Keywords:  None

XxXxXxXxXxXxX
Chapter Twelve
XxXxXxXxXxXxX

Mulder stalked the basement halls of Sanctuary House with 
Sheriff Seaver on his heels.  Their flashlight beams crossed 
as they walked.  "Explain to me again what the heck we're 
doing back here?" the Sheriff asked.

"We're looking for evidence."

"Evidence of what?"

"Alien activity," Mulder said as he entered the room that had 
contained Rentham's files.  The Sheriff stopped in the door.

"You expect to find a UFO parked out back, Agent Mulder?  Or 
how's about ET hiding in the closet?"

Mulder barely listened.  The jokes he'd heard before.  He 
opened one empty file cabinet after another, slamming them 
shut again when he saw there was nothing inside. 

The Sheriff leaned against the doorjamb.  "Only aliens we got 
around these parts are the wetbacks.  You want to chase them, 
be my guest, but Jared Rentham was as white as they come."

Mulder pushed past him back into the hall.  He went to the 
next room, the one that had been Rentham's personal quarters.  
There was a bed, a dresser, a desk, and not much else.  
Mulder rifled through the drawers as the Sheriff looked on.

"I'm beginning to think you're crazier than he was."

"He wasn't crazy," Mulder said without halting his search.  
"He was a hybrid."

"A what?"

"Half human, half alien."

"Pshaw.  That's bullshit.  Jared Rentham was a pissant little 
faggot who thought he saw lights in the sky. Chet Appleby did 
the world a favor when he shot him in the head."

Mulder did not answer.  He started feeling his way across the 
wall, looking for loose bricks.  Plaster crumbled under his 
nimble fingers.

"I repeat," said the Sheriff, "I don't know what you're 
really expecting to find here.  No one has seen hide nor hair 
of Rentham since his body went missing from the morgue."

"Medical records," Mulder said, pushing on another loose 
brick.  "If he was conducting tests on these people, there 
would be evidence of it somewhere."

"What tests?"

The brick came out, and Mulder stuck his hand through the 
dark opening.  His fingers brushed against what felt like a 
short stack of folders.  He dragged them out.

"What the hell is that?" the Sheriff demanded, coming into 
the room at last.

The top one was the file Mulder really wanted:  Miriam 
Rentham, his dead wife.  Underneath, there were records on 
all the women who had lived at Sanctuary House.

"You sonofabitch," Mulder whispered.  "These people weren't 
your rapturous followers.  They were your lab rats."

XxXxX

They used a stark conference room instead of Clark's homey 
office.  He sat at the head of the long table, legal pad in 
front of him, while Scully sat to his right in a swiveling 
chair.  The blinds were mostly drawn over the large windows 
to prevent the late afternoon sun from blinding her, but 
Scully felt the glare all the same.  Clark was prepping her 
for questions that Nora Bellamy might ask.

"And that's when you called 911 from your cellular phone, is 
that right?"

"Yes," she said, fighting the urge to rub her head.  They had 
been at this for three hours.

"What happened next?"

She took a breath.  "Two officers arrived about five minutes 
after I made the call.  One stayed with me while the other 
entered the wooded area in pursuit of my attacker."

"Whom he never found, is that correct?"

"No one was arrested that night, no."

"You participated in a police lineup some days afterward, did 
you not?  A group that included my client?"

"Yes."

"And did you identify him as your assailant?"

"No."

"Why is that?"

Scully paused.  "I never saw his face.  The night I was 
attacked, I mean.  He wore a mask."

"Your assailant wore a mask the whole time?"

"Yes."

"Ms. Scully, why didn't you tell the 911 operator you'd been 
raped?"

Her mouth went dry and she clutched the arms of her chair.  
"What?"

"When you called you made no assertion that you'd been raped.  
Why is that?"

"He held a knife to my throat, pinned me down and raped me.  
All three are covered under the definition of 'assault.'" Her 
words became more clipped as she continued. "I didn't mention 
the knife either, but that doesn't mean it didn't happen."  

"Hey, easy."  He leaned toward her.  "I'm still on your side 
here."

"I know."  She forced the word out:  "Sorry."

"Yeah," he acknowledged softly.  He drummed his pen on the 
pad.  "It's getting late, and we've been shut in here for 
ages.  Why don't we stop for now?"

Her heart sank at the words "for now."  "You mean there's 
more?"

"Fraid so. Bellamy's tough.  We need to be ready for her."  
He started gathering his papers.  "But we're done for the 
day.  You're doing great so far, Dana."

"Yeah," she said, lifting her fingers from the chair and 
letting them fall again.  "Great."

"No, I mean it.  I wish all my witnesses were as collected 
and articulate as you."

"I've testified before," she replied.  

He looked at her.  "Not like this."

"No."  She looked at her lap.  "I suppose not."

He reached over and squeezed her hand.  "You're going to do 
just fine."

Scully relaxed back in her seat, exhaling away some of the 
tension of the past few hours.  "I will just be relieved when 
it's over."

"On that point, we agree."  He smiled and they both rose.  
"Are you headed out now?  Do you time for a drink or maybe a 
bite to eat?  Somehow I missed lunch today."

"I--"  Mulder's apartment was only a few miles away.  She 
could feel it radiating out to her like a homing signal.  She 
imagined him drawing her in with a smile, imagined sitting 
with him on his low flat sofa as they talked about plants 
that lived to be a thousand years old and whether leprechauns 
brought good luck or bad.  "I'd love to," she said to Chris.  
"But I have somewhere I have to be."

XxX

Scully knocked and bit her lip while she waited.  No 
footfalls came from the other side.  She rapped again and 
then used her key to enter.  His apartment was warm and 
stale, no windows open and the A/C had been off for quite 
some time.  The fish tank burbled in one corner but otherwise 
the room stood still.

Scully walked in slowly, stopping to touch his wall, his coat 
rack, his smooth dining room table.  The Washington Post 
spread out in front of the couch was dated three days ago.

His leather couch heaved a sigh as she sat down.  She stroked 
the scratchy Indian blanket and wondered where he'd gone.  
There had been no excited late night phone call this time, no 
slideshow of desiccated corpses or lights in the sky.  She 
did not know whether to be dejected or relieved.

Her stomach rumbled.

Scully leaned way back against the couch and stared at the 
cracks in Mulder's ceiling.  If she were lucky, he would have 
a Hot Pocket frozen to the floor of his freezer.  She dug out 
her phone.

"Hi, Chris?" she said a moment later.  "It's Dana Scully.  
Are you still interested in that drink?"

XxX

They took thick gourmet sandwiches and a bottle of cheap wine 
to his greenhouse, where they ate sitting on over-turned 
crates with their bounty spread out on a towel in front of 
them.  "You're sure this is okay?" he asked as he poured more 
wine into plastic cups.  "We could always go somewhere more 
respectable."

"This is fine."  She looked around at the shoots and stalks, 
the hanging flowered vines, and the baby green leaves now at 
eye-level.  "Are these the same ones we planted last time?" 
she asked with surprise.

"Yeah, can you believe it?  They change a lot in a few short 
weeks."  He smiled and reached out to touch his glass to 
hers. "To growth."

"To growth," she agreed.  After a sip or two of wine, she 
asked, "So is this a working visit, or are we just here to 
admire the scenery?"

"Depends."  He gave her a lecherous grin.  

"On?"

"If you feel like getting dirty."

Scully felt her face warm.  "Just what did you have in mind?"

"Those gladioli by the door need to be repotted.  Really, 
they needed it two weeks ago, but I haven't had much of a 
chance to get down here lately."

He kept his words light, but Scully noticed for the first 
time the tired lines around his eyes. The weight of the case 
wore so heavily on her, she sometimes forgot it was not hers 
alone.  "We shouldn't keep them waiting, then," she said, 
taking a final swig of wine.  Dusting the crumbs off her 
pants, she began rolling up her sleeves.  "You'd better lead.  
They'll scream if they see it's just me coming at them."

Chris laughed and stood also.  "Plant horror movies? 'It Came 
From the FBI!'"

"Yes, well, Mulder and I nearly got eaten by a plant last 
year.  These days I look at even my mother's geraniums with 
new suspicion."

He handed her terracotta pot.  "You're joking."

"About the geraniums?  Yes.  About the other?  Sadly not.  
Here's a tip:  if you ever visit North Carolina, don't order 
anything with mushrooms."

He laughed and asked her more about it, and over dirt and 
flowers she told him about some of their colorful cases.  
Chris put big band music on the radio, Sinatra belting out 
the occasional tune as they talked and worked.  Scully's 
tension drained away with each clump of dirt she packed into 
the pots.  She left her fingerprints in the dirt and fluffed 
up the leaves.  Chris shared some of his trial stories and 
told her more about growing up with a southern lawyer father.  
"Instead of grace, he used to give opening arguments at 
dinner:  why the turkey should be spared."

Scully smiled at the right places and focused on the plants.  
She let his chatter fill her up like tiny bubbles. 

"All of Me" came on the radio, and Chris brushed the soil off 
his hands.  "I love this song," he said.  "We must dance."

"I'm covered in dirt."

"So am I," he said, taking her hands.  "Who cares?"  

Rigid and self-conscious, Scully let him twirl her around in 
the narrow aisle.  He hummed along with the song and pulled 
her to him again.  His hand was warm at her waist.  Scully 
gamely followed as he led them past a hibiscus plant.  He 
kept smiling and humming and pretty soon she had no choice 
but to smile too.

"I don't know that anyone has told you this," she said, "but 
you are a just little bit crazy."

He grinned and dipped her.  "Ever seen the movie?" he asked.  
"All of Me?"

"No."

"Oh, you should.  It's quite funny.  Steve Martin and Lily 
Tomlin trapped in one body."  The song changed then, to an 
instrumental version of "Strangers in the Night."  Chris 
slowed.  "I feel that way sometimes.  Like two people trapped 
in one body."

"How do you mean?"

He gave a half shrug.  "I love what I do.  I wouldn't trade 
it for the world.  But in some ways, this is never how I 
pictured my life would turn out -- forty years old and still 
living alone in an apartment.  By the time he was my age, my 
dad had a wife, two kids and a mortgage.  Me?  I have a cat 
and an excellent deal on renter's insurance."

"You have a cat?"

"Rusty.  He probably weighs as much as you do.  I have to 
work sixty hours a week just to keep him in Kibble."

She smiled.  "I hope he's properly appreciative."

"No, he still feels entitled to play hockey off my bedroom 
door with his toys every morning.  Despite intensive 
training, he has yet to grasp the concept of 'Saturday.'" 

"Probably a lost cause by this point," she agreed, and he 
squeezed her hand.  He was staring down at her, and she felt 
her ears warm.  "What?" she asked.

He said nothing for a moment, still swaying them gently back 
and forth, and then he shook his head.  "You know, it's 
probably not my place to say this, but Mulder is a fool."

Her chest tightened.  "Excuse me?"

"Not to want to see you tonight."  When she said nothing, he 
continued, "I mean, I assume that's the reason for my good 
fortune here, right?"

"Mulder's away."

"Oh, on a case?"

She had no answer.  Scully stopped dancing, and Chris sighed.

"I'm sorry.  Forget I said anything," he said.

She tucked her hair behind her ear.  "No, it's okay," she 
replied, when it obviously wasn't.

Chris leaned against the closest table.  "When I was in 
college, my girlfriend was raped."  She looked at him, and he 
nodded.  "Yeah.  Sherry.  It was finals week, and she wanted 
to go to this party, but I had a history exam in the morning.  
I said go without me.  This guy we both sort of knew, Rob, he 
brought her drinks and hit on her.  Sherry said no.  When she 
went outside for a smoke, he followed her out there and raped 
her."

"What happened?"

"Sherry told me and I went and beat the shit out of him."  He 
shrugged.  "She never reported it.  I begged her to, but she 
said no.  We broke up after that.  Sherry, well... she had a 
hard time, and I'm ashamed to say I didn't handle the whole 
thing very well.  I dumped her right before Spring Break."

Scully wrapped her arms around herself.  "So this is what?  
Penance?"

"No."  He stood.  "No, never that."

"Then what?"

"I just wanted to say I have some idea what it's like, and if 
Mulder is being a dick right now, it's certainly not your 
fault."

She shook her head.  "You don't understand."

He hesitated and then held up his hands.  "No, you're right.  
You're right.  I'm sorry.  I shouldn't have butted my nose in 
where it doesn't belong.  Forgive me?"

She nodded, mute.  They stood there awkwardly for another 
minute, and then she drew a deep breath.  "I think you should 
take me home."

"Yeah," he said quietly. 

She hung back, stroking one velvety leaf while he gathered up 
their picnic in silence.  Neither of them said much in the 
car on the way home.

"Well," he said when they reached her apartment.  "Here we 
are."

Scully looked at her hands in her lap.  "It's not Mulder 
who's the problem," she said.  "It's me."

"What do you mean?"

She shook her head, not looking at him, tears in her eyes.  
"You can't blame him.  No one can blame him."

"Dana..."  He rubbed her arm gently.  "No one is assigning 
blame."

She looked at him, lips pursed to still their trembling.  
"He's a good person.  Through everything, that is one thing I 
am still so sure of."

"I believe you."  He smiled sadly.  "And I'm sorry if I upset 
you.  It's the last thing I ever wanted to do."

"No.  I know."  She sniffed, settling back.  She took a 
breath and forced herself to give him a smile.  "You're a 
good person too."

He touched her cheek.  "So are you.  Don't forget that, 
okay?"

"You don't even know me," she said ruefully.

"I know enough."

She searched his face.  "Chris," she said.  "You keep asking 
me to dinner.  You keep taking me out.  Why?"

He shrugged.  "You keep saying yes."

XxXxXxXxX

Mulder walked the lonely streets of New Orleans.  On a 
Tuesday night, away from raucous Bourbon Street, the city was 
heavy, silent, and dark under a clouded sky.  The pavement 
was wet but there was no rain, just impossibly humid air.  He 
could smell the Mississippi.

A film of sweat formed on the back of his neck as he walked 
out of the main city, past the cemeteries to where Miriam 
Rentham had died.  Lit herself on fire, the police report had 
stated, but now Mulder had a better idea of what had happened 
that December night over four years ago.  Memories of the 
Ruskin Dam flooded back, charred flesh and stark terror as 
he'd run through the bodies.  There had been over a hundred 
people there.  Why, he wanted to know, had Miriam died alone?

The occasional passerby eyed him with suspicion.  Mulder 
didn't know whether that was due to his out-of-town dress or 
the gun that bulged at his back.  Each one stared at him a 
moment and then retreated into the shadows before Mulder 
could say a word.  He felt them out there, though, still 
watching.  It was a crawling feeling that rippled his skin 
and made him quicken his step.

Mulder stopped at a street corner and squinted down the road 
in either direction.  Scully teased him sometimes about his 
navigational intuition, but the truth was he never knew how 
he felt until first she offered her opinion.  Without her, he 
was lost.

He took a few tentative steps up one way, plunged in 
darkness.  Something rustled in the alley.  Mulder reversed 
direction swiftly and began walking up the road the other 
way.  He passed doorstep after doorstep, until a hand shot 
out and pressed a knife to his ribs.

"Wandered a bit far from home, have you," said a low voice 
behind his ear.

"My wallet is in my back pocket," Mulder said, and the voice 
laughed.

"You think I want your money, Agent Mulder?  You think a few 
bills could help me out?"

The creeping feeling intensified.  "Rentham," Mulder said, 
identifying his assailant at last.

The knife pressed in.  "You don't sound surprised."

"I've known your kind before."

"You know nothing of my kind."

"I know you're a collaborator, a willing slave to an alien 
race."

The flat of the knife slid along his ribs.  "You know 
nothing," Rentham repeated softly.  "Even after all these 
years."  Mulder jerked, and Rentham laughed.  "That's right.  
I know you.  I know you and your partner."

"What do you know about Scully?"

"I know..."  He paused.  "I know she's not here to save you."

"You leave her alone."

"Oh, spare me the grand gestures, Agent Mulder.  I have no 
interest in your partner.  You either, for that matter, but 
the problem is you won't seem to return the favor."

"You hunted those women, you lied to them and took them in 
just to further your own monstrous agenda. If you know me as 
well as you claim, I think you'll understand my continued 
interest."

"Fox Mulder, always looking in the wrong places for answers," 
Rentham said with disgust.  "You can't split the lark to get 
the music."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

A car roared past, headlights illuminating their dark stage.  
Rentham shoved him forward to the next opening between the 
buildings.  "The gun," he said, breathing hard.  "Give it 
now."

Mulder handed back his weapon.  The knife eased away.  
Slowly, Mulder turned and faced his opponent.  He was bald 
and white as remembered, but there was a puckered scar over 
his left eye.  Below the scar, the pale eye no longer saw.  
It sat fat and blank in the socket as its mate sized up 
Mulder from head to toe.

"You're more trouble than you looked," he said.

"You're less dead than you looked."

Half of Rentham's mouth lifted in a wry twist.  "Ah, were it 
but true."

"Those women at Sanctuary House," Mulder said, "what were you 
doing to them?"

"Exactly what I said:  rescuing them from a terrible fate."

"Which fate?  Yours?"

Rentham looked at the ground and shook his head.  "Everything 
you think you know is wrong."

"So enlighten me."

"We're more alike than you believe."

"I am nothing like you."

"You hope so, don't you?"  Rentham smiled.  "I never 
misrepresented myself to those women.  I was only trying to 
help them."

"They're all missing now.  Tina Appleby is dead.  What do you 
have to say about that?"

"Not my doing."

Mulder snorted.  "Convenient."

"The truth often is."

"What do you know about the truth?"  His million dollar 
question.

Rentham did not say anything for a stretch.  "I loved my 
work," he began at last.  "As you do.  I fought as you do.  I 
believed as you do."

"Your DNA says otherwise."

Rentham continued as if Mulder had not spoken.  "I served my 
time.  Miriam hers.  But they wouldn't let us go.  Let's just 
say I gambled everything and lost.  Make no mistake, Agent 
Mulder, you're following a dead man.  And if you don't back 
off, you'll end up just as dead."

If Rentham meant to kill him, Mulder figured he would have 
been dead already.  "Who?"

"You know them.  They killed Miriam.  They probably killed 
all the other women too.  My filxes are gone, all of them.  My 
whole life..."

"Who?" Mulder said more harshly.  After seven fucking years, 
he wanted a name.

"You know them," Rentham said again.  "They're the ones who 
took Scully."

Mulder rushed him, knocking the gun to the ground and pinning 
Rentham up against the building.  Rentham sputtered and 
coughed.  "What do you know about Scully?" Mulder demanded.  
Blood roared in his ears.  "Answer me, you sonofabitch!"

"Let me... let me go."  He coughed again and blood appeared 
at the corner of his mouth.  Mulder just crushed him tighter.  
"I... I can't help you.  No one can."

"She knew you," Mulder accused.  "You were there."

"Doesn't matter."  He shook his head weakly.  "All the data, 
lost..."

Mulder relented a little.  He stared at Rentham as the other 
man's head lolled back against the brick.  "Not all," he 
said.  Rentham's good eye glittered as he waited.  "I found 
the ones hidden in your room," Mulder said finally.

Rentham seized up with a sudden, fierce energy, startling 
Mulder and upsetting his balance.  "You have my files?  You 
have them here?"

"Not on me," Mulder said, stating the obvious.

"They're mine.  I want them back."  Rentham did a slow 
advance.  "You don't have the knowledge required to interpret 
them anyway."

"But you could give it to me."

Rentham hesitated.  "What are you proposing?"

"I'll give you the originals back," Mulder said.  "You'll 
tell me what they mean."  His heart pounded.  "And you'll 
tell me what they did to Scully."

Rentham shook his head.  "You don't want to know."

"You'll tell me," Mulder said.  "Or there is no deal."

He had come full circle, bargain for Scully again.

"What if I told you she would hate you for it?" Rentham said.  
"What then?"

Mulder said nothing.  Eventually Rentham sighed.  "Meet me at 
Miriam's grave in two hours.  You know where it is?"  Mulder 
nodded.  He'd been before.  "Good.  Bring the files, all of 
them."  Rentham looked Mulder over one last time.  "I'll tell 
you whatever you want to know."

XxXxX  

Mulder sat on a crypt with the files in his lap.  His eyes 
had long ago adjusted to the dark, but still he could make 
out only vague shapes.  The moon hid behind thick, rolling 
clouds.  Trees wafted around him, night creatures singing 
their song, and Mulder clutched his bounty closer.  He chewed 
his nail.

"What if she would hate you for it?" Rentham had asked.

I'd never tell her, Mulder thought.  But it didn't ease his 
mind.

After what seemed like ages, Mulder heard someone coming 
through the cemetery.  A flashlight came on about twenty 
yards away, and Mulder stood.  The light shone in his eyes 
but did not advance farther.

"I brought the files," Mulder said, and something hit him 
from behind.

All went dark.
XxXxX

End chapter twelve.

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