Sanctuary 14

Tuesday

Krycek hit the 'delete' button, closed his eyes and lay back against the pillows.  He arched his neck and grimaced.  Wasn't working.  Nothing he could say was going to make Mulder believe.  Maybe if he hadn't killed Mulder's dad, or stolen the DAT tape, or...destroyed his credibility a dozen other ways.  Bridge burned and a damn long way now from one shore to the other. 

There'd have to be some way.  Lie here worrying, though, and she'd wake up from the mental static.  And then she'd come down to see if there was something she could do to help.  Better to stay away from that one now.  A few hours of shut-eye, a clearer head...Mulder wouldn't be up for hours anyway.  Wherever he was. 

He opened his eyes, hit the 'standby' button and pushed the laptop against the wall.  2:18.  When his eyes closed, he saw the clock numbers stamped behind his lids.  So close now.  Couldn't count on more than a few days--maybe a week at most--of relative security; it was time to move, to have a plan oiled and ready.

He pulled up the blanket and stared at the ceiling cracks, spider patterns with little peeling edges revealing an old yellow-gold paint layer underneath.  The mountain now, up at the top--looking out, then reaching out.  As if you could fly off into the bright blue above the ridge lines.  As if the possibilities were endless.  It was her posture, her hope.

Whenever it came, it'd be too soon.

Leave by three and he'd be there by four-thirty, which would put him back by in Lexington by six.  A little early for work, but he wouldn't show up early at the office or do anything stupid that would attract attention

  David Barker slipped his arm away from his wife's grasp and squinted at the clock.  2:37. 

Breakfast out for a change and a little extra time with the morning paper--it'd make sense to anyone who saw him.  Heather was a late sleeper; she wouldn't wake and if she did, if she became disturbed, who'd believe her or understand?  Sometimes she knew it was him; sometimes he was Ron or someone she'd known years ago--more that a little disconcerting between the sheets.  Adrie was the constant, the quiet little soldier, though even he was more than aware that the woman they lived with now was only the shell of his mother.  Right in front of him and as far away as if she'd gone to Tibet, vowing never to return.   

David rolled to the edge of the bed and slipped out carefully.  He took the hanger with the gray suit from the hook on the back of the closet door and went into the bathroom.  Annie was around if anything came up and Sandy'd be here by eight; what would make it different from any other day?  He shook the shaving cream can, squirted a puff of it onto his fingertips and spread it absently.  Ron's body, what was left of it, had been visible from the doorway where he stood talking with Dale.  Not that he'd planned on looking; it was just there.  The idea was to have something concrete, some certainty; after all this time they deserved something they could hang onto.  Heather deserved it if the answer was anything that would get through to her.  Maybe it was too much to hope--that knowing the facts might make a difference in her, that there could be a realization that would wake her up.  But any hope was better than none at all.  You took what you could get. 

He swiped carefully across one cheek, methodically overlapping the strokes, working toward his jaw.  The razor shook slightly in his hand, seeming to move on its own.  There'd be little to no traffic at this hour.  On the return trip...most of the traffic, what there'd be of it, would be headed to Cincinnati. 

Quick pain bit his jaw.  The razor slipped and clattered into the sink. 

He grabbed a washcloth and held it to the place.  Just a nick--nothing to worry about.  He'd seen the motions, Annie slicing at what must have been a lung, her elbow moving back and forth just slightly.  Just enough to tell.

He ran cold water, rinsed out the washcloth and held it back against the cut.  With the other he fished in the slowly filling sink.  Sharp stinging--the blade end of the razor.  He shook his hand, pulled the sink plug and watched the water drain.  A thin line of blood materialized along his index finger.  He waited for the sink to empty, swabbed at the shaving cream residue with the washcloth and held his finger under the running water.  Bandaids; there were some in the drawer below the sink. 

He glanced at his watch.

Beeson had to be involved.  How could the contamination go on and on unless he knew, unless he was protecting it?  Probably hadn't ever thought about the families who were affected; after all, his own son didn't work in the clean room.  The kid--John--was a screw-up, a high-school dropout being nursed along by his rich parents.  Maybe he'd never stopped to think, and if nobody ever turned that around by saying something...

Someone had to.

To: DaddyW@zipmail.com
From: topaz@rift.net
You already know the illness is a lure.  Beware of recovery.  He won't stop working for what he wants.  If he doesn't get results here, he may try closer to home. 

             -K

To: gbeeson@beeson-lymon.net
From: solovoice@quick.net
If you've never thought of this before, take a moment to consider the lives that have been lost and the tragedies within families that have unfolded because of what goes on inside your walls.  You can deny it all you want, but denial doesn't stop the illness and the death and the survivors who are left to go on without their loved ones.  Whatever you get from it--and you must get something--how can it possibly be worth the guilt you'll someday feel?  Maybe if it was your child or wife or relative, you'd understand.  Too many people have been touched.

  You don't do your filthy work undetected.  We know.

            Barely five o'clock.  Krycek paused on the third floor landing, his eyes going immediately to the brown door at the end of the hall.  Better she should be asleep, getting some rest.  He refocused on the stairway, let out a slow breath, put his hand on the smooth, rounded railing and began his climb to the roof.

            Step by step; it was the only thing you could do--give Mulder a little bit he could trust, then a little more, establish a point of stability, a base for when the time came.  The old man might wait, watching his progress the way a lion watches a gazelle, carefully waiting, calculating the moment when he was strong enough--sure enough--not to need her.  Or he could suddenly decide it was enough, his take-it-slow-and-easy-Alex replaced by some other expedient, the decision made that she was no more use than one of the beer bottles he dropped his butts into.  Then he'd have one of his goons cart her off.

            He shivered involuntarily.  Stairs.  Five to go, then four and three and two.

            He paused on the landing by the open door that led to the patio.  Dull light spread above the horizon, the sky streaked with gunmetal blue and shades of gray.  It was misting, the moisture drifting to one side on a steady flow of air.  He stepped out into it and went to the wall.  Moisture prickled at his cheek.  He swallowed and closed his eyes.

            He could see the look still, the 'invertebrate scum sucker' look.  On both of them--Scully'd have her say in this, too.  Whether Mulder wanted to believe his story about Tracy or not--and why would he?--he got such a self-righteous high from having somebody to look down on, somebody to kick...But Mulder aside, there was still Scully-the-skeptic to get past.  Didn't help to have been in her closet.  And she'd know he would've fired in a heartbeat if he'd been sure it was her opening her apartment door so long ago--her and not her sister.  She'd seen something, though, when he'd alerted her to come take care of Mulder in his apartment that night.  Didn't mean she'd believe what she'd seen, though; it went against her grain to believe.  She and Mulder were yin and yang that way.

            And his mom?  No telling what she'd do.  Wild card.  Plus, it was a good five hours from here to Greenwich at the best of times and why would she chance it?  She might figure it was a trap, that he was luring her in for the old man.  Or she might run it by Mulder first. 

            He opened his eyes and let out a heavy breath.  The light was brighter now, a thin line of pale yellow showing on the horizon.  He leaned forward and let the wall take his weight.  Just let it go, stay loose.  Tie yourself up in knots and you'll never see opportunity when passes.  Most of the time it flies pretty fast, a momentary thing, here and then gone. 

            Eyes on him.  Bound to happen; how many times had she wakened from the chaos in his head?

            He turned around. 

            Nobody--just mist and shadow and the gray geometrics of the building in the still-dull light.  No, there was someone.  He squinted.  A pale figure stood in the shadow of the overhanging tree, or was it just his eyes after all these hours? 

            He glanced toward the door and back to the place and blinked.  She was vague, a heavyset woman with reddish-blonde curls wearing a yellow sweater, and she was looking at him.  Not staring, not judging.  Just looking.  When he blinked again she was gone. 

            A jolt of adrenaline shot through him.  His hand reached to grip the wall.  Nah--up too long; had to be just a trick of the mind.

            No mental trick made you jump like this. 

            He turned abruptly and went to the stairs and down them.  The steady mist had done its work, soaking his cheeks, beading from his hair.  His shirt was damp.  He paused outside her door and tried the handle.  It moved; he shook his head, sighed and eased it open.

            Too warm inside.  She was lying there, quiet, just a shadow in the bed.  He made his way around to the window side, where dull light fell close to her face, and leaned over her.  Strands of thin hair crossed her cheek; he smoothed them away.  She felt hot.  Her eyes opened and gradually went wide.

            "Alex?"

            He shook his head.  "Just on my way downstairs.  You okay?"

            He sat on the edge of the bed.  She was thick with sleep. 

            "I think so..." 

            She blinked twice; gradually her eyelids closed.  Her hand reached out.

            "You're wet..."

            "It's raining up there."

            He watched her expression slacken; she was gone again.  Hadn't seemed to notice anything, to pick up on anything out of the ordinary inside him like a vision of her mother standing under the tree up on the roof.  The T-shirt she wore was old and stretched; the neckline had shifted to one side, exposing a smooth shoulder.

            He stood carefully and watched her a moment.

            "Sleep, nena," he whispered.

            He went to the door and let himself out.

            "Anything else?"

            David Barker looked up at the waitress.  She had that look; her foot was tapping.

            "Uh, no.  This is fine.  Everything's fine."

            She scrawled 'thank you' on the back of the bill and set it down on the edge of the table.  He stared back at the newspaper's business section but the words held no meaning.  As if he were reading them.  As if.

            It'd been like being in a video game or a spy movie.  The cybercafe had gone in months ago, just three doors away from Meecham's Cincinnati office, but there'd never been a reason to go inside before.  Or maybe it was lack of courage--cruising in among all those net-savvy kids, just a guy in a business suit with a hairline announcing its intention to recede.  The place was perfect now, though--anonymity, a way to know the message couldn't be traced.  At least, not back to him.  He'd even worn gloves, setting himself strategically at a computer that was more or less blocked from the view of the only other customers at such a weird hour--two guys and a girl, Net junkies.  Anyway, they'd been too glued to their screens to have noticed him.  Probably friends of the clerk's who were getting free time. 

            No fingerprints, no files, nothing incriminating, and who'd ever know he'd been to Cincinnati before dawn, or to what purpose?  It was a new e-mail account and he'd never use it again.  Beeson wouldn't reply anyway but that wasn't the point.  The point was direct access, like sneaking in the door to the Oval Office and getting a chance to let the big guy know what you thought.

            He reached for the other half of his biscuit and took a bite.  The gloves had gone into the trash at a gas station halfway home.  He'd paid cash; there wouldn't be any records--no tell-tale time-date stamps or credit card numbers to trace.

            There was no trail at all.  Nothing to worry about.    

"Dr. Bandrapalli?"

The voice was pleasant, engaging.  The man it belonged to was tall, over six feet.  He wore a poplin raincoat against the drizzle.

            "Yes?  Can I help you?"  Rani took out his briefcase and let the car trunk close.

            "I understand you're my sister's doctor.  I came the other night from Nebraska to see her--Margaret Scully?  I spoke to a Dr. Carney.  I was called away on a family emergency yesterday and tomorrow I'm scheduled to fly to Europe on business, but I'm concerned about how she's doing."

            "Pneumonia takes time to defeat." Rani caught the sudden increase in his respiration and consciously slowed it.  This appeared to be the man he'd been told about, a man who would deliberately infect a woman's mother.  "The infection, even when it's been defeated, takes time to clear from the lungs..."

            "Then it is pneumonia?  Dr. Carney mentioned that you thought it might be something else."

            Rani shrugged and looked up at the man. 

            "I do several tests routinely.  There were no unusual indicators.  It's a matter of waiting now--to see how the treatment will go.  Sometimes the body responds well, but it depends entirely upon the individual.  I'm sorry I can't be more definite than that."  He paused.  "Would you like to see your sister now?"

            "I wasn't..."  The man stopped to take a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket.  He placed one between his lips and smiled diffidently.  "...sure I'd have any luck convincing the powers that be to let me in outside visiting hours.  I certainly wouldn't want to disturb her."

            "Family visits can be a very helpful thing.  Even if the patient is in a coma it's been known to affect the outcome for the positive."  He paused.  "I can take you up; I have that discretion..."

            The man shook his head.  "She'll need her rest more than she needs to see me.  We...haven't always been the best of friends, quite frankly.  But I was concerned..."

            "As you wish."

            "I assume the children have been notified?  Bill and Charlie and..."  He flicked a lighter and held it to the tip of the cigarette.  "...Dana.  Have they come yet?"

            Rani's hand tightened against the handle of the briefcase.  "I spend less time here than I'd like to; I have some research ongoing and...I really don't keep up with all the details.  I can certainly check for you..."

            "Yes, would you?  I'm afraid I may miss them because of my schedule, but if at all possible..."

            "I understand."

            The tall man took the cigarette from his mouth and forced out a stream of smoke.  He pulled a business card from his pocket.  "You can leave a message at this number," he said, indicating a pencilled number on the back of the card.

            "Very well."  A pause.  "You're sure you won't come up?"

            "I'm late already for a meeting," he said, taking another drag on the cigarette.  "I just wanted to check on her first.  Family is so important, isn't it, doctor?"

            "Certainly it is."

            Rani watched as the man turned and strode away across the parking lot, the edges of his raincoat billowing behind him.  He rubbed a thumb across the business card in his hand.  There was a call to be made to John Byers. 

            "Hey, Scully..."

            She stirred as he eased his arm from under her head.  Her eyes went from hazy to focused to a subtle jolt of recognition that she quickly suppressed.  She moistened her lips and gave him a quizzical look.  He pushed up on one elbow.

            "Thought I'd get started a little early; see if I can find out a few things before work..."

            "What kind of things?"

            "Something more about this woman I saw yesterday.  Figured I'd stop by Sandy's and see if she knows anything, or if her friends do--the blind couple.  They seem to keep their ears open."

            "But isn't Dale coming to pick you up?"

            Mulder shook his head.  "Not for another hour.  I figure I can jog down to Sandy's, ask a few questions, get myself a head start...if you'll go up to the house and call Dale for me, let him know he doesn't need to come up..." 

            He raised his eyebrows and waited for a sign.  A pause and she nodded.  Her lips pressed together.

            "I think I'll check my mail," she said.  She rolled to the other side--the desk side--and sat up. 

            He lay back against the pillows and watched.  It was beginning to eat at her already; it showed in her body language--select postures from the catalogue of Scully-gestures he'd compiled so carefully over the past six years.  There was the way she sat very straight in the chair and stared at the computer screen, the conscious focus that said she wasn't going to let herself be shaken or allow her fears out to run unleashed.  Her lips were pressed together; when she was relaxed her mouth would sit slightly open, a tantalizing non-invitation.  For a long time it had been an excruciating paradox--her body saying yes while her conscious mind nixed whatever she might have naturally allowed.  It wasn't going to be one of those times, like last night, when she'd let herself lean.  It was morning--glaring reality in the klieg lights of day and plenty of hours of it to get through till it was past.  Maybe at the end she'd let down but never at the beginning. 

            He sat up and started to pull his pants on.  Maybe Joe'd show some mercy today and take him off employee and staff bathrooms--maybe even let him do Beeson's private domain.  Or he could get shipped back to the maintenance building with a bucket of gray paint.  Or something entirely different that would come out of Joe's warped little mind.  Maybe Angie Connors would turn out to be their ticket after all, though the logistics made it a long shot; anything they got from her was going to take time to prove and the clock was ticking, counting down.  Like walking a minefield--keep at it long enough and something's bound to get you.

            Mulder reached for his socks and pulled them on.  He turned and glanced at Scully, still sitting motionless, waiting. 

            It was a house of cards, this whole setup.  A feel-good house of cards but the risks were there all the same.  The trailer was like the motels had been--no man's land, no previous rules, no prior claims.  Made things seem easier than they really were.  So they needed each other to get through this.  But what if they succeeded finally, if they were back in D.C.?  Would it be too much to leave a change of clothes at her place?  Would it violate her private space?  Would she need that spot the way she had before, a moat around her to keep everyone else out?  There was the danger--that it was all just an amazing dream and once you were back in D.C., you'd wake up and find out it'd never happened and that the joke was on you.

            Her mail chime sounded.  He laced his shoes, stood up and turned around.  The corners of her mouth were steady; her throat held no suppressed swallows.  So far.

            "You get something?" he said, picking his shirt off the floor.

            She seemed almost startled.  She caught herself and let the corners of her mouth rise slightly. 

            "Langley's found a way to tap into the hospital computers.  I've got readouts--just about anything I'd want to know."

            He came around the bed and stood behind her chair.

            "How's she doing?"

            She took a breath and looked up at him--looked at him squarely.  One corner of her mouth crinkled.  "About the same.  No worse.  No better yet; it's too early..."  Her mouth opened, hesitated. 

            Her lips pressed together; she looked down. 

            "Mulder, I..."

            He smoothed his thumbs across her shoulders.  She wanted to be there.

            "Scully, if I could think of a way...anything..."

             "I know."  She reached for his fingers and looked up at him.  "Thank you."

            "For what?  For wishing?"

            "For being here."

            A sigh escaped her.  He slipped his arms around her neck and let his lips rest against the top of her head.  In the middle of hell--in the worst of everything--they always clicked.

            Still too early.  Anyway, it was stupid to be wasting energy speculating.  Either Mulder'd respond or he'd react.  Two possible choices; there was no point giving yourself an ulcer over it. 

            Krycek tapped the touch pad and heard the dial tone, then the modem dialing his ISP.  He closed his eyes.  Maybe it was just the chill in his own fingers, but she'd seemed too hot up there, almost feverish.  If she didn't show up in another hour...It'd be a good idea to go back and check on her.

            The hard drive gurgled, pulling in data, and the connection closed.  He opened his eyes and pulled forward to look.  No messages.  He lay back against the pillows and stared at the ceiling.

            It was a word he hadn't heard in years until it'd come out of him up in her room.  It was what Paco had called his daughter, the little two-year-old who ran barefoot around the apartment, dark hair and even darker eyes, a little kid who'd come lean against your knee, stare right into you and then run off giggling.  Nena, Paco'd say, coming out into the living room, arms out, waiting for her to run to him.  Little girl.  He'd called his wife that, too, late at night.  When he was sacked out, eyes closed, on the couch--when they thought he was asleep--he could hear them through the wall.  Poor apartments had thin walls. 

            Nice fantasy--nice concept.  Normality.  A place that was secure, somebody you'd want to hang around with long enough to grow old together, maybe a kid.  Nice but not real, about as secure in the end as one of those bodies the black oil was gestating in, all of a sudden bursting at the seams to have this nightmare thing scream out at you, like the one they said had gotten Ivanov's parents.  Real sucked--doing jobs for the old man, always on the run, sleeping with one eye open, waiting for Purity to show up prematurely.  But at least you knew to be wary; you were already in the 'duck and cover' position.

            She wasn't.  It wasn't like she was unaware, either, or that she hadn't had her share of hard knocks.  But she lived in the details...or she opened them up and made them live--raindrops, wind on her face.  Simple things.  A small life, the old man'd say.  Insignificant.  Only it wasn't; she had the key to something. 

            "Thoughts, gentlemen?"

            Byers stared across the darkened room.  The bench and its test equipment were out of focus. 

            "I've got an address coming up on the phone number," Langley said, glancing away from his computer screen.

            "A lot of good it'll probably do us," came a voice from the far doorway.  Frohike stood silhouetted in a dull glow coming from the hallway behind him.  "It's probably just a room with a phone and an answering machine.  He'll be retrieving the messages remotely.  He's no fool.  Heartwarming as Jeffrey Dahmer, but no fool."

            "Which is why he's still around," Byers said.

            He held the card under a lamp again.  It said Charles Scully and gave a business address in Omaha.  Import/export.  It appeared to be the product of a commercial print shop, not something processed through the printer on a home computer. 

            "Still, we should check it out," Frohike said.  He nodded at Byers.  "Goldilocks and I did our thing at Ma Scully's place, though.  The Smoking Man's goons are going to suspect something if they keep seeing a short guy and a Woodstock leftover too many times..."+

            "I'm afraid I've been making myself pretty visible lately, too.  I've been to the hospital; we have to assume they may have me on tape.  Maybe we can get Skinner to check this out.  Langley, can you send him a message?"

            "Will do..."

            "But what about family information?" Byers went on.  "The visiting information the Smoking Man was looking for?  He's expecting to hear from Rani."

            "Maybe Skinner can check on Scully's brothers," Langley said.  The wild perimeter of his hair was silhouetted in fine blue lines.  "They're both in the Navy, aren't they?  If we're lucky they'll both be out at sea."

            "If not we could be in deep enchilada sauce," Frohike said, walking up to the work bench.  He pulled out a stool and sat on it.  "All we'd need is Bill Scully charging in to save the day..."  He shook his head and paused.  "You know Smoky's only looking for Scully herself, but we should cover all our bases."

            "So what's Rani going to tell them about Scully?"  Byers said.  "We've got to have some kind of story ready."

            "Give him the party line," Langley said.  "Tell him she's supposed to be on a retreat and nobody's sure where she is."

            "He might say they're trying to contact her," Byers said.  "But remember, he's set this whole thing up to lure her in.  I think we've got to seriously consider the possible consequences of not at least appearing to give him what he wants.  He has to think Scully's going to show up.  If not, I'm not sure how we can protect Mrs. Scully from further harm.  If Scully doesn't bite at what appears to be pneumonia, he's bound to try something more drastic.  There are any number of people in and out of that room during a day's time.  It would be awfully easy to, say, inject something into her IV..."

            "But if we give him a time--tell him she's on her way and she'll be here in three days, four days," Frohike said, "what then?  What happens when the time comes...and goes?"

            Byers let out a sigh.  Langley's mouth pressed into a straight line.

            "Rock and a hard place, anyone?" Frohike said.

            "Get anywhere?" Dale said, looking up from his bowl of oatmeal at the kitchen table.

            Mulder rubbed a towel through his hair and let it slip down to hang around his neck.

            "There was a car at Sandy's.  I figured I'd better let it pass.  I'll mail Annie and have her ask..."

            He glanced at his watch and sat down at the computer.

            "What kind of car?" Dale said.

            "Red something.  Celica, I think.  Older."

            "That'd be her mother."

            "The woman who picked Joe..." 

            Mulder shook his head and clicked on the mail program.  Scully was putting on a brave front but she was distancing herself, just a subtle thing, a defensive reaction to having things go on and on where there was nothing you could do about them.  Familiar territory; he'd had a mother lying helpless in a hospital bed once.  But 'don't hold it all in' wasn't what she needed to hear right now.  She just needed to know she wasn't alone.  Hopefully she wouldn't freeze up completely.

            He clicked on the 'write' screen. 

To: thelark@zipmail.com
From: DaddyW@zipmail.com
Dear Lark,
Do we know if our previous agents interviewed any of these people?  I'm going to drop a note to W and check it out.  No use repeating field work that's already been done.  We may have more here than we realize.  Since I missed her (car in her driveway so I decided to pass), will you check with S this morning and see what she knows about Angie?  Send any info you get; I'll get back to you after work.   

            He reread the mail , clicked 'send' and tipped the chair back, waiting.  He stretched.

            "The pilot--Fletcher," Dale said, passing the computer.  "He seemed like he might be amenable to taking someone along on his next trip to Baltimore.  Don't know what you're likely to meet on the other end, but you can think about it.  Or I could go for you if you think that'll do any good."  He stopped and waited for a response.  "Anyway, you think about it."

            Mulder nodded.  "Where's Bethy?"

            "Dropped her over at Karen's early.  She and Sarah have some big to-do going on.  It's the last week of school, you know."

            Mulder bit his lip and looked back at the screen.  One out, two in.  He clicked on 'read' and went to the second mail, obviously from the Gunmen.

To: DaddyW@zipmail.com
From: Redwall@zipmail.com
Our doctor has been contacted by the Mastermind, posing as our victim's brother.  He seems to be fishing for information about Annie's arrival and left a contact number which we're checking out, though I have little hope he's actually left any significant clues.  We're at an impasse over what to tell him, to get his hopes up...and then what?  Surely he'll make some other move if and when he realizes he won't get what he wants out of the present situation.   Awaiting your input.
                                                                                  -JB

            Mulder leaned back and closed his eyes.  There was the kicker--they were going to have to make some move, commit themselves in some way.  They couldn't go; either of them going was out of the question.  And yet what did they offer Smoky in order to keep Scully's mother alive?  Scully might be strong now, but if her mother died because of this...

            He leaned forward and breathed into cupped hands.  She'd been wild-eyed and shaking at his mother's house, rescued from the darkened alley like a frightened homeless woman, the six-year load she'd shouldered topped with everything that had happened over the last four weeks--the autopsies, Quantico.  Him; she'd sat there with him that whole night while he slept it off.  She would've been speculating, sitting there--what if Krycek hadn't stopped him?  What if he'd pulled the trigger?  Where it would have left her?...topped with the frustration that he'd been enough of a thoughtless shit to leave the mess for her to find.  Her mother wasn't even in the mix then and it'd been scary as hell, watching what it did to her.

            He sat up and clicked on the other mail, an unfamiliar address.  Who the hell had gotten his addy, or given it out?

            He read.  He pushed the chair back abruptly.

            "Alex, what time is it?"

            She pushed up abruptly on one elbow and squinted out the window.

            "Eight-thirty," he said.  "Take it easy."

            She curled back down onto the mattress, her head beside his leg.  He'd taken to wearing jeans lately, since he was doing better.  A hand smoothed across her forehead and brushed the hair from her face.

            "You were up here earlier, Alex..."

            "Yeah..."

            "Were you awake all night?"

            "A lot of it, I guess.  Thinking.  Trying to write a mail to Mulder."

            She rolled onto her back.  "I didn't even notice.  I...I guess I didn't feel too well in the night..."  She looked at him.  "But it's better now, pretty much." 

            "You sure?"

            "I think so..."

            She sat up slowly, cross-legged, and ran her hands back through her hair.  He was watching her.  She tugged at the neckline of her shirt to center it.

            "Pretty much," she said to his unspoken inquiry.

            "Take your time.  There's nothing pressing."

            Nothing pressing for her.  His head was full, and not just with Mulder, or Scully's mother.  The matter of her going home--no matter how he tried to push it away, it bobbed right back to the forefront of his mind.

            "I think I should, Alex," she said, slipping off the far side of the bed and coming around to the window.  She raised it and looked out.  "Go there now, I mean.  Before..."  She turned and looked at him.  "...you know."

            He looked away for a fraction of a second.  "I'll make sure the car's ready."

            He was poised on the precarious edge of decision like a swimmer at the edge of the high dive.

            She sat on the sill.

            "I was going to make bread again," she said, "but it's too late to start now.  I  have to use the oven early."

            "There's tomorrow..."

            One short day.

            She nodded.  "Tomorrow."

            And then...

            "Thursday you should go.  He'll be away.  It's good timing.  If you're ready..."

            "I think so.  It feels...right.  Like the right thing..."

            It was misting, a steady curtain of slow, fine moisture drifting down past the buildings and into slick streets.  The air coming through the window was cool.  It felt good and made her shiver at the same time.  The daylight was dull, making her want to close her eyes, to lean, to feel warm and drowsy and comforted.

            "Alex...".

            It was indulgence, something he couldn't even think about without her knowing.

            He was looking at her, asking.  Ready.  Slowly her fingers curled into her palm and tightened.

            "Nothing..."  She shook her head.  "I think I'll take a shower first.  Then I can come do your laundry."

            He got up. 

            "Take your time.  Don't push yourself.  Whenever you're ready..."  He started for the door.  "No hurry," he said when he got to it.

            She watched him go out, watched the door close again behind him.  She hugged her arms to herself and rubbed for warmth.  When she was ready.

            Tomorrow she'd make the bread.   

            "Yes.  Yes, I do--right here in front of me."  A pause.  "We'll take care of it, Mr. Beeson...Yes.  It could easily be..."  He frowned and ground half a Morley into the ashtray in front of him.  A thin stream of white smoke rose from the place.  "...just a single person...feeling helpless...powerless....But I assure you we'll look into it.  Safety of the operation is paramount...Yes."

            He set down the receiver, pulled the half-empty pack of Morleys from his pocket and lit another.  He pushed back in the chair.  It could have been the Johnston woman again, but it wasn't likely; she'd already seen what there was to be lost by making waves.  Perhaps a worker, or a family member who'd lost a worker--those words had been included.  It seemed like a gesture, the shaking of an impotent fist more than any threat of action.  But complacency was a deadly bedfellow and this, especially, with its possible threat of exposure to the others.

            He took a second drag on the Morley, let the smoke out and watched it drift toward the ceiling.  The prudent thing would be to go to Owensburg, but there was no time now.  Or send someone.  To be absolutely sure.  To calm Beeson; he was a worrier but he served his purpose. 

            He stared at the message on the computer screen again.  A second opinion would be advisable.

            He picked up the phone and dialed.  One ring, two...

            "Diana?  I'm forwarding you an e-mail.  Look it over, will you, and tell me what you think..."  He tapped a teetering section of ash into the ashtray.  "I think a personal visit may be in order.  Can you get away this afternoon?...Yes, I'll make the arrangements..."

            "Sandy, do you ever get...feelings...?"

            "What kind?"

            Scully pursed her lips.  "Premonitions, I guess.  That something will work out or it won't."  She turned from the computer screen to the girl on the bed.

            "Once in a while, I guess.  I mean...I don't know whether they mean anything or not.  Maybe they're just nervousness, you know--like thinking you're going to blow something really bad?  Like when Ryan was unloading those boxes at the airport.  I was just scribbling away, afraid I wouldn't get that map drawn before he got back in the car and how was I gonna explain what I was doing if he saw it?  Like that...but..."  She nudged at the carpeting with one toe.  "Real...feelings, that something's gonna happen..."  She shook her head.  "I didn't know nothing when Cy and Roddy..."  Her lips pressed together.  "He just took off with Roddy, kinda bothered-like, like he realized he hadn't been paying much attention to him lately...or like he had something on his mind.  Roddy was so..."  Her voice cracked.  "He was excited.  He wanted to go..."

            Scully turned more fully toward the bed and rested an arm on the back of the chair.

            "It was so fast.  Somehow I didn't...I didn't even hear about...you know, about Andy Johnston...until afterward.  Cy just took off and...it must of been an hour later...when they came, the sheriff.  Somebody'd heard the shots.  I don't know what made 'em go and look; people shoot off guns all the time, kids chasing rabbits at dusk.  Maybe he had a premonition--the old guy who found 'em.  But me, I was...floored, I was..."  She sighed.  "Sometimes you fee like you should know, like...how could anything that drastic happen to someone you love without you feeling something?  Maybe I'm not too good in that department.  Even this morning..."  She shook her head.  "You'd think if there was anyone I'd have a radar for it'd be my mom.  But I was sitting there eating my bowl of oatmeal and there was this knocking on the door.  I just jumped, I didn't...I guess I'm never really ready for her..."

            "How did it go?" Scully said.

            "It was...I think she really wanted to talk this time.  Actually talk...I mean with me, not at me.  Something was eating at her.  Joe, maybe.  He's such a pig.  He only wants her there 'cause she's a warm body, but she doesn't see it; she thinks he really loves her...or cares about her, or something.  It's sad in a way."

            "Maybe she's lonely..."

            "She had Papa.  He wasn't enough for her, though.  She thought he...she was embarrassed--you know, because he's half Cree..."  She looked down.  "She asked me how it was going.  She didn't even wave it in my face about Cy, what she--what everybody thinks he did...But I couldn't tell her about this--being up here, working.  It'd be all over town in two hours, and somebody might find out about you, or Ben.  Otherwise I might of; I might of told her..."  Her toe smoothed the carpet again.  "I don't know..."

            "Sometimes," Scully said, leaning a cheek against her arm on the chair back, "it takes time before you get to that...comfortable place with a parent.  Eventually they see that you're not the same little child they took care of, or...that you've grown up or...maybe they finally want to know you--know who you are.  I stopped to see my mother before we came here.  I didn't want her to worry and yet...I knew she would, that what I'd done--that my whole career--has made her worry, and by the time I got there...It was Ben's idea; he wanted me to go.  I guess I wanted to but I couldn't quite bring myself...I was afraid...for myself, I guess.  Of being condemned, of being lectured, of...feeling her anger or...or her disappointment..."

            "So what happened?"

            "I got there and...we had to meet in a department store dressing room..."  She colored.  "We were afraid they were following her."

            "Were they?"

            "Ben was watching.  He didn't see anyone.  But...she came; I was waiting in the dressing room.  And when she got there..." 

            She closed her eyes, swallowed and opened them again.  Outside, the sun broke from between two clouds and shined sudden warmth on the trailer.

            "...There was...nothing that really needed to be said.  We just...sat there with our arms around each other.  She...it was the first time I've ever felt that she needed me, that she needed my support to get through something."  She looked away, toward the door.  "I guess that's one of the things that makes this so difficult now, that I know--I feel...that she needs that support from me, and I don't know...if she can feel it, if she knows my thoughts--my prayers--are with  her..."  She straightened and looked at the girl.  "Maybe your mother needs you, too, Sandy...just not in a way she's able to tell you."   

            For years my history with Alex Krycek had been a growing tally of lies and loss.  He was the leering symbol of everything that had been done to me, of the way I'd been manipulated for the glory of some 'greater purpose' I'd never been able to pin down.  Smoky may have given the orders, but Krycek carried them out.  He'd pretended to be my partner; he'd killed my father, and not at some random moment--he'd done it just as I was finally about to connect with the man, to discover after so many years of silence a secret he seemed finally ready to reveal.  Krycek stole that from me and unlike with my sister, there was no hope for later, a time when we might finally sit down and learn something essential about each other.  He'd taken away the evidence I had in Duane Barry, kept me sidetracked while Scully was being abducted, stolen the DAT tape containing the government's secret files on UFOs, and if it had been she instead of her sister who'd opened her apartment door on that fateful night four years ago, he would have taken Scully irretrievably from me, too.

          Krycek had fed me crumbs of information from time to time but they'd turned out to be lies as well, or a way to get me to do something that would further his own purpose.  It was clear now that he had an agenda of his own--one separate from that of the Smoking Man--but there was nothing to prove that it was any more righteous than that of his morally bankrupt superior.  Krycek was a free agent--spy vs. spy vs. spy.  He'd do anything, say anything, appear to be anything that would further his purpose and somehow he considered me useful to him; it was the only reason I could come up with for why he'd given me the information about the alien rebel being held at Wiekamp Air Force Base.  It was why he'd stopped me from putting a gun to my head three weeks ago.  And then had come the final blow, the one that was the hardest of all to take: he'd insinuated himself into my family.  He was my mother's son.

          Now he was offering me crumbs again, the way he had with the information about the alien rebel or his warning to me to get Scully out of D.C.  He'd nearly killed her first; it was typical of his generosity and there was no reason to expect he was being any more magnanimous now.  Maybe it was just a threat he was passing on for Smoky, but in any event it wasn't anything that hadn't already occurred to me--that if Scully didn't take the bait and show up at her mother's bedside, Smoky'd raise the stakes in order to lure one or both of us out into the open.  He'd implied that my mother would be the next target; I'd thought of that, too.   

          The question was why he was offering the information.  Did he think he could make me trust him?  Was he setting me up for something else farther down the road?  And what about the immediate question of our safety now that he had my e-mail address?  It wouldn't be hard for someone like Krycek to bribe or threaten someone at Zipmail into giving up the phone number I was connecting from.  Would he give it to Smoky?  Probably not; he didn't seem to have any love for the old son of a bitch.  He had to have gotten the addy from Skinner, and Krycek had Skinner over a barrel, too, another part of whatever his 'plan' was. 

          So did we run now or did we stay and hope--count on this man who'd turned so much in my life to ashes?  And what about Skinner?  I couldn't see him handing over the information without a fight, or without a reason, and I'd heard nothing from him.  And what did I tell my partner now, a woman with the weight of the world already on her shoulders?

            Just three stairs to go, then two, then one.  Krycek paused at the bottom to let his breathing settle, then approached the laundry room.  The door stood half-open; one of the dryers was running.  A neat pile of folded shirts sat on the table.  Tracy stood at the open window, looking out.  She seemed not to notice him.

            "Hey..." he said softly.

            She looked toward his voice.  Her eyes widened.

            "Didn't know that thing even opened..."  He nodded toward the window and came closer.

            "It was stuck but I got it eventually."

            "Why?"

            "The old woman--the one who was out there the other day...who thought she couldn't plant anything anymore..."

            "What about her?"

            "I got a packet of seeds--poppies.  They pretty much raise themselves.  In a few months she'll have flowers."

            "That'd explain the mud," he said, looking down at her feet.

            She smiled self-consciously and nodded.  "You should've seen me trying to get back in the window."

            He raised his eyebrows and paused.  "I've got another doctor's appointment this afternoon.  I almost forgot."

            "He called you?"

            He nodded.

            She looked away, toward the dryer.  She seemed unaware that it had stopped. 

            "Head full?" he said, coming up behind her.  "Usually you know when I'm here..."

            "I think so." 

            "Home?"

            She nodded.  "Partly." 

            "You feeling okay?"  She still seemed a little flushed.

            She rubbed her arms.  "Just...a little cold.  I don't have anything long-sleeved.  Just..."  She turned to look at him.  "You know how sometimes you feel better when you get up and do something than when you lie around in bed?"

            He nodded.  She turned toward the window again, stepped up to the dusty sill and ran her finger along the edge.

            "You can borrow one of my thermal shirts," he said, taking a step closer.  "They're pretty small--you know, they stretch.  At least you won't get lost in it..."

            "Thanks..."  She rubbed her arms again.  "It's just chills, I think.  I'm still a little bit..."

            He rested his hand on her shoulder.  "Ask when you need something," he said quietly. 

            He stared past her out the window into the weedy little yard shadowed by walls of surrounding buildings.  A weathered picket fence leaned precariously to one side.  Clumps of weeds had been pulled from a rectangular bed beside the fence.  Who but Tracy. 

            She shivered. 

            His hand smoothed down her arm; it felt too warm.  "Ask...when you need something..."

            She hesitated, took the hand and pulled it around her middle.  Warm fingers slipped between his and held on.  She let herself lean against him.  In the distance footsteps echoed on the stairs, going up, getting fainter.  Finally they quieted.

            "Alex..."

            "Mmm..."

            "Will you toss some water out there on them...if it gets too dry?"

            He shook his head.  A smiled came unbidden.  "Yeah..." 

            He smoothed his thumb across her fingers and looked out at the garden patch.  Like in the gulag fields all those years ago, weeds were the same everywhere--tenacious, thriving.  Her hair was against his cheek. 

            And when she was gone?

            "You'll go on," she said, unaware that he hadn't spoken the words.

            "What about you?"

            "I'm going to remember you, Alex.  I will."  Her fingers tightened between his.  "I always will."

            Mulder set his sandwich back absently on the corner of the plate.  He stared at the screen and waited for his incoming mail to process, finger poised above the mouse.  He clicked on the 'read' screen.

To: DaddyW@zipmail.com
From: TinMan@zipmail.com
I owe you an explanation for the leak you've undoubtedly discovered by now.  K approached me for the information; I had reservations but little room to maneuver.  There was one other factor, however.  There's a girl who's been running messages for K--young, apparently pregnant.  She claims to know you; she said something about the lake in Constitution Park.  At any rate she seems to have an ability to 'see' things beyond the ordinary.  Ridiculous though it sounds, my gut instinct is to trust her.  She seems to feel very strongly that he won't give you away. Do you know her?

            Mulder pushed back from the desk and stared up at the ceiling.  She was a plant; Krycek had put her there.  All those times and she'd been there nearly every one. 

            Didn't track, though.  She'd been too open, too obvious.  She watched without any attempt at disguising it.  And what could she have told Kyrcek from sitting there on the stairs, anyway?  That Diana'd come once?  She seemed unsuited to spying, naive--way out of her depth in a place like D.C.  She was just a kid and she had that telltale look--kid on the run.  Maybe Krycek had seen her there and bought her cooperation for food or shelter.  Or something more.  His jaw set.

            Mulder tipped the chair back on two legs.  Why was she still there?  Maybe Kyrcek had her over a barrel where she couldn't leave.  Was he just using her for a courier while he was laid up?  And what had Skinner meant by 'seeing things'?  His words seemed to imply that she had some kind of paranormal ability.

            He eased the chair back down onto all four legs and pulled out the keyboard shelf.

To: TinMan@zipmail.com
From: DaddyW@zipmail.com
I remember the girl, though 'know' may be too strong a word.  She seemed like a kid on the run but very straightforward, naive.  What exactly is it that she 'sees'?  Awaiting your reply.

To: heron3@zipmail.com
From: DaddyW@zipmail.com
Did your field work include interviews with potential beryllium victims? Please forward any names and details.  We both owe you for your efforts on Annie's behalf.  Thanks are inadequate but...thanks.  Hope to be able to pay you back some day.

            There was a lot to discuss with Scully, things to run by her but it was getting to be too much of a pattern, going up there all the time; somebody with eager eyes was going to catch on sooner or later, though knowing Owensburg, it'd be sooner.  He could send her mails, though mails were easy to edit--for words, for emotions.  Who knew how she was doing, whether she needed support or needed to be left alone? 

            He glanced at his watch and bit his lip.  Late already.  Joe'd be after him for sure.

            He grabbed a sheet of paper from the printer tray and began to write rapidly.

            It was another death.  A slow, beautiful death but a death nonetheless. 

            Tracy pulled the thermal shirt over her head and looked at herself in the bathroom mirror.  It was a soft gray, big but it would do.  The cuffs were snug and warm.  She reached for the yellow dress and slipped it back over her head.  No fashion statement but it wasn't important.  Alex was right; a little downtime would probably do her good.  She ran her hands back through her hair and opened the door.  He was standing beside the window, looking out. 

            "Clouds are breaking up," he said.

            A streak of blue showed from between two mounds of gray. 

            "What time is your doctor's appointment?" she said, pushing back the covers and crawling onto the bed.  She settled in the middle on her side, reached for the blankets and pulled a pillow close under her head.

            "He's sending a car by at 1:30.  Hopefully it won't take forever."

            Hopefully he wouldn't spend an hour in a waiting room, he was thinking, but the old man would make sure he got right in, that he didn't have to sit around and make himself visible.  Hopefully the results would play out in their favor--a verdict of more rest, more caution.  A little more time.

            Tracy slipped the shirt cuffs over her hands.  She'd seen her mother's death coming, but that hadn't made it any easier when it happened.  It was just too hard--for her, anyway.  Probably a relief for her mother in the end but she was the one left with the emptiness echoing around her.  The end of this, with Alex, had been a given, too, from the very start.  Four or five weeks, the old man had said.  She'd known; she should've been ready.  But it was the same now as with her mother.  Endings were endings; it was so easy for them to steal away what had come before, not like a good meal where you got up from the table and carried that fullness with you.  It should be that way.

            The edge of the bed sagged slightly as he sat down.  The covers were drawn up close around her neck.  Stray strands of hair were smoothed away from her face.  She smiled involuntarily.

            "Want me to wait till you fall asleep?"

            She nodded and closed her eyes.  One corner of her mouth twitched.  "I know what it's like now, Alex..."

            "What?"

            "To have something inside you you're not ready to share because it's...it's still mixed up, you haven't figured it out yet.  I wish I could give you that privacy..."

            "Hey, it's okay..."     

            His hand settled on her shoulder.  She curled closer against him.

            "And if you need anything..."

            "I know.  Ask."

            She could feel his smile, his hope, his worry that she might never learn.  She lay still, beginning to warm.  Gradually the achy feeling gathered, drifting up and off her.  His hand was warm against her shoulder--a cap, a shield.

            He was thinking about the times she's stayed with him until the painkillers kicked in, falling asleep easy for the first time in longer than he could remember.  Then he was in his mother's garage, his back to the wall, drifting off under a dusty blanket, worn and shaking with fatigue, watched by the one-eyed boy.

Dear Mom,

          I have a young friend here who has helped me to see some things in my life more clearly.  I know I've heard you say often enough that you don't fully appreciate childhood until you see it as a parent; it was only today that I realized that the truth of that statement applies to the process of growing into adulthood as well.  Something I said to my friend today made me stop and think.  Adolescents are often jealously protective of their privacy; they fear being condemned or having their choices changed for them.  At a certain point, however, they assert their independence by making the choices that will shape their lives as adults.  They do not always recognize, however, when that potential point of conflict has passed, continuing, instead, to guard themselves from the people in their lives.  I realized today that in many ways I've guarded myself from you.  I'd like nothing better than to be able to be by your side right now, but since doing so would only benefit the one responsible for so much tragedy and injustice, I offer you these small pieces of myself.  For each day I am away from your bedside, I will make an entry in this diary so that when you are out of danger you can read them and know that I was with you in spirit.  I hope that through this writing you will know my support and come also to know me better.

                                                                             With much love,

                                                                                                Dana

            "You know you're eight minutes late," Joe said as Mulder reached for his time card.  "We're going to have to dock you to the nearest quarter hour.  Beeson's not going to pay you for time you're not here."

            "We had a power outage," Mulder said, shrugging.  "I had to go home for something; my alarm clock's light was flashing when I got there.  Guess I must have gone by that instead of my watch."

            "Whatever," Joe said.  "It all translates to the same thing.  You get paid for when you work, not for when you don't."

            Mulder pressed his lips together.  No use even starting.

            "Oh, and Barney went home sick this morning.  Not that you've had to sweat it."  Joe's hands rode his hips.  "It's been one of those days when you just wish you could rerun it back to the beginning and start over."

            Mulder nodded.

            "First it was a flood in the women's second floor bathroom and then the floor polisher broke down and we can't get parts till Thursday and then, like I said, Barney went home sick in the middle of the morning and he does Mr. Beeson's suite, and now Beeson's got somebody coming in from out of town, so he wants it cleaned now--like immediately--and you're elected.  You're all I got left, so break a leg; there's a list posted in the service closet in his bathroom.  Follow it to the letter and start with the office, then the reception area and then the bathroom last. That's the way he likes it and there's no percentage in pissing him off.  Got it?"

            "Yeah, I think so.  And his office is...?"

            "Second floor left."

            "Second floor left..."  Mulder bit his lip.  "Okay.  Cart's in second floor janitorial?" 

            "You got it."

            Mulder started down the hallway.

            "...It's marked.  He likes the lemon air freshener so make sure you get the right cart.  Everything's on it.  Don't blow this thing, Wallace, or I'll have your ass."

            Mulder half-turned in acknowledgement.  "Whatever turns you on," he muttered.

            Krycek stared out the window of the limo at the blur of passing streets.  It was over now but his pulse was thumping; at least he'd managed to hold it down while he was there, while the doctor examined him and the old man watched from the corner of the room as if he were some kind of specimen.  Why had he showed up?  To keep him off-balance?  Just to verify for himself the state of things before he flew off to Europe?  Maybe he'd caught something, some inconsistency, something that'd made him suspicious.  The doctor'd said more rest, take it easy, the recovery was coming along perfectly if he just continued to take it easy.  It was the best possible outcome.  It'd buy them a few extra days, maybe a week if they were lucky.  No trying to stretch it, though; her life depended on cutting it off while they were still secure, before the old man would suspect or make a move of his own.

            He let his head go back against the headrest. 

            She was a good doctor, careful and thorough, didn't treat you like a piece of meat when she examined you.  So what the hell was she doing working for the old man?  Or maybe she wasn't; maybe, like a lot of other minority doctors, she was just hard up for funding for the rest of her patients--there'd been enough of them waiting, people in tired clothes, people used to hearing 'no' instead of the 'yes' she gave them.  Maybe the old man had put on his altruistic front and offered her funding; he could sound righteous enough when he wanted to.  And where would Tracy go when the time came, when the baby was due?  She had the old man's money in the bank and he'd nearly matched it with money of his own, though he hadn't told her; she'd just protest that it was too much.  But the reality was she'd need everything she could get.  He'd track the account, put in more when he could.  For the intangibles he'd have to count on Mulder, hope he'd take her without thinking she was a Trojan horse. 

            He closed his eyes.  His stomach ached; it was just the tension.

            "Make sure you continue to take it easy, Alex," the old man's voice came from the front seat.  The car pulled over to the curb.  "Remember that it's crucial..."

            "...not to strain myself now, to let it finish healing.  Yeah, I heard."

            "The girl's done a good job with you.  She seems to have..."  The clink of a lighter lid flipping open.  "...kept you on track very nicely...."

            The driver got out, came around and opened the door for him. 

            He'd tossed it back and forth in his head for ten minutes before the car'd come, whether to be ready in the chair or to walk down.  The chair could say that he was still weaker than he was, that he needed more time.  Or it could tell the old man he was dragging his feet--if he suspected anything, and if the doctor's report turned out to be strongly positive.  Walking would show he was stronger, but it could make him look eager, too--eager to get back into things, making the old man more anxious to slow him down a little.  In the end he'd walked; as far as he could tell, it'd been the right move.

            He eased himself out of the seat, stood slowly and stepped up onto the sidewalk.  The car door slammed behind him, the thickly-padded sound of an expensive door.  How many poor people went without for every person who could afford to buy that kind of luxury without a second thought?  The old comrades' dogma about equality may have been naive, but at least they hadn't tried to bury their callousness toward the poor under the banner of 'free' enterprise.  'Free' was usually a loaded word, a cheap substitute for something else. 

            The old man's car was gone now, pulled away from the curb.  Krycek watched it till it turned the corner.  Then he opened the front door and walked to the elevator without looking back.  He pushed the button and waited.  Maybe it'd been for the best that the old man was at the doctor's office; meant he hadn't come around here to find her sick.  Hopefully she was right and it was wearing off, whatever it was.  Hopefully she was doing better.

            The door in front of him slid open.  He stepped in, pushed '2' and leaned back against the wall.  So now she knew--knew what it was like to have a head full of unsorted stuff, unresolved stuff.  Unless he missed his mark there was more in there than she was ready to see, or deal with.  It was bad timing.

            The vaccuum tugged against the cord.  Mulder shut it off, went back into the inner office and pulled the plug.  Beeson was staring at his computer screen; apparently it held bad news.  He seemed oblivious to his surroundings.  Mulder took the cord into the other room,  plugged it in and switched it on again.  He guided the vacuum slowly across the carpet,  trying to keep the pattern straight, working from the entry and traffic area gradually toward the side where cushioned chairs sat in front of bookshelves.  It was easier to maneuver here; the receptionist was still out on a late lunch break.  Sure beat doing Beeson's inner office while the old man watched; he'd been every bit as picky as Joe had said. 

            Mulder worked his way around the desk, moved the chair, covered the area and rolled the chair back into place.  The lower part of a skirt, a leg and a high heel passed the corner of his vision on their way into the inner office.  He reached for the switch and shut off the vacuum.  Beeson had some hearing loss and he'd been very specific about shutting off the noise if anyone came in.  He unplugged the cord, wrapped it around the hooks on the machine and rolled the unit up against the wall.  There was a back door to the bathroom; might as well go ahead with that part of the job; it was quiet work, all in all.  He started toward the doorway.

            "We want to reassure you, Mr. Beeson," the visitor's voice--familiar voice--came drifting out into the reception area.  "Your contribution is essential and we'll do whatever it takes to assure your security."

            Mulder stopped in mid-stride.  His breath caught; a sudden pounding started inside him.  Not possible.  Not.

            "...Yes, well, he's always come himself before..."

            Beeson's slightly Southern twang.  He was fidgeting already; even this little change of personnel had thrown him off.

            Couldn't be.

            "He's preparing for an overseas business trip," the visitor said smoothly. 

            It was a slick delivery, given with the easy authority she projected so well.  His eyes closed momentarily; there was a knot in his stomach.   

            "I can go over the message with you, Mr. Beeson; you'll see why we believe there's really nothing to be concerned about.  But the message will be traced.  We'll find out where it came from."

            Mulder fought the sudden flare inside him.  He slipped out into the hallway and headed for the back bathroom door.

Foundations

          I remember, or perhaps more accurately I see now, looking back, all the effort you went to when we were young to make each new base a home, a secure place where the family life we brought with us could continue uninterrupted.  It helped that all the families around us were in the same situation; we were discontinuous together and it gave us common ground.

          One of the things I remember most vividly, that I think shaped me in the end, was watching maneuvers requiring teamwork, the sight of men exerting themselves together to raise a temporary wall or unload a convoy.  It was the Navy way--it was our way--and I liked the idea, maybe the security, of being a contributing part of a larger whole, helping to move it along to a greater goal; maybe this is one of the things that led me to the FBI in the end. 

          Try as I might, even as a child I couldn't help but notice life's insecurities--the wives who worried about their husbands out at sea, the children whose fathers were taken by a war we were too young to fully understand, even old Sargents Danners and Wilcox in San Diego who died in that famous outbreak of Legionnaire's disease in Philadelphia.  I think my budding interest in science and medicine was sparked by the resolution of that mystery.  I believe now that I saw in it the possibility of creating security amid the insecure, of applying the unfailing rules of science to a situation to evoke a better outcome.  Waves might threaten ships and bullets take children's fathers in faraway lands, but if the mechanics of a disease could be discovered, the laws of science could provide dependable ways of fighting back. 

           In a sense I've been engaged in a struggle to tame life, to make the uncontrolled controllable through science, and to contribute to a larger security through the solution of crimes at the FBI.  I have learned, however, over the past few years especially, that life is not nearly as predictable as the vision in my young mind, that accidents happen, that science does not give us all the answers--indeed, that it may provide only an explanation and not a solution.  These are hard truths to absorb, as is the reality of the human capacity for callousness and crime.  Many times I have found myself confronted with the ghastliness of human possibility, convinced of the necessity for facing and disarming it, yet also gripped with a fear of my inability to do so.  It is natural, I suppose, to always want do to more, to be able to accomplish more.  But in the depth of my inability I've learned an invaluable lesson--that I am not alone, that sometimes we are saved when all logical hope is lost, that beauty comes to punctuate even the most dire of circumstances.  These are the realizations that keep me moving forward now.

          I think back to the minutes we shared in a department store dressing room when we last met.  They were filled with an essence I've come to understand, love pure and simple with no qualifiers, no frills.  None were needed.  In my heart I send you this same embrace and pray that it will help to keep you strong.

            The speech in the next room drifted into silence for the second time. 

            Mulder leaned against the wall with eyes closed.  If he focused--if he was perfectly quiet--he could hear the muted voices through the transom.  It wasn't possible that Diana'd seen him; it had been his first thought, but if she'd recognized him she never would have gone ahead and spoken freely to Beeson.  If she had recognized him...It could have been the end of everything--their cover, this town.  They could have been on the run again, out into some other area, maybe a lot farther west to someplace they could blend into a large metropolis and try to piece together another start.  Smoky would have wreaked his revenge on the people who'd helped them here and probably on Scully's mother as well; he wouldn't be above killing her if he thought it'd demoralize them in a way nothing else could, like people watching their relatives being gunned down by Nazis in the camps.

            "Here it is again," Diana's voice began again, professional and controlled.  "'Maybe if it was your child or wife or relative...'  All the references in this message revolve around family connections, which is why we believe it was written by a single family member of someone who died under circumstances they saw as doubtful..."

            "We've got our clearance from the EPA.  We've got the paperwork and it's all in order..."

            "Yes, I know you do."

            "Then what about this at the end--'You don't do your...work undetected.  We know'? What do they know?  And who are they gonna tell?"

            "Mr. Beeson, if the writer had actual information--evidence of some sort against you, they would have taken action instead of writing this message.  The FBI had investigators here for over a week and they weren't able to come up with anything conclusive.  I've gone over the reports myself."  A pause.  "In fact, those reports are being erased as we speak."

            Mulder pressed his lips hard together.  All those years fired by the pursuit of evidence, of truth.  Or so she'd wanted him to think.  Unlocking the secrets, that's the way she'd put it.  There'd seemed to be real fire in her eyes.  Or maybe it was the fire in his own that had blinded him.

            "...been in contact with quick.net.  We should have the origin of that e-mail account by tomorrow morning at the latest."

            There was a grunt of acknowledgement from Beeson and the sound of chairs being pushed back.  The voices faded toward the reception area.  Mulder picked up a bottle of window cleaner from beside him and pulled a rag from his back pocket.  He sprayed the mirror in front of him and watched the mist turn gradually into thin blue trails that began to run.  After a moment he took the rag to them, working in a circular pattern, watching the smeared, abstract surface gradually clear to streaks, then to the bright, too-sharp outline of his own reflection.

To: Redwall@zipmail.com
From: TinMan@zipmail.com
The phone you inquired about was located on a desk in an otherwise empty warehouse.  Both brothers are out on sea assignments, which should be a benefit to you.  Ask if you require further information.

            No new mail, and nothing from Mulder all day.  She glanced at the clock--nearly five.  He should be at Dale's by now.  But it was too early to be wondering, an extension of the day's vigilance over her e-mailbox, hovering as if the attention could speed up time and encourage replies.  It couldn't.

            Scully pushed back from the desk, got up and went into the kitchen.  She took some celery from the refrigerator and began to cut it into thin strips.  A knock came on the door.

            "Annie?"

            "Come in..."

            The door opened and Sandy's head appeared. 

            "Do you think I could I check and see if I got any mail from my dad?"

            Scully smiled.  "Go ahead." 

            She watched the girl go to the computer and sit down.  She'd been so hesitant the first few times but now there was a confidence about her movements.

            "Celery?" Scully offered.

            "In a minute..."

            Sandy waved a hand in her direction but didn't look; she was intent on the screen.  Scully smiled and turned back to her work.

            "Ooh, I think I got something..."

            Scully finished slicing the celery, put it in a bowl and wiped off the counter with a cloth.

            "Ohmigod..."

            "What?"

            "Ooh, Annie, look at this..."

            Scully came and stood behind the desk chair.  A picture of a desert scene filled the screen, full of deep blues and tans.  Dramatic rays of sunlight sliced through lowering clouds.

            "Your dad sent you this?"

            "He took it.  He said someone loaned him a digital camera and he just happened to catch this."  She looked up, grinning.  "And he's got himself his own computer.  He said he's been thinking about this for a while now, taking pictures of the places he goes--the land--before it all gets built up and disappears.  And now we can write anytime.  Oh, Annie, this is so cool..."

            "It appears your father has a talent for photography."  Scully smiled.  She looked at the bowl in her hand and held it out.  "Celery?"

            "Yeah, I'll take anything.  I felt kinda queasy this morning so I didn't eat hardly anything before I left.  But I'm sure ready now..."

            She reached for a piece.  A knock came on the trailer wall and Sandy took the bowl Scully offered.

            Scully went to open the door.

            "Dale..."

            "Your partner sent me up," he said and paused.

            "Oh..."

            "Left me a note saying to bring you down to the house if you're amenable.  He figured you could use a change of scenery by now and he says you two've got some planning to do..."

            Scully's lips pressed together.

            "...That is, you're welcome if you don't mind riding in the back, under the camper shell--don't want to take a chance on anybody catching sight of you."  He paused.  "I can bring you back in the morning..."

            Scully suppressed a blush and looked toward Sandy. 

            "Go for it, Annie," the girl urged.

            Scully paused and nodded.  "What exactly did he say about planning?"

            "I think 'strategizing' was the word he used.  You game?"

            She nodded.  "Yes.  Just give me a minute to gather up a few things..."

            It'd been a good time to come, nearly dark out and with enough people coming and going that any one person'd be less than memorable.  It was only a block, though Tracy'd made a little bit of a face--worry.  He could call if he was too tired to make the trip back, he'd said; if they had to, they'd figure out something.  Had to take the step sometime.  When she was gone...no taking any more of the old man's helpers.  Not after her.

            Krycek shifted on the restaurant's hard bench.  The lighting was dim--nice.

            "Just a few more minutes..."  Marisela said, appearing suddenly through the swinging door that led to the kitchen.  "Not long, I promise."

            He nodded.  "Thanks."

            "Good to see you coming here again," she said.  "It's been a long time, no?  Your Tracy, she said you were doing better."

            Heat rose in his cheeks.  "I think she wants to use your oven again tomorrow..."

            "That's fine.  Just tell her--before noon."

            He nodded.  "You get the other things?"

            "I have them.  I'll put them in the bag."

            "Thanks."

            She turned and disappeared into the kitchen.

            Tracy was back there cleaning furniture, using wood polish on the desks and chair--just wanting to do something useful, she said, but it was more than that.  She didn't talk about leaving but it was there, right in the front of her mind.  She was marking things--making a mark before she left, like she had with those flower seeds she'd thrown into the garden bed downstairs.  It'd been a relief to see a smile finally break through her seriousness.  She seemed okay now, though she was still wearing the thermal shirt under her dress.  It's soft, she'd said, running a hand down one sleeve, and what was there to do but offer it?  He had more.  She hadn't resisted much; she'd hardly hesitated at all.  She'd just smiled and said thank you.  It was no big deal; anyway, she looked good in it.  It was more than just the shirt, though, on both sides, and they were both dancing around it.  Time to be careful; without a little vigilance it'd be easy to slip and then what would she do?  Or she'd slip; it was looking that way more and more.  And then what would she do?  

            His eyes followed the shadows and dark wood in a counterclockwise trip around the restaurant interior, passing the pictures on the walls, all little dots like expanded pictures from a newspaper--the sharp peaks behind the town of Manzanares, the castle, the picture of Hemingway with the fuzzy beard.  Black-and-whites, like newspapers.  There'd been no reply from Mulder, but there was no reason to expect one.  Either he'd use the information or he'd hit 'delete' and tie himself in knots reheating the past.  Scully's apartment--that was the key.  He could feel her again, in the closet, small and tense in front of him, easy to bring to her feet.  It'd been a stupid move--too much confidence, not enough thought.  Mulder wasn't likely to forget it soon and now it'd be Tracy paying the consequences.

            "Señor Alex?"

            Marisela held out a white plastic bag.  He stood.

            "Now your other things are here, on the top, so the food can't spill on them."

            He took the bag she held out.  "Thanks.  Thanks for doing the legwork."  He took a couple of folded bills from his pocket and handed them to her casually.  She nodded acceptance.

            "De nada.  Come again." 

            He turned and went to the door and pushed it open.  The sky was blue-black; streetlights were on.  He glanced at the bag, full with its brown-wrapped package on the top and the food in a styrofoam box underneath, and looked ahead, past the stoplights in the distance to his building.  Felt like an old man, slow.  But not as unsteady as before.  It was something--progress. 

            She'd be there waiting, a smile on her face.

            Six minutes.  Now seven. 

            Dale had said to wait, a precaution against prying eyes, but it was almost completely dark now and the neighbors would have their focus inside.  She climbed cautiously out of the back of the truck and paused a moment, listening.  The question was what kind of news Mulder had, whether the planning was preemptive or whether this was damage control they'd be talking out.  The Gunmen had sent more medical readouts.  Her mother was about the same, though the longer the illness continued, the more complications could present themselves.

            A car passed by slowly on the street.  When it was gone she moved casually to the back gate, slipped inside and let out the breath she'd been holding.  A large yard spread in front of her, silent in the shadows, but no Mulder.  Somehow she'd expected him to be waiting here behind the gate, the way she'd wakened that one morning to find him already in her bed, wrapped around her.  There was a path at her feet; she followed it around the side of the house to a sliding glass door.  Mulder sat inside on the couch, head in hands.  He looked up and then stood when he saw her.

            "Hey," he said, slipping outside, nodding toward the shadow of the garden and away from the inside lights.

            He slipped an arm around her and led her out onto the lawn.  "How's your mom doing?"

            "About the same.  Langley sent me readouts twice so I can keep up."  She looked down momentarily, then up to where the rising moon lit the side of his face.  "So what's up, Mulder?"

            He shrugged.  "I figured you could use a change of scenery after all this time and there's something we've got to figure out."  He looked down and seemed to hold his breath too long.  "Smoky paid your mom's doctor a little visit this morning and inquired about when the rest of the family'd be coming.  He was posing as your 'uncle' again."

            "Mulder..."  Her hands curled involuntarily; she squeezed hard.  "Mulder, that man.  I can't...begin to tell you..."  Her pulse raced. 

            "...anything I haven't wished I could do to him myself a dozen times."  He sighed.  "Yeah, I know."

            Her throat ached.  "So that's it--we set up a timetable for him and then what?  What happens when I don't come?  He kills her or poisons her or...or infects her with something else on top of what she's fighting already?"       

            Pressure filled her; she turned away.  She'd spoken too loudly and they were supposed to be keeping a low profile.  A quick glance toward the house revealed Dale standing at the kitchen stove, intent on a pot he was stirring; at least he hadn't heard her.  She looked back at Mulder.  He looked lost, almost apologetic, but said nothing.

            "So that's it?  We need to figure out a cover story and then some way to keep my mother from...?"

            "It's not everything.  I got an e-mail this morning...from Krycek."

            "What?"

            "He pressed Skinner for the addy.  Skinner said he couldn't figure out a way around it."

            "Mulder, he can find us.  He can get to Zipmail.  He'll find a way, Mulder; you know he will.  He could know where we are already, and what's to stop him from..."  She closed her eyes momentarily and let out a sigh.  "Why didn't you tell me?"

            He looked at her and maneuvered a sunflower seed between his teeth; it was the first time in weeks she remembered seeing him with seeds.

            "Skinner doesn't think he'll give us away..."

            Her lips pressed together.  "Because..."

            "There was this girl, back in D.C.  When I was sitting on the stairs letting myself be seen she was there...just sitting there, too..."

            "And..."

            "Somehow she's ended up playing errand girl for Krycek.  Skinner seems to think she's got some sort of psychic powers..."

            "Skinner thinks this?"

            "That's what he said.  He said she can see things 'beyond the ordinary'.  I...I don't know what he meant by it, but he talked to her and he said she seemed insistent that Krycek wouldn't give us away..."

            "Mulder, I...And you believe this?  You believe this...girl?"

            "Scully, I don't know.  I don't know what Skinner meant.  She was just...a girl.  Seventeen, maybe eighteen.  She wore old clothes--thrift store clothes.  She seemed like maybe she was on the run, a runaway..."

            "Mulder, has it occurred to you that if she was on the stairs there and she's working for Krycek that maybe he planted her there?"

            "I thought of that...Scully, I'm not stupid.  I've been thinking about it all day but it just doesn't seem like there would have been any percentage in it--there was nothing for her to learn there.  We traded a few words but she didn't press me for information..."

            "Skinner said she was psychic.  Maybe she didn't need to ask you anything.  Maybe she just needed to be there."

            "That's your theory?"

            "I..."  She turned away.  "I don't know what to believe.  But I certainly won't sleep any better with Krycek knowing where we are."  She looked toward the black-silhouetted fence.  "What did he say?  Krycek?"

            "...He warned us to beware of your mother starting to get better, that Smoky'll try something else if he doesn't get what he wants.  I think he thought...that Smoky might target my mother next."

            She swallowed.  The moon was rising, covered by a thin film of gray clouds.

            "It isn't anything you couldn't have figured out yourself," she said quietly.

            "I know.  I'd thought of that already...and I've been trying to figure out what his game is--Krycek's game.  Why he'd bother writing at all.  I mean, if he just wanted the addy to be able to track us, why write?  It'd be better strategy to just trace it and show up here, put a bullet in my head..."

            "But he's not in any shape to travel, Mulder.  It would take him four to six weeks at least to recover from a wound like that."

            "Exactly.  So what's his motive?"  His lips pressed together into the small, defiant mouth she knew too well.  Or not defiant--on the edge.  He was near the edge of some precipice.

            "I...I don't know, Mulder."  She shook her head.  "I don't trust him any more than you do.  We know he's got his own agenda, that he's been doing things he doesn't want the Smoking Man to find out about.  But everything he does is calculated.  Everything has a purpose."

            "Yeah.  And what's his angle with the girl?"  A pause.  "I wrote back to Skinner.  I haven't heard anything yet..."

            "Maybe he's concerned about..."  She cleared her throat and formed the words carefully.  "About your mother, Mulder.  He did go to see her, you know."

            "He went to confront her."  His voice was raspy.  "He went to wave a picture in her face."  His mouth--small again, tight.

            "I..."  She shook her head.  "I don't know any more than you do."

            There was a snapping sound, the sound of a latch and the glass door sliding open.  Dale stepped out into the darkness and approached them. 

            "You two need a time-out?  There's food in there.  I make a pretty mean bowl of chili and the cornbread's passable, too...so Rita says."  He paused.  "No use strategizing on an empty stomach."

            Scully made herself speak.  "That would be nice.  Thank you, Dale."

            She watched him turn and go back into the house.  She looked at Mulder.  He was still caught up in the turmoil inside him, close to the edge--to snapping, to lashing out the way he did when he hurt. 

            "You coming?" she said.  

            He made no answer.  She turned and walked toward the house. 

            Krycek stepped out of the elevator and and looked to the left.  There was a utility closet beyond the stairwell; it'd do for now.  He went to it, opened the door and casually set the brown-wrapped package on an upper shelf.  Legs were beginning to feel rubbery, as if he were sinking below the surface of the floor.  He closed the closet door and headed toward his room.  The smells of the tortilla were strong now, something to make your mouth water.

            He worked the key in the lock and opened the door.  Unexpected darkness; she wasn't here.  Then a small orange glow and the sharp whiff of a Morley.  He steeled himself and flipped the light switch.

            "I was in the neighborhood," the old man said, smiling, waving the cigarette casually.  "I thought I'd drop by with the contacts you'll need.  I was...surprised...not to find you here."

            "Felt like some takeout," Krycek said, shrugging.  "Figured it was a good sign.  A few doors down.  Thought I could make it that far."

            "Still..."  The old man gave him a cautionary glance.  He took a drag on the Morley.  "I see your little...assistant...isn't around, either..."

            "She's...She was watching me, backing me up...from a distance.  Just in case."  He nodded toward the door.  "If she hears you, she's not likely to come in."

            "I get the feeling I make her uncomfortable."  A slight smile; he liked the effect he had on her.

            Krycek set the food box on the bedside table and eased himself down onto the mattress.  He pushed his shoes off and lay back against the pillows.

            "Tired?"

            "Guess it took pretty much what I had in me, yeah."  He watched the old man take another drag and let the smoke out.  "So...the information?"

            The old man balanced the cigarette on the edge of the ashtray and leaned forward slightly.  "We've tapped into the hospital's surveillance system.  It's being continuously monitored...I spoke to her doctor this morning.  He's concluded--conveniently enough--that she has pneumonia.  She hasn't deteriorated over the last 36 hours, though she is receiving oxygen..."

            "And Scully?"

            "Her doctor was going to check with the family and let me know."  He picked up the Morley.

            "What if her brothers show up?"

            The old man shrugged.  "It would be unfortunate if she disappeared while they were visiting..."  He brought the Morley to his lips.  "But I checked.  They're both out at sea.  It's just as well.  Saves any...complications..."  He ground the smoking butt into the ashtray.

            "You figure she'll come soon?"

            "It's been three days.  Depends on how far away she is...and how afraid for her mother's life.  She's going to have contacts somewhere.  Someone will tell her.  It's the kind of...alarming...news that people make a priority."  He took another Morley from the package in his coat pocket and lit it.  "Assistant Director Skinner may know where she is.  He's always been a supporter of hers."

            "Then it'd be a little obvious, keeping contact with him..."

            "Who else does she have?"  Hand and cigarette made an arc in the air.  "She's always focused on her work--her...investigations with Mulder and...whatever research absorbs her free time."  He paused and put the cigarette to his lips.  "She has no personal life to speak of, no...steady circle of friends she socializes with.  She's changed a lot that way over the years..."  A tap against the ashtray.  "She used to...go out to concerts, get together with friends on occasion.  But her work seems to take up all her interest now, her focus..."  He looked at Krycek.  "In spite of the fact that she finds it so difficult to believe."

             A tenseness knotted Krycek's stomach.  The old man'd been watching her.  He'd always seemed to discount Scully, to pass her over as immaterial except as a tool to work Mulder.  Still, he hadn't let that keep him from being thorough.  Should've known.  For his own part it was that she-wolf posture that told him Scully was a force to reckon with, the one she took on when she thought Mulder was in danger--fangs bared, determined.  She might think he was crazy--might not have the guts to believe what she'd seen evidence of--but she wasn't about to let Mulder be sacrificed, either.  Familiar mindset, that fight-or-die feeling.

            "In any event," the old man said, "I'm monitoring Skinner's phone lines...both at the Bureau and at home."

            Krycek nodded.  Hopefully Skinner wasn't stupid enough to e-mail from his apartment, though web mail would be hard enough to trace.  He looked at the food box on the dresser.  The tortilla'd be nearly cold but it didn't matter.  No appetite now.

            "So you think Scully'll sneak in at some odd hour, at night or...?"

            "I imagine she'll try to disguise herself, maybe as one of the staff.  In any event, the cameras are rolling.  I have someone always on the ready to make the pickup.  There's the house in Fairfax County.  You can have her taken there.  It's close enough; you can go and...question her...wear down that initial...bite...of hers."

            "She won't tell you--where Mulder is."

            The Morley stopped halfway to the old man's mouth.  "Everyone has a price, Alex."  He paused.  "Everyone.  Besides, once we have her, whether she talks will be immaterial.  She'll be the bait herself.  Mulder will come running."

            The old man stood and crossed the room to the bed.  He held out a piece of note paper.

            "These are the numbers--surveillance, pickup, my international number.  My men have been instructed to do as you ask.  Keep me updated when things begin to move."

            Krycek took the paper and slipped it into his pocket.  And if she didn't show?  It was on the tip of his tongue.  Broach it or not?

            "The girl," the old man said, looking around.  "She's worked out quite acceptably.  She's been very dedicated to this job...to you..."

            Slow motion.  His heart pounded, but too slowly, making him lightheaded.

            He made himself shrug.  "She's just a kid.  It's worth it to her to be off the streets."

            "Yes, but surely I could have picked ten girls just like her off the streets and not come up with one as...conscientious...as she's seemed to be."

            "I guess."  His tongue was thick, awkward around the words.

            "Perhaps you underestimate her, Alex..."

            The old man was watching for a reaction. 

            "Maybe..."

            There was a pause--he didn't know how long--and then the old man turned and walked toward the door.  He watched the door open, the old man leave.  The door closed again and the handle settled.  He held himself taut till the count of ten, of fifteen.  Old man'd be in the elevator now, going down.  Krycek let his body loosen and closed his eyes.  Behind them the styrofoam container sat under the lamp on the bedside table, its contents cold. 

            "He's been like that ever since he got home this afternoon," Dale said, nodding toward the window and the darkness outside it.  "Something's been eating at him...but I guess both of you have your plates piled pretty high long about now."

            He took another bite of his chili.  Scully watched him maneuver, the way the bowl wedged conveniently against the V-shaped holder on the table's surface.  She poked a fork into her salad.

            "Funny how...No, it's not funny, actually..." she began, studying the woodgrain of the table.  "How tension makes you snap at each other instead of working on the problem at hand..."  She speared a piece of lettuce and a tomato chunk and brought them to her mouth.

            "I've seen plenty of it myself," he said.  "In the everyday.  But over there especially.  Half of it's bullets and mortars and booby traps--things beyond your control...But the other half's in your head--how well you can stay loose, respond to what's going on instead of freezing up, stay focused on what you got to deal with."

            "I hadn't realized," Scully said, coloring, "just how much this had gotten to me--my concern about my mother, having to stay in one place.  As we were riding in it struck me how...amazing...it was just to be on a road, to be going somewhere, to see the sky moving above me."  She wiped her mouth with a napkin.  "I don't mean to sound ungrateful for the Barkers' hospitality..."

            Dale shook his head.  "I understand."

            Scully dipped into the bowl in front of her.  "Thank you for the dinner, Dale.  It really is good.  I'm afraid I wouldn't have been much in the mood to fix anything tonight if it were up to me..."

            "You're most welcome."  He folded his napkin in half and then in half again, fingers working expertly.  "Over there...I don't know how much you know about the war; you had to have been just a kid then..."

            "Yes, I was."

            "There was this area--Cu Chi--where the VC had a huge maze of underground tunnels.  They were keeping their campaign going from underground, and when we found these tunnels, we had to send someone in to check 'em out.  Only the smallest men would fit, and there were a lot of guys who just couldn't do it--go in there; they'd get claustrophobic or just seize up.  You had to crawl in on your belly in the dark in a space no wider than your shoulders and you never knew if the tunnel was empty or if you'd meet Charlie around the next bend..."  He shrugged.  "And of course, if you did, you were dead; there was no way out, no space to turn around.  But there were some guys who...it was just something they could do, and we'd all stand above waiting...holding our breath, or praying, or whatever we did to make it through, knowing that these guys--our buddies--were going it alone, that there was nobody they could count on if the tide turned.  Some of 'em were lucky--their tunnels were empty--and others...well, they just never came back out.  But I often think about that when things get rough--that most of us aren't going it alone like those tunnel rats.  That we've got support and we need to recognize it--value it, I guess..."

            Scully smiled and looked down. 

            "Thank you," she said.

            Second time today the old man'd mentioned Tracy; wasn't a good sign.  And the longer things went on, the harder it was going to be not to trip up...like having gone to the restaurant.  Very first time out and the old man'd caught him.  How long would he spend contemplating the significance of it?  And Tracy.  Weird that she hadn't been here waiting but she'd probably sensed the old man a mile away and taken off back to her room.  He did--he spooked the hell out of her. 

            Krycek pulled up and eased himself to the edge of the bed.  He stood carefully and reached for the box on the bedside table.  Legs were still like rubber.  Hopefully the old man hadn't gone looking for her when he'd found the room empty.  Or taken her.  He slipped his shoes on and went to the door. 

            The smell of the old man's Morleys still hung faintly in the hallway air.  Krycek pushed the elevator's 'up' button and glanced at the box in his hand.  Not hungry now but maybe she would be.  It was a chore--urging her, reminding her that it wasn't just herself she was feeding.  And what had his mother done, knowing she was carrying a child she didn't want and wouldn't raise.

            The door slid open and then closed again behind him.  He stared at the walls of the car as it went up, old brown wood paneling with scrapes here and there, small initials carved in one corner below the brass hand rail.  Door open again, a sniff--nothing.  He looked toward her room; no light showed below the door.  The rhythm inside him quickened.

            Door was locked.  He knocked and waited.

            "Tracy..."

            Every day she stayed was more risk, more chances taken.

            "Tracy..."

            He knocked a second time, knuckles against the dark-painted wood.  Pulse was pounding now.  Nothing.  Maybe the roof.  He started up, part physical effort, part well-worn memory--each step, each pause, her encouragement and the finger she'd hook into his belt loop on the far side, the pressure of her hip against his.  He paused at the landing, stepped outside and let his eyes adjust to the darkness.  Nothing--no sound, no sense of another human presence.  If she were here...she would've said something by now, would've seen him coming.  One way or the other. 

            "Tracy..."

            He walked to the wall.  Zip.  The far corner, the air conditioner, near corner, the tree...He swallowed.  His feet moved toward the place.  No sound, but she'd been here once before.  A hitch in his breathing and he parted the leaves.  Just the two old metal patio chairs sitting close from the last time they were here. 

            Would the old man do it this way--take her and then say something the way he had, as if he were fishing?  There'd been days now--a week, really--of steady improvement; maybe it'd just been too tempting, keeping her here, being comfortable, having somebody to wake up for, something more feel-real than the outside chance of beating Purity at its own game.  Purity was nightmare reality alright--struggle and struggle, like in a dream where you were mired down, struggling to move.  Except that dreams ended; you woke up to find the sky blue and bills in the mailbox.  If only. 

            She should be somewhere--hiding, staying out of the old man's way.

            Just one more place to try.  To the stairs and down, no real pauses between steps, a glance under her doorway--no light--a knock--nothing--and down again, to his room--darkness--and out, to the stairwell and down, legs even shakier now, a pause on the landing halfway between floors.  Running on empty suddenly, or nearly.  Too much--the restaurant and back, upstairs and now this  Stranded like an old man who'd lost his cane.  Legs were going to go.  Lungs ached, dry.  He was panting, leaning against the railing.  Sounded like a dog that'd been out running, chasing something. 

            Footsteps down below--familiar--and then a quick wave of adrenaline hitting him.  He gripped the railing hard; it made the arm shake.  She came around the corner into view, the hem of her dress held up, eyes upward.  Like being pushed off a wall.  She was smiling, coming closer.  Smile back.

            "I was in the laundry room," she said before he could ask, or hide himself.  "I heard him--coming up in the elevator.  He was going to my room so I went down the stairs..."  She paused.  "You're tired, Alex.  Come on." 

            She urged him around.  "Ready?"       

            Her arm, then the finger in his belt loop. 

            "Yeah."

            A step up and then another, the two of them in sync without any planning or effort.

            "Why downstairs?"  He swallowed against the dryness in his throat.  "Why not the roof?"

            She shook her head.  "I don't know.  I just..."

            "...Went with your gut."

            She nodded.  "He's going to check her tomorrow," she said.  "He's expecting her to be worse, but if she's not...he might do something to 'help her along'--it's what he was thinking.  He doesn't want to lose this opportunity, Alex.  He might postpone his trip if..."

            "Then she damn well better be worse," he said. 

            His jaw set.  He gripped the rail harder and paused before stepping up.   She didn't miss a beat.  They stepped up together, then took another step and another.

            "Mulder..."

            He was sitting there in the dark.  Scully pulled carefully on the door handle.  It had been a birdhouse originally, Dale said, and quite an elaborate one at that.  Bethy had taken it over as a playhouse several years ago and a glider swing had been put inside; it was a convenient place to sit outdoors without being attacked by mosquitoes.  She could see him by the light of the moon, head in hands on the swing.

            "Mulder..."  She closed the door behind her.

            He looked up.

            "There's food in the house.  Dale's chili reputation is well-deserved... "

            He shrugged.

            She leaned against the door frame and pursed her lips.  "There's a lot of planning to do here and I can't make those decisions by myself," she said quietly.  "I know we're both personally affected by this...this outcome.  But I can't do it alone, Mulder, and there's no point in my being here if I'm just going to stand around and do nothing..."

            "Yeah..." 

            His head was in his hands again.  She took a step toward the glider.

            "What's bothering you, Mulder?"

            He looked up at her, quizzical.

            "I mean..."  She smiled grimly.  "...what specifically?  Dale said you've been like this since you got home this afternoon."

            "Just...asking myself some of those unanswerable questions, I guess..."  He stared past her into the yard.  "The kind where you're never going to get an answer and if you did it probably wouldn't make a hell of a lot of difference anyway because it's all water under the bridge; it's in the past and you can't change the past..."  He sighed and looked up at her.  "You can't change the past..."

            "Asking questions or beating yourself up?"

            He shrugged.  "What's the difference?"
            She turned to go.

            "Scully..." 

            He sat back and patted the seat beside him.  She leaned back against the door frame and crossed her arms.

            "What is it, Mulder?"

            "I never got to the third thing I had to tell you..."

            "Which is..."

            "That while I was cleaning Beeson's office this afternoon, he had a visit from one of Smoky's ambassadors..."

            She leaned forward.

            "Diana."  He winced  "It was Diana, Scully."

            Time stopped.

            Diana.

            "Did she...?"  Diana.  "Did she...see you, Mulder?"

            He shook his head.  "No, Scully, I had my head down.  I was turned around, vacuuming the reception area."  His voice was dry; he looked off to the side.

            She went to the glider and sat down.

            "Did you...hear what she said--what they were talking about?"

            "Yeah, I went around into the bathroom and listened.  Someone sent Beeson a threatening e-mail, or at least a frustrated e-mail, about the beryllium victims.  I guess Smoky sent her here to put out the fire.  Evidently he's preparing to go out of the country; Beeson was tied in knots that Smoky didn't show up himself.  Apparently he's never seen Diana before..."  He leaned forward and breathed into cupped hands.

            "Do you know what the message said?"

            He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to her.

            She held it into the moonlight and read.  Her lips pressed together.  "Mulder, this sounds like..."

            "They're going to trace the message, Scully.  It came from quick.net."

            She swallowed.  "Remember last night while you were still in the bathroom?  David Barker came around and I told him..."

            "...about the lab results.  You think he'd...?"

            "Remember how he hovered around the barn when I was doing the autopsy?  He's well-meaning, Mulder, and he's certainly had a lot to deal with because of his wife, but he does seem to blame Heather's condition on her brother's death...and yes..."  She looked at him.  "I think he very well might have done something like this.  I've had this uncomfortable feeling about him all along..."

            "Then you may not even be safe up there anymore.  I wonder how careful he was about sending the message."

            "Maybe it's time to ask Dale to make a little visit for us, Mulder." 

            "Lie down, Alex.  You're worn out."

            Her voice was quiet.  He frowned but did as she said. 

            "I just..."  He stared at the ceiling and let out a long breath.  "Too much to do, no energy to do it with."  He closed his eyes.

            She sat down on the edge of the bed.  He put his hand up and felt her take it.

            "They're going to have to do it themselves," he said.  "I'm not going to poison her but they're going to have to do something--you know, to make it look like she's getting worse."  He half-laughed.  "But why would they believe me?  Why would they believe anything I'd tell them?"  He looked up at her and shook his head.  "If they don't, it's going to go to hell real fast."

            "Maybe..."  She looked across the room at the blackness beyond the window.

            "What?"

            "Maybe they'd believe me, Alex."

            He shook his head.  "They'd just figure it was some trick I was pulling..."

            "No.  I think I can...somehow...that somehow I can get through to Mulder.  I do know him a little bit."

            "He'll think I set you up there--on the stairs..."

            She turned to look at him.

            "You said he wouldn't believe you, Alex.  If he won't, then give me a chance.  Scully's mother doesn't deserve to be put through this.  Your mother wouldn't."  It was the kind of look she'd given him in those first days when he'd overextended himself.

            "We can't send anything from here.  If the old man..."

            "Then I can go to the restaurant, Alex.  Marisela'd let me use the phone line there if I asked her."

            "Tracy, it's night out there.  It's not...Elleryville.  I don't want you to..."

            Another of her looks; a pressure, gentle but firm, against his fingers.

            "What's the alternative, Alex?  You should know--you do know...more than most people...about the bigger plan, the bigger goal..."

            He looked away.  He felt his pulse echoing, his body worn and uncooperative.  "Maybe I...Just used to being able to do it all myself.  This...lying here...having to...depend..."  He shook his head. 

            "It's just teamwork, Alex.  If I can do this...if I can help Scully's mom and that helps everybody..."

            The sound of the shower going on upstairs, flowing, then water trickling in the pipes.

            "Be careful."  He turned to her, looked into her.

            "I will."

            She was so solemn, so obvious and straightforward, as if sincerity were strength.

            "Alex, show me.  Show me how to send mail."

            He paused, nodded, then let go of her hand and reached for the laptop.

To: DaddyW@zipmail.com
From: TinMan@zipmail.com
Re the girl:  I had a dream initially where I was talking with her.  Two days later K called me to a meeting in Farragut Square; she was there to meet me.  She seemed surprised to see me but she knew exactly who I was; it was like resuming a half-finished conversation--very surreal.  I saw her in another dream several days later and then nothing until yesterday when K asked me for your addy.  I had this very strong urge to go to the square; when I got there she was waiting on a bench, hoping I'd show up.  She said she didn't know why she'd come,  that she'd been 'drawn' there.  She seemed convinced K wouldn't give you away.  The most obvious explanation would be that she's suffering from Stockholm syndrome--identification with a captor--but something tells me it's not the case here.  I have no logical explanation for any of this.  Apologies.

            "I don't..."  Mulder shook his head.  "I don't remember anything that would have suggested she had paranormal abilities.  But then we hardly saw each other.  It was a few words here and there.  She was...outspoken in a naive sort of way, like she didn't know better than to talk to strangers.  She just looked like...like she was on the run, Scully, a ragged kid on the run." 

            He looked up to where she stood behind his chair.

            "But why would Krycek not give us away?"

            "I don't know.  Like you said, he's got his own agenda, whatever that is.  Maybe he's working with those alien rebels.  Maybe that's why he tipped me off to that rebel they were holding at Wiekamp.  Whatever his plan is, we must figure into it some way: he must think we can help him..."

            "Well, he certainly can't count on the Smoking Man to back him up if he finds out."  She stared at the computer screen.  "You know, whatever his plan may be, one thing he said is true.  If Mom begins to recover, the Smoking Man's not likely to let it pass if he believes she's his ticket to getting to me.  And if she's on the right medication now, she's going to improve.  By the end of the week the signs are going to be inescapable."

            "We're going to have to get her out of there, Scully.  We're going to have to move her somehow, hide her someplace.  Either because she improves or because you don't show up, she's going to be in danger..."  He sucked in his lower lip.

            "Would he threaten your mother, Mulder?  Would he use her against us?"

            "He may think he has some kind of sentimental attachment to my mother, but only if she doesn't cross him or have some greater strategic value to him.  If he were to find out she'd hid us..."

            "Then what do we do?  Do we hide her, too?  And how long can we..." 

            She bit her lip, turned abruptly and walked to the window.  She stopped in front of the glass, arms crossed, staring out into the night.  He stood and came up behind her. 

            "How long can we hide everyone, Mulder?  Who does he target next?  My brothers?  My sister-in-law?  My little nephew Matthew?

            He rested a hand lightly on her shoulder, waited--no stiffening--then added the other and smoothed gently with his thumbs.  Finally she relaxed against him.

            "Dale was right," she said.

            "About?"

            "That half of it's psychological, your ability--or inability--to stay focused on the problem at hand...and not freeze up...not get distracted or..."

            "...Or take it out on someone you care about?  Guilty as charged."  He kissed lightly above her ear.  "Sorry, Scully."

            She was warm against him.

            "Where can we hide her, Mulder?" she said finally.

            "The Gunmen'll help," he said.  "They'll knock themselves out."

            "Tracy..."

            She looked up. 

            She was sitting on the desk chair across the room, lacing her shoes.  Strange to see her in something besides a dress.  She'd always worn dresses--long dresses that gave her an air of fragility.  She seemed anything but fragile now.  Strong somehow--resolved.  She wore a pair of his old jeans belted in at the waist and the gray thermal shirt.  The baby barely showed unless you knew he was there.  If any of the old man's spies were looking, they'd be less likely to notice her; the old man'd never seen her in pants.

            "I know," she said.  "I'll be careful."

            She stood and readjusted the waist of the jeans, then approached the bed and sat on the edge.

            "I can see what it's like now, Alex..."

            "What?"

            "Having that sense of...mission, of...having something you need to do, that kind of strong focus.  It's a strong thing, a powerful thing."

            "It keeps you going.  But, hey..."  He took her hand.  "Don't get carried away.  It's no game.  Life's not a game."

            "I know, Alex.  Just try to get some rest."

            He frowned.  Might as well be in a barred cell as trapped in this body that wouldn't do what he needed it to.  For weeks he hadn't demanded anything of it except survival--rest and mending--but now...now it was more than obvious what it wouldn't do, the stamina it didn't have.  No energy left to do this himself, or to help her.

            "Call me when you get there.  Give me a wrong number call--ask if it's Angelo's Pizza; then I'll know it's you."

            She nodded.  "I will be careful, Alex.  It won't take me long."

            "Yeah..." 

            He was looking straight at her but she was out of focus.  Easy enough to say--be careful.  He felt a squeeze against his hand and she was up, taking the laptop, headed for the door.  He watched it open and close again, carefully at the end; everything she did was careful. 

            Yeah, easy enough to say--I'll be careful.  But life--the reality--was full of potholes and booby traps, enemies lying in wait, things you could never predict.  He rolled onto his side, facing the door.  She should be down in the lobby by now, going out.  In the end he'd told her to write the mail herself, just go with her gut; there was nothing he was going to be able to say that'd make Mulder a believer but maybe she could do it.  Maybe that sincerity of hers would come through.  Maybe that was what it took.

            And if the old man had one of his goons watching the front door, or the street?  He'd sent her to Raul, to the bearing factory, never dreaming Raul'd run off at the mouth when he talked to Buzz.  He'd hardly known her then and it had nearly cost her her life--would have if Buzz hadn't given out when he did.  One dead so the two of them could go on, could live.  For however long they lasted.  Nothing was sure and she'd be gone, too, out there someplace, and he'd never know. 

            He shook the intruding image from his head, the one he'd never seen himself but only heard described, Lena lying in the weeds along the roadside, her body bruised and vacant, skirt flapping in the cold morning breeze.  Two of the others had seen the one who found her and they'd told the tale wide-eyed.  She'd been a number of the gulag boys' first.  She'd give it to you free the first time; it was her sales pitch, though it'd been half a dozen times till she'd asked him for money.  She'd even kissed him when she kissed nobody; he'd thought he was special.  Thought he was in love but he was younger than she was and what did he know?  She was fourteen.  The image never left completely, though it was second-hand.  There was no rhyme or reason.

            Tracy'd be past the hardware now, nearly to the corner.  She'd probably walk faster when she was by herself, not the slow, careful pace she kept with him, waiting for his healing body, careful not to strain him or push too hard.  Whatever she'd written would have to do.  And then she'd be gone; couldn't keep her here much longer, just enjoying the company, warming himself at her innocence.  Like everything else, she'd be gone.    

            Hopefully the old man'd bought his story, his attitude.  Hopefully he was home in front of his TV with his beer and his Morleys, suspecting nothing.

To: DaddyW@zipmail.com
From: Redwall@zipmail.com
We'd also come to the conclusion that Annie's mother will need to be moved, probably within the next few days--in any event before she's obviously on the mend.  We're working on the arrangements; just sit tight and leave the moving to us.  The big question, of course, is how to remove her from the hospital without them finding out.  We're working on this, too, but any suggestions are more than welcome.  Ben, you'd be well advised to think about where he may strike next once he's decided it's not worth his while to look for her
                                                                                                              -JB

            "It's a start," Mulder said quietly. 

            He pulled a kitchen chair up beside hers and sat down.

            "I know.  But it's going to make him target someone else, your mother or...or Skinner for that matter; he could try to force our hand by threatening Skinner in some way, Mulder.  Or my family."  She turned to face him.  "What do I do?  Do I say nothing and let them be put in danger, or..."  She shook her head.  "I can't tell Bill.  Mulder, he'd go through the ceiling.  He'd never believe it but he'd give me plenty of grief about Mom, about what I've done to her..." 

            She pressed her lips tight together; one corner of her mouth wavered.  She turned away and stared at the computer screen.

            "Especially when he found out I was involved," he said, giving her the hint of a smile.  "He'd probably send us off the plank together."

            "What about your mother, Mulder?  She's as logical a target as anyone here..."

            He sighed.  "I'll have to figure out something, someplace he'd never think to look for her..."

            "And what do you tell someone?  Go hide, maybe someday you'll get to go back home?"  She closed her eyes.

            "We'll get home, Scully," he said softly.  "We just have to get something on Smoky.  My dad thought it was his greed that'd bring him down in the end.  Maybe these shipments, whatever they are, are the key to that--something he's doing on the side to pad his own position, something he's hiding from the rest of the Consortium.  Did you read Wilkins' mail?"

            "You mean Rita's?"  She smiled briefly.  "Yes, I did.  He said the only two possible victims they were able to contact were the ones you've already found out about, that Alan Harder was uncooperative and Angie Connors was loathe to do anything that might jeopardize her health coverage.  Apparently Beeson-Lymon has its own in-house plan."

            "I think I missed that part."

            "She said something about her kids receiving regular care from the plant doctors."

            "Isn't that a little out of the ordinary?"  He stood and ran a hand back through his hair.  "Wait a minute, what if...It just hit me, Scully.  What if family health coverage is like the company cremation benefit?"

            "Designed to hide evidence?  But evidence of what?  Beryllium disease isn't contagious, Mulder."

            "I know, I know.  I just...I think I'll check it out anyway."

            He turned, walked to the window and stared out into the moon-frosted yard. 

            "What time did Dale leave?" he said.

            She looked at her watch.  "About an hour ago.  Hopefully he'll be back before too long.  Maybe I'm jumping the gun.  Maybe it was someone else who wrote that message and not David."

            "I think maybe I'll take a shower while I'm waiting," he said. 

            He crossed the room and paused in the bedroom doorway.  She was going through the new mail again.  He went into the darkened room and switched on the lamp on the dresser.  Low light bathed the room.  He stared absently at the bed.  Who knew if she'd even want to sleep here now.  Maybe she needed space this time.  Or maybe he did.  He reached for the hem of his T-shirt and peeled it off.

            "Mulder..."

            "Yeah..."

            "Mulder, come here.  You've got mail."

            "From who?" 

            He came through the doorway and stopped behind her chair.

            "Topaz?" she said.

            "It's Krycek."

            "I don't think so, Mulder.  Look at this."

To: DaddyW@zipmail.com
From: topaz@rift.net
I've decided to write this because Alex is convinced you won't believe him.  The old man is going to Europe, leaving tomorrow afternoon and coming back on Saturday.  Or at least those are his current plans.  He's going to check on your partner's mother before he leaves tomorrow and if she's not deteriorating he's thinking about doing something to help her along.  I thought you should know so you can do something about it.

  I met you on the stairs beside the lake in Constitution Park--that was me behind you with the red backpack.  Remember you told me you'd lost your job. 

  Nobody would be happier than I would to see you and your families escape from the old man's plans.  I've seen the way he watches Alex and it's awful.  Please protect Mrs. S before it's too late.
                                                                                                                                   -The Stair Sprite

            " 'Stair Sprite'?"  She looked up at him.

            "I didn't know her name.  It's just..."  He shrugged.  "...what I called her--you know, to myself.  I never actually..."  He paused.  "I never called her that, Scully.  I never said it."

            "Then what do you make of this?"
            He stared at the screen and slowly shook his head.

            "Alex..."

            Tracy closed the door behind her.  Only the small bedside lamp was on, leaving most of the room in shadow.  No movement came from the bed.  She went closer; he was asleep.  She knelt down, slid the laptop under the bed and stood again.  He could sleep on his side now; he'd turned the other way, his head toward the narrow window, his back to the wall.  It made sense now, the reason he slept that way.

            He'd been up half the night before, thinking--worrying.  Between that and all his exertion it was no wonder he was far past alertness.  She sat down carefully on the edge of the bed.  She'd called when she got to the restaurant, then sent her mail and waited long enough to make a graceful exit.  It hadn't been more than twenty minutes.  She reached out.  He wouldn't mind this time; they were past that.  She let her hand smooth across his forehead and back into his hair.  It was good to see him peaceful, unburdened, even if it was fatigue that had brought him to it.

            "Alex..."

            "Mmm..."

            "Alex, I'm back.  I just wanted you to know.  It went okay.  I sent the mail."

            He opened his eyes and squinted into the brightness--relief--and closed them again.  A finger curled around one of hers.  His eyelids slowly relaxed into the thinness of sleep.  She sat unmoving, watching him.  Patches of deep yellow light and shadow fell across the blanket, his face, his arm.  What in the whole world could be more inexplicable than this--a man like Alex, who did what he did, asleep beside her like a child, or giving what he'd given her?  And what had happened to his father that he had no similar spark but only used people, as if they held no other purpose than to serve as stepping stones in his climb to his chosen goal? 

            Light spilled in front of his ear, showing the pattern of his hair and the clean, sharp line between stubble and smooth cheek; it suited him, the sharp definition.  She was there again, the dead girl, hovering in the shadows where his conscious mind didn't see to push her away.  Whatever else she'd done or intended, she'd treated him like something more than a worthless gulag boy.  It's what he'd carried away--that and a tattered disillusionment.

            Tracy looked up and yawned.  It was time to sleep; she should go upstairs.  City lights blinked in the far window.  She began to count them but her eyes wanted to close.  Tomorrow she'd make bread and the next she'd be going home, something she wanted and dreaded at the same time.  It exerted a pull--home--but it was impossible to tell why, or what it meant.

            "Alex..."

            "Mmm..."

            "Alex, would you mind if I slept in the chair--in the recliner--for a while?"

            His eyes opened.  He strained to focus.  "Huh?"

            "I...I think I don't want to..."  She sighed.  "I was walking up the stairs this afternoon--between here and my room...and I saw her, Alex, just for a second..."

            "Saw who?"

            "My mom."

            He pushed up on one elbow and blinked.

            "My mom, Alex.  I don't know what it was.  I've never seen her before...like that.  I just...she was there, above me on the stairs, and then she was gone."

            His mouth opened slightly.  He worked to clear the thickness from his head and lay back against the pillows.  "I saw her, too...early in the morning--about five.  I was up on the roof; it was still dark...She was standing under the tree, where it hangs over.  I figured it was her, anyway.  She had the yellow sweater on..."

            "Did she say anything?  What did she do?"

            He shook his head.  "She was just...looking.  Then I blinked...she wasn't there.  I thought it was just...you know, something in my head.  And then I went down, to make sure you were okay.  I figured...if it was real, you would've seen it in me..."

            "I wonder what it means."

            He had no experience seeing anything like this and now he was worried for her--for what it might mean to her, for what she might read into it--and his head was thick with the jumbled confusion of fatigue.  He pulled up and reached for the blanket that was pushed back against the wall.   

            "Here."  His voice was soft.  "Get some sleep.  You could use it." 

            Something warm and soft brushed her temple and the blanket was piled against her.  When she looked he was lying down again, on his side, already drifting.  Maybe she'd imagined it.

            "Good night, Alex," she said quietly.

            She stood, turned off the bedside light and went to the window next to the recliner.  Colored lights twinkled silently beyond the glass; approaching planes winked small dotted lines across the sky.  She went to the corner, wrapped the blanket around herself and sat down in the chair.  She leaned back.  It was still there, the lightness of breath and touch against her temple, almost but not quite real. 

            She lay open-eyed and traced the shadow-patterns of leaves on the ceiling.

            "Well," Dale said, coming through the doorway from the garage, "The bad news is that darn kid did write your e-mail."

            Scully got up from where she'd been sitting on the couch.

            "Oh, I gave him what for.  He won't go doing a fool thing like that again...Where's Ben, by the way?"

            "He was in the shower a minute ago..."

            Mulder's head appeared in the doorway.

            "David did do it," she said.

            "But..."  Dale wagged a finger.  "There's a flip side to this one, luckily, which is that he didn't send it from home.  He went up to Cincinnati, sent it off from some cybercafe using an addy he'd just created that of course he's never going to use again."

            "So when they try to trace it..." Scully said.

            "...it'll just give the phone number at the cybercafe."  Mulder's eyes closed.  "At least he had that much sense."

            "Well," Dale said.  "I figure he finally had more than he could take with Ron and Heather and all, and then to find out it was something the plant'd known about all along..."  He shook his head.  "I've been there.  I know the feeling...And I think when he thought up this message thing he got a little carried away, swept into a kind of James Bond frame of mind..."

            "At least they won't be able to trace it here."  Scully looked at Mulder in the doorway and then at Dale.  "Thank you for checking it out."

            "My pleasure."  He glanced at the living room clock.  "I figure I'm going to be needing some shuteye here before I go to work in the morning, so unless you two need anything else, I'm going to shuffle off to bed."

            "We'll be fine," Scully said. 

            She watched Dale go through the kitchen and off toward the other end of the house.

            "Did you send a mail to the Gunmen?" Mulder said.  A towel hung from his neck.

            "Yes.  Hopefully they'll be able to find a way to tamper with the monitors in my mother's room."

            "Smoky's not likely to go in and actually check on her.  He'll just go with what the readouts tell him."

            "I hope so, Mulder.  For Mom's sake, I hope so."

            She leaned back against the corner of the couch and ran a hand along the beige fabric.  A cuckoo clock ticked a chainy rhythm in the kitchen.

            "I think we could both use some sleep, too, Scully."

            She pressed her lips together and paused a moment before she looked up.  His eyes were on the computer screen.

            "I think you're right.  I..."  She let out a slow breath.

            "I can take the couch," he said.  "If you need some space."  He looked up, though not quite at her.

            "I...think I do.  There are things I need to sort out."

            "Yeah, well I guess I've got a little sorting to do myself."

            She nodded and paused.  "...Mulder, you know you're not going to fit on the couch.  I'll take it."

            He shrugged.  "Suit yourself.  Just thought I'd offer."

            "I could use a blanket, though..."

            "Blanket and a pillow coming up."

            He disappeared into the bedroom.  She went to the couch and sat down.  In a moment he returned with bedding and a pillow.

            "Is there anything we forgot to do?" she said, standing.

            "We wrote the Gunmen about messing with the monitors.  We decided on Sunday as the day you're supposed to show up..."

            "Do you think it's waiting too long, Mulder?"

            "I think we need that interim time to get your mother out.  Whenever we do it, it's got to be before you're supposed to get there."

            She nodded and looked at the beige fabric under her hand.

            "...Tomorrow I try to find out something more about Angie Connors," he said, filling in the silence.  "Did Sandy say anything about her?"

            "She didn't know much but she said she'd ask her friends--the blind couple."  She stood and picked up a sheet and began to spread it across the couch cushions.  "Mom's in the hands of the Gunmen..."

            "I'm still trying to figure out the girl.  She seems to be Krycek's little cheerleader."

            "Hopefully she's right about the Smoking Man's schedule at least..."  She tucked the sheet in and spread the blanket on top of it.

            He nodded.  "I hope so, too..."

            She looked up.  His mouth had closed into the small, compact mouth.  His mind was somewhere else; she knew where it was.  She turned off the lamp and slipped off her shoes.  He stood at the window now, looking out.  She sat down on the couch.

            "Goodnight, Mulder."

            He nodded.  She paused, got up again and went to the window.

            "Mulder, I'm sorry...for what's happened to you.  I can't imagine what it would be like...to realize that someone you trusted--who you'd been intimate with--had misled you about their intentions, their motives."

            He nodded again.

            She rested a hand on his arm.  "I know it can't be easy."

            His mouth moved slightly, positioning a sunflower seed.  She returned to the couch, pulled back the blanket and sheet and got in.  With the pillow close around her neck, she turned toward the back of the couch and closed her eyes.  A moment later she heard him padding back to his room.