X-X-X-X-X-X-X

Chapter One

X-X-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.  This 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


X-X-X-X-X-X-X

Chapter Two

X-X-X-X-X-X-X

In the car, Scully tried his cell phone to see if he might 
pick up at the sight of her name glowing on the caller ID, 
but it rang through to his voice mail.  "Mulder, it's me.  I 
have to think that youšre aware of everyone whošs looking for 
you right now, and that therešs a good reason you're avoiding 
them.  If you tell me what it is, maybe I can help." 

She hesitated, wondering if she should say something about 
Dianašs death.  "Call me," she said at last, and snapped the 
phone shut with one hand.  She kept it in her palm as she 
drove, clutched against the leather steering wheel.

Pale, watercolor streaks of daylight broke up the night as 
cars began pouring out onto the freeways.  She had lived in 
the area long enough that she knew the traffic rhythm, had in 
fact internalized to the degree that she could change lanes 
to avoid snares without the benefit of conscious thought.  
The car hurtled her forward in space faster than seventy 
miles per hour, but Scully remained only in her head.

She tried to imagine what had happened, picturing Diana in 
her expensively appointed apartment, probably with a drink in 
hand.  Had he rung the doorbell?  Maybe he even had a key.  
Diana would not have been surprised to see him either way.

Perhaps there had been an argument.  She could recall the 
naked fury on Mulder's face from earlier in the day; if he 
had shown that face to Diana, maybe she had been concerned 
enough to go for her gun.  Yes, Scully could see this all 
vividly -- Mulder, disheveled and livid, Diana, cool, still 
believing she controlled him, that she controlled them all.

Scully even knew the things he might have shouted at her 
because she had said many of them to herself.  She could feel 
herself in Mulder's shoes, demanding retribution.  How he 
ended up with the gun, she couldn't say, but she could feel 
the weight of it.  Diana's gun was the same as hers, the same 
as Mulder's, a familiar curved piece of steel with an easy 
trigger.

When the gun went off in her head, she jumped, knocking her 
cell phone to the floor of the car.  She had driven for ten 
minutes without seeing anything.

As she made the last turn into Diana's neighborhood, she 
checked the rearview mirror to see if she was being tailed.  
No one appeared to be behind her.

She parked her car a short way down from the townhouse and 
walked the pavement, her heels overloud against the sleepy, 
quiet morning.

At the front of Diana's place sat two large metal garbage 
cans, spread strangely apart.  One was near the curb with its 
lid on, the other overturned nearer to the walkway, its 
contents strewn across the concrete.

Not a recycler, Scully thought as she noted two empty bottles 
of vodka in the mix.

She stepped over the trash and went up to the small front 
porch.  A uniformed officer wearing sunglasses stood up from 
a deck chair to stop her.  "Protected crime scene, ma'am," he 
said as she reached for the door.  "You can't go in there."

Scully tugged her ID out of her pocket.  "We're all on the 
same side of the law here, Officer..." She leaned in for a 
look at his nametag.  "Traylor. I know procedure.  I won't 
touch anything."

"Well, I appreciate that, Agent..." He leaned over as she had 
and looked at her ID.  "Agent Scully.  But I have specific 
orders not to let anyone in, and that includes members of the 
FBI.  In fact, I do believe your name was mentioned in 
particular."

"Me?"

"Mmm-hmm," he said, folding his arms over his broad chest.  
"So unless you want to sit out here with me all day, I 
suggest you get going."

"The victim was a federal agent.  The FBI has a vested 
interest in this case."

She tried to look casual as she glanced in the tall, skinny 
glass window next to the door. 

"A vested interest doesn't equal jurisdiction.  I'm sorry, 
but I can't let you in."

"I knew the victim.  I might be able to help."

"Yeah?  You should phone Detective Rivera and let him know. 
I'm sure he would appreciate any insights you can give him on 
this case.  We could call him now."  He began getting out his 
cell phone, and Scully stopped him.

"No, no.  That's all right.  I've already talked to Detective 
Rivera."

"Oh, then," said Traylor, clearly not surprised.  "I guess 
your work here is done."  He took a pointed step between her 
and the front door.

Scully did a half-pivot on her heel, considering her options.  
If she tried to go around back, he would just follow.  She 
was half tempted to pull out her gun and force her way 
inside.

The sound of a car engine drawing nearer made them both turn 
to look.  A shiny black Buick glided to a halt right in front 
and Skinner emerged.  "I had a feeling you'd be here," he 
said to Scully as he came up the walk.

"This little porch is getting awful crowded," Traylor said, 
not amused.  "I'm guessing you must be Assistant Director 
Skinner."

"You're very observant," Skinner answered.  "Now how about 
observing this."  He handed over a few sheets of folded 
paper.

Traylor unfolded them and pushed up his sunglasses.  "This is 
a federal witness warrant."

"That's right, and we're going to look for Mulder inside.  
Now."

"I can assure you he's not in there."

"We want to check for ourselves."  Skinner started to push 
past him.

"Wait, I should talk to Detective Rivera about this."

"You can fill him in while we're inside."  Skinner 
mysteriously produced a key, which he used to cut down the 
police tape and then open the front door.  

Scully followed him over the threshold, and they both stopped 
in the dim entryway.  The central air conditioning hummed in 
the background, but otherwise, the house was silent.

"It happened in here," Skinner said as he moved to the left 
toward the living room.  

Scully didn't need anyone to tell her because she could smell 
the blood.  Head wounds bled a lot, and the puddle wouldn't 
even be dry yet.  

The living room was monochromatic, with deep gray walls and a 
long black couch.  On the glass coffee table sat a half-empty 
martini glass.  The bloodstain was at the far end of the room 
near the back window.  Sunlight was just starting to creep in 
through the blinds, sending a zebra-like pattern over 
everything.

"How do they know she was killed with her own gun?" Scully 
asked.

"I presume they don't know for sure yet," replied Skinner as 
he looked around the room.  "Her gun is missing, so the 
presumption is that it's the murder weapon.  Ballistics will 
have to run the tests for comparison."

Mulder had his own gun -- two, actually.  If Diana's was 
truly the murder weapon, then that was a point in Mulder's 
favor.

"Did any of the neighbors hear the shot?"

"Not according to what I know.  The lady who called it in 
heard a commotion outside -- I'm guessing from the overturned 
garbage can -- and that's when she went to her window and saw 
Mulder."

"Mulder knocked over the can?"

Skinner shrugged.

"Something doesn't make sense here," Scully said.  "Detective 
Rivera told me the woman had seen Mulder here on several 
occasions before."

"So?" Skinner was checking the windows but they appeared 
locked.

"So why would she call the cops?  Because he knocked over 
some garbage?  That's not exactly a nine-one-one type of 
emergency.  If she didn't hear the shot, why call it in at 
all?"

"I don't know.  We should definitely talk to her."

Scully crossed back over to the other side of the house, 
where the kitchen resided.  It had been remodeled recently, 
with spotless black granite countertops and a new stainless 
steel refrigerator.  The stove looked like it was straight 
from the showroom floor, never been used.

There were two upturned glass tumblers in the dish rack and a 
small collection of silverware left out to dry.  An empty 
ashtray sat in the sink, and the trash basket underneath had 
been cleaned out.

The seal on the fridge made a whooshing sound as Scully 
cracked it open.  She found soda water, orange juice, some 
old fruit and a collection of take out containers.

Closing the fridge, she went to inspect the back door.  It 
had been dusted for prints but she saw no signs of forced 
entry.  Whoever killed Diana, she had either let the person 
inside, or the killer had a key.

Scully found the stairs and went up to the second floor where 
the bedroom was.  The door was half closed, so she pushed it 
open with the flat of her hand.  In the middle of the room 
sat a king-sized, four-poster bed.  Scully stared at it as 
she realized it had been stripped, the sheets no doubt sent 
to the lab for processing.

Diana had the same thick, light-gray carpet upstairs, which 
absorbed all the sound of Scully's footfalls as she entered 
the room.  The air held the strong scent of Diana's perfume, 
and Scully had the urge to look over her shoulder, as if 
Diana could be pulled back from death by smell alone.  

She wondered if Mulder had ever realized that it was the 
perfume that gave him away.

*Where have you been, Mulder?  I've been trying to reach you 
for hours.*

*I was following Imogene Brandt.  She went to the dentist's 
and returned a library book.  At one point, I had to check my 
pulse to make sure I hadn't expired from sheer boredom*

*You went alone?*

*Of course alone.*

Skinner appeared in the doorway and he, too, looked at the 
empty bed.  He cleared his throat but seemed reluctant 
actually to enter the room.  "I don't see any indication here 
of what happened to Mulder.  We'd better get out before 
Rivera shows up."

Scully replaced the perfume bottle she was holding back onto 
the dresser top.  "I thought you have a warrant."

"I do, but I don't want to be answering any more of his 
questions."  He cocked his head and squinted at her.  "And I 
sure don't want you answering them."

"I don't know where he is."

"Right, so you've said.  But word on the street is that 
Mulder and Diana had one hell of a fight yesterday outside 
his apartment building, and I'm betting you know what it was 
about."

Scully bowed her head but said nothing.

"You're not helping him by keeping me in the dark," Skinner 
told her.

"Rivera didn't mention anything about a fight," she replied.

Skinner's gaze flicked over her.  "No, he wouldn't.  He's not 
going to ask you until he knows the answer first."

They left out the front so Officer Traylor could see they 
weren't taking anything with them.  "Let's see if that 
neighbor is home," Scully said as they walked down the front 
path.

Skinner stopped to look in both directions.  "You know which 
house it is?"

"No," she admitted.

"Guess we'll have to try both of them."

A man answered at the house on the right, and he said he had 
no knowledge of any disturbance the night before.  At the 
other house, they got no answer at all.  "They may have taken 
her in for more questioning," Scully said.  

She took out her card and scribbled a quick note on the back 
before sticking through the mail slot in the door.

Skinner walked her back to her car, which she thought was odd 
until they reached the driver's side door.  She went to get 
in, but he put a hand on the open door, effectively trapping 
her in place.

"You and Mulder have been in some trouble before, but this is 
exciting new territory the two of you have discovered.  I 
can't protect him -- or you -- unless I know what's going 
on."

"I'm not sure anyone can protect him.  I think maybe he's 
being set up."

"Set up by whom?"

Scully looked at his face, wondering if she could trust him.  
"Diana Fowley may have had alliances outside of the FBI."

His jaw tightened just a bit and she couldn't tell whether 
he'd heard this news before.  "What kind of alliances?"

She decided to push her luck.  "I think you know exactly what 
kind."

This wasn't a surprise, she could tell, but he kept his 
expression neutral.  "These other alliances, you think they 
may have been what got her killed."

"I think it's a distinct possibility."

Skinner looked away.  "Well, there's another possibility."

Scully waited, and he took a long time to look back at her.

"If these alliances are the kind I think you're talking 
about, then their discovery could be the kind of motive the 
police are seeking."

X-X-X-X-X

Scully was so lost in thought that she didn't hear Mulder 
approach until he was almost on top of her.  "Earth to 
Scully," he said as he slid his butt onto the plastic-coated 
MDF board that passed as her desk.

She checked her watch.  "You've been gone all day, Mulder.  
You're lucky Kersh didn't come looking for you."

"As long as he thinks I'm tucked in here safely with the rest 
of his lackeys, everything's fine."

"Is that what I am -- a lackey?" 

A smile played at his lips.  "The boys upstairs made that 
mistake about you once, Scully.  I don't think they'd be dumb 
enough to do it again."

"They certainly would never again select me to keep tabs on 
you.  Every time I turn around, you're gone again.  One day 
it's a jaunt to the Bermuda Triangle, the next it's some 
newspaper clipping and you and Fowley disappear together for 
the better part of an afternoon."  She looked around the 
bullpen.  "Where is she, anyway?"

"I couldn't say.  I left her about an hour ago."

"Courting you back to the basement, is she?"

Mulder scoffed and picked up a paperclip chain from her desk.  
"Hardly.  It's not like she could pull us back down there 
even if she wanted to -- the decision is over her head.  No, 
this afternoon's exercise was about old business, not new."

"Oh?"

"Call it an X-file that predates the X-files."

"Is this the part where you break out the slide projector?" 
she asked as she leaned back in her seat.

"No, but I will take you to dinner."

"Dinner," she said, her eyebrows raised.  "And you're buying?  
This must be good."

"Who said anything about buying?" he replied as he hopped off 
her desk.  "I just said I'd take you."

At the local bar and grill, Mulder had his jacket off, his 
tie loose around his neck, and one eye on ESPN.  Scully sat 
in the booth across from him and picked at the corner of her 
beer label.  He lounged on one end of the bench seat and 
palmed a fistful of nuts from the dish.

"I was trying to get the X-files off the ground," he said, 
finally turning his attention to her.  "Collecting old cases 
from Dales's files and adding any new clippings or tips that 
seemed to fit in with the overall theme of the unexplained.  
Diana was helping me.

"One day I get this tip.  A stripper named Lila Krunk is 
trying to get into an AIDS study that involves being abducted 
by aliens.  An AIDS study, I should add, that is run by the 
US government.

"So I tracked Lila down to get her story.  Yes, she had HIV.  
She'd found out about two years before when she got pneumonia 
and it wouldn't go away.  She'd survived the pneumonia but 
AIDS was still out there on the horizon.  Then she heard 
about this other girl named Amber Hathaway who worked at club 
down the block.  Amber, it seems, also had HIV, but she 
enrolled in a clinical trial sponsored by the NIH.  According 
to Lila, the story was that Amber got abducted by aliens who 
cured the HIV and she was returned healthy.  Lila wanted into 
this study too, and she called the NIH several times to 
inquire about the scientist who was supposedly conducting the 
clinical trial."

"Let me guess," Scully said.  "It was Christopher Brandt."

Mulder pointed at her.  "Give the little lady her prize."

"I can imagine the NIH office was thrilled to hear from 
Lila."

"Oh, naturally.  They told her no such research was going on, 
that all of Brandt's trials were currently full, but most 
emphatically none of them involved aliens."

"The story is a little wild, even for you."

"Yeah, I was skeptical at first, I have to admit.  So was 
Diana.  She said that Lila Krunk had become code for 'total 
nutcase' at the NIH, and that if we looked like we bought 
into her story, we'd be nutcases too."

"But you investigated anyway."

Mulder sucked down a sip of beer from his bottle.  "At that 
point, I was taking all comers.  And a story that 
outrageous... well, it would make for good entertainment 
value even if Lila's claims were groundless."

"So the first thing you did was talk to Amber, I presume."

"Yes, and she backed up Lila's story.  She said she'd been 
missing only two days in 'earth time' but in space it was 
over a year.  The aliens gave her transfusion therapy and 
when she was returned, her HIV was gone.  She even 
volunteered to take a blood test for us.  Sure enough, it was 
clean."

For the first time, Scully sat forward with interest.  
"Studies have shown it's possible for the viral load to 
diminish to a point that it's undetectable with current 
technology.  It can also invade other cells and hide."

"Yes, that's what Brandt said when we got a chance to talk to 
him.  He said he was very pleased with Amber Hathway's 
remission, but there was no reason to think she was in fact 
cured."

"And the part about the aliens?"

Mulder smiled around his beer.  "He pretty flatly dismissed 
that part too.  'Preposterous' and 'ludicrous' were the words 
he used, I believe."

"I can't say I blame him.  It's an outlandish claim."

"Yes, I sort of thought so too, even when Amber's blood 
tested negative -- twice, I should add -- but I was able to 
find several other people who had participated in the same 
study Amber had."

"Brandt can't give you that kind of information.  It's 
confidential."

"Yeah, but the HIV/AIDs community turns out to be a rather 
tight one.  The people in the study knew each other, many of 
them, and Amber gave us some names."

"Don't even tell me they confirmed her story."

"No, they all said she was off her rocker.  But the thing is, 
I did a little checking, and three of the four of them had 
unexplained disappearances for several days during the study 
period.  They have no recollection of this time; in fact, 
most of them denied ever disappearing at all.  But employers, 
friend and family told a different tale."

"Did these people all test negative for HIV too?"

"No, only one of them had his viral load down enough that it 
was undetectable.  But I did some checking today on the 
names, and all four of them are still living.  Lila Krunk 
died in 1995."

"So is that where you and Diana were all day today?  Checking 
up on these HIV patients?"

"Partly."  He pulled out the newspaper clipping again and 
handed it across to her.  "But the fact that someone sent 
this to us -- it's got to mean something."

"You're thinking maybe Brandt's car crash might not have been 
accident."

"Think about it Scully -- based on what we've discovered, 
doesn't it make sense that the government might be involved 
in illicit immune system testing?"

"Yes, of course, but that's a far cry from aliens being able 
to cure AIDS."

Mulder swung his legs down and leaned far over the table.  In 
a low voice, he said, "We both know that government has a 
vested interest in studying how to defeat viruses.  I'm 
thinking that these desperate people would have made perfect 
volunteers."

A sudden shooting pain behind her eyes made her suck in a 
breath.  Pinpoints of light danced in front of her as she 
reached for her water.

"Scully?" His voice sounded tinny and far away.  "Scully, are 
you all right?"

She pinched the bridge of her nose.  "Yeah.  It's nothing."  
Blinking rapidly to clear the spots, she braced her hands on 
the table.  "I'm fine."

"That didn't look like fine."

"Ice water headache."  Thank God dinner was almost over.  She 
could go home, swallow a bunch of aspirin, and get some 
sleep.

Mulder fished up the check, still looking unconvinced.  He 
dropped a couple of twenties on the table and slid out of the 
booth.  "Let's you and me blow this pop stand," he said as he 
slung his jacket over one shoulder.

The night was dark but warm, with bone shaving moon hung high 
in the sky.  Mulder lingered by her car.  "You're sure you're 
okay to drive?"

"Of course."

He nodded a little, as if trying to convince himself.  "You 
know, Diana and I are going to talk to Brandt widow tomorrow.  
Maybe you'd like to come along."

"Me?  I don't know the case."

He gave a half shrug.  "Could be good.  Fresh perspective and 
all that."

"And what am I supposed to tell Kersh?" she asked with a 
smile.

"I was going to call in sick."

"I see.  And this illness of yours, is it contagious?"

"Exceedingly.  You don't look well, Scully.  You don't look 
well at all."

X-X-X-X-X

They spread the bounty across his bed.  Her hair was still 
damp, drying in wild tendrils around her face, and she had 
stripped off her wet shirt down to her bra.  "It's just reams 
of numbers," she said, picking up the sheets nearest to her.

Mulder lay sprawled at the foot of the bed with a half-dozen 
of the printouts in front of him.  "They're tagged as the 
Orion project, so they must mean something."

"I'm open to suggestions as to what.  Did you ever have your 
printer go haywire and start spitting out random numbers and 
letters?  That's what these look like to me."

"Some of them have asterisks.  I wonder what the significance 
is there."

"You forgot to grab the key," she said.  "I'm going to grab a 
water.  Do you want one?"

"No, thanks."  He rolled onto his back and held a sheet of 
paper over his head.  He stared at the numbers until they 
blurred together, but he couldn't determine a pattern.  "They 
don't seem like social security numbers," he called out to 
Diana.

She came back and leaned against the doorjamb, a bottle of 
water in her hands.  "Maybe it has to do with viral load, or 
T-cell count, or some other immune system measure."

"Good idea.  We should ask the lab."

"Right," she said dryly.  "We just go in there and ask them 
to evaluate some evidence we lifted from the NIH."

She was upside down from his vantage point, so he tipped his 
head back farther for a better view.  "Okay, so maybe we 
don't mention where we got it."

His phone rang and they both froze.

"It's two AM," she said.

"I realize that."

"Who the hell calls at two AM?"

He stretched across the bed to reach the phone.  "Hello?" he 
said as Diana held his gaze.  

"Agent Mulder, this is Assistant Director Jordan.  I'd 
apologize about calling at this late hour except for the fact 
that I myself was just awoken a bit ago on a matter I'm told 
you're familiar with."

"Sir?"

"Someone broke into an NIH research lab this evening."

"Oh?"  He sat up and put his bare feet on the floor.

"Yes, Dr. Christopher Brandt's office and laboratory were 
both broken into, and a file cabinet was jimmied open."

"That's unfortunate," Mulder replied even as his pulse 
thrummed in his neck.  "I'm not sure how I can be of help."

"Brandt mentioned your name.  He said you'd been questioning 
him about some ridiculous rumor regarding his research.  
Something about aliens.  I thought this couldn't possibly be 
true, but I want to hear your end of things."

"I, uh, I have talked to Brandt about his research."

"And did you in fact mention aliens?"

"Sir, if you'll pardon me, I'm not really sure what my 
questioning Brandt about his research has to do with his lab 
being broken into."

"I'm not sure either, but Brandt seems to think there might 
be a connection.  He says one day you're accusing him of 
conducting secret human trials involving aliens, and the next 
thing he knows, someone is burglarizing his scientific 
records."

"I'd have to be crazy to break into an NIH lab."

"Yes, son, that's the God's-honest truth.  So that's why I'm 
here on the phone asking you -- are you that crazy?  I've 
heard some stories about you and your interests, and I have 
to say, your reputation suggests you just might have this 
sort of behavior in you."

Mulder gave momentary thanks that he'd remembered to wear 
gloves.  "I have no idea what Brandt is talking about."

"So it's your official position that you did *not* break into 
Brandt's lab this evening?"

"Yes, that's my position," Mulder said, going over to close 
the blinds.

"I'll be sure to note that in my report," Jordan answered.  
"But don't think this matter is necessarily settled."

"Sir?"

"Keep your nose clean, okay?  And don't be having 
conversations about aliens with anyone for a while."

Mulder hung up the phone and Diana came around the bed to 
stand next to him.  "What was that about?"

"Brandt thinks it was me who hit the lab tonight."

"I guess it's hard to fool a guy with a genius grant.  Who 
was that on the phone?"

"ADA Jordan. He recommends that I lay off the aliens for a 
while."

"Might not be a bad idea.  Brandt has friends all over this 
town."

Mulder shook his head.  "We've rattled him, and the cryptic 
numbers in these so-called records just make me more 
convinced that he's hiding something.  If it's not aliens, I 
want to know what it is."

She traced the edge of his jeans at his belly.  "Even if it 
ends up costing you the X-files?"

He gathered up the pages from the bed.  

"This is an X-file, the exact type of case that remains 
unexplained because no one wants it explained." 

X-X-X-X-X

She tried Mulder's cell phone three more times before going 
to his apartment, but he did not answer.  She let herself in 
and found it totally silent, as if he'd been gone for years.  
The first thing she checked was his bottom desk drawer where 
he usually kept his backup weapon.  She was not reassured to 
find it missing.

His bed sat unmade, his running shoes akimbo on the floor.  
She picked up an old T-shirt and smelled it, breathing deeply 
before laying it gently on the end of the bed.  A quick peek 
at his closet told her that his suitcase was there but his 
duffel bag was missing.

She listened to the messages on his phone, but there were two 
from Rivera, one from her, one from Skinner, and one from his 
mother.  Out of all of them, his mother seemed the least 
concerned.  "A detective contacted me this morning asking me 
if I knew your whereabouts, Fox.  I told him you'd stopped 
reporting to me when you reached the age of majority.  He 
suggested that I contact him if I heard from you in the near 
future, but it would probably be easiest for you to talk to 
him yourself." She recited Rivera's number twice, in case 
Mulder might have missed it.

Scully found Mulder's computer asleep but not off, so she 
woke it up and typed in his main security password.  For 
someone whose office and apartment were often unkempt, Mulder 
had a neat, almost Spartan desktop.

So her stomach dropped at the sight of a word document marked 
"Scully."

This was all the salutation she was to receive.  Upon opening 
the file, she read the entirety of his terse message in just 
a few seconds:

I'm sorry for the situation I've put you in, and I promise to 
explain as soon as I can.  Do not try to contact me because 
it could prove dangerous for us both.

It was unsigned.

Scully checked the time that the file was created and 
determined he probably wrote it after Diana's murder.

Her phone rang and she scrambled to answer it.  "Hello?" she 
said, and held her breath.

"Hello, have I reached Agent Dana Scully?"

She exhaled and rubbed the ache that had formed at her 
forehead.  "Yes, this is Dana Scully."

"My name is Deborah Reddy.  You left your card in my door 
this morning?"

"Oh, Ms. Reddy, yes.  Thank you for calling."

"I'm sorry I wasn't there to speak to you earlier, but the 
police kept me for hours on end.  I told them all I knew 
straight away, and yet they kept making me go over it and 
over it until I thought I'd go mad."

Scully winced.  "Well, I'm sorry to have to ask you to get 
into it again, but the FBI is conducting its own separate 
investigation."

"Yes, I should think so, considering Agent Fowley was one of 
your own.  I'm terribly sorry for your loss."

"Thank you.  If you don't mind, I'd like to start with my 
main question -- what made you call nine-one-one last night?"

"I don't sleep so well these days, you know.  Hot flashes 
keep me up half the night, so I was watching Conan in bed 
when I heard the crash outside.  I might not have heard it, 
but I had the volume muted for the commercials.  I can't 
stand those commercials, the way they all seem to yell at 
you.  I just refuse to listen."

Scully reined in her impatience.  "So you heard a crash?"

"Yes, and I went to the window and saw that Agent Mulder 
running towards me to a car.  I didn't know his name then, 
but the police had me pick his face out of a group today, and 
they told me who he was."

"So you heard the crash, you saw Agent Mulder running, and 
that's when you decided to call the police?"

"Yes, on account of the blood."

Scully's own blood froze in her veins and it took her a 
moment to regain her voice.  "The blood?"

"On Agent Mulder's shirt.  He had a big stain of it right 
down the front of that nice white shirt."

X-X-X-X-X

X-X-X-X-X-X-X

Chapter Three

X-X-X-X-X-X-X

By the time he caught up with Diana, late afternoon sun was 
painting streaks on her apartment walls.  She stood in the 
bedroom, in front of the mirror, pinning up her hair.  Three 
fat suitcases sat at the foot of the bed, and he felt the 
weight of them go straight to his stomach.

"I guess it's true then," he said. 

Her reflection met Mulder's gaze as he stopped short. 
"Fox..." 

"You weren't even going to tell me?"

She secured the last pin and turned around.  "I wanted to, 
but I wasn't sure I'd be able to walk away if I had to see 
you again."

"Well, here I am," he said, spreading his arms.  "Explain it 
to me."

"I shouldn't have to," she said as she clipped on an earring.  
"You know what happened with Brandt."

"Diana, he has no proof!  He can't force us to do anything!"

"Unfortunately, the Director sees otherwise.  I've been 
reassigned to Berlin, effective immediately."

He took a step forward, blocking her path to the suitcases.  
"You can fight this.  Brandt is making noise right now, but 
he knows he has no proof about the break-in.  If he had any 
evidence, we'd both be waiting tables by now.  The Director 
can't reassign you based on a hunch of one doctor from the 
NIH -- I don't care how many science fair prizes he's won."

"I asked for the assignment," she replied, looking at the 
ground.

"You...what?"

"This wasn't going away.  Brandt was going to keep demanding 
answers, and the more noise, as you put it, the more pressure 
on the FBI to take some sort of action, even if it's just a 
formal investigation."

"Let them investigate.  They won't find anything."

"Don't you see?  God, Fox, for someone so smart, you can be 
dumb politically.  They don't want to open the X-files.  
They'd just like it even less if you were to leave the Bureau 
entirely, so they're humoring you in the hopes that you'll 
wake up and go back VCU in a few months."

Mulder blew out a frustrated breath.  He wasn't blind to 
politics; he was above them.  "You think I don't know that?  
I know damn well that I'm the blue chip here, and they're 
just trying to keep me happy.  That's even more reason for us 
to fight this crap from Brandt."

She shook her head slowly.  "You're still not getting it. 
Brandt wants some sort of action here, some sort of 
demonstration from the FBI that we're no longer going to be a 
problem.  Sending one of us three thousand miles away is an 
excellent show of concern and support for Brandt's point.  
The men upstairs don't give a rat's ass whether we're guilty 
or not, although between you and me, I think ADA Jordan knows 
the truth of it.  If he could prove it, we might both have a 
one-way ticket to Germany."

"I can't believe you'd give up this easily," Mulder said in 
disgust as he turned away.

"Hey, I did this for you," she replied as she spun him around 
again.

"Like hell you did.  First sign of trouble, and you're out of 
here."

"They were sending one of us -- you or me -- one of us was 
getting on that plane."

He searched her face and she nodded shortly.

"I can't run the X-Files," she said at length, her voice 
rough with regret.  "It's not my project to begin with, and 
it's not fair that they try to hand it to me.  That would be 
as good as killing it."

"They wanted to send me," said Mulder as realization slowly 
dawned.  

Diana said nothing.  Outside, a car horn beeped three times.

"That's my cab."

"Diana--"

She shushed him by placing her fingers over his mouth.  "I'll 
be back, right?  This isn't forever.  We just need some time 
to lay low for a while and then I can return.  You'll have 
the X-files going, and we can deal from a position of 
strength."

He kissed her fingertips and squeezed his eyes shut.  "You 
can't actually be leaving," he whispered.

Alone with his monsters, ghosts and extra-terrestrials, he 
thought he might go mad.  When everyone around you says the 
spooks are all in your head, you start to believe it.

She smiled at him sadly and kissed him on the cheek.  "Walk 
me out," she said as the taxi horn beeped again.

Mulder hoisted the strap from one bag over his shoulder and 
picked up the other with his hand.  Diana took the smallest 
and they left the apartment together, the door clicking shut 
behind them.  He felt a familiar outline as her carryon 
bumped against his ribcage.

"What's in here?" he asked at the elevator.

"Just some files."

"Our files?"

"Not really.  I won't be doing this kind of work in Berlin, 
so I won't be needing them.  Fox, don'tŠ"

The elevator dinged as he withdrew the folders from the side 
of her bag.  "These are the papers from Brandt's office."

"I'm just taking them with me for your safety," she said, 
removing them from his hand.

"You just said you're not going to be working these kinds of 
cases."  He yanked the file back.  "And I can't believe you 
were just going to take it."

"Fox, listen to me," she said, her voice low and urgent.  "If 
you get caught with this stuff, it's over.  I don't care what 
kind of Wonder Boy you are, they will kick you out so far, 
you won't hit ground until Boise.  They'll bring charges of 
federal trespassing, theft, possibly espionage and treason."

"How am I supposed to find out what's going on if you take 
all the evidence with you?" he asked as he followed her into 
the elevator.

She leaned against the side, looking tired.  "I think you 
should drop this case for now.  Maybe come back to it later.  
You have a whole file cabinet of unexplained cases demanding 
your attention, and this one is perhaps just a little too hot 
at the moment."

"All the more reason to push it."  He looked down at the 
strings of numbers but they made no more sense this time than 
the other ten thousand times he'd studied them.

"I'm going to be working foreign intelligence," she said.  
"They have some of the best code breakers in the world over 
there.  Let me see if I can show this around -- quietly, of 
course -- and maybe we'll get some answers about what it 
might mean."

Mulder closed the folder but kept it pressed against his 
stomach.  "I don't know."

"Fine," she said with a sigh as the doors slid open.  "Suit 
yourself.  But if I were you, I'd keep that file buried deep 
until Brandt stops jawing in the Director's ear.  If he 
convinces them to search your place..."

"Take it," he answered, shoving the file at her.  "Let me 
know what you can find out."

She smiled as she tucked the file back in the bag that hung 
from his shoulder.  The movement jostled them close together.  
"Is that Mulder-speak for 'call me'?" she asked.

"Just keep in mind that my line might be bugged," he said, 
only half-teasing.  The taxi driver came to load her 
suitcases into the car.

"Does that mean no phone sex?" she breathed near Mulder's 
ear.

"Only if you're into threesomes."

"Kinky."

"Quite.  At least we'd be able to access the transcripts for 
posterity."

"No more illegal break-ins for a while, hmm?"  She pressed 
her lips to his, and he grabbed the back of her head.  They 
kissed until the driver interrupted with a not-so-subtle 
cough.

"Call me," he said, this time for real.

"I will."

She rode off in the direction of the low, setting sun, 
causing Mulder to shield his eyes from the glare. It was the 
last time he saw or talked to her again for almost six years.

X-X-X-X-X

Scully's eyes were pinched and dry, and a throbbing had 
started at her temples.  She couldn't remember the last time 
she'd had anything to eat, her stomach felt like a shriveled 
orange at her middle.  

She expected to find Skinner at his office despite the late 
hour, and indeed light slanted out from underneath the closed 
door.  She didn't bother to knock.

"I need to see the results of the autopsy," she said as she 
entered.

Skinner had a scotch in front of him.  "They won't even let 
me near the results of that autopsy.  You don't have a 
chance."

"We have to find a way.  Something about this whole story 
just doesn't make sense to me.  That trashcan Mulder 
supposedly knocked over was totally out of position.  I find 
it just a little too convenient that he managed to topple it 
right underneath the street light and make a racket good 
enough to be heard from the neighbors."

"You think he was set up?"

"I think he set himself up.  For some reason, Mulder was 
trying to draw attention to himself.  If he'd just killed 
Diana Fowley, why would he do that?"

Skinner rubbed the lip of his glass with one finger.  "I 
don't know.  But if he'd just walked in and found her body, 
why wouldn't he just call it in?"

"I don't know," Scully admitted as she sank into one of the 
chairs.  "But he must have his reasons.  Maybe if we got a 
look at the autopsy report, we could get an idea about what's 
going on."

"Gun shot to the head," Skinner said, sounding fatigued.  "I 
don't think there's a lot of mystery there."

"I want to see it anyway."

"I make no promises.  This show still belongs to the local 
boys, and they're not eager to let us play a part.  I think 
Rivera half believes that we have Mulder hiding out in the 
basement here."

"I looked.  He's not there."

Skinner widened his eyes at her, and she shrugged. "It was 
worth a try."

"You know," said Skinner, "I can help you more if you tell me 
what was going on between them."

"I'm not sure I knew," she said.

"Were they sleeping together?"

Scully considered her words carefully.  "Whatever happened 
tonight, you can be sure it wasn't because of sex."

"There are only three great motives, Agent Scully -- love, 
money and revenge.  One of them must have killed her."

"I think, sir, that in the end it may have been all three."

X-X-X-X-X

In Mulder's car, Scully noticed that the passenger seat, her 
seat, had been altered to fit someone with much longer legs.

"So what exactly did you and Diana do yesterday?" she asked 
as she fixed the seat.

"Not a lot.  We went to the scene of Brandt's accident.  
There were no skid marks that we could see, but of course 
that's not conclusive.  It was raining the night of the 
crash, so it's possible there wouldn't even be marks."

When they pulled up to the Darjeeling Cafe, they found Diana 
sitting outside with a newspaper, an espresso, and a 
cigarette.  She extinguished her smoke as they approached and 
tucked away her Washington Post.  "A bad habit I picked up in 
Europe," she said with a touch of embarrassment.  "You can't 
sit at a cafe there without one, or everyone guesses you're 
American."

Mulder took the chair closest to her and Scully dragged one 
of the white metal seats from another table.  "Coffee?" Diana 
asked them.  "I can also vouch for the raspberry croissant."

Scully had skipped breakfast because her stomach wasn't 
feeling well, but the smell of the strong coffee made it 
grumble.  "I'll have both," she said, and Mulder gave her a 
look of surprise.

"Nothing for me."  He still wore his sunglasses despite the 
shade of the large striped umbrella.  "What did you find out 
from the coroner?"

"They wouldn't give me a copy of the report, but he told me 
basically what was in it.  Christopher Brandt died of 
internal bleeding as a result of his car accident.  His 
abdominal aorta was punctured, and the M.E. says he would 
have died almost immediately."

"What punctured it?" Scully asked, leaning back so the waiter 
could put her food in front of her.

"Looks like the gearshift snapped off and he was impaled on 
the remainder, but that's just a guess right now.  He wasn't 
wearing a belt."

"What about the car?  Any evidence that it was tampered 
with?" Mulder wanted to know.

"They're still picking pieces of it back out of the valley.  
But my understanding is that they're leaning toward calling 
it an accident.  Brandt's blood alcohol was point two -- 
twice the legal limit."  She picked up her cup and drained 
the last of her coffee.  "Apparently, Brandt had a reputation 
as a drinker and was stopped a couple of years ago on a DUI.  
Someone made it go away, though, because he was never 
charged."

"I don't understand then," Scully said.  "What are we hoping 
to get out of the widow?"

Mulder scooped up Diana's paper from where she had set it 
aside.  "Right here on page four," he said, pointing.  
"Imogene Brandt says she thinks her husband was murdered."

Scully took another small sip of coffee.  So far, her stomach 
was not objecting.  "Does she why she thinks this?"

"She said he was involved in highly controversial research," 
answered Diana as she signaled for the check.

"Seeing as how that was our opinion seven years ago," Mulder 
said, "we'd like to know more."

Scully reached for her wallet to contribute her share, but 
Diana waved her off.  "My treat," she said with an even 
smile.

Scully left half the croissant uneaten.

Imogene Brandt also had an office at the NIH, although she 
maintained a research lab at NASA and an emeritus 
professorship at Cornell University.  Her secretary let them 
in, and she joined them in the living area of her large 
office.  

She had a shock of short, white hair, a bright magenta blouse 
and a black pencil skirt.  As she sat in high-backed end 
chair, she took off her glasses and blinked owlishly at them.  
"I remember Christopher talking about you two," she said to 
Mulder and Diana.  "He had half a mind to sue your whole 
agency."

"That was a misunderstanding," Diana said.

"Poppycock.  My late husband might have been a fool 
sometimes, but he didn't misunderstand much."  She frowned at 
Scully.  "You, I'm not familiar with."

"My name is Dana Scully.  I was a big fan of your husband's 
work.  We studied his seminal findings on natural killer T 
cells in medical school."

"You could fill ten text books with his work.  Who knows what 
we've lost with his death -- a cure for AIDS would be just 
the tip of it.  He was unlocking the major mysteries of the 
immune system.  What makes it turn on itself?  Why does it 
become less effective with age?  After nearly forty years of 
marriage, I can understand the murderous impulses, but 
killing Chris would be taking thousands, maybe millions, of 
lives with him."

"Did you collaborate with your husband?" Scully asked.

"Lord, no.  We both knew better.  Thank goodness our research 
interests were far enough apart that we were never even 
tempted.  He left me to my quantum mechanics; I left him to 
his viruses.  We did used to get a laugh sometimes out of the 
fact that we both studied entities no one could see."

"What exactly is your area of research?" asked Mulder as he 
leaned forward.

"String theory, at the moment."

Mulder looked at Scully for help.  "Isn't that sometimes 
called 'The Theory of Everything'?"

Imogene answered for her.  "Indeed it is," she said, arching 
an eyebrow.  "I would often kid Christopher that his nothings 
were contained in my nothings, so he should just sit around 
and wait for me to finish first."

"I'm not sure I follow," Mulder said.

Scully had an inkling now of why she'd been invited along.  
"String theory is designed to explain the movement of all 
particles in the universe," she said.  "Current laws only 
hold if you set aside gravity."

"I'm pretty sure gravity exists," replied Mulder as he looked 
at his feet.

"That's why we need new theories," Imogene said.  "The 
problem is that the strings are too small to be studied 
empirically, so we've got to test other theories that are 
premised either on their existence or lack thereof.  My work 
is also controversial, but the only ones debating it are 
snooty scientists wearing bowties and thick glasses.  Chris 
got death threats from people who thought he was interfering 
with God's plan."

"God's plan?" Diana asked.  "You mean AIDS?"

"AIDS and other illnesses, yes.  Certain religious groups 
took issue with his work because he often included 
homosexuals, drug addicts, and other social undesirables in 
his research.  Tax dollars shouldn't go to support these kind 
of 'alternative' lifestyles, don't you know."

"You think someone killed him because of his work?" Mulder 
asked.

"I think it's possible.  I don't care what the police say 
about Christopher and his drinking.  He knew his limits."

"Dr. Brandt," Diana said, "he had high levels of alcohol in 
his blood when he died."

"Yes, they told me his levels.  Christopher probably woke up 
every day with a BAC of zero point two.  That wouldn't be 
enough to get him even slightly knackered behind the wheel."

"These threats your husband was getting," Mulder said, "had 
they escalated recently?  Are there any that stand out in 
particular?"

"Talk to his secretary, Marian Ellsbury.  She kept the 
complete file.  You might ask her also about Chris's current 
bed partners -- perhaps she maintains that list as well."

"Excuse me?" Mulder said.

"Chris's appetite for knowledge was surpassed only by one 
other hunger, and he indulged early and often in the female 
buffet.  I found the first one before we'd even married.  He 
promised he'd change, but I knew better."  She shrugged.  "I 
married him anyway."

"If you don't mind me asking," Scully said, "why?"

"I knew I was never going to meet another man as brilliant as 
Chris.  That kind of brainpower, it's like being in the room 
with a giant vibrator."

Diana coughed, and Mulder hid a grin.

"You think I'm joking," Imogene said.  "Women didn't go to 
bed with him for his looks." 

"We'll, um, look into that angle," Mulder said.  "Any idea 
who he might have been seeing lately?"

Imogene rubbed her eyes with one hand.  "I tried not to know, 
if you get the picture, and Chris did his best to allow me my 
ignorance.  Last year he wrote a grant with Kendra Thompson 
at the VA, and I suspect some of their meetings were less 
than scientifically oriented.  I overheard him ordering 
flowers for her birthday."

"Kendra Thompson," Mulder said.  "Got it."  He paused and 
shifted on the couch.  "Dr. Brandt, it might help us in our 
investigation if we had access to your husband's research 
files."

"You mean to check for any aliens on the roster?"  She sat up 
with a sigh.  "I know a little bit about you and your work, 
Agent Mulder.  It's partially why I agreed to this meeting, 
because I know you're persistent.  The police seem willing to 
dismiss Christopher's accident as just that.  If you 
investigate and reach the same conclusions as they do, I'll 
have to accept the findings.  But this idea you seem to have 
that my husband was involved with extra-terrestrial 
research... well, it's preposterous, really.  There is 
doubtless intelligent life elsewhere in the universe, but the 
notion that they could come here only to collaborate in total 
secret with our government sounds like something only a 
paranoid schizophrenic patient could dream up."

"So I'm guessing that's a no on the research?" Mulder asked.

"Even if I wanted to help you, I couldn't.  I have no access 
to his files, and I'm not a collaborator on any of his 
research.  I've no claim to his data."

"Then I'm not sure we have the time to help you," Mulder 
answered.

"Look, the police don't know what my husband was doing on 
that road, or where he'd been that he'd had those drinks.  
They are mildly curious about the answers, but I get the 
distinct impression they won't be looking too hard for them.  
You, on the other hand, don't seem to stop until you have 
answers, and I know from second-hand experience that you'll 
do whatever it takes to get them.  I want to know where my 
husband was and what he was doing the night he was killed."

"You realize this isn't federal investigation," Diana said.  
"We have no official authority to investigate your husband's 
death."

"That doesn't seem to have stopped you in the past."

"Dr. Brandt," Diana began to protest, but the woman dismissed 
her with a wave of her hand.

"Ancient history as far as I'm concerned."

After they left, they stood around in the hot, sun-drenched 
parking lot and compared notes.  "I can't tell if she 
believes we owe her one because she thinks we broke into her 
husband's office," Mulder said, "or whether she's under the 
impression that the FBI is a private investigation unit for 
all government employees."

"You think her suspicions about Brandt's death are correct?" 
Diana asked.

"I haven't the slightest idea.  All I know is that it's the 
first window into this case we've had in seven years."

"What case?  The alien research angle again?"

"You and I both know that something was hinky with Brandt 
back then.  I don't know what exactly he was up to, but I 
think it's at least as likely that he got killed for his back 
alley research than by some jealous lover or religious kook."

Diana lowered her sunglasses a bit and looked at him.  "Okay, 
I'll handle the jealous lover angle, see if I can get a 
handle on whom he might have been seeing."

Mulder looked at Scully.  "Guess that leaves us with the 
kooks."

"You mean we're not going to start with the alien 
collaborators?"

"You know, that's not a bad idea."

"I was kidding."

"Yeah, but it's still not a bad idea."  He turned to Diana.  
"Those papers we got from Brandt's lab -- we should let 
Scully take a look at them to see if she can figure out what 
they mean.  Maybe there's a pattern there that will make 
sense to her as a doctor that we couldn't see."

"Sure," Diana said.  "Why not?  Let her take a look."

"Are they back in the basement with the others?"

She flicked a bug off her arm.  "What do you mean?"

"The papers.  You took them with you."

"I did?  I don't think so."

Mulder took off his shades and squinted at her.  "Yeah, you 
took them when you left because we were concerned I might get 
searched."

"Fox, I don't remember any of this.  I haven't seen those 
papers in years."

"You lost them?" he asked, incredulous.

"I don't think I ever had them."

"You had them," he said.  "Check the files and I bet they 
turn up."

"I'll check, but I swear to you I haven't seen them in ages."

Mulder shook his head as if clearing it.  "You look and I'll 
look too.  Maybe I have a copy someplace."

In the car, Mulder didn't immediately start the engine.  He 
watched Diana get in her Nissan, back out, and leave the 
parking lot.  "She took the files with her," he murmured to 
Scully.

"It was a long time ago," Scully said, and Mulder turned on 
the car.

"I remember it like it was yesterday," he said, and Scully 
pictured the long goodbye.  

He turned and looked at her. "It's the only time I ever let 
an X-file get away."

X-X-X-X-X

She drove with the windows down, the damp night air breezing 
in to keep her awake.  Her veins were half-filled with coffee 
and she had the radio on low just in case the news reports 
had any updates on the Fowley case.  Every hour or so, she 
tried Mulder's cell phone.

When his voice mail came on for the zillionth time, she flung 
the phone across the passenger seat.  She took a hard right, 
exiting from the highway at the last minute.  It was past 
midnight when she reached her destination, but she didn't 
even pause to think before she rang the buzzer.

"I know you're in there," she yelled at the camera as she 
banged on the heavy front door.  "Open up."

Static crackled from the intercom.  "Agent Scully," Byers 
said.  "What are you doing out so late?"

"Let me in," she said.

The intercom snapped off, and after a few more seconds, she 
pounded on the door again.  

"Listen, Scully, he's not here."  This time it was Frohike on 
the line.  "We don't know where he is."

"Right," she shouted into the speaker.  "You know he's 
missing, but you haven't had any contact with him."

"He's not here," Frohike repeated.  "And I swear to you we 
don't know where he is."

"Let me in."  She wanted to see them lie to her face.

"No can do.  Sorry."

"Mulder?" She braced a hand on either side of the intercom.  
"Mulder, can you hear me?"

"Scully, we wouldn't lie to you," Byers said.  "Mulder is not 
here."

"Then let me in."

She heard some unintelligible chatter and the intercom 
switched off once more.  Her heart thudded in her throat as 
she waited, but the door didn't open.  "What the hell is 
going on here?  Why won't you let me in?"

She was half tempted to take out her gun and shoot the door 
down, but the gunmen had more locks than she had bullets.

At last, the steel drawer in the door slid open.  She peered 
inside and found a cell phone, which seemed to be on.  She 
picked it up and held it to her ear without saying anything.

"Scully?"

"Mulder!" Her knees went out and she sagged against the 
building.  "What's going on?  Where are you?"

"I'm just trying to figure things out.  Are you okay?"

"Me?  I'm not the one who ran from a murder."

"I can explain, but not right now."

"Mulder, I need to talk to you."  She turned around so the 
guys could not read her lips on the monitor or hear her 
through the intercom.  "The police are looking for you."

"I figured as much.  Don't worry, I'm okay for now.  I just 
have to stay out of sight for a while until I can get some 
things straightened out."

"What things?  Tell me where you are. I can help you."

"I can't," he said, sounding genuinely regretful.  "It's too 
dangerous."

"Dangerous how?  Do you know who killed Diana?"

"No."  He paused, and his voice took on an odd tone.  "Do 
you?"

"They won't let me near the investigation, Mulder, but I'm 
pretty sure your name is at the top of the suspect list."

"What did you tell them?"

"Nothing, of course.  But the detective in charge, Rivera, he 
knows about your fight with her.  He just doesn't know what 
caused it."

"Keep it that way."

"I'm trying."  She clutched the phone tighter and swallowed 
the lump in her throat.  "Mulder, please let me help you."

"You are.  Just...just keep doing what you're doing.  Don't 
give the cops any help at all.  And leave the guys alone, 
okay?  They don't know anything, and you're scaring Frohike."

"They knew how to contact you."

"I'll give you this number and then you can know too."

He recited a foreign number, but the small victory was not 
enough.  "Mulder, if you did this because of me, because of 
what happened, maybe we can find a way out.  Diana was no 
innocent victim."

"That's not going to matter right now."

"Why?"

"Trust me.  It's more complicated than you know."

"So tell me," she begged.  "I can't help you otherwise."

"I have to go, Scully."

"No, Mulder, wait."

"What?"

She wanted to ask him a million questions.  Do you have 
enough to eat?  Are you safe?  Did you really do it?  
Instead, she said nothing.

"Yeah," he answered at last.  "Me too."

"Be careful," she whispered.

"You too."

He clicked off and she held the phone between her breasts, 
head tipped back against the wall.  The intercom came to life 
again, and she vaguely heard Byers calling her.  "Agent 
Scully?  Are you okay?  Scully?"

She placed the phone back in the drawer and walked away.

X-X-X-X-X

X-X-X-X-X-X-X-

Chapter Four

X-X-X-X-X-X-X

The first time he met Diana was not at work but in a bar.  It 
was a hot August night and his air conditioning was on the 
fritz, so he set up shop at the local pub with a pint of 
Guinness, a dish of nuts, and a Braves-Phillies game on the 
TV.

Diana was pregnant with another man's baby, although he 
didn't know it at the time, and it was for this reason she 
sought him out.

She came right up and sat next to him, her painted nails 
wrapped around a seltzer and lime.  "You're Fox Mulder," she 
said.  "I'd introduce myself but I'm quite sure you already 
know who I am."

He crunched a nut and looked her over, trying to decide 
whether to play dumb or not.

"I've heard that nothing much escapes you," she said before 
he could commit.

"I've seen you around," he said at last.  "You're from SIOC, 
right?"

"Since the beginning -- all ten months of it."  She reached 
into his nut bowl and helped herself.  "But after the 
inauguration, things have been a little slow.  I might be 
looking to shift departments soon to someplace more 
challenging."

"Oh, yeah?  You have any one in particular in mind?"

She slipped a peanut between her lips.  "VCU seems 
interesting, fast-paced.  I was a criminology minor in 
school, so the casework would be interesting to me. Do you 
like it?"

"It pays the bills."  He sneaked a look at the TV screen in 
time to see the Braves pull ahead two-to-one.

"Now you're just being modest.  That spree killer in 
Louisiana -- what was his name, Jefferson? -- I heard they 
brought you in to help question the witnesses and you solved 
the case in twenty-four hours."

"I didn't solve it, the witnesses did."

"But they didn't know what they'd seen until you showed 
them," she said, admiration plain in her voice.

Mulder didn't reply, instead gathering another handful of 
nuts.  

"I was wondering about SAC Burkit.  Is he a good guy to work 
for?"

He stopped crunching and looked at her again.  She was busy 
stirring all the carbonation out of her drink. SIOC agents 
did not cross his path very often, so the
place where he'd "seen her around" was in the parking garage, 
with Tom Burkit's tongue in her mouth.

"He's okay," Mulder said, and took a sip of his beer.

"Really?  Because before I make any decisions about jumping 
departments, I want to be sure I'm entering into a good 
situation."

Burkit was married with three kids.  Mulder couldn't speak 
from experience, but he was reasonably convinced that this 
did not have the makings of a good situation.  The intriguing 
part was why she was asking him about it.

"What specifically did you want to know?" 

"Just general aspects of his personality, anything you might 
have picked up from working with him that I should know 
about."

Mulder sighed and pushed his beer away.  "Burkit is your 
classic over-achiever with a self-loathing twist.  Everything 
came early and easy to him.  He graduated college in three 
years, got a Masters in criminal psych and was recruited 
aggressively by the FBI because he speaks German, two 
dialects of Chinese and a little bit of Russian.  He wears a 
cross around his neck for luck from God, and the thing is, he 
believes he needs it.  Burkit works his tail off because he's 
never quite sure he's good enough.  He respects those who 
work hard for him but he becomes alarmed if you seem too 
good, too fast.  He doesn't trust his own ability, so when he 
sees those qualities in others, he doesn't trust them 
either."

"You make him nervous," Diana surmised.

"Yeah, I bet nowhere near as nervous as you make him."

Her smile froze and she clutched her glass.  "You know," she 
said, and bowed her head.

"Not really my business," he said, "at least until you came 
here to make it mine."

"I'm sorry, really. I just saw you sitting here, and I 
thought..."

He waited with his pint halfway to his mouth.  "What?"

"You're renown for your insight into human behavior, so I 
thought maybe you could see something in him that I don't, 
maybe give me some perspective."

"What is it you really want to know?"

Diana hesitated.  "God, I can't even say it."

Mulder found he knew anyway.  "He's not going to leave her," 
he said quietly, and Diana's head jerked up.

"You're sure."

"You can never be totally sure, but yeah, I'm pretty sure.  I 
don't think he wants another reason to hate himself."

"God," she said, covering her face with her hands.  "When you 
put it that way... Christ.  What the hell am I going to do?"

Mulder had the answer to almost anything, but not this.

"Do you think other people know?" she asked him.

"I think if you don't want them to know, you should consider 
waiting until you're off FBI property before going at it."

"You're right.  Of course, you're right." Her shoulders 
drooped.  "I think maybe part of me wanted it to get out.  
Maybe then he'd make up his mind." She glanced at Mulder 
hopefully.

"Listen," he said, turning on the stool toward her.  "I don't 
know you and I'm not judging you, but there's one thing you 
should know: Burkit's mind is made up already.  If you corner 
him, I promise you won't like the results."


"You're saying he'd stay with door number one," she said with 
a heavy sigh.  "I get it.  Thanks."

The Phillies' catcher singled to drive in two runs and put 
them back on top again, and Mulder ordered another beer. "Can 
I buy you something stronger?" he asked, eyeing Diana's 
tonic.

"I don't think I ought to be drinking right now," she said.  
"I'm an armed FBI agent, you know."

"Another tonic and lime for the lady," Mulder told the 
bartender.  "On me."

"You're far too nice.  Here you were, enjoying a quiet night 
and a baseball game, and I came over here and regurgitated my 
problems all over your lap."

"Thanks for that image."

"Sorry," she said again.  "I should be the one buying you the 
drinks."

"You can get the next round."

She perked up a bit at the realization he wasn't going to 
kick her out.  "I won't bug you anymore.  I promise."  She 
sipped her drink and stretched over to see the monitor.  
"What quarter is it?"

"It's the sixth inning," Mulder answered, amused.

"Right, of course."  She lifted her thick hair off the back 
of her nape.  Mulder couldn't help but ogle -- she gave great 
neck. "I know the A/C is on, but it can't ever be cool enough 
for me."

He drank down a quarter of his new beer and licked the foam 
from his lips.  "You know, if you're actually serious about 
wanting to move into VCU, there might be an opening soon."

"You mean after I shoot Burkit's balls off?"

He grinned and ducked his head.  "Yeah, definitely after 
that, because I'm not leaving before a show like that one."

"You're leaving?" she asked, her eyes wide.  "To go where?"

He wasn't sure how much to tell her, but the beer helped.  
"I'm thinking of starting a new department," he said.  "One 
focused on the unexplained."

They talked for more than three hours, with Diana doing most 
of the listening.  She kissed his cheek when she left, and 
two weeks later, it was Mulder who went with her to the 
clinic to have an abortion.

X-X-X-X

Diana materialized almost from nowhere when they arrived at 
the NIH.  She approached them as they were getting out of the 
car and gave a little wave.  "Brings back memories," she said 
to Mulder, touching his arm.  

"I'm happy enough to use the front door this time," he said.

"We should get going," Scully said.  "We have to be back 
before Kersh misses us."

Diana lowered her shades and peered at Scully.  "I was 
thinking about that, and I thought maybe you two would prefer 
it if I took the lead on this.  I can run down the leads from 
the secretary with no problems, but you might come under 
scrutiny."

"That won't be necessary," Mulder told her.  "We're just 
suckers for scrutiny."

"I just don't want you to get into any trouble."

Mulder grinned.  "Now where's the fun in that?"  He touched 
Diana's back and started for the main entrance.

Christopher Brandt's secretary, Marian Ellsbury, let them 
into his large office upstairs from the lab.  For Mulder, it 
was a little too close to returning to the scene of the 
crime.  He focused on the framed photos on the wall, which 
included what looked like an original Picasso pen-and-ink 
drawing of a nude woman and an old photo from the Holocaust, 
depicting an old
man with his head bent and a ramshackle dwelling and barbed 
wire behind him.

"I've been so busy these last few days," Marian was saying as 
she ushered them to a low-backed leather sofa.  "I've 
cancelled all his trips, his speaking engagements, his 
charity events -- everyone's heard the news already but I 
have to be sure.  The thing is, when I'm done putting all his 
affairs in order, there'll be nothing left for me to do 
here."  She paused and folded her hands in her lap.  "I've 
been with Dr. Brandt for twenty years.  I hardly know what to 
do with myself now."

"We're very sorry for your loss," Scully said.

"It's not just my loss.  The world should be in mourning 
today."

"Dr. Brandt's wife said you might be able to help us with the 
names of people who had made threats against him recently," 
said Mulder.

"You believe this wasn't an accident?" She looked from one to 
the other of them.  "I thought Imogene was just speaking out 
of grief and anger.  I had no idea the police were 
considering it anything more than an accident."

"The police aren't considering it," Diana told her. "That's 
why we're here.  Do you know where Dr. Brandt was coming from 
the night he was killed?"

"No, I've already told the police that.  His appointment 
schedule was clear.  He left a little early that day, around 
five, but he didn't say where he was going.  He just wished 
me goodnight and said he'd see me in the morning.  I found 
out he'd died when I arrived to put on the coffee and found 
an officer standing at my desk."

"That must have been terrible for you," Mulder said.

"It was..." She stopped and checked herself, looking at him 
more closely.  "Wait, what did you say your name was again?"

"Actually, I didn't say."  Mulder had managed not to be 
introduced.  "But my name is Agent Mulder."

"Mulder, that's right, I thought you seemed familiar.  You're 
the one who broke into our lab!"

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Scully stiffen.  "No, I 
don't think so," he said to Marian.

"Yes, you're the one.  I remember now.  You accused him of 
conducting research with aliens!"

"I never accused him of anything," Mulder said mildly. "I was 
merely asking questions based on what we'd been told."

"Based on the word of crazy people!  Is that why you're here 
now?  You think that since he's gone you can come back and 
sully his work again with more insane accusations?"

"We're here at the request of his widow," Diana interjected.

"I don't believe it."

"Call her and ask," Scully suggested, and Marian got up to go 
do just that.

"Imogene, it's Marian.  I have three FBI agents here, and--" 
She stopped as Imogene Brandt said something on the other 
end.  "You did?  Do you know who these people are?  I don't 
think Chris would appreciate them coming around like this, 
not after what happened." She listened again, and then her 
tone became quite chilly.  "I see.  Yes.  Yes, of course.  
It's your decision."

She placed the phone gently back in the cradle and then 
rejoined the group, but she did not sit down.  "Dr. Brandt 
asks that I give you any help I can in finding out what 
happened to her husband."

"It's very kind of her to be so loyal," Mulder said, "given 
that the other Dr. Brandt didn't seem to return the favor."

"Just what are you suggesting?"

"Imogene Brandt told us that Christopher had affairs 
throughout their marriage," Scully said, not unkindly. "She 
also said you might be able to tell us his current partner."

Marian pursed her lips.  "I can't believe she'd up and tell 
you such things.  They have always been such private people."

"Death has a way of ripping off the veil of secrecy," Mulder 
answered.

"It wasn't so much secret," Marian said, seeming tired now.  
"Yes, he had his dalliances, but he kept them quiet out of 
respect for Imogene.  He would never have done anything 
willingly to hurt her.  She knew he would always come back, 
and he always did."

"Maybe she got tired of looking the other way," Diana 
suggested.

To Mulder's surprise, Marian didn't launch into an angry 
defense.  She picked at the piping on the upholstered chair 
and brushed away imaginary lint.  "I expect it was tiresome 
for Imogene at times, but I think she was inured to it by 
now."

"Any idea who the current woman was?" Diana asked.

"No, if there was someone current, I didn't know about it.  
But mind you he kept me in the dark when he could help it.  
He knows I'm on friendly terms with Imogene and that I talk 
to her daily.  He didn't want to put me in the position of 
having to lie to her, so he often made arrangements on his 
own.

"Arrangements?" said Scully.

Marian hesitated a moment.  "For hotels and the like. The 
last woman I think he may have been with was his previous 
collaborator, Kendra Thompson.  But I was under the 
impression that the affair had cooled last spring."

"Where do *you* think he was going the night of his death?"

"I confess I did entertain the idea that he might have found 
someone new.  He seemed distracted lately, and that's often a 
sign.  I don't have any names; it's just a feeling."  She 
halted, apparently torn about whether to go on.

"You have an idea about where he was," Mulder said.

"Not an idea.  More like an inkling.  Dr. Brandt had several 
hotels that he favored, and two of them were up in that 
region."

"We'll need the names," Diana said.

"And the names of the people who were threatening him," 
Mulder added.

As Marian went to comply with their requests, he turned to 
Scully.  "Placing any bets on motive?" he whispered to her.

"Statistically, more people are killed over sex than over 
ideology," she replied.  "And if he was truly meeting someone 
in a hotel that night, I'm guessing it wasn't a lunatic 
protestor.  But Mulder, we haven't even discovered conclusive 
evidence that Brandt was actually murdered."

"He was up to something."

"You're just saying that because of what happened before," 
she replied under her breath.  "Admit it, you're still 
working the alien angle here, Mulder.  We may be chasing 
nothing more than a tragic car accident."

But later, as they drove home, he kept an eye on the rearview 
mirror and noticed a black Lexus with tinted windows dogging 
them at a distance.

"We may have company," he said to Scully, and she turned 
around to look.  "He's been with us since we left the lab."

"Who do you think it is?"

"Don't know, but five'll get you ten that it's not an alien."

X-X-X-X

Most of the time, guns were nothing special to her.  Scully 
grew up with guns in the house, with her Navy captain 
father's collection in his den and her brothers' BB rifles in 
the backyard.  She'd learned to shoot by kindergarten and had 
passed the Academy certification program on the first try.  
Her FBI-issued automatic was a tool, a familiar weight on her 
body, and she respected its authority.

In medical school, though, she found most students and 
doctors didn't share her tolerance for guns.  To them, guns 
were sucking chest wounds, shattered bones and pierced 
organs.  Guns were the metallic scent of blood, the lifeless 
eyes of the dead, and the screams of agony from family 
members left behind.  Guns turned a human being into one 
hundred and eighty pounds of meat.

She closed one eye and squinted with the other, focusing on 
the shadowed outline in the distance.  At this moment, she 
didn't even see the gun anymore, could only feel the warm 
steel in her hands.  Her finger squeezed the trigger.

An explosion of sound ricocheted around the room as the 
recoil traveled back up her arms.  Five bullets, center mass. 

She lowered the gun and was about to hit the button for a new 
target when someone else reached from behind and did it for 
her.  She whirled to find Mulder standing there wearing 
earphones and safety glasses.

As the paper target floated up to them, he unhooked it and 
took off his eyewear.  "Not bad, Scully.  If you'd just moved 
this one a little to the left, the holes would be a smiley 
face.  See?"

She took the paper from him.  "What are you doing here?"

"It's about the only place I know to find you these days.  
What is this, your third time this week?"

"I was at my desk all afternoon.  Where were you?"  She took 
out the empty clip and replaced it with a new one.

"Following up on the list of death threats given to us by 
Christopher Brandt's secretary."  He extracted a folded-up 
piece of paper from his jacket pocket.  "According to her, 
the guy at the top of the list is a loner named Keton LaRue.  
He's not part of any organization, but they've caught him 
twice spray painting epithets on the outside of the lab.  He 
apparently believes that AIDS is God's scourge on the 
unclean, and that any efforts to combat the disease is akin 
to singing on with the devil."

"Charming," Scully said as she tucked her gun back in its 
holster.

"Yeah, tell me about it.  The only problem with LaRue as a 
suspect is that he's never really threatened violence against 
Brandt personally.  He's called him a bunch of names and 
vowed to burn down the lab, but mostly his letters are of the 
'God will make you pay for this' variety."

"Maybe he got tired of waiting for God to step in."

"Yeah, I don't recall anything about Œthou shalt not question 
the Almighty's timetable' on the stone tablets."  He refolded 
the paper and gestured with it toward the shooting range.  
"So what's with the sudden interest in artillery?  Do you 
have plans to shoot anyone in particular, and if so, would I 
be safer back behind the lead doors?"

She shrugged.  "I like coming here.  It helps me think."

The truth was actually the opposite -- shooting helped her 
*not* to think.  It was amazing how much one could block out 
when one had to concentrate on placing bullets where one 
wanted them.

In the past year, she had been nearly dead three times; twice 
he'd managed to save her and the third was a point they had 
agreed not to talk about.  In fact, so adept were they at not 
talking, that they had managed to reach this agreement 
without even discussing it.

"Thinking about anything in particular?" he asked, totally in 
violation of their unspoken rules. He folded his arms across 
his chest and lounged against the half-wall.

"No, not especially."

He nodded to himself and then focused on the floor.  "You 
know, I've never been really good at dates, but around 
November, I get really bad.  I'll go to write a check and 
honestly have no idea what day to put on it -- is it early in 
the month?  Late?  I have to check my watch every time, 
sometimes several times in one day.  It's like my brain deals 
with the anniversary of Samantha's disappearance by actively 
suppressing the date."

"This is September, Mulder," she said.

"I know," he replied, with a ghost of a smile.  "My brain has 
no problems with September."

"Good," she replied, and reached for her goggles and headset.

"But I was outside this morning," he continued, and she 
forced herself not to roll her eyes as she stopped and waited 
for him to go on.  "And it smelled like fall for the first 
time.  You know the way the air starts to smell cool, like it 
has an edge to it?  The sky turns a clear, bright blue, and 
you just know that somewhere, someone is burning a pile of 
dead leaves."

"It is officially fall now," she pointed out, "so it only 
makes sense."

"Yeah, but that smell, it was so strong it stopped me right 
on the sidewalk, and then I finally realized why."

She waited, and he raised his eyes to look at her.

"It was the same smell a year ago," he said, "when I was 
going in and out of Trinity Hospital."

Her instinct was to look away, but she held his gaze and let 
him study her.  "Yes, I guess it was," she said at last.

"So that red mark on your calendar -- it's a checkup?"

"Uh, yes," she said, blowing out a long breath.  "Just a 
chance to look under the hood, so to speak, and make sure 
everything's still running.  My blood work was clean six 
months ago, so I don't expect anything different this time."

"Nothing to worry about, then."

"Nothing at all."  She forced a smile.  "In fact, assuming 
everything goes okay, they may enroll me in a new study on 
patients who achieve spontaneous remission from late stage 
cancers."

"A chance to make the record books," Mulder said as he 
followed her back outside to the main desk, where they 
returned their protective equipment.

"I haven't decided whether to do it," she answered.  "I'm all 
for the advancement of science, but I don't necessarily want 
to sign on for lengthy bouts of more testing."

He caught the main door over her head with his fingertips, 
and she walked out underneath his arm.   The sun had just 
slipped below the horizon, deepening the starless sky to 
purple, and with its exit came a cool night breeze.

"You never know, Scully," he said as they walked to her car.  
"This could be your chance to get some answers."

She clicked the locks open.  "I thought about that part, and 
I guess I'm not convinced that the answers I'm seeking will 
come from a government-funded study."

He gave her a delighted grin.  "Scully, is that paranoid 
anti-government, distrust of authority I hear in your tone?   
It just goes to show -- you can take the girl out of the X-
files, but not the X-files out of the girl."

Her fingers automatically went to the base of her neck.  
"Yeah, I guess so," she said, and his humor faded.

He nudged her with his foot.  "It's past seven.  Want to get 
dinner?"

"Dinner two nights in one week?" she asked.  "What's the 
occasion?"

"All-you-can-eat wings at the Naked Armadillo."

"Pass," she said, turning back to her car.

"Aw, come on, Scully -- ladies drink for free."

She hesitated with her hand on the door latch.  A drink and 
dinner with Mulder was certainly better than going back to 
her apartment alone with her thoughts.  "Well, maybe just for 
a while," she said.

"Great," he replied.  "You can buy me a beer."

This time she did roll her eyes as she suppressed a smile.  
She was about to ask where this Armadillo place was when 
Mulder's cell phone rang.

"Just a sec," he said to her as he dug it out.  "Yeah, 
Mulder."

He paused to listen and then turned his back to her.  "How 
important?" she heard him ask.  He checked his watch.  "Yeah, 
I know where that is.  Okay.  No, no, I won't.  Stay put and 
I'll see you in about a half an hour."

"I guess dinner is off," she said when he faced her again.

"Yeah, sorry.  We can go next week."  He was already walking 
way towards his car.

"Everything all right?"

He looked back over his shoulder.  "Sure, fine.  I, uh... 
I've just got to take care of something right away.  See you 
tomorrow, okay?"

Scully didn't bother to reply because there was no way he 
would have heard her.  She stood hugging her open car door, 
watching as he drove off into traffic.  The glowing orb of 
the moon now hung low and large in the sky, but its pull was 
no match for whatever body had Mulder swept up in its orbit.

X-X-X-X

Scully meant to go home but somehow found herself parked in 
front of Mulder's apartment building.  The street was silent 
and all the windows dark.  She rode up to the sound of the 
old squeaking elevator and dug out the key to see what was 
behind door number forty-two.

The fish tank burbled softly in the back, and she followed 
the light across the room.  His fish nipped and tucked in the 
water, swishing violently in their efforts to convey their 
hunger.  Scully obliged them
by sprinkling in some flakes, and then watched as they 
gobbled them all down.

The red light on his machine was unblinking, signaling no new 
messages. She pressed the main button just to hear his voice.  
"Hi, this is Fox Mulder.  Leave a message after the beep."

She played the recording a few more times, but he never said 
anything different.

In the kitchen, she made a cup of tea, standing like a zombie 
with the broken counter edge at her back while the kettle 
whistled away.  She drank it in his living room, sitting on 
what she considered her end of the couch.  Every so often, 
she would look over at the other end and visualize him there, 
legs sprawled akimbo with his knees nearly hitting the coffee 
table.

When she finished her tea, she set the empty mug on the 
table, using a back issue of "The Economist" as a coaster.  
She wandered idly over to his desk and flipped on the lamp.  
It gave no more clues to his whereabouts than it had the last 
time she'd looked.  She sifted through bits and pieces of 
paper, pausing to smile at a doodle-head he had drawn of 
Skinner.

She reached across and picked up one of the phone extensions, 
but then thought better of it and extricated her cell phone 
instead.  "This is Agent Dana Scully," she said when a FBI 
tech answered on the other end. "I need anything you can get 
me on this number."  She rattled off the digits Mulder had 
given her.  "I need this as soon as possible."

"Sure thing, Agent Scully," the woman replied.  "Do we call 
you back at this number?"  She recited Scully's cell.

"Yes, that's fine."

While she waited, Scully walked to Mulder's bedroom.  She 
turned the light on in the hall and leaned against the 
doorjamb, her cheek pressed on the cool wood.  She stroked 
the smooth edge next to her body as she studied the unmade 
bed.

There was no smell of Diana here, just cotton sheets, night 
air, and the combination of male sweat, leather and 
sandalwood that she thought of as "Mulder."

She slipped off her shoes and crawled into the bed, closing 
her eyes as her nose hit the pillow.  She was so exhausted 
her head was spinning. Cradling the cell phone between her 
breasts, she curled in the spot where he slept and drifted 
off into dreams.

When she woke, pale, fuzzy light filled the room.  She lay 
there blinking in the gray dawn, an arm over her head.  Then 
she heard the sound of a drawer closing in the living room.

She sat straight up and listened harder.  The floorboards 
groaned under someone's feet, and Scully slipped from the 
covers and tiptoed down the hall.  Her heartbeat accelerated 
like a subway train as she braced herself for the sight of 
him.

The word "Mulder" was already in her throat as she peered 
around the corner, but she choked it back immediately when 
she saw who was in the apartment.

The man heard her and turned around.

"Agent Scully," Detective Rivera said.  He had a stack of 
Mulder's papers in his hands.  

"What are you doing here?" she asked, feeling less than equal 
as she stood there in her stocking feet and rumpled suit.

"I have a warrant," he said.  "What are you doing here?"

"A warrant for what?"

"For pretty much anything I want," he replied as he returned 
his attention to Mulder's desk.  "My boss is getting rather 
cranky that I haven't been able to find Agent Mulder yet, so 
I have a wide latitude
in where I can look."

He yanked open a file drawer.  "Yoo hoo, Mr. Mulder -- are 
you in there?"  When no one answered, he shrugged and 
straightened up.  "Guess I can cross that one off the list."

"I don't know what you expect to find there," she said, 
crossing to join him.  "I can assure you there's nothing here 
that says where he is."

"As much as I'd like to rely on your assurances, Agent 
Scully, I can't very well take that back to the station, now 
can I?"

He tossed aside an old newspaper. "You sleep here often?" he 
asked without looking at her.

"Your warrant doesn't cover that information."

He did look then, and smiled at her.  "You're a quick one, 
eh?  I like that.  Let's try a different one then: did Agent 
Fowley sleep here often?"

Scully knew he wanted a reaction, so she didn't give him one.  
"I can't speak to Agent Fowley's sleeping habits."

"They were lovers, though, right?" He waited a beat but she 
didn't help him out.  "At least they were a long time ago, 
that's what I'm hearing. Then there was some sort of trouble 
and she left town."  He knelt down and tugged on another 
drawer.  This one was locked.  "I don't suppose you have a 
key for this," he said, looking up at her.

She just folded her arms.

"Right," he said with a sigh, and took out a lock pick.  
"This trouble Mulder got into with Fowley, did he tell you 
about it?  He and she were playing hot prowl over at the 
NIH."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Of course not.  No one could ever prove it, I guess, which 
is why they both still had careers."  He grunted as he got 
the file drawer open.  "And, from what I gather, they were 
working together again, even though Agent Fowley has taken 
over Mulder's old position on the X-files.  That had to 
sting, huh?  He works his tail off to get that department 
open, she jets off overseas and then comes back to take his 
job away?  I might want to shoot her too."

"You said she was shot in the head with her own gun.  Maybe 
she committed suicide."

"Believe it or not, we considered that.  But the shot was 
fired at least five feet from the victim, and there were no 
traces of gunpowder on her hands.  Plus, you know, the gun 
was missing.  That was a big clue right there."

"Someone could have taken the gun."

"Someone," he mused.  "Yes."

He took out the first file, a blue folder that made Scully 
freeze at the sight.  Oh, God, she thought.  No.

"Brandt lab," he said as he flipped it open.  "Interesting.  
That was the location of the alleged break-in, wasn't it?  
Some papers were missing..."

Scully wanted to rip the thing away from him but there was 
nothing she could do.

"Oh, these aren't research files at all, are they?" he said, 
and he glanced up at her.  "No, this is something else 
entirely.  If I'm not mistaken, this is motive."

"Then you're mistaken," Scully told him as her cell phone 
rang.

She answered it, and it was the lab. 

"Agent Scully?  We have an answer on the number you gave us.  
It's a German cell phone number and the phone is owned by the 
Bureau.  It's been checked out for the last several years to 
Agent Diana Fowley.  I dumped the incoming and outgoing 
numbers for the last thirty days.  Did you want to see them?"

Scully's stomach did a triple back flip.  "Yes, uh, yes I 
would, but let me come get them, okay?  I'll be there as soon 
as I can."  She snapped the phone shut and turned back to 
Rivera, who looked her over.

"Tell Mulder hi."

"If I talk to him, I will."

He waved the folder at her. "I'll be taking this with me."

"Go ahead.  That information is seven years old."

"Maybe so," he said as he wafted the folder under his nose.  
"But the betrayal smells minty fresh."

X-X-X-X-X-

Mulder showed up late and smelling like Diana's perfume.  She 
caught a good whiff of him as he hurried past to his seat, 
but she stopped him before he could sit down.  "Don't 
bother," she said as she stood up.  "Kersh wants to see us."

"Maybe we've won the manure pile sweepstakes," he said 
without humor.

She walked quickly, but still it took him no effort at all to 
fall into step beside her.  "I have a feeling it's about Dr. 
Brandt," she said as they reached the elevator.

"How would he even know?  Brandt's not exactly on the FBI's 
radar screen."

"I expect that will be his point when he reprimands us."

For the first time, she really looked at him and noticed the 
shadows under his eyes.  He'd missed a spot while shaving, 
too.

"Late night?" she asked.

"Not really," he answered shortly as the doors slid open.  

She trailed him inside, and he leaned against the metallic 
wall with his eyes closed.  She wondered if he was hung-over.

Kersh did not immediately look up when they arrived at his 
office, choosing instead to finish reading some document on 
his desk.  He signed the bottom with a flourish.  "Sit," he 
instructed, still not giving them his full attention.

They each took a chair and waited, and at length, he looked 
up at them over the rims of his glasses.  "Christopher 
Brandt," he said.  "Who wants to explain it to me?"

Scully looked at her lap, and Mulder cleared his throat. 
"Explain what?"

"What you are doing investigating his death.  I'm sure there 
must be a very good reason.  In fact, I know there must be, 
because this was not an assignment that I handed down, so I'm 
quite positive that you have adequate justification for this 
insubordination."

"Technically, if you didn't hand down the order, then it 
wasn't insubordination," replied Mulder.

Scully interjected before Kersh could form an answer.  "His 
widow asked specifically for our help, sir."

"His widow.  I see."  He peaked his fingertips together for a 
moment and then scratched the underside of his chin.  "This 
widow, is she a federal agent?"

"No, sir."

"And you two haven't formed a private detective company, have 
you?"

Neither of them answered that one.

"Because the last time I checked, civilians could not just 
call up and requisition help directly from the FBI."

"We're public servants," Mulder said.  "She's the public."

Kersh leaned across the desk.  "Let's get this straight right 
now.  If you're anybody's servants, you're *my* servants, and 
you will do as you're told.  The district police department 
has this matter well in hand, and I know you've got piles of 
work to do downstairs."

"Piles, yes," Mulder agreed.  "Big, fat smelly piles."

Kersh glowered at him.  "One more word and you're suspended 
two weeks without pay, and before you decide to test me on 
that, it will be four weeks for Agent Scully."

Mulder kept his mouth shut, and Kersh sat back in his seat, 
rocking a bit as he contemplated them.

"There will be no more long, unexcused absences," he said.  
"You get a half-hour for lunch and then you're back at your 
desks doing the work that I've given you.  Am I making myself 
clear on this point?"

"Yes, sir," Scully replied.

Kersh waited expectantly for Mulder's answer.  He finally 
managed a grudging, "Yes, sir."

Back at the elevator, Scully hit the button with more force 
than was strictly necessary.  "I see somehow Agent Fowley 
managed to miss out on this fun," she said.  "I wonder why he 
didn't want to rap her knuckles too."

"She doesn't report to him," Mulder answered as he rubbed his 
head with one hand.

"Maybe.  Maybe not."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Don't you think it's a little funny that yesterday she's 
volunteering to take this investigation away from us, and 
today that's exactly what happened?  You were the one 
wondering how Brandt even got onto Kersh's radar screen."	

"And you think Diana told him?" he asked as they entered the 
empty elevator car.  "What reason would she have to do that?  
I think it's far more likely that Brandt's secretary 
complained."

"Maybe.  I just find the timing fishy."

"Diana didn't talk to him."

"You're sure."

"Yes, I'm sure."  He hit the stop button and the car halted.  
"First of all, she only offered to take on more of the leg 
work, not to take over the entire investigation.  Secondly, 
she made that offer because she knows how hard it is for me -
- for us -- trying to get out from under Kersh's thumb. She's 
on our side, Scully."

"Mulder, you obviously know her much better than I do, but 
things aren't the same as when she left before.  She's in 
charge of the X-Files now, not you.  You want them back and 
she wants to keep them.  I'm not sure that puts you on the 
same side."

"You don't know all the facts," he said, shaking his head.

"A call to Kersh keeps both of us stuck in manure," she 
pointed out.

"She didn't call him."

"Fine," she said, dismissing him.  She reached for the 
button.  "Whatever you say."

"She didn't call him, Scully," he said again, and the 
certainty in his voice made her stop.  

She looked back at him, her hand hovering near the button.  
He held her gaze and let her see the truth.

Mulder knew very well that Diana hadn't called.  He knew 
because he'd been with her.

X-X-X-X
X-X-X-X-X-X-X

Chapter Five

X-X-X-X-X-X-X

Without an office, Scully took the results of Diana's cell 
phone dump to a rarely-used restroom on the eighth floor, 
where she isolated herself in a stall and read the papers.  
Neither Diana nor Mulder seemed to have used the phone much; 
there were only a dozen calls over the last month.

Scully recognized the Gunmen's number at the bottom.  Based 
on the dates, Mulder had made only one other call, to a 
number she did not recognize, but the area code was local.

Diana had called Mulder twice on his cell, both times after 
Christopher Brandt's death, and the final call came a few 
hours before she'd died.  It had lasted nearly five minutes, 
so she must have reached him.

Scully leaned against the cold metal door and tried to 
imagine what they could have said, whether Diana had denied 
what was in the papers or whether lies and the truth had 
become so enmeshed that she could no longer distinguish 
between them.

The other number that stood out for her was identified as 
Christopher Brandt's office at the NIH.  Diana had called him 
two days before his death, and despite everything, Scully 
still didn't know why.  She didn't like the way the odds 
played out.  Brandt was on the call list, and he was dead.  
Now the owner of the phone was also dead.

This left Mulder holding the phone.

Right before the call to Brandt's office, Diana had talked to 
someone for nearly ten minutes.  The lab had been unable to 
come up with a name to match that number.  It was not a pay 
phone but an unregistered cell, owner unidentified.

The restroom door swung open, and Scully jumped.  As the 
other woman took the stall next to hers, she tucked the phone 
list away and hurried out of the room.  She bypassed the 
elevator and took the stairs, exiting from the side of the 
building.  

Wind rustled the brittle leaves as she jogged down the 
street.  She glanced over her shoulder but no one appeared to 
follow.  

Four blocks later, she found the payphone she wanted in front 
of a deli, where the smell of corned beef wafted out through 
the vents.  She searched her pockets for change and dropped 
in a pair of quarters.  She dialed the number Mulder had 
called and then held a hand over her ear to block out the 
traffic noise.

The phone rang through and a moment later, someone came on 
the line.  "Skinner."

She slammed the phone down, but held tight to the receiver.  
Skinner said he hadn't talked to Mulder.  He had been pumping 
her for information. 

She took out the list of calls again and tried the other 
unidentified number.  Her fingers shook as she punched the 
buttons.

This time, the call went through but the person on the other 
end said nothing.  Scully listened to the static for a 
moment.  "Who is this?" she asked.

No one replied.

"Who am I talking to?" 

The person waited another moment and then clicked off the 
line.  She hunted around until she found another pair of 
quarters and dropped them in the slot.  She hit redial, but 
this time no one answered her call.

X-X-X-X-X

There were many Sundays that Mulder would have loved to 
return home to find Scully waiting for him on his stoop; in 
fact, he'd dreamt similar scenarios over the years so many 
times that he did a quick double take at the sight of her 
sitting there.

The setting sun turned her hair to copper, and she wore a 
pale blue blouse with the sleeves rolled up and sandals on 
her feet.  She bore no traces of makeup and her glasses sat 
perched on her head.  

The total effect was to send him back in time to their first 
days together, when she was as green as a new leaf and just 
as tender.  She'd looked expectant then, too, waiting for him 
to prove himself to her.  These years later, Mulder thought 
perhaps she was still waiting.

He walked over to her and leaned on the railing.  "You were 
just in the neighborhood?"

She picked up a file folder from the step next to her.  "I 
did a little investigation into Agent Fowley's work in 
Berlin.  This is a summary of her accomplishments over the 
past five years."

She handed him the folder, and he flipped the cover to find 
it was empty.  He turned it upside down and shook it.  
"There's nothing here."

"Exactly.  She went to Europe and disappeared."

Mulder shut the folder and handed it back to her.  When 
Scully didn't reach to take it, he dropped in her lap.  "You 
know as well as I do that international intelligence work is 
highly classified.  I'm not surprised that there isn't any 
record of her activities."

"I called the office in Berlin.  No one there had heard of 
her."

"Did you also ask if they had Prince Albert in a can?  Of 
course they're not going to answer your questions over the 
phone."

"Why did she come back here, Mulder?  Did she ever tell you 
that?"

"She wanted to come home."

Scully's chin dropped as she considered this.  "Home," she 
repeated.

"Right.  Back to the states." 

"Back to the X-files?"

He looked down the street to where someone was doing a 
terrible job of parallel parking.  "That was Kersh's idea, 
not hers."

Scully did not answer immediately.  Instead, she took out 
folded sheets of paper from her back pocket, unfolded them, 
and smoothed them over her knees.  "She arrived back in the 
United States on March third of last year.  On March fourth, 
she accessed this file."

He took the pages from her and scanned them.  "This is my 
work history."

"She started with you, but she didn't stop there.  She looked 
up mine too."

Scully stood up, and with the steps separating them, they 
were almost eye-to-eye.  "Well?" she asked.  "Aren't you 
going to say anything?"

"I don't know what you want me to say.  So she looked up our 
files.  I guess she was curious.  But you can hardly fault 
her for behavior that you yourself have engaged in."

"I had reasons."

Mulder's head was starting to hurt.  Scully was determined to 
make Diana into the enemy, and in a way he couldn't blame 
her.  It had been one hell of a year, and there was no other 
donkey around upon which to affix a tail.  "You have no 
reason to trust her," he said softly.  "I get that.  What I'm 
asking you to see is that she's in the same position as you."

"Last I looked she was in your position, Mulder.  In your 
office with your desk and your files.  What I don't 
understand is why I'm the only one asking questions about how 
she got there."

He shook his head.  "You are more alike than you know.  I 
wish you could see that."

"You want me to trust her."

"I want you to trust me."

Uncertainty clouded her eyes and she backed up until she hit 
the rail.  The action made her wince in pain more than it 
should have, and he stepped forward.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she said quickly.

"What happened to your back?" he said, trying to see around 
her.

"Nothing.  It's just a bruise."  

She moved to the left at the same time he did and they ended 
up practically on top of one another.  He froze and so did 
she, inches apart, but she would not look at him.  Her skin 
radiated warmth in the cooling night air.

Gently, he traced one finger up her bare forearm until it hit 
her sleeve.  She shivered.  He tucked the finger under the 
fold and crooked it, causing her to tilt towards him just a 
bit more.  She turned her head to the side.  "Tell me," he 
said, his voice just above a whisper.  "You haven't trusted 
her from the beginning and I want to know why."

She shook her head, mute.

He moved his finger from her sleeve to her face, turning her 
back to him with just a slight pressure on her chin. "Why?" 
he asked again.

Her eyes were clear and bright, but her mouth had tightened 
into a thin line.  "She walked away from you," she said at 
last, and the words stunned his chest.

"She left to protect me," he said when he could talk again, 
and Scully looked at her feet once more.

"I know," she said, "but I'm not sure that I ever could."

He tugged her to him with one arm behind her neck, her head 
resting in the crook of his elbow.  She hugged him back and 
pressed her nose against his breastbone.  Her glasses slipped 
to the side but she didn't seem to care.  Closing his eyes, 
he leaned down to breathe her in, her hair tickling at his 
nose.

"Come upstairs with me."

She went rigid at the words but didn't pull away, so he 
tightened his hold and repeated them, his lips hot on her 
scalp.

"Come upstairs."

"Mulder..." His name seemed dragged out of her against her 
will, and he felt her fingernails prick his back.

She had avoided his apartment as much as possible since the 
summer, and he wasn't sure whether it was her collapse and 
near death that had her running scared or if she was just 
that concerned that he might try to kiss her again.

He opened his palm against her ribcage and felt the hammer of 
her heartbeat.  "Scully," he said, just in case she thought 
there was confusion.  He rubbed the side of her breast with 
his thumb, stopping just short of the nipple.  "Scully, 
come."

She let out a choked noise and it was all he could do not to 
drag her through the door.  Her breath tickled his skin 
through his shirt and her hands kneaded his back.  She jerked 
back a little and he thought she was leaving, but instead she 
grabbed his hand from her breast and squeezed so hard it 
stopped his circulation.

He got the door open in record time and pulled her to the 
elevator.  Once inside, he watched the numbers tick by in 
slow motion and cursed himself for not living on the first 
floor.  When the ding signaled their arrival and the heavy 
doors parted, they both stood there.

The hallway loomed.

"After you," he said with a sweep of his hand.

Scully put her head down and walked quickly toward his door.  
She stood there, shifting from one foot to the other while he 
struggled with his keys.  He practically gasped with relief 
when the door came open, stumbling inside with no grace 
whatsoever.  Scully stepped primly over the threshold but 
moved no further than his small pile of shoes.

"You, uh, you want something to drink?"  It was hard to make 
conversation with an erection pressing insistently against 
his jeans.

Wide-eyed, Scully shook her head.  She had her lower lip 
caught between her teeth and he wanted to suck it back out.  
He clenched his fists to avoid reaching out and grabbing her.

"Maybe...maybe I should just go," she said, and took a step 
back.

"No," he blurted, and she froze.  He licked his lips.  
Diana's ghost had bullied her up here, and if that's what it 
took to get her to stay... "You said... you said you wouldn't 
walk away," he told her softly.

The raw emotion that flashed over her face told him he'd hit 
his mark.  He stepped closer.  

"Don't go," he said, and held out his hand.  After a moment, 
she took it, and either she was shaking or he was.  He 
gripped her tightly and started leading her to the bedroom.

It was twilight, drenched in purple shadows with a slight 
breeze wafting in from his open window.  He sat on the 
rumpled sheets and pulled her between his legs. She smiled at 
him almost sadly and laid her palm against his cheek.  Her 
fingertips toyed with the hair at his temple.

He rested his hands on her hips, his thumbs through her belt 
loops, and urged her even closer.  She shifted her hand to 
the back of his neck and gathered his face to her breasts.  
Between them, his fingers went to work on the buttons of her 
blouse.

He had to sit back to finish the job, and she was breathing 
unsteadily by the time he parted the soft cotton.  He circled 
her bellybutton with one finger and it quivered.  Then he 
replaced his hand with his mouth, pressing lingering kisses 
to her stomach, her ribs, her collarbone and her chin.

When he reached her mouth, she held his face in both hands, 
anchoring him by the ears as if he might try to get away.  
The first touch of her tongue sent tingles down the back of 
his neck.  Her tongue was like the rest of her, small, strong 
and quick, and he opened wider to let her have her way.

He was openly fondling her ass by now and her breasts kept 
brushing against his shoulders.  She pushed him back onto the 
bed and climbed up so that her knees were on the mattress, 
straddling him.  His hips bucked of their own accord and 
nearly bumped her off.

The motion sent her glasses back down over her face, where 
they landed slightly crooked on the end of her nose.  He 
reached up to remove them, but she took his hand.  "I want to 
see you," she murmured, and so together they righted the 
glasses on her face.

He repeated the caress several times, tucking her hair behind 
her ears, then letting his hands roam down her shoulders to 
the loose flaps of her blouse.  He tugged it off.  

Her nipples stood out against the thin silk of her bra, and 
Mulder felt his mouth water at the sight.  So intent was he 
on her breasts that he was shocked when they suddenly 
dis