Mulder rolled and reached out. The sheets beside him were cold; the pillow was...pushed all the way up to the wall. He opened one eye. No Scully. Morning. It was--he blinked--barely light, just a thin grayness rising, taking over the darker sky.

There, she was sitting on the edge of the bed, covers pulled around her waist, facing the kitchen. The contours of her back were barely visible in the dimness. Only the curves stood out--the curves of violins or guitars, perfect works of craftsmanship, broadness narrowing in the middle and then spreading again, gentle curves, smooth and fine-grained and amazingly familiar.

He reached toward her. She turned around, startled.

"Mulder, did I wake you?"

"No. I mean...I reached over and your place was empty. So I guess, yeah, it woke me up." He paused. "Just up early?"

"Up early. Couldn't sleep any longer." She shrugged. "One and the same, I think."

"Nervous?"

A pause and she nodded.

"Want company?"

A smile crossed her face. He pulled up and scooted himself to the edge of the bed to join her.

"Thinking?" He drew the blanket up closer around them.

"Thinking."

She was cool up against his side.

"Mulder, Tracy said something...that your whole life can change in just a moment. I got up yesterday thinking--worrying--about my mother, about...how she was doing and how long it's been since I've seen her, how impossibly long it could still be and now..." She smiled slightly. "Here it is, my opportunity, completely unanticipated. But...."

"What?"

She raised her eyebrows. "I don't think I ever felt this kind of...trepidation before. In a way you never...you go into an operation, an assignment, not really knowing what it will bring in terms of risk, or danger. This could be nothing, it could be...just a parcel delivery, if it's what it appears to be. Land, unload, take a side trip..."

Nothing more. She looked down at the carpet. The light outside was gradually becoming brighter, more colored.

"I think..." she said finally, "that I never really saw what there was to lose until now, and...how do you deal with that? How do you decide what's an acceptable risk? What move do I not make, what lead do I not follow, what...fork in the road do I forego to assure that I'll be able to sit here like this another morning--here with you?"

"Scully, you don't need to let it all hinge on me..."

"But that's just the thing, Mulder. I do want to be here. I need that--for myself. And when does that turn your life into just...self-interest, self-absorption? When does your level of protection overtake your ability to go out there and make a difference?"

"The hypothetical greater good versus the concrete personal good?"

She nodded. "Or is it just a sign of getting older?--pulling in, protecting yourself?"

"I think, Scully..." He rested his injured hand carefully on her shoulder. "...that if you were truly just...pulling in, just trying to protect yourself...then you wouldn't be sitting here now trying to deal with it. It wouldn't be an issue for you." He brushed her temple with his lips. "You up for a walk? Might be a good thing, you know--get beyond these four walls."

She looked up at him and nodded. He stood and stretched.

"Mulder, thank you."

"For what?"

"For taking me seriously. For not giving me a predigested answer or trying to...lay the truth on me."

He smiled slightly and offered her a hand up.

Maria dropped the rose clippings into the basket beside her and turned back to the thorny bush. It had become overgrown and now the price would have to be paid in severe pruning to keep it from becoming leggy and unattractive. The long-term was usually that way--a sacrifice now, a bit of pain accepted in the interest of a better end result. She took hold of an errant branch with a gloved hand and cut into it low, only inches from the ground.

"Maria?"

She jumped and gasped.

"Brian, I didn't hear..."

"You okay?"

There was a sharp stinging on her forearm. She looked down to see a growing bead of bright red that swelled over the spot and began to run.

"I'm...I think so. I just...wasn't ready for anyone, I guess. I didn't hear you coming." She set down the shears she'd been using and pulled the glove from her hand.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to..."

"It's not your fault, Brian. I jumped."

He was turning her around by the shoulder, leading her toward the house.

"What are you doing out here so early? It's not even seven o'clock."
"Well, I went to bed so early last night, I couldn't sleep any longer." She paused. He opened the door for her and they went into the kitchen. "No, that's not entirely it, either. I've been promising you I'd get your roses trimmed and I meant to do it. In the night I woke up and remembered I'd left an experiment going in my office. I was supposed to check it after 36 hours and it completely slipped my mind. I'm going to have to go back early."

He turned on the faucet and she put her arm under the running water. Streaks of red spilled off and ran down the drain, lessening as the cold water worked its effect on the wound.

"How is it?" his said. He came up behind her and set a bandage on the counter.

"It's fine; it's alright."

She patted her arm dry and applied the bandage, pressing the flaps carefully to make them stick. She could feel him close, watching. Concerned.

"What's been bothering you, Maria? You've seemed so preoccupied."

She turned to him, slipped a finger through the space between two buttons on his shirt and rested her head against his chest. After a moment his arms went around her waist.

"Okay, I don't have to know. It's okay. But you're a very, very mysterious woman, you know that?"

"I know, Brian. I'm very aware. I'm not sure it's entirely a good thing, either."

The old man punched in the phone number, eased himself back in his chair and brought the Morley to his lips. He inhaled, paused and let out a stream of hazy white.

"Briggs here."

"Yes..." He sat forward. "What progress do we have?"

"Phone records for the Greenwich house were all local--no calls to the sister..."

"Any to 800 numbers?"

"Negative. There was one number that's an ISP dial-up, though. She called it twice yesterday."

He raised his eyebrows. Teena had gone high tech. It seemed unlike her. "And the Baltimore location?"

"Nothing for the past eight weeks and then two days ago, half a dozen calls and after that, zip."

"Calls to..."

"Another ISP number--four of 'em. One to Eastern airlines' reservations and one to Baltimore airport information."

He frowned and jabbed the half-spent Morley into the ashtray. "Did you check for reservations?"

"None by her name..."

"Undoubtedly she fancies she's playing some sort of game. Check the airline's records against the time she called in."

"Will do."

"And prints?"

"Four sets, sir. Hers and then three others that didn't pull up any matches."

Undoubtedly one of the other sets belonged to her sister. There could very easily be guests.

"And at the Greenwich house..."

"I don't recall requesting prints from the Greenwich house..."

"Well, you got 'em, sir. Mulder and Scully--they've both been there."

The cigarette package that sat in his hand was drawn in tightly and crushed. The far wall throbbed, out of focus. He cleared his throat and forced his voice into calmness.

"Any other...identifiable prints?"

"Negative, sir."

"Well, I believe you have your work cut out for you. Find her reservations. I need to know where she is. Undoubtedly there will be a fake ID involved. And the car? You found the car?"

"No, sir. But I believe we may locate it at the airport."

"Yes. Quite possibly." A pause. He patted his breast pocket and looked down at the crumpled package on the table. "While we're on the subject of fingerprints, I have two more locations for you. No hurry. When the Baltimore work has been done..."

"Hold just a moment, sir. My pen seems to have run out of ink..."

The old man stood, walked to the window, lifted a blind and stared out unseeing. She'd been hiding them. He'd spoken to her on the phone and she'd been hiding them all along. On the grass below, two crows fought over a scrap of something. He let the blind go abruptly and turned back toward the desk. After all he'd done.

"Sir?"

Krycek rubbed his wet hair with a towel and then tossed the towel over the rod that held the shower curtain. He took a comb from the shelf, ran it through his hair and looked into the mirror. Different. Big difference from a week or two ago; he was beginning to look like himself again.

No word from the old man yet. He wanted that guy--the one in the hospital--the one with the pony tail. He'd be chasing him down like a bloodhound. The old man'd be back sometime soon--probably within a few hours--for information, to get an opinion or lay out a theory and see what kind of response he'd get. If only he could read the old man the way she did.

He stopped and stared at the yellow cup on the shelf. It'd seemed as if she'd been here--earlier, when he was just waking up, as if she'd been sitting on the bed, some kind of lingering imprint like the drifting smell of the flowers his mother'd had in the Baltimore condo but the nearness of touch, this, as if she'd been leaning over him. Probably just wishful thinking. But if it was her...would she do what he'd done in his mind, watch over her without waking her, trying to keep it together, knowing it'd be too hard to leave any other way? She'd know whether he could take it or not. If it was her, would she leave a sign, plant a memory this way so he'd know she'd gotten as close as she could?

If she could just make it through the rest of her pregnancy, make it through the delivery. No guarantees she'd be home free even then, though, if the kid was what he seemed, circumstances considered. What would it do to her, having a child like...? No telling what it'd be like. Maybe she'd had a gut feeling all along. Maybe that was why she seemed indifferent sometimes when he'd notice the kid moving; she wasn't indifferent about anything else. Sometime, some way...There had to be a way.

Krycek looked down at the comb still in his hand. He made himself move, laid the comb on the edge of the sink and went out to the shelf above the microwave where the coin jar sat. He dropped a handful of quarters into his pocket and slipped on his shoes. Just a walk, a little exercise, slow and easy--nobody here to catch you now if you overdo it and relapse. It'd been nearly a week, though, since the last time she'd brought in a paper. There could be a message sitting in the personals waiting for a reply, some unexpected information or...You never knew.

His mother. She'd be gone now--in hiding somewhere but she might write again; if she found out anything about how Tracy was doing, she probably would. She didn't even know him; she'd only seen him twice. And yet she'd compromised herself to get Tracy away; she'd know well enough what the old man was like, what kind of danger she'd be in if he found her out. No--it wasn't just Tracy she'd done it for.

He took a deep breath, went to the door and let himself out.

Maria wiped the wetness from the corner of her eye with the tip of a finger and refocused on the road. It was a ridiculous thought. Yes, there was the revolver but she was no assassin; she couldn't even make it five minutes from Brian's without her eyes tearing up and threatening to endanger her view of the road. She could ask Spender to do something about this Fox Mulder but there was no assurance that he would actually solve the problem and now there was no time. Tomorrow was Monday--the plant, and the prospect, if she returned with things the way they were, of jeopardizing the results of six years of painstaking work.

But taking no action would mean committing to flight, whisking away the materials, the notes...but most of all of finding another base and having to establish the work all over again, as if she were no more than an itinerant gypsy. Years more in some town or compound, having to trade pleasantries, put on a persona, build trust. It would be unlikely there'd be another Brian, either. It had been comfortable to accept his affection in much the way she'd accepted her parents', the spotlight on precocious little Maria, everyone charmed. He'd been her rock more than he'd know, her stability, the background against which her life was played out. But then that was exactly the situation--he didn't know. Not from her, anyway. He thought he did, but it was his own conception of her he was in love with. He poured his all into the relationship while she merely added her overflow after the pitcher of her work had been filled. It was the same thing that had led to the disastrous evening in Kraznoyarsk, two parties intent only on how they could profit.

A momentary jag in the rhythm inside her.

Here was an entirely new possibility, one that would never have come to mind if she hadn't been luxuriating in her own misery. He had no more trust in Spender than she did herself, and he was certainly capable. This annoyance, Mulder, could be out of her way and the work could continue--solid progress, Brian on the weekends, no need to move, to delay, to re-establish. If only he were still alive and she could locate him quickly enough.

Maria pressed harder on the accelerator and looked ahead, toward Owensburg.

Tracy stretched and opened her eyes. Her head was on the mattress, the pillow in front of her; she'd had her arms hard around it, dreaming. Wishing. She sat up, looked around the barely familiar room--Heather's spare room--and hesitated. There was a feeling, strange--something being put in motion that couldn't quite be touched, or defined. She waited a moment but nothing more came. In any event, there was work to be done. There must be something, somehow, that she could do for Alex. Something to be done for Mulder. Scully was flying to Baltimore, accompanying the mysterious boxes and he'd be worried at the very least. And Sandy, ready giver of herself...There had to be a way to offer some comfort for her pain. At the moment what it might be was a mystery, but with thought, with a little focus...If only she got herself out of the way, the answer would come.

She closed her eyes and looked up. Alex. For a moment it was as if a hand were extended--his. She took it in her mind, felt the grip firm against hers and let go. Strength to go on, and they both had work to do. She opened her eyes and moved, climbed off the side of the bed and turned back to smooth the sheets into place. Outside the room's single tall window, tree leaves moved slowly with the currents of air. It was a beautiful spot, a peaceful view full of trees and shade. She reached for the comforter, spread it over the bed and put the pillow in place.

A light sound--maybe knocking, maybe Adrie--came from the direction of the door. She turned to see her mother in the shadows, transparent, watching.

Be strong, she mouthed. A blink and she was gone.

The old man set his Morley on the edge of the ashtray and reached for the ringing phone.

"Yes?"

"Briggs here. We found the white Toyota in long term parking. I've got somebody dusting it as we speak." Noise came from the background, the roar of jet engines.

"And reservations? Have you found anything?"

"A dozen reservations were made within a window of her dialing time and five minutes after."

"Yes..."

"Eight were men. One of the women was in a party of four, one was in a wheelchair."

"A wheelchair would be too noticeable, too easy to remember."

"That leaves a single flight to Boston at 4:50...and the other one was..." He spoke louder, fighting background noise. "...two women on a flight to Cincinnati in the early evening--relatives probably, same last name.

"And the name on the Boston flight?"

"Nancy...Valens."

"Check it out." A pause. He reached for the Morley. "And look into the one in the wheelchair, too. Where was that one going?"

"Florida. Miami. Name was...lemme see...Templeton. Ruth."

He grunted and forced the smoke out into the space in front of him. "Check into it. And contact me as soon as you have anything on those prints."

"Will do."

The old man hung up, set the phone on the table and glanced at his watch. 8:11. It was early yet. It was a start, what they had, and she couldn't hide forever.

Krycek dug two quarters from his pocket and dropped them into the slot. A clunk and the door to the newspaper machine was released. He pulled it open, steadied the door with the prosthesis, reached quickly inside and removed a paper--Sunday paper with all its inserts, heavy enough to slip out of your hand and land everywhere. He laid it on top of the vending machine and carefully worked out the classifieds, leaving the rest behind. As he turned to go he halted mid-stride, his eye caught by a poster stapled to a power pole near the alley. Tracy's picture was on it. He went closer. Reward for information...disappeared...beloved daughter...in need of regular medication for a chronic condition. He shook his head.  Inside, his stomach hardened. In the picture, she was sitting on a park bench. Must've been when he was watching her, before he'd recruited her to help out; she was wearing the old dress, the one she'd collapsed in. His jaw set. How many pictures did the old man have of her? Did he have someone watching when she went out to go to the pharmacy or the grocery store? She'd walked down to pick up the car twice; would he know that, too? Maybe the old man knew the truth; maybe he was just stringing himself up with his story about her disappearing. He swallowed.

Old man'd be coming soon enough, looking for observations or someone to bounce theories off. If he wasn't buying, there'd be signs, indicators.

"You know her?" The voice was foreign, a woman's voice.

He looked into the alley.

"The girl on the sign--you know her?" The woman's mouth stretched carefully around the words; she pronounced 'her' like 'here'. A broom was in her hand; she had black hair and Mayan features. She'd come out of a shop's back door.

He shrugged.

"She shop here. Twice she buy dresses from me. Very nice. Nice girl." She paused. "You know her?"

"Seen her around a couple of times."

"Since this?"

She came up to the poster and pointed a brown finger at the date--Thursday, the day they'd been at her place. The one day they'd had to themselves. He tightened and shook his head no.

"If you see her..." She'd opened the shop's front door and was headed inside. "Come, I show you what she wears. If you see her, you will know."

He followed the woman inside. She went to a rack in a corner and pushed back several long dresses.

"Like this. She have one like this--white...and another..." She moved several more. "This yellow." She reached back into the rack again, her hand headed toward a red dress, but she stopped herself. "I hope..." She looked down slightly. "...that she returns. Ojala."

She pushed the dresses back together and went toward the counter. Krycek turned and followed her.

"I'll let you know--you know, if I see her around."

The woman had slid open the back of a display case and was reaching toward a card that held a pair of earrings. No, a single earring. She brought it out and looked up.

"She like this. She is a...very careful shopper, but twice she looks at this a long time." Her hands went up. "I don' know what happens to the other but there is only one." It was silver, a tiny silver stud with a little piece of turquoise set into it. "I should have just give it to her. The things you don' think of at the time."

He set down the classifieds and picked the card off the counter. It was something she'd like, small and unobtrusive but nice.

"How much you want for it?"

The woman hesitated a moment, surprised. "But there is no...mate."

"Doesn't matter."

She looked down at the earring and back up at him. "Five dollars?"

He reached into his pocket and fished around inside. "Hadn't planned on buying anything..."

Back pocket--there were a couple of bills in there. He reached in and came up with a five. He pushed it across the counter, put the small card with the earring into his pocket and picked up his paper.

"Hope she shows up," he said, nodding at the woman, starting toward the door.

"Yes. I will be praying for her."

He went out into the bright haze of morning and started home, glancing at the poster beside the alley as he passed. There was another one across the street; he could see it now--red--in the front window of the insurance agency. A third was posted on a glass door going to an upstairs apartment. He swallowed. The old man'd hunt down even the most insignificant...like the nurse, the one he'd mentioned last night. He could be working on something now, one of his goons lying in wait for her. Or the brake lines on her car could be clipped, or...Nah. He needed the information; he'd want to grill her first, wring her dry before he threw her away.

Another poster, this time on a lamp post. Tracy looked out from it unsuspecting. How much effort was he putting into this? He had Mulder's crew he was trying to pin down and he wouldn't be letting Mulder himself slip by; he had to be doing something to try and find him. But still he'd sent his goons out asking questions and now there were posters everywhere, like signs for a lost show dog.

Krycek made himself move on.

If he tipped Mulder about the woman it'd be just one more thing pointing at him. Old man could've gotten to her already, anyway.

He stopped involuntarily. Poster on the ground, ripped halfway through the picture.

Krycek's jaw set. He turned away and focused on the entry to his building. Only three doors. Go.

"What do you think, Mulder?"

Scully studied herself in the mirror, sleeveless top in oversize pale blue and white checks belted at the waist and a pair of brand new dark jeans, boots below them. She glanced behind her; Mulder was sitting on the edge of the bed, distracted. Tracy and Bethy occupied the steps just outside the screen door, talking quietly while Adrie scoured the path beyond them for sticks and other building materials.

"Mulder?"

"Huh?" He turned now.

"Sandy's wardrobe choice...?"

"Yeah, I think...it's just what you need. Makes you look like a local girl going on her first flight to the big city." His voice drifted off.

"She did a good job. I asked her to find something that would fit in...and above all something that wouldn't look 'me'."

She paused. His gaze had drifted toward the door again. He turned back now that her voice had stopped.

"Sorry, I..." He bit his lip. "Sorry. Good thing we weren't like this when we first started working together." He stood up and came toward her. "I would've been worrying about you on every assignment."

"Sandy?" she said, keying off his unspoken question about where the conversation had been dropped.

"Yeah, she...She always thinks I'm just joking when I say anything about working for the Bureau but she's good. She's got good sense and she's got drive. A lot of potential there." He nodded at her. "You look good, FBI woman. A pair of shades..."

"I've got those. And the wig..." She pointed to a bag on the desk. And a weapon, something that didn't need mentioning, judging from the mood he seemed to be in.

"I'll..." he began. "...get on the Net--you know, after I get the girls back into town. See if I can dig up anything more on our friendly plant physician." He looked down at his bandaged hand.

"I know you'd prefer to have been part of this assignment, Mulder." She pursed her lips. "But if not for this incident with your hand--with the sodium oxybate--you might never have felt the urgency to question Krycek about her. We might have known a lot less about her than we do."

He paused a moment, mouth half open, poised to speak. "I guess...I know... that you're beyond capable, Scully. I just...It's like you said this morning. It's harder now--letting go."

"And..." She smiled and put a hand on his arm. "...a moment to ourselves might be nice but we"--she nodded toward the door--"seem to have inherited children. Not that that's entirely a bad thing..."

"It isn't, is it? Easy to get to where you forget that whole part of the world exists." He brushed a kiss against her forehead. "Anyway, have a good visit with you mom...Sure hope those boxes give us something to work with." A pause. "Thank the Gunmen for watching our backs."

"I will."

"Come back in one piece tonight."

"I will, Mulder. I'll e-mail you from my mother's."

"Good." He looked up at the ceiling and closed his eyes. "Scully, have our lives always been this crazy?"

"Six years now."

He bit his lip and nodded. "That's what I thought."

It was a farfetched idea to begin with, perhaps only the product of desperation combined with wishful thinking. He could be anywhere; he could be halfway around the world or somehow beyond reach. Or he could be dead. He seemed to live that kind of life; he'd always seemed coiled, ready to spring, as if the world were about to collapse in pieces around him. Perhaps it was. Or Spender could have found him out in one of his double-dealings and done away with him. His own father. The mere thought, though, of a parent so unsupportive, so blatantly manipulative...It was the thing that had kept her from turning away from him in amused scorn at the outset.

Maria turned from her place at the computer to consider the still-life of her office.

Best to be prepared. There were notes--files--all at home; they could be easily readied and put in the trunk of the car. But if she could find him, could locate him in time...and he were amenable...

She could call in sick for a day or two if it allowed a plan to be put into effect. As long as there was nothing here, in the computer files, that the intrepid Mr. Mulder could stumble across. He'd need evidence before he could make any move.

And what could she offer the son of Spender that would buy his cooperation and ensure his silence?

"The fingerprints, sir, in the vehicle..."

"Yes." He pressed the receiver to his ear.

"Four sets, sir. Hers, Mulder's, Scully's and one of the other sets that was found in the condo."

He frowned. "Yes..."

Had they been traveling together?--had they been together all along? It seemed unlike Mulder to have stayed someplace so obvious. And on the other hand, they hadn't discovered him until just now, either. Perhaps it was his own mistake; perhaps he'd neglected to take his own advice and had fallen victim to the blinders of personal attachment. He'd always protected Teena...long, in fact, after there had ceased to be any strategic reason. He'd been at her bedside when she'd had the stroke in spite of the territoriality of her hopelessly idealistic son, who continued to defend her, to attempt to protect her even though she gave no sign of returning his affection. Indeed, the bounty hunter had had to be convinced, at no small personal expense, to pull Teena back from the brink. She would have been gone without his help, her frantic son alone in the world. And this was her repayment.

"...do you want us to do, sir?"

He refocused on the phone and jabbed the end of a cold, half-smoked Morley into the pile of ash in the ashtray.

"Have you finished tracing those reservations--the passengers?"

"No, sir, we just..."

He placed a fresh cigarette between his lips. Would she have been traveling with her sister? It seemed unlikely but avenues unexplored were possibilities thrown away, like currency tossed into a bonfire.

"Do it. Check the list of male passengers, too." He paused. "And I believe it's time to add that other flight--the one with the two women--to the list, as well."

10:08.

Krycek forced himself to look away from the numbers on the clock. It was too early to be worried about why the old man hadn't shown. There'd be plenty of time; he'd come around.

Too early to feel this jittery, stomach hard and in a knot. You could give yourself an ulcer this way.

He pulled up, went to the refrigerator and opened the door. Same stuff as before--no surprise. He let the door close again and reached into his pocket, feeling for the little card. The earring was warm from being next to his body; he rubbed it lightly with his thumb. A strength, not a weakness--it's what she'd said, staring into the abyss of their separation the other night in the dream. That they weren't leaving like bees with their stingers torn out, but that they'd given each other resources, strength. It was what she'd be sticking with--that and the hope that they could somehow manage to find each other again.

Two days ago. It'd been about this same hour, the two of them lying warm and drowsy in the thick, bright silence of her room, hidden away, not a soul anywhere aware of where they were. As if nothing in the world could get through and touch them.

His hand tightened and squeezed hard; he forced his breathing to slow. Eyes open, head on straight. If you floundered, you lost; it was inevitable. You went down and the people you were protecting went down with you. The old man was intent on catching the guy from the hospital. It was something, a toe-hold. Better stay alert, encourage his focus there, give Tracy a chance to slip by unnoticed. Give your own involvement a chance to slide by. And in the meantime, get on with it. Scan those personals. Connect with the contacts who've gotten out of reach. Keep the lines open, the possibilities there. Planet's always spinning; loosen your grip and you get thrown off, spun away into the blackness.

You knew this was coming, what it was going to be like.

His stomach growled. He opened the refrigerator door again and reached in for the leftover Chinese. The hospital nurse--likely somebody with a family and a whole string of extended relatives depending on her. How far would the old man press her?

Tracy stepped up into the trailer and closed the screen door behind her. Mulder turned from the computer to look at her.

"You two ready to go?"

She shook her head. "Adrie just took Bethy to see his bridge by the creek. But I can go get her if you want."

"No, I..." He looked out the window above the bed, lifted his hand--bandaged hand--as if to run it back through his hair, and stopped. He shook his head. "Just trying to...switch gears, I guess, and this..." He looked at the hand. "Doesn't help at all."

"It was strange for me at first, watching Alex do things. It takes so much patience to...snap a snap, or open a milk carton, or hand-write a note one-handed. The paper keeps wanting to scoot away from you."

"So I'm finding."

He pursed his lips. The room fell into silence. A jay in a tree outside squawked repeatedly, stopped and then could be heard again, farther away.

"It's a strength, not a weakness," she said finally.

He looked up at her.

"What you have--you and Scully. When it's personal you worry about someone in a way you never have before. The old man's spent a lifetime drilling into Alex that caring for anyone is a liability, just a handle for other people to use to manipulate you."

"Does a damn good job of it, too...Smoky," he added. "Manipulating people."

She sat down on the corner of the bed. "I know. But I was thinking about that yesterday. Who's to say that caring about someone who's taught you a lot, who's stood up for you, who you've shared something special with...that it has to turn into a weakness when you're apart? You still have what they've given you. It doesn't...disappear...when they're out of your sight."

He shrugged and leaned forward, elbows on knees. He smiled slightly. "Scully's taught me...to test my hypotheses...and not to run off after every possibility that's waved at me without thinking it through first."

"I tend to..." Her hands came together, fingers grasping each other. "...go with what comes to me...maybe a little bit like what you do. Alex has taught me to plan ahead." She smiled briefly. "At least, he's tried. I can see the importance of it now, though it's still not easy to do."

He was watching her hands, the way they squeezed together.

"You okay?" he said. "You've seemed a little...edgy this morning."

She looked down at her lap and swallowed. "I guess it's one of those...things that comes to me, only I don't always know what to trust of what I see. And..." She looked away. One hand pressed the other.

"And you saw something? A vision?"

"I'd think it was just...wishful thinking. But it never happened before--not until a few days ago."

"What happened?"

"I saw my mother--a vision of my mother. Have you ever seen visions of your sister?"

"Once, but I think someone was manipulating my desire to see her...to find her." His lower lip pushed forward; his jaw set and he went on. "What do you mean, that you saw her?"

"She was standing on the stairs--in the building where Alex lives. She was...kind of transparent and she was just watching me, just for a moment. And then she was gone. It was five days ago or so. And then this morning, just after I woke up...I was making the bed and I heard a noise near the door. And I turned around and she was there again."

"And she just vanished again?"

She nodded. "I'd think it was...you know--me, something going on inside me, except that..."

He waited for her to go on.

"Alex saw her, too, that first time. Not when I did. But the same day. He was up on the roof--there's this patio on the roof. It was early morning...and he saw her just for a moment, like I did."

Mulder sat thinking and finally shrugged. "I don't know. You have no idea what it means?"

"No. I feel like...like something's about to happen, but I don't know if it's something to do with you--you and Scully--or Alex, or..." Her hands tightened. She looked up suddenly. "I just remembered something. The man who's going to drive Scully to her mother..."

"Yeah?"

"The old man's looking for him. He brought Alex sketches last night--different ways he might look--you know, long hair, short hair, different colors..."

"Wait, how do you know this?"

"I...sometimes I can...travel into people's heads. Or I find myself there. That's what happened with Skinner the first time. I didn't know who he was--the old man hadn't even taken me to Alex yet, but I fell asleep one afternoon and I was there with him, in a dream. He was trying to figure out what he could've done in the war--the time when Dale saved him and lost his arm. And then later I went to take a message to him for Alex and he knew me right away; we both recognized each other." She paused. "I've...gone to Alex that way. I did last night, just for a minute or two..." She swallowed against the pressure in her throat. "Though I didn't let him know I was there this time. It would've been too hard--coming and then having to go right away. I didn't want to throw him off with the old man around." She sighed. "I guess I just wanted to know he was okay." She looked away a moment. "Anyway, I can see it inside him--you know, what he's seen. It's like...kind of like a video, I guess. The old man came over and woke him up wanting to know if he'd ever seen the man who helped Scully's mother escape."

"Byers. John Byers," Mulder said quietly. He paused. "What did he say?"

"Alex didn't know him. But he was thinking how determined the old man seemed--to find him. To catch you, I guess. To pay you back for...winning that move; it's like a chess game to the old man. I think maybe Scully..."

"...would be safer traveling with someone else." He sat up straighter suddenly and turned toward the computer.

She nodded. "In case the old man's been able to trace him."

"Well, keep your fingers crossed, because if he finds Byers, he's found three people, not just one."

He reached for the mouse to click on the mail program at the bottom of the screen. A pause; a grimace. A redirect. Mouse in the left hand, finger awkward over the button. A click and the mail screen came up. She watched him slowly peck out the message with a single finger, hesitating between one side of the keyboard and the other.

He'd heal, Mulder would. He'd type and open milk cartons without ever thinking twice and never have to drop the receiver at a pay phone to put the money in the slot.

Footsteps sounded on the path and then Bethy's round face appeared against the screen, her cheeks rosy from exertion against the paleness of her skin. Tracy smiled in spite of herself.

To: DaddyW@zipmail.com
From: topaz@rift.net
He's on the lookout for a nurse who helped you out. Make sure she's out of reach.

"First flight, eh?"

Scully nodded and smiled and then yelled a 'yes' over the roar of the small plane. "I never had reason to fly before, but some cousins are meeting me. We're going to go see the sights in Washington. Lucky Dale found you. I appreciate the discount."

The pilot shrugged and looked ahead. "No biggie. It can be addictive, you know? First time I went up I was hooked. Been bumming around airports ever since, anything I can do to buy fuel and stay up in the air."

Scully nodded. There was hardly a point in continuing the conversation above the drone of the engines and Sam was busy watching his gauges. She turned to look out the window. It had been years since she'd been on a plane this small. Five years, actually, since that bumpy flight to Puerto Rico to chase Mulder down at the Arecibo observatory. It came back now--the turbulence, the rough landing, the ascent to the top of the mountain in the heat and the way he'd spoken, wild-eyed, about what he'd discovered. The way he'd looked when she found him, sweaty and unconscious, on the floor; for a second she'd feared the worst.

And if she hadn't gone? Would he have found a way to escape the death squad they'd sent after him? She could have spent the intervening years doing autopsies and teaching. Or conducting by-the-book investigations, producing perfect, commendable reports. There could have been a condo and a relatively conventional life and a relatively conventional relationship with a man who crunched numbers or shaped corporate strategy or who played a violin. The boyish man who sat on the floor of an Oregon motel room in the dark, pouring out the self he withheld from the rest of the scoffing world, might have been forgotten--the partner who stepped eagerly forward to engage her in intellectual sparring, yet wore his heart unprotected on his sleeve. But not likely. He'd been a jarring, vital, brightly-colored intrusion into her otherwise ordered, solemn universe, the hand always at her back to support, and now...surely she'd slip and say something to her mother. It was almost inevitable.

But it could wait; it would have to. Mind on the assignment; it was imperative now to stay on task. The Gunmen would be in place when they arrived, observing from some adjoining hangar. She would gather what information she could about the hangar where the boxes were deposited, cross three hangars over to a spot where Byers would pick her up and they'd transmit the information to Langley and Frohike by cell phone. Then she and Byers would be gone, on their way to her mother. Undoubtedly he'd bring a laptop so they could send word to Mulder when the other two determined what the boxes held. Hopefully the information, whatever it turned out to be, would prove useful. It seemed ridiculous in a way, going after the Smoking Man, like the young shepherd David volunteering to face Goliath, something even regular troops refused to do. And yet David had won. In spite of the aura he projected, in the end Smoky had to be as mortal as anyone else.

Scully looked out the window and down onto the increasingly rolling blues and greens far below. Her weapon was in her purse, the compartment that held it halfway unzipped, the clip inserted. She could feel the weight and hardness of it, the tension of holding it out, braced, pointed at any one of a dozen suspects--no, at Luis Cardenal fallen near the curb, begging her not to shoot him the way he'd shot her sister, without feeling or hesitation. The overwhelming desire to pull the trigger and the knowledge that it was wrong, and then turning, a knife blade against her throat, shoving the barrel of her weapon against Krycek's gut and firing, followed by seconds that were only a blur, time passed without focus, and finally the realization that she was on top of him, the warm wetness of his blood seeping into the back of her shirt, her one overwhelming desire to be up and away from him.

"Over the border," Sam said with obvious satisfaction. "West Virginia." A nod toward his gauges. "All indicators are go."

She nodded, made herself smile and reached forward to look. She was a tourist, a Kentucky girl on her first flight to the nation's capitol for a holiday with family.

Krycek stopped himself in front of the small desk and stared out the window unseeing. Third time he'd ended up here in the last ten minutes.

Decision time, or maybe the decision'd been made when he'd turned around and walked back to those stairs. Everything out the window--the past year's work making connections, cultivating trust, moving up one slow step and then another. All of it gone. If he'd just kept walking...But there was no security with the old man, either; he'd nearly been had because of Buzz, or the recorder from Mulder's apartment. Or it could've been one of half a dozen other things that never came up. But sitting here hoping the old man wouldn't discover this latest 'disloyalty' was stupid, a lack of strategy.

Run and it's a new game, new rules; maybe you don't even know what they are and what chance have you got then? Not that anything's guaranteed here--your 'gains' won't mean much unless the old man's the lynch pin he thinks he is. Otherwise Purity'll just be tearing in, taking over everything. In the end they won't negotiate unless it gets them something and if push comes to shove...No safety--there'll be no place to hide and where's your precious advantage then? Maybe the old man and his confidence that he can alter the course of this invasion, or stall it till the vaccine works--maybe that'd been the detour, not her--that hope of escaping the apocalypse. But would Purity really halt at the sign of the old man's upstretched hand, Mr. Galactic Traffic Cop? Stop in the name of my self-interest? They'd probably laugh themselves sick if they could see. Maybe they could see; maybe they'd been watching the whole damn time. Maybe they knew everything.

He swallowed and felt his fingers tight against the back of the chair. All this time.

He looked up and let his eyes close. Nothing but the clean rhythm of his pulse in the dark. So easy to be deceived, to let yourself get carried with the currents and wake up miles off-course. And where was he now? Stretched thin with lies the old man could figure out all too easily, and with a woman-child depending on him. Maybe not even that; what were the chances they'd actually cross paths again? Or that the planet would even hold together until she had that baby? If Scully hadn't shot him most likely he'd never have seen her except for that one time. No, he would've checked--something about her--to make sure she wasn't out on the street all over again, setting herself up for trouble. But it didn't mean they would've gotten involved; look at the way they were at first, awkward, walking on eggshells. Why would he have put up with that? Why would she, knowing already who he was?

He opened his eyes, went to the narrow window and set a finger against a flaw in the glass. What was it she'd said, standing here?--that the rain on the street made the lights...all wavery, like moonlight on ponds. What it'd be worth, just a moment of real her--real like when she'd been here, or the way she'd been at her mother's. Just a moment to touch her, smell her.

Without her you wouldn't have been on the old man's fast track, either; you'd be dead now, seized up on that second pain medication. Nothing more than maggot food.

Better get it together.

He took a deep breath, let it out slowly and forced himself to loosen. A last glance out the window--old lady with her dog and her walker scooting along the sidewalk--and he returned to the bed, switched on the computer and waited for it to boot up. Mail program--he tapped and entered a password and tapped again. His fingers sat poised, waiting.

How far would this body take him--this still-recovering body? And his chances, all things considered? Better, whatever they were, than sitting here waiting to be picked off.

Scully swallowed against the tension inside her and focused on passing fuel trucks and utility vehicles as the small plane taxied toward the hanger area. Her weapon was ready if necessary. Unless someone had tapped into their e-mail, the likelihood of anyone knowing they'd be coming was almost nil. There was the outside chance that the pilot had notified Smoky, but undoubtedly adding passengers to the route would be frowned upon and Sam seemed to need every penny he could get to keep his beloved plane going. He'd done everything imaginable--including joining the Air Force in the late sixties, a strategy that hadn't worked out the way he'd intended--to satisfy his penchant for flying. He wasn't likely to risk it now.

Krycek had their e-mail addresses; he could easily have found a way to have them traced...but it wasn't at all likely he'd give them to the Smoking Man if he had. He'd endanger Tracy by doing that, and the more she talked with Tracy, the more evident it became that Krycek must value her immensely. It should be okay, nothing more than a routine package drop and the Gunmen waiting. Friends and allies. Her fingers curled tightly into her palm.

"They know where to pick you up?" Sam said now. "You didn't send them off to Baltimore International, did you?"

"No. No, they...I think they made a dry run yesterday, just to be sure." She squinted into the hazy brightness as if searching for her relatives' vehicle. Byers would meet her three buildings north of wherever they'd park. They were beginning to pass little prefab structures already, larger versions of aluminum backyard sheds. The plane slowed. A turn to the right, two buildings down and Sam brought the plane to a halt and shut down the engines.

"This is it."

Scully glanced at her watch. "I'd assumed it would take us a little longer. My cousins won't be here for another fifteen minutes at least."

"Well, you can sit here a few minutes if you're not tired of sitting already."

"Actually, I think I'd enjoy the chance to stand up. Do you need help with anything? I'm quite capable..."

"It's okay, I've got everything under control."

Sam opened his door and let himself out. Scully opened hers, considered the distance to the ground and jumped lightly.

"Hey, I could've given you a hand there if you'd just hollered," Sam said, coming around the back of the plane.

"No, it's okay. I'm used to this." She looked up and smiled. "Though my father's always maintained that my mother and I should have come with stepladders as standard equipment."

Sam nodded and walked to the hangar door, where he worked a key in a padlock. Seconds later the door slid open. Sam went inside and emerged almost immediately with a hand truck. He loaded three of the boxes onto it and rolled them toward the small building.

"What do they actually keep in these places?" Scully said, following.

"Tools, spare parts. Oil. Just like your car mechanic's garage."

He went through the doorway and off-loaded the boxes beside an old wooden desk.

"Looks like...the shed in my backyard, only bigger," Scully said. Nobody appeared to be inside. Indeed, the interior appeared dusty, as if it were used only as a pickup and distribution point. Cobwebs covered a small window to the side of the desk. There was no apparent security system, no alarm or motion sensors.

"Well, basically it is," Sam said, setting the hand truck upright for a moment. "Except that your garden shed's a little more sheltered in your backyard. In a gale wind I've seen these babies fly. They have to be secured...or you may come to regret it later."

"I can imagine." Her voice echoed slightly.

Scully leaned against the doorway and watched Sam return to the plane for the final box. He didn't waste time but moved economically, the cargo door closed and secured before he returned to the hangar. He set the box beside the others, took an envelope from his pocket, opened a desk drawer and placed the envelope inside.

"Some people got a love of paperwork," he said as he came around the desk and started toward the door. "Not me. Guess that's why I'm working for cash."

Scully stepped outside. Sam took the key from his pocket.

"Well, thank you again very much," Scully said. "It was exciting, seeing what everything looks like from the air."

"My pleasure." He offered his hand and she shook it. "You know where you're headed now? Right straight over there"--he gestured--"toward the parking lots."

Scully thanked him and started in the direction he'd pointed out. One building, two buildings, the heels of her boots tapping on the cement. A glance behind to check for anyone watching, sideways glances toward the spaces between hangars. No one. At the third building she turned and glanced back again. Sam was absorbed in his engine compartment. She quickly slipped across the roadway and between two hangars. The Gunmen must be watching...from wherever they were. She passed an open door. Two men looked up from their work.

Second building. She paused at the edge--clear--and crossed to the shadow of the next. She glanced back toward the open door she'd passed; one man was standing in the doorway; she glare made it difficult to tell if he was looking in her direction or not. She slid the zipper on her purse open a little farther.

Third building; she walked quickly along the shadowed side and paused at the far end to survey the surrounding area. Clear. Now to double back two. She started in again, keeping to the shaded side. No cars. She glanced behind her. No sign of the Gunmen's old Volkswagen bus. The rhythm of her blood was quicker now, her body taut. One more building.

"Psst. Missy..."

Scully stopped short and looked across the roadway. At the edge of the building opposite stood a short woman, a scarf over her graying hair. Adrenaline surged; Scully fought the urge to run toward the woman. She made herself cross deliberately, steps measured as if the move had been her intention all along, watching the hard pavement and the approaching corner of the building. She looked up and nodded briefly to the woman in the shadows, who pointed behind her to a white sedan. Scully went around to the passenger door, opened it and got inside. The driver's door opened and the woman entered. Both women closed their doors.

"How...?"

"It's a bit of a story," Rita said, smiling and reaching across to give her a brief hug, as much relief as greeting. "But we'd best be on our way. You have the number for John's partners in crime?"

Scully sighed her relief, nodded and took the cell phone Rita offered.

"Smooth sailing so far?" Rita said, cranking the engine and putting the car in gear.

"Yes."

"Good. I think this surreptitious stuff is aging me entirely too fast. I'll have to regale you with my tale of running down the hospital corridor with only one of those silly gowns on. I must admit at the time I had to wonder just what on God's earth had gotten into me."

There was a chuckle from the back seat.

"Now you pipe down, Will Wilkins. You just had to lie at home and worry."

Scully turned to see Will lying on the rear seat, half-hidden beneath a blanket.

"Will..." She reached to shake the hand he offered. "We're indebted to you, Mulder and myself. I can't begin to tell you..." Something swelled to fill her throat.

"Nothing you wouldn't have done for someone else, given the circumstances. You just hang in there. You've got a mother waiting."

"Does she know I'm coming?"

Will shook his head. "Nobody's said a word. I do believe this will be better than Christmas for her, though."

To: topaz@rift.net
From: che74@telcom.com
In medias res. Doing...shall we say an investigation of the corporate nature?...but can be on assignment in a couple of hours if that fits the bill. Oh, BTW, someone out there is searching for you, someone of the female persuasion. Or perhaps you yourself might think, of the piranha persuasion. Do you want me to raise a flag or not? Respond, respond...

"...I've researched those reservations, sir."

"Good." He pushed the button on the armrest beside him; the window to the driver's compartment went up. "And what did you find?"

"Nobody matching Mulder's description among the men, sir. Also, none of the men were going to the same destinations as the women, except one accompanying the wheelchair flight to Miami, but we checked that out. It's not them. Woman's eighty-five and the airline had a go-round with her about flying in the first place."

"Which leaves..." He took a Morley from the package and held it between thumb and index finger. "...the flight to Boston..."

"We traced the credit card; it's her home address. We sent someone out to verify. She's about forty-five, sir."

He frowned, slipped the cigarette between his lips and reached into his pocket for a lighter. "Perhaps there was some delay in making the reservation. She could have been waiting on hold. Add another five minutes to your search, Mr. Briggs." He held the flame to the tip of the cigarette, watched it catch and took a drag. "And the other flight--the two women?"

"That was a strange one, sir. One got off in Cincinnati but the other went on to Salt Lake."

He took the cigarette from his mouth and leaned forward. "Odd, wouldn't you say?"

"Could be Grandma dropping off a kid, or...I dunno."

"Yes, I suppose." Cigarette came to lips. "What other information do you have?"

"Woman's name is Sarah Barnhart. Kid was...lemme see..." The crackle of papers being shuffled. "Michele Barnhart. Sounds like they're related."

"Yes, it does indeed." One older, one younger from the sound of the names. Michele indeed; certainly not common for a contemporary of Teena's. "Track the women, Briggs. Check for credit card trails--where they've gone, what they've done. Let me know as soon as you have anything."

He switched off the phone and leaned back into his seat. Undoubtedly Fox would have had something to do with her circuitous plans. But no matter. He'd have Teena soon enough and once he did, Fox would come running.

Mulder padded quietly into the kitchen and filled his glass from the tap on the refrigerator door. Second time in fifteen minutes, nothing to do but wait, the Net not giving up any secrets about Dr. Jeckyll, house quiet, Tracy fallen asleep on the couch. Maybe she hadn't slept that well last night but then it wasn't easy, moving around from place to place, camping out in someone else's living room, no spot or space to claim as your own. She was doing pretty well, considering. He glanced at his watch. Scully should be there by now--the airport, anyway. Somewhere she could send a message, hopefully soon. The computer was online; the little chime would go off when anything came in.

He took a sip of the cold water and started back toward his room. Tracy stirred on the couch and resettled with her head buried against the cushions. Rita should be back within a week. She'd written Dale; evidently Wilkins was coming along and should be okay soon. Bethy'd go home and then Tracy could have her room, though most likely Miss Bookworm would be offering to share it in the interim. They'd dropped her off at the library on the way home from Barkers'. She'd probably come back with a whole stack of books and some evening he was here and not with Scully she'd curl up next to him and read aloud. Samantha'd read, but not this way. She'd had other things to occupy her--friends and climbing trees and...She'd fit in. Bethy's life had set her apart. She had friends, but there was that part of her that nobody was going to understand. Maybe that was the part she took into the world of books.

He glanced to check the computer. No mail. Soon--there should be something soon, just a note to let him know she'd made it okay, that the Gunmen were going through those boxes, that all his worry was needless. He made himself move again and returned to the bedroom. He took another drink of the water and set the glass down on the bedside table. What had Sandy thought this morning--Tracy's reaction to the haircut? She hadn't said anything but she'd be wondering; she had a hefty dose of curiosity but enough discipline to hold it in check. He tipped the blinds closed and lay down on the bed. Soon.

Tracy'd had to do his seatbelt for him. On the way up Dale had driven and the passenger seat had been no problem--hand was on the right side...or left, as the case happened to be. But coming back he'd gotten in, pulled the belt across and fumbled with the floppy latches on Dale's old seatbelts, reaching to the wrong side. He'd been getting nowhere and then she'd reached out, just a 'here', and taken and fastened it. Kind of like a hook shot--looked like it was headed one place when it was going another, no real focus put on him and the fact that he couldn't. It was a talent, a gift. Must have driven Krycek crazy at first, having her around, having to let her do--Krycek allowing, having no choice, granted, but allowing another person to see him unable, having to accept the help. She was the one to do it, though, if anybody could. Krycek, one-armed and always looking over his shoulder, playing the shifting odds like a nervous stock trader watching every up or down of the ticker, buying and selling from moment to moment the way you were never supposed to, leaving a trail of destruction in his wake. Doing it just to be able to wake up the next morning. Pathetic son of a bitch.

And yet she...Something had made her stick with him. Somehow he had to have given her something, unlikely as it seemed. What could Krycek possibly have to give her, of all people? And if they were lovers, as Scully thought...She didn't seem like the type to just let him have it because he pushed. Didn't seem like the kind who'd be out looking for a man; she didn't talk about him that way, either. And yet...One-armed. Could be some trick. Could be humiliating, being with someone you'd never been with before and...No desire to trade places here.

"Mulder..."

He could hear her footfalls. A hand on the door frame and a face, half-asleep but with a smile pulling at the corner of her mouth now. "I think you have mail coming..."

He pulled up and went out to the computer. The screen was as it had been.

"There's nothing..."

A ding of the mail chime. He looked at her, balancing on the arm of the couch, one hand going back through her hair, an attempt to reintegrate herself into the world of the awake. She shrugged.

"Just something I can feel."

He sat down and clicked on the message. Frohike. Scully was safely off to her mother's with Rita and Wilkins while he waited for Langley to match the lock they were about to cut off the hangar door. No use drawing Smoky's fire by letting him know somebody'd been in to check out his little operation. So far, so good, and he'd mail again as soon as they'd checked out the boxes.

"Good news," he said, turning around.

She was standing in front of the sliding glass door. She turned and smiled, this completely innocent thing she did. She knew. She already knew what was in the mail. There was no apology, no superiority in the look she gave him. She'd turned away to give him what privacy she could.

He shrugged. "Not used to this."

"Nobody ever is. But I really do appreciate the fact that you...keep it under control. Makes me not feel like such a freak. You're alike that way, you and Alex. He tried so hard for so long to..." She stopped, went to the couch, sat down. Ran her hands back through her hair again and paused. "I feel like I've lived a lifetime in the last few weeks," she said finally, looking up at him. "And here I am sleeping through the middle of the day when I could be doing something useful."

"I think we've..." He pushed the chair back from the computer and turned toward her. "...we've both lived a lifetime in the last few weeks. Except I'd already spent a week in the twilight zone before I ended up by the lake where you found me." A nod toward her. "But I guess you've got your own story there, too."

She nodded. "It seems like so long ago. So many things have changed." She rubbed her arms absently, as if she were cold. "And here we are, different people than we were. No, not different but...polished. For as hard as this is--now...I know--know--that I'm stronger than I was before. I've learned so much."

And Krycek?

"It's scary sometimes, isn't it?--to shine the light on yourself, to really look at that, and then do something about what you see. I know it is for me. Alex has stretched so far."

"Maybe it was you who stretched to meet him."

She looked up at him, clear-eyed, serious. "You can't be something you're not. You can't...bring out something that was never there to start with. It's like your mother. She buried her heart for so long. And then she realized she needed to uncover it again, to let it breathe, let it reach out. But it was always there; you saw it when you were little, before she hid it away."

He looked down at the carpet beside him. Inside, his pulse beat a tight rhythm. He bit his lip and nodded.

"He, uh...he wrote me this morning," he said finally, quiet. "Just a note. Tipped me to Smoky searching for a woman, someone who helped Scully's mother escape."

When he looked up she was rocking slightly, back and forth on the edge of the sofa cushion, arms wrapped around herself, eyes closed.

Of the piranha persuasion.

There could only be one...at least, one both of them were aware of. It was where he'd met Che--big social production in the Czech capital, high rollers and politicians, the behind-the-scenes influential and the peasants who were swept in on their coat tails. Che was barely more than a kid, serious and looking to get quietly out of the eastern bloc. Maria Ivanov had been trying to act like she had it all together, as if she hadn't been unnerved by the stupid couple of hours they'd spent straying from business in Krasnoyarsk six months earlier. She had fangs but she kept them in unless she was backed against the wall and she'd kept herself pretty well together until he'd come up to the circle where she was talking--research, naturally--and made a couple of comments that'd backed her into a corner. Then the fangs had come out--subtle fangs, nearly invisible, but fangs all the same. She'd shredded him very casually, a fact apparently noticed by no one but Che, who'd been standing around holding a drink that was one past his self-imposed limit. It'd been a stupid thing to do, bait her. Just showed him up for having been as rattled as she'd been.

So why was she looking for him now? Wasn't going to be for sentimental reasons. Business of some sort, the only area where they hadn't clashed. Either she had something she thought he'd want--for a price--or...Not likely. What would she know about what he wanted now?--it'd been years. More likely she wanted something herself, and whatever she had to offer in return would be an indicator of how badly she wanted it. The fact that she was looking for him at all might be a fair indicator in itself.

Could be worthwhile, just to keep up with what she was up to. Mulder'd come up with her name the other day; she must be up to something. The information could be valuable at some point.

He reached for the computer, flipped up the screen and paused. Just a little note this morning, two sentences and no chance or reason to say 'How is she?' or 'Tell her to keep her chin up.' Enough of a risk to be writing to Mulder without putting her in danger, too. Stay apart to keep her safe, knowing what it had to be doing to her inside, where it didn't show. In a world that made sense, it wouldn't be this way.

Ivanov.

He pushed a pillow under the stump and pulled the keyboard closer.

Teena found herself at the end of the aisle of books; she turned to look at the section behind her. 'Literature' as opposed to 'fiction'--a curious delineation. She sighed. This wasn't the time for a frivolous bestseller, glitz and romance and murder just to pass the time. Real murder--or real chases spearheaded by disturbingly real minds--didn't classify as entertainment of any kind. Even at the beginning, when she'd first been with Leland, the dark shadow had been there. She'd rationalized it away as just her fear of Bill catching them but it had been more than that, the subconscious realization that crossing Leland could have very unwanted consequences.

And it had. Over a period of years he'd managed to take all of them--first her daughter, then Bill...though Bill had essentially taken himself. Then Fox, through hunting him. And Alex, who'd been whisked away only seconds after his birth, the one he'd taken most definitively, or at least had tried his best to. Had, obviously, for many years. And then the miracle--something to drive him to her, even if he'd come full of turmoil and latent anger. Then the ricochet result, a reassessment and the end of her self-imposed estrangement from Fox.

Even Leland hadn't been able to keep Alex from having his own awakening, though, his own blessing, and how would he be managing now, the one person who'd meant so much to him out of reach? Mind and body would manage to make their way somehow, but the heart...If only she could write to him, find something comforting to say, something to reward the effort he'd made in reaching out to Tracy. Undoubtedly communication could be dangerous--or worse--for the both of them, though. And Fox--she should write to him again, if only to reassure him that she was safe, thought there wasn't much to tell. Salt Lake City. It was a spur-of-the-moment choice, one she'd realized immediately was exactly what she needed--the definitive place she'd never had or expressed any interest in going. It was a clean, orderly place and the mountains were spectacular, but it didn't echo the strange reality of her life and circumstances. And spending time sightseeing where you could be seen, spotted...Realization of the risks had brought her to this bookstore. A few days could be spent in reading, for the most part, staying away from potentially prying eyes. After that, a new plan would have to be formed. One could only read for so long and how long would this hunt go on? Weeks? Months? Fox was determined. He was quick and perceptive and passionate. But Leland was every bit as determined and completely dispassionate, and in the end which of those qualities would win out? The answer that suggested itself was unsettling, to say the least.

She looked down at the books in her arms--three volumes. It was enough for now; her interest had languished from looking at so many titles, so many opening pages. She moved to the checkout line and waited while the woman in front of her paid for a children's book, a girl of five or six at her side, wispy brown hair falling into big hazel eyes.

"I can help you..."

Teena looked up, set her books on the counter and reached into her purse in search of her wallet. She took it out and opened it. Only ones; she'd placed the larger bills in an envelope in the back of a drawer last night when she was organizing things. She reached quickly for her new credit card and handed it to the cashier.

Two-fifteen and still no old man. Something was wrong. Either that or he'd found a lead and was chasing it.

Krycek crossed the room to the recliner and sat down. Let the back down, stared at the ceiling and pulled up again almost immediately. No good, just lying here, waiting for something to happen, for the sky to fall. He stood again and glanced at the clock by the bed. An hour till Che'd be working on the car. He made himself breathe out and went to the window.

Ivanov. What could she possibly want now?

Scully peered through the sheers on the French doors leading to her mother's room. Rita and Will had gone into the sun porch to talk with Old Rose; they meant to stay out of her way but she could feel their eyes on her, or maybe it was their good wishes.

It was a good time to do this, a good idea. She was ready.

She moistened her lips and gripped the clear glass knob a little too tightly. Ready. The pulse throbbing through her tightened fingers echoed her heartbeat. If she turned the knob she'd surely falter and then...Just go to her, Mulder would tell her if he were here. Not hard, Scully; it's easy.

She turned the knob and pushed the door open slightly. No movement from the bed. She opened the door wider and stepped inside. The room had high ceilings and white carved moldings high and low. At the rear of the room was another set of French doors that led to a back yard. To the left, beyond the foot of the bed, was a tall window with an old fashioned, pull-down shade. The walls were a soft yellow. Beside the bed, a child's drawings were tacked to the wall, undoubtedly the work of New Rose, who'd shaken her hand solemnly and refused to take her deep brown eyes from this stranger who supposedly had a prior claim on 'Mama S'.

The figure in the bed seemed so small, nearly swallowed up in the covers. Scully made herself go closer. Her hair was straighter, lacking its usual wave. More salt-and-pepper than she'd realized. There was the danger of shocking her from the surprise, the possibility of...She could hear Mulder's voice in her head, quiet--go on, Scully. She moved forward and leaned down over the edge of the bed.

"Mom..."

Her mother stirred and resettled.

"Mom..."

Maggie's eyes fluttered open.

"We're in the process of checking out the reservations from that second five minutes, sir. Nothing yet that raises a flag."

He waited, watching a thin stream of smoke rise off the end of the Morley and drift with the room's air currents.

"We looked a little farther into that Salt Lake flight. Trail nearly ended there, sir, no further activity on the credit card, no hotel, no restaurants or rental cars. Then about half an hour ago we checked again. Card was used at a bookstore not an hour ago. Woman bought three books."

His eyebrows went up; a smile pulled at one corner of his mouth.

"Follow up, Mr. Briggs. Search for hotel reservations; she has to be staying somewhere. Undoubtedly she'll be using the same name she used for the flight." Unless she knew someone there she could stay with. But Salt Lake didn't seem to be her kind of town.

"Will do, sir."

"Keep checking into those other records. But let me know as soon as you have anything on this one."

He hung up and raised the Morley toward his lips. A length of ash fell onto the table in front of him. He frowned at it and looked up. It could be someone else, of course. But Teena was a reader of books, a buyer of books. What better way to pass the time, hiding out? At least, until you were caught.

It really was her, not a night dream or the addled fantasy of an overheated brain. Maggie closed her eyes and felt the soft copper-colored hair against her cheek, her daughter's breath and the way emotion shook her body. She'd opened her eyes to see Dana leaning over her, grown woman, smile starting of its own accord, then having to be consciously held in place until the face came closer and the confident woman turned into the vulnerable little girl she'd known from long ago.

Maggie opened her eyes and stroked the hair beside her cheek. "Dana..."

A breath caught, a shudder. Her head came up slightly and then returned to where it had been.

"Dana..."

"Mom, I'm so sorry." Her voice wavered. "I tried to tell myself it wasn't me, that it was...the risks of the job, the price of being in law enforcement, but if not for..."

"No. Dana, it was...that man, not you. I've talked to people--your friends...They've all told me what a wonderful job you've done, what a...a contribution you've made through your work. You didn't bring this on." She kissed the forehead in front of her and lifted her daughter's face carefully with both hands; Scully made herself smile and wiped at the wet trails on her cheek with the side of a finger. "Tell me how you came. Is it safe for you to be here?"

Scully eased herself up and sat carefully on the edge of the bed. She sniffed and made herself smile.

"As safe as anything." She smiled again, more easily this time. "We had some evidence to track...and it took me to the Baltimore airport." A pause. "Rita and Will brought me."

"They're here?"

She nodded. "In the sun room."

"Getting a history lesson, no doubt." Maggie smiled. "Have you met New?"

Scully nodded. "She was very polite...but she seemed rather skeptical. Evidently she's claimed you for herself." She gestured toward the drawings on the wall.

"She's been my constant companion." She paused and looked toward the wall. "Sometimes you forget how much you can learn from a child."

Scully ran a finger through a valley in the blanket. "I know. There's a little boy where I've been staying. And I have a nineteen-year-old friend who seems like a daughter sometimes. And other times I think she's the older one..."

Maggie took her hand. "How is Fox? How are you doing?"

Scully pursed her lips. "It's been...difficult. But we're making some progress. Mulder feels he's got a lead now, a trail to follow; part of it was what brought me here."

Maggie waited.

"You know how I..." Scully's lips pressed together. "...how I've always tried so hard to be my own person?" She swallowed. "I've...I got to a place where I was out of my depth, and...he showed me--Mulder showed me--how to accept help without being...taken over." She paused and looked up. "Such a simple lesson you wonder how it can be so difficult to learn. But he's been a great support, more than I can say."

She looked away, toward the porch doors. Her hand tightened briefly against Maggie's and there seemed to be a glow to her face, just the hint of a smile.

"I'm so glad, Dana, that you've had each other to depend on."

That crazy Che had known where he was; it made sense--Che, the wild-headed, whimsical one. But not light-headed, not irresponsible. He was completely serious in his own way; it was just his style that was...unique. He seemed to feel no need to put on an imposing persona.

So he knew where comrade Krycek was, though Krycek had chosen not to step out of the shadows and directly into her path. He could hardly be blamed. If it had been he who had come looking for her, she might have done the same. Suspicion--no, just skepticism--would have been her first reaction. But he was willing to listen. Now there was the problem of what to say and how to put it.

Maria walked to the kitchen sink and looked at a piece of chicken defrosting on a small plate. It wasn't entirely certain she'd even be here to eat it by the time it was thawed. But if there was to be any chance of staying, he seemed to be her only key. She gripped the sink edge briefly, went to the table and sat down at the computer.

Coherency, Maria; you're good at this. Surely you can say something coherent.

A knock came on Sandy's door.

"Come on..."

The door opened and a bright shaft of sunlight came in to flood the floor with a glare that made her squint. Then the door was closed again. When her eyes readjusted, Raylene was looking down at where she sat on the floor, little cardboard dresser drawers around her, little clothes in and out of them.

"I, uh...didn't mean to interrupt or nothin'. Joe's...he's getting his stuff together. I think if I stayed there any longer his eyes would of popped out and steam'd be coming out his ears. Figured it was better to get myself out of the launch path." She paused, knelt down and ran a finger along the length of a blue terry sleeper. "I remember when he wore this. Cute as a button. The blue set off his eyes."

She paused and looked as if she'd get up again. "Look, punkin, I don't mean to make it hard for you, if that's what it is. I miss him, too, you know." Raylene paused and sucked in a sudden ragged breath. "God, I miss him something fierce."

Sandy bit her lip and looked down. "I don't know what I feel right now. It's all confused inside of me. It's like...I want him back so bad...and I know I'm not gonna get him. This stuff is...it's all I got left, so it means more than...you know, it's kinda like some famous singer's guitar. Makes me want to hoard it away, but..."

Raylene lowered herself to the carpet and sat cross-legged. She waited, and she was never one to wait.

"It's scary as hell and I want it all the same." Sandy took a deep breath and looked at the little green loops in the carpet. "I'm gonna have somebody to use these things again. I'm pregnant." She looked up. "I guess it musta happened just before...you know."

Raylene's mouth opened. Nothing came out at first, though her eyes got bigger.

"Lord, sugar. This is..." She turned serious--quietly serious. "Is it what you want?"

"I don't want this baby to not have a daddy, but yeah, I want it real bad. It's almost like Cy left me a present wrapped up and put away on a shelf when he went. Like old Mrs. Fredricks. Old Mr. Fredricks--remember how he died in March? And later when she was cleaning out his drawers she found an anniversary card he'd got her early and signed it and everything. All ready and waiting for her." Sandy picked up a pair of booties from the pile in front of her. "I just found out two days ago. I've been feeling sick in the mornings, but I never figured...And then Annie noticed--she's a doctor--and we did one of those tests, and..." She smiled though she knew it was a crooked smile.

"I'll back you up," Raylene said, quiet. "Not that I'm any great expert at anything, you know--look at my life...But whatever you need, you just ask, sugar."

"Thanks."

Nothing more, the words all run out. Sandy let out a breath that had built up; Raylene picked up Roddy's baby cap and toyed with the bill.

"I've been thinking of..." Sandy paused and looked up carefully. "...going out on the road for a while. With Papa. There's places I've heard about--you know, places I'd like to see what they look like for myself...and I know once this little one comes I'm going to be too busy for that, or for traipsing around hauling a diaper bag along with me. So I figured, you know, sometime before I get as big as a house..."

"Or before you've got to be making pit stops every half hour..."

"Yeah, that too. I guess Annie and I've talked about places and it just sort of put the bug in me."

"Guess they must travel a lot. I mean, when their job's normal--when they're not running and hiding out for their lives..."

"I guess."

"Speaking of which, there's somebody new over there, you know...at Dale's." Raylene's eyebrows went up.

"I know. She's...somebody else who's hiding out from..." She shrugged. "...the same guy--the one everybody's running from, Mr. ThinksHe'sGod. She's nice. A little bit of a...strange bird. I guess I just haven't got her figured out yet. But then if I were running for my life, I might feel pretty scrambled up, too. I sure enough know what it's like to feel that way--scrambled."

She stared at the piles of baby clothes in front of her and started to put them back into the drawers.

"Whatcha gonna do, punkin?"

"Think I'll go over there--to Dale's. See if I can help her get settled in a little."

Mulder closed his eyes momentarily, then pushed back abruptly from the desk and went to the window. He stood there, jaw set.

I half-sat, half-lay on the couch watching Mulder work through his frustration. There was a war going on inside him like the kind that had gone on inside Alex when he realized that sending me to the bearing factory could have cost me my life--would have, if a blood vessel in Buzz's brain hadn't turned things in a different direction. I felt for Mulder's dilemma, wondering about Scully's safety and his hand in it, and what they'd do since the boxes hadn't put anything more promising into their hands than bars of the beryllium they already knew about. But he didn't need comforting words from me; he needed to sort it out for himself.

Anyway, I was feeling...strange, separate from what was laid out around me, my mind more and more taken over by the feeling that had been building in me since I'd woken up, that there was something I should be doing, that something was about to happen, something I'd never imagine until it would begin to unfold, a feeling urging me to do something, make a contribution before the opportunity was gone. It was a lot like the way I'd felt that last day at Alex's, dusting and polishing just to feel like I wasn't being carried downstream like a fallen leaf. I was seeing it again, the place my head had shown me two nights earlier while I was with Alex in the dream in the outside bed--a flat, flat plain that went for miles and on one side, mountains rising abruptly out of nowhere, barren and with a reddish cast. The fields were vegetable fields and I was there, with field workers and other, regular people. It was a camp and we were all living there. I had a tent in the shadow of a mountain, four huge palm trees spread in front of it in a line.

In the dream I'd only seen the setting, but now I was inside the tent, smoothing my hands over a set of sheets, old-fashioned white cotton with tiny sprigs of pale blue flowers on them. The sheets wanted to wrinkle badly but I'd washed them and stretched them carefully on a rope line to make them dry flat. They had a wonderful, peculiar smoothness to them and when you moved the fabric it sounded like little flags snapping in the wind. Somebody'd found them in an abandoned house and brought them to me when I'd realized Alex was coming.

I looked down at myself, my feet and legs disappeared below the mass of the baby grown large in my belly, a mountain in her own right, but something was wrong with the picture, something about it felt out of balance and I had no idea what it was. Was it real--the future, as Alex had suggested? Or was it just a scene, like a picture from a magazine or the idle scenarios your head makes up when nothing else is there to occupy it? Maybe it was just my yearning for Alex--want, not need, he'd always pointed out, though now his heart might waver and want to make an exception. The pull I felt was that strong, as if my bones were made of iron and he was a magnet. He'd be coming in only hours, and yet...there was something wrong, something unsettling that I had no way to put my finger on. The worry of it was making my stomach sick at the edges.

When a knock came on the back door I looked up right away, grateful to be back in Dale's house. Sandy's head showed through the little panes of glass. Before Mulder could turn away from his musings at the window, I was halfway to the door.

Krycek laughed out loud.

There was nothing funny about it; it was the absurdity of it, the irony. She was working for the old man, prostituting herself for the sake of her research...as if he weren't doing exactly the same thing, playing the old man's tool, his weapon, waiting to pick up enough of the crumbs he dropped to...It was what made them clash so badly; they were a lot alike. Too much alike.

He shook his head and stared at the ceiling.

That put Mulder...where the old man'd been in such a hurry to cover everything up--Owensville, Kentucky.

Something in his stomach tightened and his jaw set. He felt for the bean bag beside him and threw it hard against the opposite wall. It hit with a hard thunk and dropped behind the recliner. He pulled up, slipped on his shoes and went quickly to the door and out, locking it, starting up the stairs, climbing steadily this time, no pauses to bring one foot up to meet the other. By the time he reached the third floor landing he was panting.

He'd killed a good ol' boy and a curly-headed little kid to save the old man's ass. His own private ass--how typical. How completely fucking in-character. The old man would save the world, but only as an afterthought; it could come along on his coat tails if it managed to hold on tight enough. And Tracy'd be there now, same town, within easy radar range of the kid's mother, re-running all the pain inside her. She'd seen the woman twice while she was here; he should've known. It should've set off some kind of bell. Sending her there where she'd have her face pushed into his handiwork...She'd probably known. Maybe that was what she hadn't told him when she'd said 'if I know something'. She knew what was coming just like she knew what he was before the old man recruited her.

He was standing on the third floor landing.

Move.

Eyes away from her door, he turned with the curve of the railing and started up the stairs to the roof, more slowly now, one foot coming up to meet the other, hand on the railing, an emptiness where her arm wasn't around him, her finger missing from his belt loop on the far side. Frying pan into the fire and why hadn't she said something? But there was nothing she could do; it was where Mulder was and it wasn't her responsibility to cover for his own lack of planning.

He paused on the landing to catch his breath, then strode out into the afternoon light. At the wall, he looked down over the edge to the street below, then slammed his fist against the ledge on top. As if it'd change anything now, take back what'd been done. He flexed his hand against the pain and looked up; he was a sitting duck out here. He turned and went toward the overhanging tree, dipped his head below the branches and eased himself into one of the old metal chairs. Just for a minute, a chance to settle and rest. He leaned back and looked up into the canopy of leaves overhead.

Kill Mulder to buy a dose of Dr. Ivanov's cure for the future. She wasn't just some hotshot, all mouth and fluffed feathers; she was damn good at what she did. If anyone had a shot at figuring this out, she'd be the one. Maybe it'd work and maybe it wouldn't. But hedges were always good policy...if they panned out.

If she thought he might cooperate...how long could she be strung along, and what would it get him? Mulder was close and she seemed antsy, but if the threat were immediate, she'd be long gone, not looking for him to come solve her security problem. So Mulder was close, but not that close. Was he trying to contact someone in the syndicate to show his hunches or evidence to, or he was waiting, hoping to take out Ivanov and the old man at the same time? And if the old man were to actually go down...How long would the truce hold? Was the old man really the finger in the dike, holding Purity off? Easy enough to wish him out, wish him dead, hate him, but it could be like Russian roulette, actually taking him down. There it was--Mulder going off half-cocked again, poised to ruin everything, the naive zealot. But he didn't know the whole story; he was just intent on getting his life back, safety for himself and Scully, a chance to breathe, answers, relief for his mother. Their mother.

He rested his head against the rusty back of the chair. Sparkles of sunlight filtered down between the leaves overhead. Too many variables, too many factors squirming away from your reach, no real certainty to grab onto. Maybe it's the way she felt those times when she took off.

A sound--footsteps reaching the landing, then two men in suits emerging from the doorway, looking around--all four corners--and heading back down. Krycek sat motionless, riding a momentary surge of adrenaline. Nobody came up here.

Five minutes. Five minutes and down carefully, eyes open, senses tuned. Five.

Mulder pushed back from the computer, stood and turned. More energy than he knew what to do with suddenly and there was no one to tell. He glanced at his watch. 3:58. Dale and Scully wouldn't be back from Lexington for another four hours and Sandy and Tracy had gone off on foot, intending to meet Bethy on her way home from the library. He walked to the sliding glass door, set his hand on the handle--good hand--and finally pushed it open and let himself into the yard. Medical readouts. Boxes in the hangar and an envelope of medical readouts in a desk drawer. The boxes a given, shipments for the consortium, and an envelope of private research results for Smoky tucked away in a drawer, the results of Vanek's ongoing work with...

It'd have to be proven. Scully'd have to look over the papers, then primary evidence would have to be gathered, permissions obtained, Vanek detained, an airtight case built. A delivery path designed for the presentation; that's where they'd failed before. They could offer what they'd found to the consortium, but they weren't any more upright than Smoky; they'd want Vanek and her work would go on somewhere else, with other unsuspecting subjects, himself and Scully expendable the minute they'd delivered the information and were no longer of any value. But Skinner wasn't a sure path, either; he'd made a deal with Krycek and no matter how much Krycek hated Smoky, which way he'd lean depended on how the outcome would fall for him either way.

But it was a start--big start--if the data was what it appeared to be. Scully'd have to look it over.

Mulder glanced up to find himself in the far corner of the yard. He turned back toward the house. Four hours. Scully'd be stronger in the end, having seen her mom, and there'd be good news; she'd have it before she ever stepped on the plane.

After all this time--finally something substantial and an end in sight.

Krycek pressed himself into the shadows beside the patio door and held his breath. No sound of the elevator running, no more footsteps; more than one set had echoed below not a minute ago but there was nothing now. He eased himself out of the small space and peered cautiously down the stairwell. Nothing. He started down. No railing on this side; have to be careful. But who were the suits and what had they wanted?

Four steps to go, three, two, one. He glanced toward her door and hesitated. Something--something in there. He looked toward the opposite end of the hallway, then went to her door, pulled the key from his pocket and worked it in the lock. He slipped inside and closed the door behind him. Warm and stuffy. Everything apparently where it had been before--closet door open, bread bowl on the dresser, dust beginning to...He went closer and swallowed. Fingerprint powder. On the edges of the mirror, the bowl, the dresser top. The bathroom doorway, the brush lying on the counter next to the sink. Back into the bedroom--bed posts, window frame. He swallowed.

Keep your cool; you knew he'd be thorough. If he thinks he's going to find her in an alley in pieces, better to be able to know for sure. Or if he thinks someone got to her here...

His own prints were here, too--on the window ledge, probably on the bedpost. He'd held the bread bowl, though she'd washed it since then. Wouldn't seem that far off base, him being up here. She could've overslept, or there could've been things he'd needed to tell her. Maybe it was a sign, this--the old man letting him know he wouldn't let anything slip by. Or maybe he'd found something. Maybe it was his way of saying I've got your number, don't fuck with me.

He was panting again; inside, his pulse was racing. He closed his eyes, forced away the pressure and opened them again.

Damn good thing she wasn't here. She was out there, two states west, with Mulder...And Mulder'd been made. If Ivanov had gone to Smoky with her problem instead, it would've led him right to Tracy.

Krycek crossed the room, opened the door and let himself out. He took the stairs quickly, headed for the laptop waiting on his bed.

"We've located the Salt Lake City woman, sir."

He stood up abruptly. "Have you now?"

"We located the name used at a downtown hotel. She checked in just after midnight last night. She's paid for three days."

"I see. Any further use of the card?"

"No, sir. She must be spending cash."

It made sense. "Do we have any picture ID on file?"

"Nothing."

He let out a slow breath and set the cigarette briefly between his lips. "Well, then I believe we'd better look more deeply into this. I'll have a picture sent to you. Leave at once." Another drag on the Morley. "And if this is indeed our...target...I'd like you to accompany her back to Washington immediately. It's imperative that I...have a little talk with her."

"I guess that's what it's like with a little sister," Sandy said as they passed the hardware store. "You go to walk 'em home and..."

She moved farther under the awnings lining the sidewalk to leave Tracy room in the shade.

"Her friend Rachel's been out of town for three or four days," Tracy said. "She told me this morning. It makes sense that she'd want to go with her."

"Yeah...Say, you want to stop and get some ice cream? Duncan's makes great stuff and besides, it'd be nice to just sit there in that air conditioning a few minutes. We're almost there. I'll buy."

Tracy nodded. "Sounds nice--air conditioning and ice cream both. But I have some...traveling money. Let me pay."

"If you want..."

They passed the last two stores. Sandy opened the door and they went inside. Duncan's was small, with little forest-green wrought iron tables, and chairs with green-and white-striped seats. They sat down at a window table and waited.

"It's been warm around here lately," Sandy started, "but not too bad. How's it been where...?" She hesitated. "Forget I asked." She looked toward the counter, where the only other customer was talking to the cashier, and then leaned in toward Tracy. "I'm starting to get the hang of this secret stuff."

Tracy pulled her lingering attention from the glass beside the table and made herself focus on Sandy. "I'm still trying to get used to looking at myself this way. But you did a good job. I meant to thank you this morning..."

"It's okay." She shifted on her chair. "It's hard--you know, when your whole world just kinda takes a...crazy hairpin turn on you all of a sudden."

The waitress appeared beside them and took their orders. Both turned to watch her return to the counter, the tempo of their conversation disrupted.

"Do you mind my asking," Sandy said finally, "how you ended up running from Mr. HighAndMighty? I mean, if it's not prying too much." A pause. "You're welcome to say no; it won't bother me."

Tracy stared at the little quilted squares in her napkin. It could go terribly wrong. Or it might somehow turn out to be a blessing.

"You don't have to," Sandy said now.

"It's just...hard to understand. It's hard for me to explain to myself, and I'm sure it...wouldn't make much sense at all...to someone else. But..."

She took a deep breath.

"...I was in Washington, and...I had no place to stay. A month ago. And a man...a very tense, dark man inside...came along and offered me a place to stay."

"My god. You didn't go with him, did you? That's got to be one of the oldest lines..."

"He was...There was something about him. He meant what he said; I could feel that from him. And I was grateful. He paid for the room and went away. I had a week--he'd bought me a whole week of being able to sleep at night and not lay there shaking, afraid of who might find me. And water--a shower and a bathroom; when you don't have them they can be the most...amazing luxuries. I could get up for the bathroom safe in the middle of the night, or I could take three showers a day if I wanted. And then the week was ending and a man came up to me in a park one day and asked if I was interested in some work for a few weeks, taking care of somebody who'd gotten out of the hospital. And I had no place to go, and...I said yes. So he gave me some money, and a room for the very night when I had to be out of the other place, and he said his friend would come home from the hospital the next day..."

A dish of ice cream with strawberries cascading down the sides was set in front of her. One of chocolate ice cream with fudge sauce was set before Sandy. A little fan-shaped cookie was set into the top of Sandy's creation. Tracy took her spoon and dipped carefully into the whipped cream that topped her sundae.

"I figured I had it hard sometimes," Sandy said, scooping into her ice cream, "trying to raise Roddy and keep a household together...And having to listen to my mom's report card on it. But I never had to go without a place to stay. What were you eating?"

"What I could find." Tracy shrugged. "I found things."

"So what happened?"

"It was...Mr. HighAndMighty--the one who asked me to do the work..." She looked up at Sandy, the spoon paused in her mouth. "And my patient turned out to be...the man who'd bought me the room. He'd been shot...in the side..."

Tracy set her spoon down carefully on the little glass plate.

"You mean, somebody who worked for him."

It was starting to come, the realization. Tracy studied the ice cubes in her water and the beads that sweated themselves onto the outside of the glass. She knew now, or she suspected. It could be him, the man who'd murdered her family. Tracy's hands slipped under the table and twisted tightly together.

A strand of fudge loosened from the mass of topping on Sandy's ice cream. Sandy swallowed and watched it slip into a milk chocolate pool and disappear.

"I'm sorry," Tracy said. "I didn't mean to make you...I shouldn't have started." Sweat beaded on her forehead in spite of the steady blast from the air conditioner. "I just..."

Sandy shifted uncomfortably and looked down. "I did ask." She dipped a spoon into her ice cream and cut a line through it that slowly melted at the edges and disappeared. The corner of her mouth twisted and she looked up. "But what's he got to do with this, anyway?"

"He got me away from there. The old man was going to kill me when Alex didn't need me anymore. After I'd been helping him a few days I started to find out what Alex was involved in...when the old man started coming around. It scared me. But I think it was already starting to bother Alex--doing the old man's work. And when there was something I was struggling with, he went out of his way to help me, even though he was in a lot of pain...for a long time. I guess what I wanted to say is that I think there are things about him that have changed." She smoothed a finger over the little pillowed bumps in her napkin. "I know it won't bring your husband or your little boy back...but I just thought it might be some comfort to know that."

Sandy set her spoon down. Her mouth wavered. "Maybe it's just you. Maybe he only changed for you." She pushed back her chair. "Cy and Roddy were my whole life...I gotta go. I just can't...This is too much right now and I'm sorry, it's nothin' personal..."

She stood up quickly and left. As soon as she was out the door, she started to run, taking long, sure strides on muscled legs.

Tracy watched her reach the end of the block and disappear around the corner. Her eyes squeezed shut. Sandy's question jangled and echoed inside her head--what did she have that Cy and Roddy didn't, that Alex the Killer should take pity on her and spare her while he blasted her husband and little boy right out of this life?

He'd responded.

Maria looked out into the backyard. She sighed and felt a measure of relief flood her. If this went smoothly, the clematis would reach the second large branch by next spring. The impatiens would fill in the last empty spaces and, with careful covering, would fill the shaded southwest corner with mounds of brilliant, warm colors. The garage would need work, a new layer of boards and paint, but those were petty concerns now. What did she tell him? How much? Would he turn on her in the end, if it were convenient or Spender were to find him out? The option was still open, to avoid this and leave. Possibly years of research time lost.

She returned to the table and typed.

Scully knocked on the door's peeling paint below the number 17. Footsteps approached from the inside and the door handle turned. She pushed it open slightly and was met by Langley's yellow mane.

"Sorry about the digs," he said, opening the door wider and letting her pass. "We just needed a place to hook up and this was the closest thing."

The door was closed behind her. Frohike looked up from a laptop on the motel room's desk.

"We're submitting an expense report," he said, frowning. "We expect Mulder to reimburse us." He grinned suddenly and offered a gloved hand, which Scully shook.

She looked behind her at the smudged curtains. "Well, I'm sure it's not one of the pricier rooms in town."

"Here's a copy of the papers we lifted from the desk in the hangar," Langley said, handing her five stapled-together sheets.

She flipped through them. The first three sheets were labeled A,B and C--obviously records for different patients...or subjects, in this case. Victims, if Mulder's hunch was correct.

"If we had a scanner with us we probably could've gotten some feedback on these charts from Byers," Frohike said, looking up from his screen. "What do you make of it?"

Scully looked behind her and sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. She flipped to the next page.

"See," Langley said, pointing. "Purity-1, purity-2...Is that what we think it is?"

Scully swallowed and scanned the chart. Her mouth became small. "Yes, it..." She cleared her throat. "This chart shows...antibody titers of the three subjects. This, right here"--she pointed--"shows that the antibody against this specific protein, purity-2, is neutralizing...which indicates..."

"...that the proteins are part of a pathogen, right?"

She glanced up at Langley and nodded.

"It also shows cytotoxic cell activity gradually increasing..." She leaned forward. "which indicates that the virus is being killed..." A pause. "Rather quickly, too." She looked up. "At least, from the story this particular chart tells. The question is what side-effects might be produced in the subject." She flipped back to the first three pages. "These charts are anything but complete--they're very short-term...but there's very little indication of significant negative effects..."

Frohike leaned back in his chair and peered at the papers. "Crazy..."

Mulder pushed back in his chair at the sound of the door opening. Tracy came through it and shut it quietly behind her. Her cheeks were pink.

"I was hoping you'd come along," he said, standing and then nearly colliding with her on her way to the couch. "Hot out there, huh?" A pause. "Something wrong?"

She continued to the couch, curled into the far end and lay her head against a cushion, facing away.

"Hey..."

She made no move to acknowledge him.

"I know it's rough, not having space of your own. Bethy'd probably be happy to have you bunk in there with her until..."

Her back heaved once, a gulp of air sucked in. He paused, watching her, then let his breath out slowly and took a few steps toward the couch.

"You need a hand or you want me to give you some space?"

Her head came up slightly. "Have you ever done something because you were hoping it'd be a help to somebody...and then it backfired and made things a whole lot worse?"

He stared out into the brightness of the back yard. "I looked for my sister Samantha. I pushed so hard Scully almost died because of it." His jaw set. His voice was quieter now. "So yeah, I guess I know the territory." He sat down on the couch. "Why? What happened?"

"I..." She paused and shook her head and rested it against the cushion again. "Sandy asked me how I came to be running from the old man. And I...I told her a little bit. Just a little. Not everything. Not about you and Alex. I thought...I could find some way to say it--say something...that might bring her a little peace, but..." She shook her head.

He sighed, leaned forward and breathed into cupped hands.

"I don't think--now I don't think...that there was any way to say it without just making her hurt more...I didn't want to do that; she aches so much already. I just wanted to help, and now she's..."

Silence, and the chainy slur of the cuckoo clock in the kitchen.

"What?"

"We were downtown...having ice cream...and she just got up--she apologized, but she was just so full of wondering why Alex spared me but killed her family...and she ran." She closed her eyes. "I know what it is to just take off running, what it feels like..."

"Guess it'd be hard..." He looked down. "...being able to see into everybody the way you do. Make you want to go in there and fix everything...when the hard fact is you can't fix it all. Though you want to; you sure do want to..." He rested his elbows on his knees. "Sandy's got a good head on her shoulders. She'll come through. Just...give her a little time."

"She said maybe it was just me--that maybe it was only me Alex was nice to. I know he's trying, I know that...But then you stop and wonder, have I been kidding myself? Is it just me?"

"You think you can't...read into him well enough to know the difference?"

"I know the things he's done--awful, unfeeling things. But there's a difference there now; I've seen him try so hard. I think it was Sandy's boy. I think it just scared him so bad to have done that..." She wiped at one eye with the back of her hand. "Not that it'd give Sandy any comfort to know it. Now I'm just this...this awful person who found a killer's blind spot when somebody else deserved it more."

"Tracy, she's just hurting. Sometimes when you hurt, you strike out at whoever's closest."

"I know she didn't mean to..."

"She'll get past it." He rested a hand briefly on her shoulder. "Whatever it was, it wasn't a trade, though--you for Sandy's family--just because you got something...he's never shown to anybody before..."

"It was a gift. He wasn't used to being that way."

"I think..." He straightened. "...you were the gift. You were the gift to him."

Two hummingbirds lighted on the rim of the feeder outside the window and dipped their slender beaks into the sweet liquid inside. Tracy sat up and watched them, arms between her knees like a child. She sighed.

"I've got news," he said. "Good and bad. Scully's coming back with proof in hand of what Dr. Vanek's doing at the plant. I was all ready to map out my strategy when I got a mail from...from him, from Krycek. Somehow she's identified me; evidently she and Krycek knew each other somewhere along the line and she contacted him today, asked him if he'd...get rid of me for her." He shrugged. "Shows she doesn't have much confidence in Smoky, I guess. He said he was going to hold her off for a few days, give us time to get out of here..." He bit his lip. "But I've got to tie this up, I've got to come out of here with proof or we go somewhere else and start over again, nothing but goose eggs, everything we've done here for nothing."

"She doesn't know me. Maybe you could go somewhere not far away and I could stay here and do whatever it is you need."

"If anything happened to you, Krycek'd hunt me down and..." He paused and shook his head. "I don't know. We'll see what Scully says. She's the rational one. I'm just the hot-headed..."

"...renegade agent."

A hand went over her mouth, suppressing a sudden giggle, but at least she was smiling; it was a good thing. She stood and stretched.

"I really, really need a change of focus," she said. "My mom used to say you have to climb higher than the clouds. When you get there you find out the sun's been shining all along." She glanced toward the clock and back at Mulder. "Are you hungry? I could fix something."

He raised an eyebrow. "If you're offering. Cans are my specialty. That and year-old orange juice; you can ask Scully."

"I'll see what Dale's got. There must be something we can make."

She went into the kitchen. After a moment he drifted back to the computer and found himself rereading the message on the screen.

To: DaddyW@zipmail.com
From: topaz@rift.net
You've been made. She got your number somehow and wants me to off you so her work can go on. I can hold her off with promises; it'll give you a couple of days but you'd better be ready to fly. More when I have it.

Krycek's breath came in short puffs, the way it had when the pain had overwhelmed him. His hand squeezed hard against the bean bag and he pulled up suddenly, gripping it.

No easy cure this time, no pill, no her here to take the sting away. Like a German shepherd in a junkyard, all teeth and business. All he'd have to do was check Tracy's prints from the room against the ones in the car. They could've gone somewhere; it could be legit, something to give him a change of scenery, or exercise. But not for that many miles; that'd tip him off for sure if they bothered to notice...if the old man kept track of his mileage and what's the likelihood he didn't? He had pictures of Tracy from before he'd even recruited her, like a damn pedophile, and why wouldn't he check the mileage?

Caught. Pinned to the wall.

He could run--drop by eastern Kentucky, take her and go...as if she deserved that kind of life, for however long it lasted, running from the old man's goons, his web of influence reaching out to snag them in the end, dragging them in and wrapping them up for the kill. She was better off with Mulder--more stable, safer.

He'd managed to outrun the old man before. After the DAT tape he'd laid low, traveled. The old man'd had him locked up in that fucking silo, just him and the ship and Purity--he probably had videotape of that, probably watched it over and over for the satisfaction...But he'd gotten out eventually, stayed safe, forged his own progress and inroads until...until they'd sent him to call the old man back. The old man'd seemed a little subdued after that, had let him back in. Not with open arms, but he'd offered the chance, let him gradually build up trust.

She'd say she'd rather be with him, no matter the danger. She'd mean it, too, but she wouldn't know what she was in for. She didn't deserve that--that kind of fear and worry, on the run all the time, never a chance to breathe easy. She'd say they were a strength, not a liability, a team, and they were...But there wouldn't be any strength left if they were caught, if the old man decided to tear one of them slowly apart in front of the other.

Krycek stood, crossed the room to the small desk, paused a minute, hand on the chair back, then turned and went to the narrow window. Arm up on the sill, head against his arm, eyes closed. The late afternoon heat seared his calf where light came through the leaves.

Got to be ready to take off--if that's what it comes to. Maybe later--weeks, maybe, depending--they could find a meeting place, cross paths and have a few minutes, or a few hours. But how would it go when she wanted to stay with him? And what would he do when he wanted her to?

Sandy lay on her back in the water watching the canopy of leaves overhead, her body bobbing gently as it slipped slowly, slowly toward the rock dam. All around her was a sealed silence, just the muffled sloshing of water against her cheeks and temples. Her face felt hot in spite of the water. She'd run all the way here and jumped in, clothes and all.

The man who'd killed Cy and Roddy.

Maybe not but she hadn't denied it; she'd apologized and that pretty much showed it to be fact. A cold-blooded killer who'd shoot someone and make it look like they'd done it themselves. Gram and Gramps Miller'd been so thrown off they didn't even call her anymore, as if somehow they'd raised Cy to kill his own little boy. Not to mention that the whole town thought so, people turning aside in Walmart or Daily's and saying ooh, there's Sandy; didn't she know about Cy? Couldn't she tell? Bet Mr. Alex the Killer never thought about things like that. Like it'd make any difference to him if he did.

He'd cared about helping her, though. But then she was a girl. Maybe he'd thought he could get somewhere. Maybe he had. No, that wasn't even fair. Tracy seemed...shy, certainly not flashy. Not at all the type to come on to a guy. Probably not the kind to put up with him coming on to her, either.

But she'd had to be with him, help him get out of bed or clean his dirty clothes or feed him or whatever it took. She'd of had to touch him, get close enough to feel his breath or smell him, some late-forties guy with dark curly hair graying at the temples and a pouchy gut. Not like Cy's, but there all the same, something that'd hang over the waistband of his pants--the sleazy slacks kind of waistband with the tab that went way over to one side. How could she stand to do that? How could anyone?

But she was on the street, scrounging for food; she hadn't said it in so many words but the meaning was there. She didn't know who he was; it was just a job and a place to stay and she did say Mr. ThinksHe'sGod had planned to kill her when he didn't need her help anymore. Maybe he had somebody watching her and she couldn't really get away once she'd found out what was going on; it was that way in the movies. And he'd helped her once before and left her alone, Alex who didn't make any sense--a whole week's room. Why?

She thought he'd changed, but how much could a killer change, somebody who made a living taking other people's lives away from them?

Not that it was Tracy's fault he'd spared her, though she'd made it sound that way with her 'maybe it was just you'.

Sandy pulled up abruptly and touched bottom, water streaming down her forehead and face. She wiped it away and looked around her.

Now he had a name--Alex. A man who ate and slept and got shot and felt pain--a lot of pain, she'd said, but he deserved it. Who deserved it more than him? He ought to know what it felt like, what he did to people.

But he'd helped her get away; he didn't just wait and watch her drop, too, like she was nothing. Maybe it did mean something.  Mr. ThinksHe'sGod'd sure be ticked off, one of his little pawns swiped right off the board. Tracy'd probably been caught in the middle and here she'd acted like the girl'd gone up and begged to buy her life at Cy and Roddy's expense, like somebody pushing their way to the head of the line and bribing their way onto the last lifeboat on the Titanic.

Maybe tomorrow a trip to Dale's might not be a bad idea. Start over again on a better footing.

Tracy carried the lettuce and mayonnaise to the refrigerator and put them away. A melon sat on the bottom shelf; it'd be a good thing for later. Her eye fell on a jar of pickles. She took it out, brought it to the counter and laid one out on the cutting board. Dale must eat them whole; slicing them would be too tricky, even with his little built-in wedges to press things against. She opened a drawer, then a second, took out a knife and cut the pickle lengthwise into thin slices. Two on her plate, two on Mulder's.

She hesitated and smiled. It was the kind of slice Alex had found on the plate his mother had left him outside the garage door. Her first tentative offering, a sign Alex had turned over and over in his mind. She pictured him sitting at the desk chair after she'd cut her fingers on his drinking glass, mouth small in concentration, cleaning the wound of a skittish girl he barely even knew, getting the tape and making a bandage, forcing her to focus away, on his mountain and the trees and the blue sky. Forcing her to make it through, to see that she could.

She started to hum. Twice at her mother's he'd asked her to sing. It was too long--too many days--since she'd done it. She took the plates to the table, got glasses and napkins from the cabinet and glanced back at the table. Scully and Dale would be coming later and why shouldn't it look welcoming?

She went to the sliding glass door. Mulder was busy at his computer, calculating other locations, distances, plans for following up the work here if they had to leave. She pushed the door open and went into the yard and circled the lawn, picking coreopsis here, a stem of cosmos there, bachelor buttons in ruffled pink and blue and deep burgundy from the corner. She brought them inside, found a jelly glass to put them in and set them in the middle of the table.

"Ready," she said when she'd washed her hands.

Mulder glanced up from the computer and set his glasses aside.

"Well, as ready as it's going to get. It's just sandwiches. I just used what came to hand and anyway, it seemed silly to make hot food on a day like this."

"No complaints here; sandwiches are fine."

He came into the kitchen and they sat down. She looked at her plate and hesitated.

"I was starting to let it get to me again," she said. "Everything. And then just I remembered something Alex did for me, what it taught me, and it made me realize how much I've...I don't mean to make this a kind of testimonial; I know it makes you uncomfortable. But he's helped me find strength I didn't know I had." She looked up. "It's not just Alex; I think in a way we've all been a help to each other--you and Scully and Sandy and Bethy and Dale..." She picked up half of her sandwich. "I'm not in the habit of saying grace, but I guess I've just been thinking about that, and being thankful for it."

For a while they only ate, both of them hungry. Lunch had been early and though it hadn't been that long since Duncan's, she hadn't stayed to finish her ice cream. After Sandy'd left she'd had no appetite.

"Very good," he grunted, halfway through a mouthful.

"We can thank Dale," she said, smiling. "He's the one who remembered to stock the refrigerator."

Mulder swallowed and wiped his mouth with a napkin. "Nice to hear somebody singing. I asked Scully to sing once, but I think I just embarrassed her. Anyway, it's nice...when it's something you have a talent for."

"I like to sing. You can carry it with you wherever you go, no hands, nothing to haul, nothing to plug in or buy. There's something about the power of the human voice...you know, all by itself. I heard a concert once, by a group of a capella singers in this church. Their voices were so incredibly clear and powerful, it felt like the walls would crack with the power of the music. It gave me shivers--good shivers. It was...overwhelming; the music just...surrounded you and carried you away."

She took another bite of her sandwich.

"Sounds like you've had lessons."

She shook her head. "My mom sang a lot--really a lot. And I just...sang along; it just seemed natural."

"Before the two of you moved?"

"I don't know. I...No, she did sing before. She was in a madrigal group in Pasadena; I do remember that. That's where the concert was; I hadn't thought about it. It was Christmas--almost Christmas." She set her sandwich down on the plate. "We were..." She thought. "We were all dressed up to go, and...my father was supposed to go with us. I can see him standing there in the doorway; he'd come home...a little early...and he seemed...worried. He..."

She shifted on her chair.

"What?"

"I'm just...I haven't remembered any of this in...so long..." Her voice drifted off. She could see it happening again. "Mom had been waiting to go to the concert, and we'd been singing the songs all around the house for weeks. And he came home and he said...He took her into the dining room and closed the sliding doors, but there were little louvers in them and I could hear what they were saying. He told her she needed to leave, and that she should take me. Go to Nathan's, he said. Go anywhere, just get away from here before..." She closed her eyes.

"Before what?"

Her fingers pressed against her temples. "There was something. They were going to do something to us, to my mom and me."

"Who was?"

"The...people he worked with. They'd done things before; my mother had been in the hospital, but...He was scared; he was so scared. I can see his moustache twitching the way it did when he was nervous..."

She opened her eyes and looked up. The room swam slightly and she gripped the edge of the table.

"You okay?"

"I..." The scene around her steadied. "I think so." Her blood was rushing now; it felt strange in her veins.

Mulder's face was a mixture of curiosity and concern.

She reached for her water glass and drank slowly. A sheen of fine moisture covered her forehead.

"I just...I'd remembered the concert; I've always remembered that. But I hadn't realized it was there--Pasadena, before we moved. And I hadn't connected my father to it. It's so strange."

She wiped her forehead with her napkin and sat back. It seemed to have passed, whatever the physical effect was.

"He--my father...He said we'd been..." It was flooding in again. "...He was afraid for our safety but my mother insisted that he go with us. She didn't want to go without him, and he told her we had to. 'Your lives depend on it,' he said, and...she was crying...just for a little bit...She said...how could she go on without him? and he..." She blinked. "He was so afraid. He knew things he couldn't tell her, things she'd never understand, and..." She could hear herself panting.

"Tracy..."

"I can see it. We went to the concert, my mother and I, and when we got home he wasn't there. There was..." She reached for breath. "There's a man running by the window on the side of the house, and..."

Pressure in her head, as if a great weight were pressing down on it. She grabbed for the table edge, missed and felt Mulder's arm grab her. Somewhere behind her a chair clattered to the floor. Dark momentum moved her, sliding, carrying her as if she were captive on a fast, invisible train. It was happening now, whatever it was she'd sensed this morning and couldn't face.

"Tracy..."

Mulder was steadying her, easing her down onto the cool floor. She could hear her breath louder and louder around her as the pressure increased. His voice was sharp and distant, spiked with alarm.

No body, only thin consciousness and the sounds of her body's struggle--breathing loud and labored, blood throbbing and the pressure bearing down on the top of her head.

She clutched harder at the arm that held her.

"Alex..."

Blackness rose quickly on all sides, engulfing her.

Krycek sat bolt upright on the bed, eyes wide, and choked out a breath.

Dream.

No, it was anything but, something strange, shake-you-up. He glanced at the clock. A minute, maybe two. He'd been propped up here, pecking out a message to Ivanov, and...screen saver hadn't even had time to come on. She'd asked would he come when the baby was ready, said she'd come this way, the way she'd come the last two nights, in his head...

He swallowed and wiped sudden sweat from his forehead.

Nightmare. Just the jitters, already wound tight from everything bearing down--the old man, the uncertainty, Ivanov's mails. He forced his eyes to reopen. Recliner in the shadowed corner, light just beginning to weaken and tint itself yellow outside the window where the city spread. Quiet, as if the room were a painting hung on the wall. A bead of sweat slid past his temple. His arm was shaking.

Not a dream.

He stood, no direction. She'd been there, fallen or...She'd been in some kind of pain, just kept reaching out, scared, pleading with him to hold her and he'd done the best he could, held her tight but she'd only slipped away and dissolved.

Legs were jelly. Move.

Clear your head.

He went to the door, opened it and pushed the button and went out. Smelled like people's dinners, the scents leaking out from under doors. Smelled the way it had in Mulder's apartment that night, sitting on the floor in the shadows, watching the up-and-down of Mulder's chest while he slept it off, looking at the weapon dropped on the carpet just out reach. A minute, half a minute, fifteen seconds more and Mulder would've sent himself to kingdom come, just a vacant body with the side of its head blown off left to tell the story. The remnants always told a tale. But it hadn't played out that way. He'd walked in, they'd thrown a few words at each other, he'd decked Mulder, end of story. Then he'd sat there watching, maybe an hour, maybe two, thinking and not thinking, suspended in the abstract of the bigger picture while the neighbors, like ants, went about their evening--meals, TV, arguments. The smells had drifted in the window, nothing recognizable, just strong, like the cooking from a culture in another world.

Down.

He started down the stairs, pace measured, hand on the railing. Felt half asleep still--groggy--but he hadn't been dozing, he'd been writing back to...She was just there, clear, nowhere in particular, her in a vacuum. Unless it's an emergency, he'd said, and she'd pay attention. Emergency. But not the baby.

First floor. He turned, hesitated in front of the stairs going down to the basement and started down again.

Not the baby but something. Lying there spooned behind her, hand under her belly, feeling the kid move and trying not to wonder what kind of kid--not so she could pick up on it, anyway. Wish it were yours, she'd said, drifting off, and he'd agreed, if only for the assurance that it wouldn't be some kind of monster hybrid. Maybe not 'if only'. Future was no place to raise a kid, though. Then again, the present hadn't proved so great, either. Just love me, she'd said before they'd been together first time; I'll be okay if you just love me. And he'd tried his damndest.

Laundry.

He stuck his head in cautiously. Nobody inside, just a dryer running and a basket full of shirts--kid's shirts and a couple of pairs of jeans. He went to the window with its opaque glass. Nothing to see out there anyway, but it hadn't stopped her from looking into some depressed old lady on the other side and then climbing barefoot out the window to sprinkle flower seeds in her overgrown garden. Weeds were always the strongest and she hadn't torn them all out, just pulled some of them to give color a chance, too. Hope, that's what she was sowing.

Not a dream and what did he do, write to Mulder and say I saw it all and what the hell's going on? Wasn't a dream. Something'd happened to her--pain in her head, she'd said. And he'd walked out the door and left a half-started message to Ivanov sitting on the open screen like a billboard. What the hell are you standing here for?

Back to the elevator, push the button and get in. Made no sense; head denying while your gut believed. Could be nothing--nerves--or could be just what it seemed, something you didn't even want to start thinking about.

The car settled under him; his stomach settled. A pause, then the doors opened and he took the half a dozen steps to his door. Key in the lock, door open and closed again behind him, laptop screen glowing on the bed. He sat down, hit 'clear' and started over.

"Sandy. This is...Ben." The instructions on the pay phone were out of focus. "Look, something's happened to Tracy. I'm at...at the hospital....No, I just got her here a few minutes ago. They don't know what it is yet. We were just eating dinner and she...she got a little wobbly on the chair and then she fell off it and collapsed, lost consciousness. Yeah..." He leaned against the wall and rubbed a thumb down the side of the phone box. "Yeah, they called Dr. Wykoff; he's on his way."

He closed his eyes and opened them again.

"Look, Dale and Scully--Annie..." Shit. "They should be back from the airport in about an hour. Could you go over and leave a message at the house so they know what's going on? I left in kind of a hurry. And...Look, I don't want this to be a hassle, but could you get me the laptop from Scully's trailer?" He bit his lip. That was twice. "Great. I owe you."

Dr. Wykoff appeared from a side door in a button-down shirt and jeans, shook his hand in passing and gestured toward the ER. Mulder watched him disappear through a set of swinging doors while the air fluttered in his lungs as if something else--something foreign--were in there with it.

".What?"

Five minutes and she'd be on her way.

"Yeah, thanks."

He hung up and started down the corridor. He'd brought her in, didn't know her blood type, nothing about her medical history, nothing of prior conditions. He'd be able to explain it to Wykoff but what about Krycek? If it was serious he'd end up having to say something. Krycek sent her here for safety and now...

He stopped at the doors to the ER and stared through the glass. One of Tracy's feet showed on the end of a gurney half-obscured behind a green curtain. Just fell off the chair and collapsed.

The mail chime sounded.

Maria hurried to the computer. Comrade Krycek...thought he was still filtering his messages through the enigmatic Che. She raised her eyebrows and clicked on the message.

Maria frowned and sat back. Not optimal, but if necessary she could make two days' worth of excuses--a sick day, an unexpected trip to...that industrial medical conference in Dayton; there'd been a flier on her desk for weeks. Gathering dust, staring back at her trying to haunt her into a feeling of obligation; it would be perfect now. A little patience and she'd be free of Janitor FBI Fox Mulder. He'd seemed an intelligent one...Jumpy--he certainly wasn't immune to pain; she'd had to keep reminding him to hold still. And that daughter of his--at least, Mrs. Peltier had heard from Addis Baker next door that it was his daughter. Pleasant young girl, though obviously not cautious enough if her body spoke to the subject. She'd come down the street distracted and stopped in front of the blue hydrangea, delicate fingers framing the petals of the flower heads. The side gate had been open while she watered; it was how she'd noticed her there. When she did, the girl turned and saw her and they'd spoken a few minutes about how one produces blue hydrangeas instead of pink, and the joys of working with flowers. By the time she was three houses away again Mrs. Peltier had arrived with her information. Daughter to Dale's nephew, she'd said, shaking her head confidentially about the girl's obvious pregnancy, to which she didn't actually refer in words. She herself had nodded back in reply--so much could be spoken with just a gesture--and gone back to her watering.

The girl would have to do without him now, whoever she was--not likely his actual daughter, for why would an agent on an undercover assignment come with his daughter tagging along behind? Unless...No, she was too young--and certainly not well-disposed at the moment--to be an agent herself. Whatever her connection to Mulder, she would have to learn to forge new alliances. It was what happened in life, the world sweeping your feet out from under you when you least expected it, sending all your best-laid plans crashing into ruin. It might teach her to rely on herself and not those around her; it was the safest policy in the end. People came and went and in the end you had only yourself to rely on.

Sandy tucked the laptop close to her like a school binder and made her way down the hall. Mulder was sitting in the waiting room next to a stack of Sports Illustrated, elbows on knees, staring into the carpeting. He looked up when he saw her and then stood.

"Hey, thanks, I really appreciate it." He took the laptop and set it on the magazine table.

"How is she?"

"She's..." He shook his head. "They don't know anything yet. They've taken blood, started some tests but...Dr. Wykoff says he isn't seeing any obvious cause. They've got her on oxygen; she's having trouble breathing...What?"

"I was with her this afternoon," she said, looking down. "I think we could've parted on better terms and now it makes me feel..."

"Yeah, well if it's any help she was wishing she could've done something to make you feel better."

She sighed. Mulder walked to the window and set his fingertips against the glass.

"I just hope..." He paused and shrugged. "What we always hope, I guess. That it's just some...fluke, that it turns out to have an easy answer." His jaw locked into sharp contour as he looked out into the purple-tinged sky.

"You, uh...you left your computer on at Dale's. I saw your little mail flag waving when I went in there, so I...wrote down the message. I didn't figure you'd want to miss anything." She held out the paper.

He took it and sat down in a chair. It said: Has something happened to her? If so, give me a number I can call and give me a time window; it takes me a while to get myself to a safe line. Don't worry about a trace; the doctor's already given you away.

Mulder let out a long breath and smoothed his thumb over the folds in the note paper.

"Did that make sense to you?"

His head nodded. He looked up. A pause. "Yeah..." He shrugged. "It's him--Krycek. He's worried about her."

"But why? How could he know that anything's...?"

"Tracy's...psychic. She can see into people, read their thoughts."

"That really happens?"

"Sometimes. I've seen it before."

"But how does that...?"

"Sometimes she's been able to...go into someone's mind--long distance, kind of...meet them on a psychic level. She must've gotten through to him somehow..." He stopped, mouth half open; finally his lips came together.

There was more he wasn't saying, but it wasn't the time to press him.

"Annie should be here soon," she said, glancing at the clock. What time was her flight supposed to get in?"

"Seven fifteen."

"Shouldn't be long now. Maybe she'll know something that'll help. Is she that kind of doctor?"

"She's had all the training." A pause. "She's pretty damn good."

"Well, I'm crossing my fingers, that's for sure."

She watched Mulder get up and return to the window. He stared out into the darkening sky.

Scully was on her way. Sandy'd called Dale's and it wasn't likely to make much difference if Scully showed herself now; Sandy's mother already knew about her and unless the sheriff happened to wander down the hallway, nobody else here had seen her. She could be passed off as a relative of Tracy's, or her doctor from somewhere else, or...

Sandy came through the doorway. Mulder stood.

"She's here," she said, low, glancing at an older couple seated on the other side of the room. "She's gonna talk to Dr. Wykoff and come back."

He nodded. A moment later Scully passed by in the hallway outside, hesitated by the waiting room window, glanced in his direction and went on. Hopefully she'd had a good visit with her mother. Would've been nice if she could've held onto that for a while instead of having to refocus on medical emergencies.

Would've been nice if Tracy'd been able to be at home now, floating around the yard picking flowers and humming something that made you want to come closer and hear more.

He let out a slow breath and ventured into the hallway and down to the soda machine. Two quarters down the slot and push a button. Nothing came out. After a pause he turned and walked back the way he'd come. Krycek wanted a number to call; it wasn't the issue of a number but what to say. So far they didn't know anything, but he'd given Krycek a window--between 8:45 and 9:00. Half an hour to have something to tell him. And he'd sent her here so she'd be safe.

Heels tapped the floor, approaching; he looked up to see Scully, a white lab coat over her jeans and boots. She turned and went in through the waiting room door. He quickened his pace.

"Sandy, Mr. Wallace..." She offered her hand to them both. He shook it and let it linger only a second. "I'm Dr. Barrett. I've been Tracy's doctor in Lexington. Dr. Wykoff has begun some tests, but so far we've been unable to determine what the problem is. You say she just...collapsed at dinner?"

"Yeah, we just...we were just eating and talking...and she was...all of a sudden she started to remember something from when she was small, before she'd lived here..."

Scully's eyebrows rose slightly.

"...and she...she wobbled just a little, grabbed the edge of the table and steadied herself...and then it seemed to have passed. But then a few seconds later she tipped off the chair..."

"Did she hit her head?"

"No, I caught her, but..." He shook his head.

"If you think of anything else, any unusual symptoms she might have displayed earlier in the day..."

He nodded. "I'll let you know."

"You can't tell, " Sandy said, "anything at all yet?"

Scully looked down at the floor a moment and then back at them.

"Frankly we're at a loss right now. But her condition seems to be degrading. Unless we can determine something soon--what's causing this...there's the strong possibility that we'll have to take the baby. Right now it's compromising her chances."

Chances of...He saw Sandy's eyes squeeze shut momentarily.

"I want to assure you..." Scully went on. That they'd do everything they could, exhaust every avenue but so far they had nothing to go on and in spite of Scully's act they had no medical history for her at all, no clue to anything in her background. She would do everything she could; Wykoff was good and Scully'd knock herself out. But how did this translate into anything he could tell Krycek?

Scully was shaking Sandy's hand now, taking his, shaking it, giving it a surreptitious little squeeze, careful touch, the kind she'd used when she'd pushed back a motel room shower curtain to find him naked and dazed, sitting shaking in the steamy tub, no idea of what he'd done for the previous two days or where he was.

He let go a breath that had caught. If anyone could help her, Scully could.

She was out the door now, walking past the window, hair pulled back into a clip, professional and determined.

Sandy was looking up at him. The couple on the other side of the room directed their eyes back to their magazines.

It'd been out the laundry room window in the fading light, leaving it ajar for later, making his way across the old lady's yard, then over two blocks and to the nearest pay phone. If the old man was watching, he'd have somebody monitoring the front door; no sense giving it all away by letting them see you go out for a line they hadn't tapped.

Mulder'd gotten right back to him with a number. Wasn't like he had much of a choice now, or any cards to play since Ivanov had given away his location; still, it'd be nice if he'd done it because he wanted to. But it didn't matter what Mulder thought. What mattered was her; that's where the focus needed to be. Her. Whatever you could do, if there was something.

Air was still hot and thick. He wiped his forehead with his shirtsleeve and went up to the phone beside a little grocery. He dropped a quarter in the slot, dialed the number he'd memorized, waited to hear the price. Not cheap. Wedged the phone between his ear and shoulder and dug out a handful of quarters. Most of them made it in; two rolled away. Phone slipped off his shoulder and dropped with a clang. He reached in for more coins; another one rolled down the sidewalk and into the gutter but the rest went in. He grabbed the receiver and listened to it ring. Once, twice...The knot in his stomach tightened.

Pickup.

It was Mulder.

They knew nothing but it was bad, worse than Mulder wanted to say. They couldn't find anything, not yet anyway, and if it continued that way they wanted to take the baby; it was compromising her chances. Chances of staying alive, though Mulder was careful not to say the words. Instead he said that Scully was there, that she'd do her best, and she would; she was that kind of person, feisty and determined like a bulldog with its teeth sunk into your leg. She wasn't going to let you kick her away if there was any way she could fight back; he knew that one all too well.

It was her head, he said, trying to sound like he wasn't crazy, like he had it all together and it was just the connection making him sound this way. Just get the info across, stupid; spit it out. Her head. She just came to me, the way she does--no, don't know how the hell she does it, but she comes...Tell them she said pressure in her head, pressing down...tell them she told you herself then, whatever'll make them listen. People passing behind him, or going in and out of the market, picking up milk or bread or beer or something to munch over a late-night movie, as if any of it had any meaning right now. Stick figures passing, props, everything around you too brightly colored but your life only half real, transparent like a shadow in shades of gray. Compromise her chances.

Mulder'd mail when anything else happened, when they figured something out, wouldn't say anything the old man could pick apart, give him a time window, same phone; he had the number already. Whenever there was news. There was a bad taste in his mouth, flat and bitter, hadn't eaten anything in...who knew how long, not important, lost track. Appetite and no appetite, the need to do something--something that'd make a difference for her--a hunger for that. But not for food. Collapsed in the middle of eating dinner.

Collapsed. Eating. Bad for surgery--they'd almost lost him because of it and the old man actually panicked. It actually shook him and what ever shook the old man?

Hey, this stuff she was remembering? About leaving, moving? She didn't have any of that before; Pasadena was pretty much a blank. On the verge of remembering, so much flooding back in on her when...Buzz'd given out just when he was about to...Couldn't be. Aneurysms were fast; she would've been dead in a couple of minutes.

Don't even think it.

"Hey, you done with that?"

Some young punk in leather and a few rings hanging from his eyebrow. Don't you know how easy those things are to pull?

He was standing there, receiver in his hand, fingers tight, arm sagging. Kid was looking for a fight. Not tonight.

He hung the phone on the silver hook.  "Yeah, sure."

Have your phone.

Feet one in front of the other, automatic, sidewalk and shops a blur. Mulder'd mail when they knew anything. Anything. One way or the other. She'd collapsed Thursday, too, out in the rain; she'd scared the hell out of him then and it was nothing like this. Hundreds of miles away, no way to catch her, hold her, help her. Mulder'd caught her; it was a good choice. He'd call if and when.

She'd been out for who knows how long when she got pregnant, at least it might have been then. Woke up the next day, they told her. Most of a day out and she didn't remember feeling sick like they'd said. Two faces peering down at you telling you you'd been out since yesterday. We went and got you at school. Maybe like Mulder as a kid: your sister's gone--just gone--and we don't know a damn thing. Too scared to look, scared of the old man and what he'll do. Want to lose your son, too? Just go looking for Samantha and see what happens. Son of a bitch.

Bar--pink and green flashing neon, shadows, a chance to lose yourself in the dark. Or go home and crawl the walls, spend another set of pointless hours lying flat on your back waiting to call again and wondering, not able to do a damn thing. Or take the edge off. Maybe. Just one. Just a little something.

Inside, music, the beat throbbing like a heart doing hard labor. One. Sit on a stool, wait for the bartender. She's got brown hair, thank goodness, not blonde. Just one.

An elbow in the side, then a sorry from a painted chick with lips that go for miles and legs to match. Too hot, the air conditioning down, TV on the wall muted--Orioles on the road somewhere; it's still afternoon on the screen. The glass comes, set down in front of him, golden liquid, ice cubes melting quickly in the heat, sending crazy trails through the alcohol; she'd like that--not the drink but the way it melted and swirled. Her eyes'd go wide and she'd say something to make it seem like a discovery. New eyes. Wonder. Old soul, new eyes.

Hand around the glass, lifting it. Slip into the pool and let it all go. Glass up, tipped.

What if she tries to come now, tries to get through, and you sloshed, useless to her? Scared or needing to be held--she needed that touch--and you the useless son of a bitch?

Glass down, hand in pocket, money on the counter. Sweat breaking and running down the sides of your face. Out into the close, humid air, down the street, one block and another and another and a fourth. Time to go back while you still have the strength, before you end up like a fucking old man stranded mid-street without his cane. A corner turned, another side of a block, back three houses and across the street to the old lady's place. Only one light in the window--bluish, the TV. In through the gate, a cat's meow to make you jump, sidestep to the garden, around the side, not enough light to tell if her seeds are coming up, just shadows, dark gray on black. Window open, nobody inside. Up and in, across the tiles, hit the button and wait for the elevator, blood buzzing, body ragged, sweaty, taut as if something's coming, like a punch in the gut. Up two floors, out, key in the lock, inside and the lock turned again. No cigarette glowing orange in the shadows; couldn't take the old man now anyway.

Light switch flipped in the bathroom, water on. Peeling off the clothes, shirt over the prosthesis--the non-arm she refuses to touch--over the head, off the good arm. Straps and prosthesis off. Pants down, everything in a heap and into the spray--cool, just tepid. Shivers and water streaming down, dripping off, carrying away the sweat and the salt but not Mulder's words. Compromise her chances. Probably better to be rid of the baby; no telling what it was, what kind of perversion. It'd make her sad either way--to have lost it because it was partly hers or to know for certain she'd been violated that way. She'd need to be held and five hundred miles stood between them.

Be there for you no matter what it looks like, she'd said in the dream two nights ago, surprised, then alarmed, at her own words. Couldn't have meant...

No.

Couldn't feel her; couldn't touch her. Like being trapped in the silo again, all cold cement and echoes. Nothing but walls a dozen feet thick and her somewhere on the other side, beyond possibility. Or was it her in the silo, sealed away?

Arm up against the wall, water streaming down, off nose, off hair, below arm pits. Throat in a vise and eyes stinging. Water loud--dripping, spraying, trickling in the drain. Enough noise to cover.

Nobody's going to hear you now.

The elevator door slid open and Teena and her companion stepped out.

"I want to thank you again for taking me along, Carol. I wanted to go the minute I saw it in the brochure, but it's not nearly as pleasant going alone."

"Maybe we can plan something again tomorrow if you have time to spare." She gave Teena a knowing nod. "Thomas has business at the resorts again tomorrow and I'll just end up sitting here beside the pool, working on my tan." She was quite brown already, her skin tone set off by short silver hair.

"Perhaps. When I get myself organized I'll give you a call."

Carol stopped in front of her door and took the room key from her purse. "Good night."

"Good night. Sleep well."

Teena continued down the hall. If not for having met Carol and her husband downstairs in the restaurant, she might have missed Red Butte Park entirely. But the picture in the visitor's brochure had caught Carol's eye as well, and the three had made a very worthwhile trip together.

258, 259, 260. Teena stopped and slipped the room key from the pocket of her sweater. Tracy would have appreciated the trees and flowers and the serenity of the pond. Undoubtedly she'd busy herself doing something to help Fox and Dana, but once it was quiet, if she woke in the middle of the night, or...It had been hard enough being a mere witness to their parting. And how would Alex be bearing up now, alone again and having to guard her secret from Leland?

She put the key in the lock and turned the handle. A note to Fox would be a good idea, if only to reassure him that she was safe.

She went inside, turned on the light and locked the door behind her. When she turned, it was to see a tall man sitting at the desk chair beyond the dresser and TV. Her breath caught; adrenaline flooded her. She shook herself suddenly and smiled.

"I'm so sorry. This is my room. I've been here since early this morning. If they've sent you here, too, I'm afraid it's in error. I know it happens from time to..."

"No mistake."

The man shifted, his long legs stretched out in front of him. She stared at him, transfixed as a small animal caught in the brightness of oncoming headlights. Slowly, realization dawned. Her breath caught; she reached for the door handle behind her.

"Move away from it. Now."

His voice was sharp. Her heart pounded suddenly, a trip-hammer beating out the rhythm of fear.

"Go sit on the bed."

She did. She looked at her hands and finally at her captor.

"We're going on a little trip. Pack your things. He wants to talk to you."

"Who?" Her best rendition of scorn. "Who wants to talk to me?"

"I think you know. Just get ready."

He slouched slightly in the chair, his legs reaching out a little farther in front of him.

Teena got up slowly from the bed, her legs suddenly weak. She went to the dresser, took her clothes out mechanically and placed them on the dresser top, hands numb and awkward as she worked. He'd make her tell everything; she'd end up giving them both away. And Tracy. She pictured Fox suddenly, the expression on his face when he walked into his father's living room four years ago to see his sister sitting there. Alex, his back to her sink, trying to spit out his reason for coming, the anguish clear on his face, and then seeing him again in the garage, no more than a shadow beneath a dusty blanket.

"Hurry up."

She closed the drawer, hesitated and opened the one below it. They came out automatically--sweater, pants, slippers. He'd find a way to make her tear her own sons apart; he wouldn't need to do it himself. She put her things in the suitcase he shoved in front of her and zipped the zipper. It made a terrible ripping noise in the silence.

"I...need a minute in the bathroom." She looked at him, thin face, tan tweed suit, dark tie with an olive branch printed across the middle where the tie tack held it.

"Make it quick."

She went into the bathroom, shut the door behind her and hesitated, her thumb hovering over the lock button. If he heard it lock he might push it open, or shoot. But would it be worse than handing your sons over to the consummate work of inhumanity that was Leland? She looked at her cosmetic bag. There was a razor. If she cut her wrists would she have time to bleed to death before he could get help? Would it scar her sons more to think of what she'd done than to witness whatever Leland would force out of her? She picked the razor from the bag, held it up...plastic, the thin blades securely imbedded in it, and thin, not at all suited to the job she'd require. She clutched it tightly a moment and then let it drop back into the bag.

Scully looked down at the pale figure in the bed and sighed. Six hours. Six hours ago had been another world--the warmth of friends gathered, a welcome smile on her mother's tired face at something New had said or done, Rita's lively recounting of her escape from the hospital room, Will's quiet enjoyment and lively eyes. And now this. She moved to the bed and smoothed a careful hand across the girl's forehead. Footsteps sounded in the hallway outside. She squeezed the bed rail momentarily and turned to see Mulder and Sandy, the one quietly cautious, the other expectant.

"How's she doing?" Sandy said. "Is it okay to come in?"

Scully paused and nodded. Sandy came close to the bed and leaned down over the railing.

"She was sad about losing her hair," she said. She looked thoughtful. "Have you figured out what's wrong with her?"

"We're still waiting for test results, but...Not yet. I wish I could say we have."

Sandy sighed. "Is it okay if I sit here with her for a little while?"

"I think so."

She watched as Sandy pulled a chair close to the bed and settled a hand carefully over Tracy's arm. After a moment she turned to Mulder, who was standing back a few feet, waiting, his mouth small with concentration. She crossed the room to a supply closet, turned on the light switch and gestured to him. He came closer, to where they were sheltered from the view of passersby in the hallway.

"How is she?"

Pressure stretched her throat. "Her condition seems to be degrading. Dr. Wykoff's preparing for surgery now. We're hopeful that taking the baby--eliminating that burden--may give her system the ability to fight back more effectively." She looked down, at the gray floor tiles, then back at him. "I can't tell you how mixed my feeling are about this--taking this child and...what it may potentially be. I indicated to Dr. Wykoff that there was a question of abnormalities. He's agreed to let me examine the fetus."

He nodded.

"Mulder, I'm afraid I may be...way too close to this. I can't help thinking..." She pursed her lips.

"What?"

"You know how Cassandra and I and the others were...called...to the bridge? Mulder, what if...You said she was in the process of remembering information about her childhood that she hadn't been able to access. What if...?"

"If she were being controlled somehow, that whatever she wasn't suppose to remember...?"

"Krycek said she was complaining about pain in her head."

"Yeah, pressing down on her, he said." He paused. "That's what you think? That somehow her memory's being suppressed, or that some...switch has been thrown, to keep her from remembering?"

"I know it doesn't make much..." She pursed her lips. "...scientific sense...as we understand science. But I know that I was drawn to that dam against my will, without my conscious knowledge. And if someone can produce that kind of response, then it's possible they could design..."

"...the electronic dog fence. Go too far and get zapped."

She sighed. "There could be a perfectly...scientific, physiological explanation for this. It has been only a few hours...But the onset has been so sudden, so...rapid, Mulder, for any of the things you might normally begin to suspect, some kind of...encephalitis or perhaps multiple sclerosis. Frankly, she was barely responsive when you brought her in. We've put her on anti-virals as a precaution, in case it is encephalitis, until we can determine an actual cause, but..." She rested a hand on his arm. "What is it, Mulder?"

"Too many things. Vanek's made me."

Her eyes went wide. "Mulder, how?"

"I don't know. But she contacted Krycek, wanted him to get rid of me to keep her research secure. He said he can stall her for a couple of days, but we're going to have to move out of here unless enough credible evidence against her just...drops into our laps here pretty quickly." He bit his lip. "At first Tracy said..." He shook his head and looked up briefly. "She volunteered to stay here in town to do whatever it was we needed, so we could get away."

She paused, lips pressed tight together. "Do you trust him, Mulder? Krycek?"

"I don't...Scully, I don't know how far I can trust him. When he sent Tracy here he forced himself into a position where he had to protect us in order to protect her. But if something were to happen to her..." A slow breath in, let slowly out. "He was scared on the phone; he was trying to cover it but..."

"For his safety?"

"For her."

"He's certainly put himself out on a limb for her..."

He opened his mouth; nothing came out.

"What, Mulder?"

"I don't think he's...he's ever had anything to lose before."

She stared hard at a stack of disposable bed pads on the shelf beyond him. Pressure built in her throat, tightening. The papers. She reached into the back pocket of her jeans and pulled them out.

"These are the papers from the envelope the pilot left in the hangar desk. I think he actually believed the envelope contained shipping manifests but it seems to me the deliveries are a discreet way for Vanek to get her progress reports to the Smoking Man. The significance of some of the data would be open to interpretation until we're able to provide supporting evidence...But there are clear indications here of experimentation on three non-adults..."

"Angie's kids."

"Probably so. When we've got the chance, she'll need to be questioned in detail about the children's medical care. I'm willing to bet the injections they've been receiving are a far cry from insulin."

"Probably out of this world."

She raised her eyebrows.

A pause, his focus returning from the speculative to her. "How are you doing, Scully? How was your visit before you got sucked into all this?"

She nodded and smiled briefly. "It went...very well. My mother was...overwhelmed to see me. Actually, I was overwhelmed to see her, too. She has a yellow room with ruffled curtains and a four-year-old to tell her stories. Rita and Will were there. For a few hours it was as if..."

"...as if the world were normal?"

She closed her eyes briefly and nodded. Soft lips brushed her forehead; his hand was careful against her arm.

"Hang in there, Dr. Barrett."

She took his hand and squeezed back. "You should go home and get some sleep."

He shook his head. "Going to stay here for a while and see how it goes. Besides, I don't think you'll get Sandy to leave yet. Anyway, Krycek's going to call again. I gave him another window at 11:30."

She nodded.

"I'm going to have to tell him something, Scully. He sent her here to protect her and now she's just...slipping away."

"We'll do our very best, Mulder."

"Yeah, I know. I know you will."

"Annie..."

They looked toward the bed.

"She just moved a little. She squeezed my hand just for a second. It's a good sign, isn't it?"

"We'll have to see if she does it again, Sandy." She went to the bed and set a hand on Sandy's shoulder. Tracy's face twitched slightly in discomfort and settled gradually back into smoothness. "But yes, it's a good sign."

Krycek eased himself over the window frame and into the laundry room. Second time tonight--final time. The old woman would come out in the morning and wonder who'd been tromping through her garden. Wouldn't matter, though. Out of here by then.

He went to the elevator, pushed the button and wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. Only the laptop left to carry to Che's. What would the old man think when he came by and found him gone? Would he have all his resources committed already, stretched too thin to start looking right away? Fingerprint powder all over her room, all over the car and the old man hadn't showed all day. Sweat broke from his hairline and trailed past his temples. An hour later and a lot of good the shower had done. Stomach was knotted, body ragged from way too much exertion, the stump burning where it connected to the prosthesis; heat like this was a bitch. A drop of sweat slid into his eyebrow and spread.

The elevator doors opened and he got in. Half an hour and then call Mulder again. She could be better; who's to say it wouldn't turn around? Scully was there.

She hadn't come again--no cry, no touch, nothing.

He stared hard at the number buttons on the panel in front of him--black buttons lined up in a row, the numbers in white worn away where thumbs or fingers had jabbed at them. Change the damn shirt and put on another. He shivered suddenly and leaned back against the wall, then forward again, the car settling already.

Che'd make sure there was no car bomb; the old man'd tried that once before.

The door opened. He paused, sniffed. Apartment air but no cigarette smoke. Nobody in the hall or on the stairs; he slipped the key from his pocket, crossed the hall and worked the lock. Opened the door and locked it again behind him. So far so good, and cool in here. He started toward the bed, reaching for the hem of his shirt.

"Alex..."

Froze in mid-stride.

"I see you were...out."

A flush of cold sweat. "Yeah, I..." Sudden pounding inside. Move; keep going. "You get to where you're ready to crawl the walls after a while. A little strength and you want to do it all, only you can't. Like being a dog on a short leash. I go up to the roof and back--not too far, nobody to watch you." He turned. The old man was just a shadow in the recliner.

"It's been a...full day--productive day," the old man started, reaching forward for the ashtray already on the desk. "I believe I may have solved a rather persistent problem."

Sounded pleased with himself, not pissed or tight, ready to spring. Keep yourself moving.

Krycek moved to the corner between the shelves and the bed and started to work off the shirt--stretch over the prosthesis, over the head, off the good arm. He let it drop onto the floor.

The sound of cellophane being crumpled, a lighter cap being flipped. "But I believe your...special touch...is what's called for now."

Ten minutes; he'd told Che he'd be back in ten. Guy'd been cooking when he left--a little celebration, he'd said, that one eyebrow raised. He was crazy; she'd like him. But what the hell was the old man up to?

Off with the straps and the non-arm she'd refused to touch. What about the prints? How could he have rationalized away the prints?

He turned to look at the old man. "Now?"

"We have a certain luxury of time, an hour or so."

Everything'd been ready to go.

He went into the bathroom, turned on the water, tossed the washcloth into the sink. Like being called to Buzz's interrogation all over again, that surreal feeling of your last minutes ticking away. Or maybe he'd caught up with the woman--the nurse. He squeezed the washcloth and ran it across his face, cool water coating his skin, his hair, dripping down onto his neck and chest. Stomach like a steel knot. He held the cloth under the running water again, squeezed again, wiped carefully at the bottom of the stump. Stung like hell; it was the weather, having it pressed up sweaty against the end of the damn prosthesis. He shut the water off and hung the cloth on the hook. Turned around. No pointed gun.

"I've put up fliers around the neighborhood," the old man said from the shadows. He'd never sat in the recliner before. "About your little...housekeeper..." The Morley went to his lips; he let out a nearly-invisible cloud of smoke. "Perhaps someone will know something about her."

"Saw 'em."

"Rewards tend to bring people forward."

"Cons, too."

"Possibly." Another drag. "But all we need is one tip from some...honest citizen..."

"No guarantee you'll find her in one piece."

"No. But at least we'll know."

He looked down and paused. "She was good at what she did."

He made himself turn and go to the shelf. One last shirt left, only one he hadn't packed. Last one she'd folded. Pick it up.

Grab it by the neck, shake it down till you can catch the hem. Over your head, over the stump...

"You're going without...?"

Second sleeve. "Heat's bothering my arm. Don't want it to end up infected again."

"...Very well." As in, this is strange; never seen you go out without it.

Hadn't ever gone out without it, either--this persona, this...disguise. Not in the mood to wear it. Not in the mood to interrogate some poor woman, either, if that's what this was about. Maybe your own interrogation and then the big lights-out.

Stomach raw but hungry in spite of everything.

He went to the refrigerator, opened it. Light spilled out at his feet. A little milk, a beer and a soda. A box of Chinese still in the back, one of the ones she'd bought. A few slices of bread. He stared and finally closed the door, turned and went to the narrow window. Threaten the woman, bear down on her until she finally...He'd have checked the odometer; no way to get out of that one. Didn't track, the...

He clutched at the window frame.

"Alex..." The old man was rising from his chair.

"Nothing, just..." Heart racing. "Think I overdid it tonight."

He made his way to the bed and sat, trying to blink away the momentary dizziness. The old man was standing close now, looking down at him.

"Give me a few minutes. I'll be okay."

It was her.

He turned carefully and lay against the pillows, the old man watching. Her pressure was against his hand, her mind...not all there, just half-conscious emotion--fear and the need for reassurance. He slipped his hand under the pillow and felt it curl.

"Are you sure you're quite alright, Alex?"

Hopefully she could feel it, what he was sending.

"I'll live."

Nice choice of words. Old man'd be laughing inside.