall to the rear.  He 
paused near the rear door.  "I looked out back to see if 
anyone was there."

"And was there?"

"No."

"Did you see anyone else the entire time you were here?"

Mulder didn't get a chance to answer because the next sound 
was the cock of a gun.  Skinner appeared as planned, from 
Diana's hall closet.  "Don't move," he advised Rivera.

Rivera looked more angry than frightened.  "You assholes are 
making a giant mistake here."

"Don't move and shut up," Skinner amended.  "I want the keys 
to the cuffs."

"They're in my left coat pocket."

"Then use your left hand to take them out.  Keep the other 
one up where I can see it."

Rivera took out the key and dangled it from one finger. 
"Please, I'm begging you," he said without any trace of 
pleading, "don't do anything stupid."

Skinner snatched the key with one hand, all the while keeping 
his gun trained on Rivera's head.  "Can you manage on your 
own?" he asked Mulder.

"Just call me Houdini."  He turned so Skinner could place the 
key in his hands and then undid the cuffs.  He toggled his 
wrists back and forth as full circulation returned.

"Now," Skinner said, "hand Mulder your gun -- slowly."

Rivera shoved his weapon butt-first in Mulder's direction.  
"For an innocent guy, you sure are digging your own grave 
here."

"In the closet," Mulder said, backing Rivera up to the place 
where Skinner had hidden.  "And try these on for size."  He 
tossed the cuffs at Rivera, who caught them and looked 
royally pissed off.

"You've got to be kidding me."

"Put them on," ordered Mulder.  "Hands in back."

Rivera did as asked, but glared at them the whole time. 

"Get the chair," Mulder said to Skinner. 

Skinner returned in just a few seconds, prepared to wedge the 
chair under the doorknob and trap Rivera inside the closet.  

"As long as you're locking me up like this, I think I should 
get at least one straight answer out of you."  He met 
Mulder's eyes in the dim light.  "Who killed her?" he asked.

Mulder waited a long moment to answer.  "I honestly don't 
know," he said finally, and then shut the door.

"We've got maybe ten minutes before that cop outside comes 
looking for him," Skinner said as he holstered his gun.  "I'm 
parked two streets over."

"This way."  Mulder opened the back door and they both ran 
across the short lawn to the bushes that abutted the 
neighbor's chain-link fence.  Mulder watched uneasily over 
his shoulder as Skinner went up and over.

"Come on, come on," Skinner urged.

Mulder shoved Rivera's gun in his sweatshirt pocket and 
mounted the fence.  As he swung his leg over the top, one of 
the sharp metal spikes ripped through his jeans and gouged 
his thigh.  "Jesus, shit!" 

"Let's get out of here," Skinner said, enunciating every 
word.

Mulder landed hard on the ground and he turned back to look 
at the offending piece of twisted metal that wounded him.  
Blood coated the top edge.  "That's sharper than barbed 
wire," he said.

Skinner was already making his way out of the bushes.

"Wait a sec."  Mulder went back to the fence.  He could feel 
the trickle of blood down his leg.

"Mulder!"

Right next to the spike that had torn his leg open was a 
second, equally sharp one that also appeared to have blood on 
it.  But this blood was dried in the cracks of the twisted 
metal.

Skinner materialized at his shoulder.  "We need to leave 
right now or we're not getting out of here at all."

"Yeah, yeah.  I'm coming."

With a final glance at the fence, he followed Skinner out 
through the thick bushes and into the urban jungle.

X-X-X-X-X

As before, he arrived first at the diner.  This time he 
occupied a corner booth, where he sat with his coffee, his 
newspaper, and his ever-present cigarette.  The sign over 
posted menu behind the counter read "Thank You for Not 
Smoking," but as usual, the rules never applied to him.

The smell of deep-fried fat turned her stomach, but she 
pressed onward toward the back.

A smattering of other patrons spread out around the place, 
but the lunch rush was over and dinner was far away.  Not 
many people had the luxury of sitting around with a cup of 
Joe or a slice of pie on a Tuesday afternoon.

He tucked away the Post as she approached and stubbed out the 
remainder of his smoke.  She felt the keen absence of her 
weapon.  Not that she could have done much with it in this 
situation, but she couldn't believe she was about to have 
this conversation unarmed.  If she was truly a murderer, she 
could think of no one else she'd rather kill than the man in 
front of her.

"Agent Scully, you're looking well," he said as she took the 
other side of the table.

"You're a liar, but usually a good one," she answered, and he 
gave a wry smile.

"Let's just say you look ever so much better than you did 
about this time last year."  He sipped his coffee and let 
that sink in.

"Is this the part where I'm supposed to say thank you?"

"I can't quite figure out what you're to say.  This is your 
meeting, if you recall."

"How about we start with this: Diana Fowley's murder -- I 
think you're behind it."

"An impressive opening gamble," he said as he set his cup 
down.  "I assume you have some evidence to back up this hunch 
of yours."

"She was dying from the same disease I had, a cancer that 
eats away at your brain, a cancer you probably gave to her 
the same way you gave it to me."

"I assure you I have no such power," he replied.

She continued as though he hadn't spoken.  "I know a little 
bit about what she might have been thinking, how life becomes 
sharper, narrower, when you know you're about to die.  I 
think maybe she decided to exact a little revenge on her way 
out."

He paused in the process of lighting up a fresh cigarette.

"She was thinking as long as you considered her expendable, 
then she would spend her last few months wreaking havoc on 
your little operation.  She must have been causing more 
trouble than you could handle, because you decided to speed 
up her death with a bullet to the head."

He inhaled and blew out the smoke in her direction, narrowing 
his eyes at her.  "I know you're concerned for your partner, 
but I admit I'm surprised by your tenacity in this 
investigation. The way I understand it, your prints were on 
the gun."

Her heart skipped a beat but she refused to squirm.  "I'm 
quite sure you could arrange that, yes.  Your people tried to 
kill her once before and failed.  No doubt you sent someone 
better equipped to do the job this time."

"A trained FBI woman, perhaps?"

"Me," she said flatly.  "You want me to believe you sent me 
there to kill Diana Fowley."

He gave a casual shrug.  "You certainly got the job done 
right, as expected."

"I don't believe you."

"Let's say, hypothetically, that you're right, and that Diana 
Fowley was interfering in some key operations, perhaps going 
as far as to eliminate one of our top scientists.  Maybe she 
took some of his files with her, files that we needed to 
continue the work, and we were willing to take on some 
calculated risks in getting them back."

"What kind of risks?"  Her voice nearly quavered and her 
palms had started to sweat.

"Let me ask you something, Agent Scully.  Have you been over 
tired recently?  Not sleeping well?  Maybe your car has miles 
on it that you can't remember driving.  Perhaps you wake up 
wearing different clothes."

A wave of nausea washed over her.  "No."

"Ah, you have.  I can see it in your face.  After what 
happened last spring on the dam, I was surprised that you 
hadn't removed the chip entirely, but we were grateful that 
you hadn't because it made things so much easier."  He puffed 
away, still watching her.  "First we sent you to retrieve the 
files.  That didn't go so well."

As he said the words, she saw Diana's home office in front of 
her, saw her hands prying at the lock on the desk.  She shook 
her head, mute.

"Yes," he told her.  "We sent you twice to no avail.  
Whatever Fowley did with them, she hid them well.  We soon 
had to take other measures.  This time you had much greater 
success."

"I...I wouldn't do such a thing.  You can't make me into 
something I'm not."

He gave her a thin smile.  "You don't remember it.  That's a 
bonus of the technology, but we've discovered the memories 
are in there if you look hard enough.  One day, maybe many 
years from now, maybe when you're an old woman, you'll wake 
up one morning and you'll remember."

She wanted so much to believe it was another trick.  "Prove 
it to me," she said thickly.

He looked surprised.  "We sent you there that night. Where 
did you think you got the key?  Your prints were on the gun, 
and Diana Fowley is most assuredly dead. What more proof do 
you need?  The only slipup was your leaving the gun, but 
there are ways of handling that.  Mulder blundering into 
things was an unexpected and unwelcome wrinkle.  I suppose we 
should have foreseen it -- where you go, he surely follows."

She would not cry in front of this man.  "Why are you telling 
me this?"

"Why not?  You asked."  He tapped the ash into his makeshift 
tray.  "And it's not as though you can do anything about it."

"I can take out the chip."

His eyes glinted.  "You might find you don't like the 
consequences.  Besides, anything you do now doesn't matter; 
it won't change the past."

The rage she had talked about earlier burned hot inside her.  
For the first time, she felt an inkling of sympathy for Diana 
and what she had tried to do.  If I'm going down, she 
thought, I'm taking the lot of you with me.

"Whatever you're contemplating," he said. "I'd urge you not 
to act rashly.  There's the little matter of Agent Mulder, 
who is about to be charged with your crime."

She still couldn't quite make herself believe it. The Smoker 
never offered up any kind of truth, so this must be another 
one of his campfire horror tales, designed to manipulate her 
the old fashioned way.  The only way the Bogey Man looked 
good is when he was standing next to a greater evil, and with 
no greater evil available to him, the Smoking Man was forced 
to invent one.

"I'm sure you could free Mulder if you wanted to," she said.  
"You don't need my help."

"I'm afraid you won't like my solution."  He took another 
drag and suppressed a cough.  "If Mulder is charged and the 
trial goes forward, the real killer will have to confess, and 
the evidence that isn't quite a perfect fit for Mulder will 
look positively marvelous on you."

"As if anyone would ever believe the story, with the chip, 
that I... that I did the things you say.  Besides which, you 
can never expose me without exposing yourself."

He took his time extinguishing the last of his cigarette, 
mashing the butt around in the ash.  "Trust me on this, Miss 
Scully: your suicide note won't make any mention of a chip, 
and when they do your autopsy, they won't find one."

X-X-X-X-X

Mulder snapped Skinner's cell phone shut as they drove 
through town.  "She's still not answering," he said.  "Not at 
home, and her cell phone is off.  You know this guy better 
than I do.  Where can we find him?"

Skinner's eyes were trained on the rearview mirror.  "It's 
not like a I have a Bat signal we can flash in the sky.  He 
just shows up when he feels like and leaves the same way.  I 
have no idea where he lives now, and I don't have a number 
for him."

"Scully did," Mulder said suddenly.  "From Diana's phone 
records.  We can run the same phone dump and get it that 
way."

Skinner looked over at him.  "You think we can just drop by 
the Bureau?  Call up and request information?  By now 
Rivera's out of the closet and raising hell."  He checked the 
mirror again.  "We're lucky to get this far without a tail."

A tail.  Mulder turned around in his seat and regarded the 
traffic behind them.  Cars flowed along at normal speed, and 
there was no sign of the black Lexus.  His job was done.

"Scully had the number, right?" Skinner asked.  "We could go 
to her place, see if she has it written down somewhere."  He 
gripped the wheel with both hands, the tendons in his 
forearms bulging.  "Listen to me going on like this.  If we 
call him, is he going to answer?  Is he really going to tell 
us where Scully is?  Forget the Smoking Man, Mulder.  We need 
to find Scully.  Where would she go?"

Mulder was barely listening.  He had his eyes closed, 
visualizing a memory of an old driver's license.

"Mulder?"

"One hundred and eleven Millwood Lane," he said.

"That's where Scully is?"

"That's where we'll find the killer."

X-X-X-X

Somehow she managed to drive home.  Scully staggered up to 
the door of her apartment, missing twice with her key before 
finally fitting it into the lock.  Her living room was 
blessedly silent, the blinds at half-mast against the 
afternoon sun.  She leaned on the back of the door as her 
knees threatened to give way, her keys remained clutched in 
her fist like a weapon.  

Lies, lies, lies.  Why should she believe him?

She raised one arm to her fevered forehead, the back of her 
hand pressed tight against her skin.  She could smell the 
metal from the keys as they hung down in her face.

Open your eyes.

They flew open and she saw the keys out of focus in front of 
her.  Five keys, one-two-three-four-five.  One for the 
apartment, for Mom's, one for the office, one for Mulder's 
place -- car keys on a separate ring.  One-two-three-four.

She eased away from the door and looked more closely at the 
keys in her hand.  Sure enough, there on her ring was an 
extra key, newly minted.  He planted it, she thought 
desperately.  This wasn't there before.

You didn't want to see.

No, no, no.  She ran to the bedroom and shut the door.

Her hands shook and her stomach had balled itself up like a 
porcupine, needles prickling at her intestines.  She was glad 
Skinner had taken her gun.

She trembled as she drew the shades.  Whether she was hiding 
herself from the world or the world from herself, she 
couldn't say.  All she knew was that, once again, the truth 
lived within her.

One day you'll remember, the Smoker had said.

Scully was not waiting.  If she'd been there that night, if 
she had pulled the trigger, she had to know now.  She wanted 
her memory straight before the Smoking Man plied her with 
more words, making her see things that had never been.

She removed her shoes and sat cross-legged on her bed, 
holding her head in her hands.  Fiery tears pricked at her 
lashes but did not fall.  She took deep, shuddering breaths 
and tried to think.  She didn't have Melissa.  She couldn't 
go to a hypnotist.  This truth had to be hers alone.

She lay back on the pillows and looked at her empty white 
ceiling, trying to project her thoughts onto the blank 
canvas.  She remembered meeting Diana that first time, how 
she had known just from the woman's posture with Mulder that 
they'd shared a secret history.  She recalled the terrible 
little voice inside her that had whispered bitterly when 
Diana had been shot the first time, the one that took the 
news that she would live: too bad.

It's okay to hate her now, the voice said.  You were right.

She closed her eyes tightly against the words.  No, I don't 
want to hate her, she thought.  I don't want to hate.

You were right and Mulder was wrong.  At last, at last.

She shook her head back and forth on the pillow, the ends of 
her hair tickling her cheeks.  No, I won't hate her.  I 
won't. She felt something swelling inside her and she fought 
it, writhing on the bed.  She saw her hands picking at the 
lock on Diana's file cabinet.

The drawer stuck and she had to yank it, sending her back 
against the desk, where the sharp corner stabbed her right 
around the kidney.  No sign of the files.  Where else to 
look?  Must find them.

No, she thought.  I did not do this.

But the Scully in her vision kept right on searching.  You 
were right and Mulder was wrong.  Must find the files.  Where 
is the proof?

Hot tears leaked from her eyes down into her hair.  She 
didn't want to be right.  Open your eyes, she told herself.  
Make it go away.  But her lids were like heavy metal and she 
could not raise them.

The dream Scully was changing now, the memory becoming more 
familiar.  She was with Mulder in her living room, shaking 
with anger as she showed him the meaning of the papers he had 
stolen all those years before.  I was marked before I met 
you.  It wasn't your fault.  It wasn't my choice.

Mulder's face showed her feelings, his handsome features 
perverted by ugly truth.  He was leaving.  He wanted answers.  
Maybe he would find Diana and hurt her.

Scully was glad.

"No," she whispered hoarsely, almost frantic.  "Stop."

But the balloon inside her kept welling, expanding against 
her ribs and taking her breath away.  The memory shifted.  It 
was dark and she was in bed, like now, only it was before and 
she awoke in a cold sweat as the horrible thing inside her -- 
the creature she'd been nurturing with jealousy, watering it 
with rage, loving it even as she pretended not to care -- it 
broke open her heart and she sat up gasping, drowning for air 
as the truth dripped down like sludge inside her body.

She had wanted to kill Diana.

She shook so hard her teeth nearly clattered and she gathered 
the blankets up from the bed, drawing them into her lap.  
Memories came thick and fast, pelting at her painfully and 
she no power to stop them.

She was in her car, driving to Diana's house.  She was going 
to kill her.

The lights were on in the bedroom.  She went right in the 
front door, careful not to make a sound because she was there 
to kill her.

She had her own gun, but then she saw Diana's sitting on the 
mantel.  How perfect, how lovely.  She would kill Diana with 
her own gun.

Footsteps on the stairs.  Her victim was approaching.

"No," Scully whimpered, clutching at the blankets.  She could 
not make the movie end.

Diana appeared with a drink in one hand and a file folder in 
the other.  She was surprised but not alarmed, not even as 
Scully held a gun pointed at Diana's chest.  "You wouldn't do 
it," Diana said, a sneer lifting one corner of her mouth.  "I 
know everything there is to know about you, Dana, and you 
just don't have the guts."

She couldn't speak.  Words would break the spell.  The gun 
was light in her hands, her finger loose and slippery on the 
trigger.  Diana took a sip of her drink and set it down.

I'm going to kill you, the memory said.

"No wonder Mulder gets on so well with you," said Diana, 
because she couldn't hear the voice telling Scully to kill.  
"Are you fucking him?  I bet you are.  I bet you have been 
for years."

Do it.  Do it now.

"Maybe you even love him.  I could understand that.  I did 
too at one time, and I think was probably the beginning of my 
end."  She looked Scully up and down.  "Maybe yours too.  
Funny how he's not here, isn't it?  It comes down to me and 
you and that gun.  Go ahead, pull the trigger.  Do their 
dirty work for them.  It's easier than you think, and once 
you start, there's no going back."

No, no, no.  She shook her head again, trying to stay clear.  
Don't listen.  Just pull.  Do it.

"Just one thing," Diana said.  "He'll smell it on you.  He'll 
know you're one of them and that will be the end for you.  
Wouldn't that be a fitting ending?  I can see you now in a 
murder-suicide, his blood on your hands and yours just 
covering his."

"No," she said, this time in the memory, and the word made 
Diana's expression shift to anger.

"Pay attention, Scully.  Wake up! They aren't messing around 
here.  I'm on my way out but you're still in the game.  You 
can't keep those blinders on or you'll be no help to him at 
all.  You can't save him like this.  You can't save him, but 
I did."

She waved the file folder, the one Scully had been sent to 
retrieve.  Shoot and kill.  Get the file.  Not yet, not yet.  
What does it say?

Her arms were starting to ache, and she felt light-headed.  

"He's on the list," Diana said.  "They're coming for him next 
year.  Don't you see?  I had to stop it.  I had to kill 
Brandt and stop the project.  Mulder was on the list. It was 
going to happen in Oregon, in Bellefleur, but now they can't 
move forward."

The page blurred before her eyes.  Letters and numbers, like 
before.  No, not Mulder.

"You were never going to be able to save him," said Diana.

The shot cracked the room, the smell of gunpowder exploding 
in the air.  Diana's mouth opened in surprise as the pages 
went fluttering to the floor.  She folded like a rag doll, 
blood leaking in a tiny river from beneath her head.

Scully rolled in bed, heaving over the side, but there was 
nothing in her stomach to bring up.  She shook and shook 
until she fell back, spent.  Now that she finally had the 
truth, there was only one thing left to do.

She got a knife.  She got her keys.  She didn't bother to 
lock the door on her way out.

X-X-X-X-X

The Lexus was parked in the drive when they pulled up, so 
Mulder figured the address had to be current.  "You want to 
tell me what we're doing here?" Skinner asked as Mulder was 
already halfway out of the car.  "And why we've asked Imogene 
Brandt to join us?  She could easily ride up here with half 
of the DC police force."

"Somehow I don't think she's going to do that."  Mulder 
watched the windows of the little house for any sign of 
movement.  "Watch your back," he advised Skinner as they 
lounged near the car.  "This guy is armed."

"This guy is...?"

"Joe Catalona, hired thug.  He works for Brandt's company and 
he was following me, Scully and Diana in the days before 
Diana's murder."

"Following you why?"

Just as he asked the question, a silver Mercedes made the 
turn onto Millwood Lane.  Imogene Brandt wore her hair back 
in a tight bun and her eyes were hidden by large sunglasses.  
She placed one spiked heel onto the sidewalk and swung out of 
the car in an easy, graceful motion.  "Who's your friend?" 
she asked Mulder.

"He's FBI."

Imogene slowly tilted her sunglasses down for a better look 
at Skinner.  "According to the news, Agent Mulder, you're 
wanted by the FBI and probably a dozen other law enforcement 
agencies.  It seems you've been a bad boy indeed."

Mulder took out Rivera's pilfered weapon and pointed it at 
her.  "Then you'd better do exactly as I say."

"Jesus, Mulder.  What are you doing?" Skinner asked.

"Catching a killer."

Imogene didn't look fazed.  "Me?" she said with a sharp 
laugh.  "Just who is it you think I've killed?"

"Let's go discuss the matter with your friend inside.  Move."

She put her hands up in the air and tripped a little as she 
started up the walk.  Catalona must have seen them coming 
because he opened the door before they got there, and he had 
a gun in hand.  Skinner had his weapon out in a flash.

"Please do something stupid," Mulder said to Catalona.

"What the hell is going on here?" the man replied, not 
lowering his gun.  "Dr. Brandt, have these guys hurt you?"

"What do you know?" Mulder said to Skinner as he noted 
Catalona's weapon of choice.  "It's a 9 millimeter SIG."

"Hey, I've got a permit for this."

"I'll just bet you do."  Mulder motioned for Imogene to move 
forward.  "Let's all go inside, shall we?"

"The hell you are." Catalona blocked the door.  "This is 
trespassing on private property.  I've got a right to shoot 
both of you right where you stand."

"It's two against one," replied Mulder, cocking his head.  
"You sure you like the odds?"

"I want to know what the fuck you think you're doing.  Dr. 
Brandt, I can call the cops if you want me to."

"Oh, by all means," Mulder answered.  "I'm sure they're going 
to be very interested in this conversation."

Imogene didn't look so amused anymore.  "Just let us in, Joe.  
And put away the gun."

"Better yet, give him the gun," Mulder said.

"I ain't giving my gun to any of you."

Mulder shrugged.  "The cops it is," he said, digging out 
Skinner's cell phone from the pocket of his jeans.

"I'm not worried about any cops.  You're the ones who showed 
up here waving guns around."

"For God's sake, Joe.  Let us in and we'll see what they 
want."  Imogene took charge and yanked open the screen door, 
while none of the men made any move to stop her.

"You shouldn't have gotten them involved," Catalona muttered 
as she passed him. "I told you the Feds were no good."

They stood around in Catalona's living room, which was 
decorated with large leather furniture and a giant 
projection-screen TV.  Oddly, he had a replica of the Mona 
Lisa hanging on the wall.

"Okay," Imogene said reasonably to Mulder.  "Now we're all 
here and we're inside.  I think you should tell me what this 
is all about, preferably without all the gunplay."

"First he hands it over," Mulder said, waving his gun at 
Catalona.

"Make me."

"Stop it!" Imogene wrenched the gun away from Catalona and 
handed it to Mulder.  "There, are you satisfied?  Now will 
you please tell me what's going on here?"

A curious look passed over Catalona's features and he looked 
at Imogene with some horror.  "You goddamned cow.  You set 
this up, didn't you?"

"What?  I'm here at Agent Mulder's request.  He said he had 
an urgent matter to discuss with me concerning Christopher's 
death."

"I think you should shut up," Catalona said.  "I think 
neither one of us should say another word."

"Nonsense," she said.  "I'll say what I like."

Catalona swore with the ferocity of someone who realized he 
was going to take the fall.  "Shut up, shut up, shut UP!"

"I want to know what you know about Christopher's death," 
Imogene said, staring intently at Mulder.

"I don't know anything for sure, but I can guess Diana Fowley 
killed him.  Scully and I found out she was with him the 
night he died, and if we knew it, your hired gun here surely 
knew it too because he was tracking our every move."

"Last I checked you didn't have any answers at all," Catalona 
said with a growl.

"So that's when you sent pretty boy here to murder her."

"I sent him?  You've got to be joking.  I wanted the killer 
brought to justice, not executed."

Catalona grit his teeth and clenched his hands.  Mulder could 
tell it was killing him to keep quiet.

"This gun will be the murder weapon," he said as he held up 
the weapon she had confiscated from Catalona.  "I've no doubt 
about that.  But what's really going to sink you is that big 
gash on your thigh."

Everyone looked Catalona's legs, which were encased in tight 
black jeans.  "I don't have any goddamned gash."

"Sure you do.  Right about here."  Mulder gestured with the 
gun barrel at his own inner thigh, where his pants were 
ripped.  "It's from the fence at the back of the property, 
and we'll be able to match the blood there to your DNA."

"Joe, is this true?" Imogene asked.  "Did you kill that 
woman?"

"Genie, I'm begging you, for the love of sweet Jesus, just 
shut up."

"Show me the leg," she said, her voice turning cold.

"Fuck off."

"I'd like to see it," Mulder said.

"Me too," Skinner agreed.

Catalona hesitated for a second and then ran for the door.  
Skinner grabbed him by the back of the neck, thumbs digging 
into each carotid artery.  Catalona struggled in the vise 
gripe until Skinner applied more pressure, at which point, 
the big man promptly passed out.

"You want to do the honors?" Skinner asked as Catalona lay on 
the floor.

Mulder handed off one gun to Skinner and stuck the probable 
murder weapon in his jeans.  Then he leaned down and undid 
Catalona's pants, yanking them roughly to the knees.  There 
on his pale, hairy thigh, was a long thin scab in the exact 
location of Mulder's wound.  "You're under arrest you son of 
a bitch," Mulder whispered.

"I didn't know anything about this," Imogene said.  "Whatever 
Joe did, he did on his own."

"Save it for trial," Mulder told her as he straightened.  
"Now that he's caught and no longer collecting a paycheck 
from you, I'll bet he can't wait to tell his story.  You know 
how the caged bird sings."

Imogene looked speculative, not concerned.  "He can sing all 
he wants.  There'll be no proof."

Mulder took a step closer to her, looking down and searching 
her face for any trace of sorrow.  "You farmed out the murder 
and your hands are clean, but you'll never have the 
satisfaction of having pulled the trigger."

"My husband's killer is dead.  That's satisfaction enough to 
last me until old, old age."

"Mulder."  Skinner's voice was gruff from behind him.  "We've 
got to contact Rivera."

He turned and eyed Catalona.  "I can't.  There will be 
questions and charges and paperwork a mile high.  I've got to 
find Scully.  She has to know the truth."

Skinner didn't hesitate.  "Go."

X-X-X-X

The Smoker had said she would commit suicide, though this 
probably wasn't exactly what he had in mind.  She clutched 
the penknife on her lap and kept her foot pressed on the gas. 
She drove towards the sea, as most Scullys did, with salt 
water shining in her eyes.

She had to find Mulder and tell him what she'd remembered, 
that he'd been marked for disappearance, that Diana had 
intervened and perhaps been killed for this, her last 
betrayal.

That she wasn't a murderer.

The bullet had whizzed past her ear, a deadly fly, and she 
could still hear the horrible noise of Diana's orbital plate 
cracking on impact.  Out of the corner of her eye, she'd seen 
the shooter, his face in shadows but his form familiar.  

It wasn't me, she thought, but it could have been.

She had gone there to kill Diana, she was certain of this 
now.  What she didn't know was whether she would have pulled 
the trigger if Catalona hadn't done it first.  The gun was in 
her hands, her finger just pressing down...

This time she hadn't been able to complete the act, but as 
long as the chip lived inside her, she would be the ultimate 
hostage.

She found a dock and parked her car near the edge, taking the 
knife with her as she went out to the water.  The end days of 
her cancer hadn't been too bad.  They gave her drugs to numb 
the pain and kept her warm in the hospital under electric 
blankets as the life faded out of her.  

The worst part had been the looks of anguish on her mother's 
face, on Mulder's face, when they came to watch her die.  It 
was their pain that could drive her back to the chip again, 
and so she wasn't going to give herself the possibility.

Her arm was surprisingly steady as she reached to raise her 
hair off her neck.  It was thick and healthy again thanks to 
a year of good health.  She held it up and away from her skin 
and opened the switchblade with her other hand.

Shutting her eyes tightly, she palpated her neck to find the 
spot and then took the knife to her flesh.  She cut swiftly 
and deeply, more harsh than necessary.  The knife clattered 
onto the weather beaten boards at her feet as she felt around 
in the growing blood for the chip.  It popped out from her 
neck and into her slippery fingers.

She felt dizzy and weak as the world started to spin.  With a 
choked sob, she hurled the chip out into the water.  Never 
again.

The dock seemed to be moving, rocking in the waves, falling 
away from her.  She grabbed for the rail but missed it on her 
way down.  The last thing she saw was the brilliant, 
cloudless sky.

X-X-X-X

He took Skinner's car and drove to her house, charging up the 
stairs two at a time.  At the last moment, he remembered his 
keys were still in police custody, but it turned out not to 
matter because her door came open at his first touch.  
"Scully!" he called as he entered.  "Scully?  It's me."

Her apartment was as quiet and dark as a tomb, all the blinds 
drawn.  He found her bed covers askew but no sign of Scully.  
Running to the window, he drew back the shade and squinted in 
the bright sunlight.  Her car was not on the street.

He searched her bedside table and then her desk, looking for 
any scrap of paper that might tell where she had gone.  He 
opened her address book and turned it upside down.  He 
knocked over her cup of pens and pencils in his haste to 
examine the desk.

Just as he was booting up her computer, Skinner's phone rang.  
"Mulder," he said.  "They've found her."

His heart stopped. "What do you mean they found her?  Where 
is she?"

"Mercy General Hospital, and that's all I know.  No one seems 
to be able to say how she's doing.  I'd go myself but I'm 
with Rivera at the six-four station and there's no way he's 
letting me walk.  But he's the one who told me about Scully, 
so he's probably going to have troops waiting for you at the 
hospital."

"I don't care.  I'm on my way."  He ran out the door and back 
down to the car.  He did not go through all this hell to lose 
Scully now.  It did not work that way.  He'd lived in a 
trailer amid his own filth for days, he'd escaped from jail 
and tracked down a killer.  He was hungry, exhausted, slit 
down the leg and a fugitive from the law.  If the Smoking Man 
had harmed a hair on Scully's head, Mulder had a mind to 
shoot him like a dog in the street.

The cops weren't waiting at the front door to Mercy General.  
Mulder went tearing past a sad-faced old man in a wheelchair 
and headed straight for the Emergency Room.  "I need to see 
Dana Scully," he said to the admitting nurse, who took in his 
grubby appearance with a skeptical gaze.

"What did you say the patient's name was again?"

"Dana Scully.  S-c-u-l-l-y."  Please don't say the morgue, he 
thought.  Please.

He watched for the woman's expression to turn grim as she 
consulted her computer.  His hands gripped the counter and he 
tried to read the screen.

"Room two-oh-four," she said at last.  "You can go on back."

"Thank you."  He released a great breath and resumed his jog 
through the hospital, still muttering to no one in 
particular.  "Thank you, thank you."

Room two-oh-four turned out to be a large room with several 
curtained areas.  He grabbed the first person in scrubs he 
could find.  "Dana Scully?"

"Over there," she said pointing toward the far right corner.

Mulder pushed back the curtain, sagging in weak relief at the 
sight of her.  She was dressed in a hospital gown, under the 
sheets with an IV hooked to her arm, but she was awake and in 
one piece.  "Thank you," he said again, and her brows knit 
together in concern.

"Mulder, are you okay?"

"I think that's supposed to be my line."  He went to the bed 
and took her hand, happiness flickering inside him when she 
gave him a hard squeeze.

"They let you go?" Her voice was rough, cracked, and he 
smoothed the hair off her face.

"Not exactly.  I'll tell you all about it in a minute.  What 
happened to you?"

"I'm not sure.  Some people found me by the water and called 
nine-one-one.  I woke up here."  

Her gaze slid away from his, and he tilted her chin around to 
face him again.  It was then he noticed the thick gauze 
bandage at the base of her neck.  "Oh, Scully," he said, his 
voice hushed.  "What did you do?"

"I took it out," she whispered as she moved to get free of 
his touch.  "I got rid of it.  Mulder, I had to."

"But you didn't do it," he said urgently.  "It was that PI 
Catalona who killed Diana and I can prove it.  Rivera's got 
him in custody right now."

Her eyes were wide in her pale face.  "What?"

"We've got the gun, and his blood will put him at the scene."  
He sat on the bed near her hip and reached for her hand 
again.  Her fingers were cold.

"Mulder," she said, and he saw her trying to swallow.  She 
wouldn't look at him.  "I talked to the Smoker.  He confirmed 
that they sent me there that night.  It wasn't the first 
time.  I'd been there before, looking for files that the 
Smoking Man wanted returned.  Diana had stolen them from 
Brandt."

"What files?"  He rubbed her hand between his, refusing to 
admit what she was saying.  "You shouldn't believe anything 
he says."

Her blue eyes finally settled on him, and the sadness there 
took his breath away.  "I remember.  I remember going to kill 
her."

"No, it wasn't you."

"It doesn't matter!  Don't you see?  I was there and I would 
have killed her."

"You remember this," he said, his tone challenging.  "You 
remember after talking to the Smoker?  And you trust these 
memories?  Come on, Scully."

"I...I don't remember much, but I was there.  God, Mulder, I 
remember her face.  I was there with her gun in my hands, 
pointing it at her.  You're the one who found the prints."

"Prints can be faked."

"I was there."  She broke away from him, looking tired.  "I 
don't need to remember anything else."

He was quiet for a long time.  "You remember the shooting?"

She searched herself and then shook her head slowly.  "I hear 
the shot in my head.  I have a vague recollection of her on 
the floor.  That's it.  I can't be a witness."

"No."  Even if she did remember, explaining why she was there 
would be dangerous in the extreme.  He looked again at her 
bandage.  "How..." He cleared his throat.  "How are you 
feeling?"

"Okay.  I was dehydrated, I guess, so they're fixing that."  
She twisted under the covers and looked embarrassed.  "I have 
to talk to a psychiatrist.  The knife, the blood... they're 
afraid I was attempting suicide."

He remembered her in another hospital bed, her eyes sunken 
and her bones showing through her skin.  Slow suicide.   He 
shook his head in defeat.

"Please understand," she whispered.

He couldn't, not really.  They all had chips inside them in 
one form or another, pieces of metal or memory that left you 
vulnerable to manipulation.  He'd been carrying his since the 
tender age of twelve.

She scooted downward, reaching for him and curling herself 
around his body as she sought his forgiveness.  "I couldn't 
live that way," she said, her head in his lap.  He stroked 
her tangled hair.  "Not anymore."

"It's okay."  He knew the cancer was coming now.  He wondered 
if he could keep it away through will alone.

She sniffled against his knee, hugging his leg.  "You're all 
right?  No charges?"

"Well, that remains to be seen," he said as he rubbed her 
back through the thin gown.  "I did find them the real 
killer, so that should buy some good will, but Skinner and I 
kind of left Rivera handcuffed in Diana's closet."

She straightened up in horror.  "You what?"

"Long story," he said wearily, and at that moment, a 
uniformed officer poked his head around the curtain.

"Agent Mulder?  DC police.  I'm afraid you need to come with 
us."

Mulder gave a half-hearted wave to show he'd heard.  "I'll be 
right there."  He looked down at her. "You'll be okay?"

She answered with a solemn nod.  "I can find my own way home.  
I'll come meet you at the station."

"Bring bail money," he said, and she smiled.

Her smile faded as he leaned down, took her face between his 
hands and looked into her wet eyes.  Emotion welled up inside 
him.  "You know that I would give anything so none of this 
had ever happened."

She reached out and held his bearded face, bringing him down 
so she could kiss his forehead.  He closed his eyes and let 
her words wash over him, the benediction he had waited years 
to receive.  "It's not your fault," she said.  "It never 
was."

X-X-X-X-X

"Scully," he called from the other room.  "Have you seen my 
blue striped tie?"

She rolled her eyes and stepped out from the bathroom with a 
toothbrush in her mouth.  "Why would I have seen your blue 
striped tie?" she said when she'd removed the brush.

He went to stand in front of her, peering down.  "Well, if I 
recall correctly, you were the last one wearing it."

Her cheeks warmed as she remembered the truth of this, along 
with how little else she had been wearing at the time.  "I do 
recall," she allowed, "but I also recall taking it off.  
Where was it the last time you saw it?"

He looked pointedly at her breasts, and she gave him a 
playful shove.  "Check under the bed," she said and returned 
to the business of cleaning her teeth.

"Found it!"  She heard him yell a moment later as she spat 
out the last of the toothpaste.  

She rinsed and wiped her mouth, studying her reflection in 
the mirror.  Her cheeks were pink enough but the circles 
under her eyes had darkened another notch, testament to the 
fact that she had not been getting enough sleep.  She was 
always tired these days.

Mulder poked his head around the corner.  "You want breakfast 
or you want to wait and grab something at the airport?"

"Coffee," she said, "at a minimum."

"One coffee, coming up."  He still hadn't combed his hair.

Maybe it was the fatigue she couldn't seem to shake that had 
her nervous about this trip, the fatigue and what it could 
mean.  She tried not to go there, even in her thoughts, as if 
the latent tumor cells could gain power from her neurons.  
She'd been checked out not three months before and been given 
a clean bill of health, no signs of cancer despite being 
chip-free for over a year and a half. 

Really, there was no need to worry.  She hadn't had a 
nosebleed.  There had been no blinding headaches.  Just a 
lingering tiredness and some vague bouts of nausea.  Perhaps 
it was just a touch of flu, she thought.

But none of this explained the sudden onslaught of vivid 
dreams.  In some, she was running from a dog-man she could 
never see.  All she heard was his panting and snarling as he 
bore down on her.  She woke just at the moment he sank his 
teeth into her skin.

She'd been dreaming of Diana lately too, which was not really 
that uncommon.  She frequently heard the shot, sometimes even 
while awake, and saw Diana's body fall in slow motion to the 
ground.  The worst ones were the times she pulled the 
trigger.  On occasion, Diana seemed to be shouting to her, 
but Scully could never hear what she was saying.

She wasn't sure she wanted to hear.

She brushed her hair with short quick strokes and put it 
firmly out of her mind.  It's just because Imogene Brandt is 
finally on trial, she told herself.  

Joe Catalona had already been sentenced to life in prison in 
exchange for testifying against her.  Mulder didn't think the 
charges would stick.  "All they've got is his word and her 
motive," he said, "and Catalona's a convicted felon.  She's a 
grieving widow.  Once the defense gets done parading 
Christopher Brandt's mistresses through the courtroom, half 
the jury is going to wonder why Imogene didn't kill him 
herself.  They certainly won't believe she wanted revenge for 
his murder."

She finished her makeup and walked to find Mulder in the 
kitchen.  "I made bagels," he said, lifting one from the 
toaster.

"My hero."

He lounged against the counter, striped tie loose around his 
neck, and took a large bite from a bagel smeared in cream 
cheese.  "It's funny to be going back, don't you think?"

"Hmm?"

"Back to Bellefleur. Back to Billy Miles."

She glanced at him over the rim of her coffee mug.  He was 
trying for casual, but he seemed to be uneasy too.  Maybe it 
was just something in the air.  "Well," she said, "they say 
you have to come full circle to find the truth."

A slow smile spread across his face.  "So we're completing 
the circle?"

She shrugged.  "Of sorts."

He looped an arm around her neck and hugged her to his side.  
"The student has become the master."

"I could still teach you a thing or two."

"I have no doubt." He kissed the top of her head.  "I'm going 
to clean up and then we can go."

Mulder, wait.  It seemed so forceful that she froze, but she 
hadn't spoken aloud.  She shook off the strange feeling and 
checked her watch.  They would be late if they didn't get 
going soon.

He'd left his mug half-finished, a black cup with a glow-in-
the dark alien painted on the side.  She emptied it with a 
flick of her wrist and rinsed it out before setting it to dry 
in the rack.

It wouldn't move again for nearly eight months.

"Scully?" he called, his strong voice echoing through the 
apartment.  "You ready to go?"

"Coming," she answered.  She grabbed the suitcase from the 
front all and followed him out the door and all the way back 
to their beginning.

X-X-X-X

/Bait& Switch

Thanks to Amanda for all her help with this story!

Notes: Of all the dropped threads in the X-Files, the one 
that puzzled me the most was the chip in Scully's neck.  I 
don't know whether the writers meant to come back to it and 
didn't, forgot about it, or wrote themselves into such an 
impossible, unlikable situation -- remove the chip and die, 
keep it in and be a slave to CSM (and maybe die) -- that they 
decided just to leave it hanging.  This story is my picking 
up the thread and unraveling it. *g*

As always, if you made it to the end, I'd love to know what 
you thought:  syn_tax6@yahoo.com

Thanks for reading!

09/17/2006