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12 RITES OF PASSAGE
#7: "Redemption"
By Anne Haynes
AHaynes33@aol.com
Dana Scully's Apartment
February 16, 1998
5:03 a.m.
Scully tiptoed into the living room, past the still, quiet
form of her partner sprawled on the couch, and checked her
computer. Her screen saver had kicked in, scrolling a quote
from MOBY DICK across her screen: "My soul is more than
matched; she's overmanned; and by a madman!" A small, wry
smile touched her lips.
Yes, indeed.
She moved the mouse and the screensaver disappeared,
revealing a dialogue box in the middle of the computer
screen. "Open file?" it asked.
Scully's stomach coiled with a mixture of excitement and
dread. She glanced over her shoulder at Mulder, her
expression softening at the sight of his face, boyish in
slumber. He hadn't slept much, she knew--she'd awakened
briefly around 2:00 a.m. to find him still up, watching an
old James Dean movie with the sound turned way down so
as not to disturb her.
She sighed, wishing she knew what she was going to do
about this exciting, complex man. Why was it so difficult
for them to test the boundaries of their relationship?
Friends became lovers every day---and many of them found a
way to make their relationships work. Her own parents had
been friends first; she had heard the story so many times
she knew it by heart. Margaret had been a child and William
a teenager when they met. A friend of Margaret's older
brother Patrick, William had been like another brother--
sometimes playing the role of protector, sometimes
confidante, sometimes patient playmate. But never anything
but friends--until the summer Margaret had turned seventeen.
That year, William Scully came back from his final year at
the Naval Academy with the news that he had received his
first commission and would be leaving for Mobile, Alabama,
in two weeks.
That's when Margaret Cleary had realized she was deeply in
love with her best friend.
Scully smiled, remembering the chuckle in her mother's voice
every time she told the next part of the story. "And you
know me when I make a decision...."
Maybe that was the problem, she reflected. She hadn't yet
made a decision about Mulder.
The situation was just so complicated. Whatever decision
she arrived at could have dire consequences. Ignoring her
growing feelings for Mulder guaranteed a future of
frustration. Could she really continue to work with him
indefinitely, having to sublimate her desires? The fact
that they'd managed to stay together this long without
dealing with their feelings was more a result of the
frantic, dangerous nature of their work than of any
carefully considered decision on the part of either of
them.
And what, exactly, WERE Mulder's feelings for her? She knew
he trusted her implicitly and exclusively. She knew that he
found her attractive--last night's aborted attempt at
seduction was hardly the first time she'd been aware of his
appreciation for her as a woman. But was Mulder capable
of more? Was he able to love her the way she needed to be
loved--fully and fearlessly, the way her parents had loved
each other?
She closed her eyes. Damn it, I can't even take the time to
think about this, she realized. They had so much to do--so
many secrets still to uncover.
Secrets that might be revealed with a single click of the
computer mouse button.
She turned from the computer and crossed quietly to the
kitchen to turn on the coffeemaker. The soft hissing sound
of hot water streaming through the grounds in the filter
followed her into the living room. She paused at the edge
of the sofa, staring down at Mulder, allowing herself one
stolen moment of pleasure at the sight of him.
God, he was beautiful. Not just physically, although she
found him very attractive. Mulder's beauty came from his
fierce, ultimately noble soul. No matter how crazy he made
her, no matter how infuriating his reckless disregard for
his own safety, no matter how single-minded and driven he
could be in his quest for the truth, at his heart, he was a
good, decent man who wanted to do the right thing for the
right reasons. He was all too rare a creature in this
world, and Scully would always love him if for that reason
alone.
She reached down and gently traced the curve of his cheek.
He gave a start, his eyes popping open and his body coiling
with tension for a moment, until his eyes met hers. Then he
visibly relaxed, his eyes softening, his mouth curving in a
sheepish smile.
"Morning," she murmured, stepping back from him.
"Morning." He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes with his
fingertips and yawning. His hair was spiked in a hundred
different directions, and his jaw was blue with stubble. His
white t-shirt was rumpled and untucked from his jeans. He
stretched his neck, baring his throat to her in an oddly
endearing show of trust. "Coffee?"
"Almost ready," she answered.
His expression changed in an instant, and he stood, crossing
to the the computer. "The file--"
"I wanted to wait until you woke to open it." She followed
him, pulling up a chair next to him as he sat in her desk
chair. He closed his hand over the mouse and started to
click the button, but she covered his hand with hers,
stilling his movement for a moment.
He looked up at her, a question in his eyes.
"I just--" She took a breath and started again. "I just
wanted to tell you that no matter what we find in these
files, WE'RE going to be okay. There's nothing in here that
can hurt us."
His eyes searched hers for a long, electric moment. Her
breath caught in her lungs, making her head swim. Then he
nodded and turned back to the computer. He pressed the
mouse button, his finger moving beneath her own. As she
moved her hand away, the screen filled with writing.
She scooted her chair closer.
"Dear Fox," the file began.
"It's a letter," Mulder murmured. "From my father."
Scully started to stand and move away, but Mulder reached
over and grabbed her wrist. "Don't go."
She looked up at him. "I don't want to intrude."
"There's nothing in here that I would keep secret from you,
Scully." He gently tugged her back down to her chair and
slid his arm around the chair back, keeping her close. She
settled into the warm curve of his arm and looked back at
the message on the screen.
"For twenty-two years, I have lived in utter silence
with the knowledge of my ultimate damnation, as if by
never speaking the words aloud, I would have my
sentence commuted in the end. But redemption can never
be had without confession. Though redemption may be well
beyond my reach, for your sake and my own an attempt
must be made."
Scully glanced up at Mulder, watching his eyes dart across
the page, a look of utter pain twisting his face. She
closed her eyes a moment, a sliver of sympathetic anguish
piercing her heart. Then she forced herself to look back at
the computer screen. Mulder tapped the cursor down key and
the screen scrolled to the next section.
"In this file, I have compiled what information still
remains in my possession and my memory. Regrettably,
both sources of information have been ravaged by the
passing years. And I fear that when all is said and
done, there will be truths to which I will neither be
able nor willing to confess. But I will try to find
the courage that has failed me in the past.
"Know also, my son, that I have loved you always. Any
choices I have made reflect only my own failings, not
any failure on your part. You have been a good and
dutiful son, far more so than I deserve. The choices
you have made in your own life fill me with a deep
sense of pride--and a deeper sense of shame for my own
weaknesses. I wish I had been half the man you have
become, Fox. I wish I had shown you and your mother
even a fraction of the loyalty and devotion you give to
those you love.
Every day I thank God that you have not become your
father's son."
Scully looked at Mulder again. Tears sparkled on his lower
eyelids, and he slowly turned his head as if to meet her gaze.
But he couldn't look at her, and he lowered his eyes back to
his hands. His mouth worked slowly, silently, perhaps
searching for words to express the emotions roiling inside
him. Scully shook her head slightly, not needing words to
understand. She felt what he was feeling as keenly as if these
tortured, guilty words had come from the heart of her own father.
Mulder closed his eyes, small tears trickling down the sides
of his cheeks. Scully touched her fingertip to the corner
of his eye, brushing away the dampness. She didn't try to
soothe him with words--nothing she could say had the power
to ease his pain and grief.
He took a deep breath a moment later and opened his eyes.
And found the strength to meet her eyes. "Let's see what
else is in here."
As he lifted his arm away from her, reaching for the mouse,
Scully caught his wrist. "I think we should try to print
the file first." The last time they'd had vital information
in their hands, circumstances and treachery had conspired to
steal it from them. Scully wanted hard evidence in her
hands--something more tangible and substantial than bytes of
information on a computer screen.
Mulder nodded and clicked the "print" button. The dialogue
box popped up with myriad options; he chose to print three
copies of the full document. Scully waited in utter silence
for the printer to begin the soft, mechanical hum that would
signify that the document was processing through the system.
The wait seemed endless.
Then the printer began to hum.
Scully released her breath, noting with wry amusement that
Mulder's shoulders heaved with relief as well. He sat back,
dropping his hand from the mouse. "So far so good."
Scully rested her hand briefly on his thigh, gave a little
squeeze, then stood and crossed to the printer to check the
first pages that had emerged from the feeder. The type was
clear and readable; the file hadn't re-encrypted upon being
sent to the printer the way she'd half-feared it might.
She gathered the pages, glancing over each sheet as it
emerged. After the initial letter came an odd assortment of
documents--what looked like a passenger manifest, a list of
names and corresponding numbers, several pages of graphs
that appeared to chart some sort of test--
Several pages into the document, a name caught her eye, and
her breath faltered and hung in her throat.
Oh my God, she thought, scanning the page to see if she
could make sense of what she was seeing.
She quickly flipped back several pages to the handful of
sheets that had looked like a passenger manifest. She
quickly scanned the list, noting with frustration that the
names were listed in order of the corresponding numbers
rather than in alphabetical order. She forced herself to
slow her frantic respiration and concentrate, afraid she
would overlook the name she sought.
Her eyes widened as she found her own name, the notation
dated August 19, 1994--just days after Duane Barry abducted
her. Her suspicions about the list suddenly seemed
justified--it WAS a passenger manifest, she'd be willing to
bet. A manifest detailing her passage on a mysterious train
where mysterious doctors had performed God only knows what
kind of horrible tests on her--
She closed her eyes and tamped down the panic. Breathe
slowly, Scully--in, out. In, out. She waited for her
respiration to slow and her heart rate to subside before she
opened her eyes. When she did, she found herself looking
into Mulder's worried eyes.
"Scully?"
"I think it's a list of test subjects." She took the list
over to where Mulder sat and showed him her name on the
manifest. Flipping pages, she showed him another name that
appeared in what seemed to be a summary of a psychological
test.
"Sarah Chandler," Mulder murmured, noting the name.
She nodded, running her finger down the list of names in the
passenger list. Still no Sarah.
She went back to the printer and pulled out another handful
of pages. The paper was hot against her cool, trembling
fingers. She looked through the new pages, noting what
looked like another list of test subjects. The dates listed
on these pages were much earlier than the dates shown on the
previous manifest--the first page began at October 1964. On
a hunch, she flipped forward to November 1973, scanning the
page for a familiar name.
And found one.
Just not the one she expected.
There was no Samantha Mulder among the test subjects
listed under the 1973 headings.
But there was a Scully.
Melissa Scully.
* * * * *
Mulder re-read his father's words, studying the sentences
and paragraphs as if he could somehow decipher a deeper,
more familiar message of disappointment and anger within the
structure of the language. He was floored by the enormity
of his father's confession. No truth he might find within
the confines of this file could be more stunning than his
father's admission of love and pride.
Had his father ever spoken such words in life? Not that
Mulder could remember. Anger, yes. Disapproval, certainly.
Embarrassment, definitely. But never affection. Never
praise. Even before Samantha's disappearance, Bill Mulder
had been a cold, reserved man. He'd drunk too much, slept
too little. He'd cut off any attempts to get close to him,
hiding behind a wall of disdain and indifference, a wall
inpenetrable to the woman who longed for her husband's
admiration and affection--or the boy who only wanted his
father's love.
Mulder blinked back tears that stung his eyes.
Those were feelings Bill Mulder had always seemed to save
for his daughter, his golden child. Only Samantha had ever
been able to breach the barriers. She'd been that kind of
kid--bright, funny, impossible to ignore. Mulder's own
feelings for her had always been complex--as resentful and
jealous as he'd been of his father's obvious affection for
Samantha, he himself had never been able to resist her
little girl appeal.
When Samantha had disappeared, the fabric of their family
had unraveled, frayed and finally fallen to pieces. Mulder
had grown up a virtual orphan, estranged by distance and
circumstance from his father, forced by necessity to be both
son and parent to his grief-paralyzed mother. Life as a
child had ended for Mulder at the age of twelve; he'd been
forced to grow up early. Except for that one small part of
him that would never grow up, that twelve-year-old who would
always miss his sister--and always blame himself for her
disappearance.
He rubbed his fingertips against his stinging eyes, suddenly
drained by the combination of tension, emotion and lack of
sleep. Enervated by the rapid-fire succession of events, he
found himself curiously lethargic. So what if the secrets
of the universe were contained in this file? He just wanted
to lie down and sleep for a week.
"Mulder?"
Scully's soft, strangled voice crept through the thick fog
of weariness enveloping him. He dropped his hands from his
eyes and turned to look at her, his vision slightly blurred.
It took a moment for his sight to clear enough for him to
see that Scully was deathly pale, her forehead creased, her
lips parted and trembling.
He pushed to his feet immediately. "What is it?
Her throat bobbed wildly for a moment, her eyes wide and
afraid as she met his gaze. He felt a frisson of anxiety
ripple through his gut.
"What, Scully?" He closed the distance between them and
cupped her elbow, steadying her.
She held out the sheaf of papers in her hand. They
fluttered in front of him as her hand continued to shake.
Then her lips pressed tightly together, and she visibly took
hold of herself, tamping down the shock and fear. Mulder
had seen similar transformations from her before, but as
always, her sheer determination left him in awe. "Melissa's
name is on this list, Mulder."
He stared at her for a moment, certain he'd misunderstood.
"Melissa?"
She thrust the papers toward him again. He took the small
stack of printouts and looked where she indicated.
#062863 - August 18th, 1973 - Kingsport, Tennessee
Melissa Scully. DOB 3/4/62. Red/green 5'0" 81 lbs.
SPE, RFLP, GME, PsProf. 8/18/73-8/19/73.
Mulder frowned. "What is this?"
Scully shook her head. "I don't know."
He flipped back a few pages, looking for some sort of cover
sheet, something to indicate what this notation might mean.
But there was nothing but listing after listing of numbers,
dates, names and abbreviations. The last thing before the
list began was a short notation from his father.
"we treat innocent citizens with all the respect with
which we would treat cattle being led to the slaughter
like merchandise like chattel"
He glanced back through the pages, looking for other notes
from his father. As he backtracked, he realized that the
notes at the beginning had been much more coherent, but his
father's thought processes had steadily eroded from page to
page.
He must have been drinking, Mulder thought.
Scully picked up another copy of the listings and grabbed
her glasses from the drawer of her desk. She sat in front
of the computer and pushed the keyboard out of the way,
making room to spread the pages in front of her. Mulder
retrieved the other copies of the file from the printer tray
and stacked them neatly in order, letting the automatic
motions of his hands free his mind to consider the
implications of this newest discovery.
Melissa, too?
How many lives touched by the far-reaching hand of the
consortium? he wondered. William Scully, both of his
daughters--who else? The Scully sons?
God forbid--Margaret Scully?
"I think these may be test results, Mulder."
Mulder turned toward Scully, unable to meet her eyes.
"What kinds of tests?"
"RFLP stands for restriction fragment length polymorphism.
Basically--it refers to a genetic marker. An RFLP test
would provide very specific genetic information--more than
you'd get from a more standard polymerase chain reaction
test."
Mulder nodded. "And what about SPE? Or GME?"
Scully shrugged. "SPE might be 'standard physical
examination.'"
That made sense. "PsProf might be psychological profile?
If we're right, maybe each person on this list was given a
battery of tests--"
"IF we're right, Mulder---and that's a pretty big if."
Scully picked up several of the sheets in front of her and
flipped through them. "Not everyone was subjected to the
same procedures, either--if we're interpreting this
correctly."
Mulder sat down next to Scully and looked at the information
she indicated with a small tap of her forefinger.
"Most of the people on this list have SPE and RFLP
designations. But only a handful have PsProf or GME."
Mulder glanced over the list, trying to figure out a pattern
to the notations. "Can we deduce that the date notations on
this sheet indicate the amount of time a given test subject
was in the hands of his or her abductor?"
Scully shifted in her chair as if uncomfortable. "Mulder,
I think it's a bit early to draw any such conclusions--"
Mulder frowned, inexplicably irritated by that single, prim
little refutation. "Look, Scully--I'm not saying that
extraterrestrials were involved, if that's what you're
afraid of."
"I'm not afraid, Mulder." She bristled, her eyes pinning
him like a bug under a microscope. "I just don't think we
can make any broad statements about what these papers mean.
I need a lot more evidence--"
Nothing new, he thought. Scully could be face to face with
Marvin the Damned Martian and want more proof. "What else
could they be?"
They stared at each other, tension buzzing between them.
Scully looked away first. "I don't know."
Her quiet admission dissipated his anger. He put his hand
on her shoulder. "I don't want to believe that your sister
was subjected to God knows what kind of tests, Scully. I
don't."
"I know."
He squeezed her shoulder and let his hand drop to his lap.
"Any idea what GME stands for?"
She shook her head. "It's not a standard medical acronym.
It could stand for any number of things."
Mulder glanced over the listings again. He paused at
Melissa Scully's name. "August 18th, 1973. Does that ring
any bells for you? How about Kingsport, Tennessee? Were
you living there then?"
"No, in '73 I think we were living in Pensacola--that was
the year after we moved there from San Diego." Scully
absently threaded her fingers though her hair, pushing the
touseled mass away from her face. "I suppose Mom might
remember more."
"Good thing we're planning to talk to her anyway."
Scully frowned. "I wish I didn't have to tell Mom any of
this."
"So do I."
She turned her head to look at him, her gaze direct yet
gentle. For a moment, he couldn't breathe. Only when her
soft voice broke the thick silence was he able to draw in a
chestful of air. "Mulder, why don't you go take a shower
while I finish getting dressed? We need to at least make an
appearance at the office, check in with Skinner. I'll drop
you by your place to get a suit."
He nodded and stood. "Okay." He let his hand brush across
her shoulder as he stepped past her on his way to the
bathroom. He grabbed duffel bag on the way through and took
it into the bathroom with him. Once the door closed behind
him, he pulled his cell phone from the pocket of the jacket
and dialled a number.
"Yo."
"Frohike, I need some help. Any idea what the notation
'GME' might mean--in connection to some sort of medical
tests?"
"Sure--the latest in high tech information gathering.
Genetic Material Extraction."
Mulder's eyebrows rose.
* * * * *
"Genetic Material Extraction?" Scully arched her eyebrows.
"Well, it's not a run of the mill procedure, of course, but
it's well within our technological means." Alan Pendrell's
voice was thick with sleep, making him sound like a drowsy
adolescent. "The bigger question, of course, would be why
anyone would want to extract genetic material."
"Any ideas?"
"Well, the most obvious reason would be for comparative
testing--sort of carrying RFLP testing a few steps further."
"What would be the point of such testing?"
"Perhaps to ascertain reproductive compatibility, maybe to
clone given organ cells---I suppose, theoretically, cloning
technology might one day advance to the point that we can
clone whole new organs from somatic cells. We'd never have
to worry about finding compatible organ donors--people could
have somatic cells extracted from their vital organs and
frozen until the time comes when a person needed an organ
replaced. The organ could be cloned from the somatic cells
and implanted with virtually no worries about rejection."
"Alan, what you're talking about is science fiction. That
technology doesn't exist."
"It doesn't exist yet, Dana. But thirty years ago, the idea
that man would some day walk on the moon was also called
science fiction."
God, she thought, when did Alan turn into Mulder? "But how
long have we been capable of genetic material extraction?"
"Officially, since the early eighties, although according to
the guys at the GUNMAN, tests were thought to be carried out
as early as the late fifties."
According to the guys at the GUNMAN? She'd KNOWN better
than to let Pendrell leave with Byers, Langly and Frohike.
"Thanks, Alan. Again, you've been a big help."
"Are you coming back to work today, D-Dana?" He still
sounded uncomfortable using her first name.
"Mulder and I are going to come by the office briefly, but
we have to go talk to a few people about the new case. But
if you think of anything else, you have my cell phone
number."
"Yeah." Pendrell sounded absurdly pleased.
"Thanks, Alan. Mulder and I owe you." She hung up the
phone and went into her bedroom to get dressed.
She was brushing her hair when the door to the bathroom
opened and Mulder emerged, bare to the waist, towelling his
hair dry. Scully took advantage of his covered eyes to take
a long, appreciative look at his lean body, the long torso
and the muscular stomach. She knew from experience that his
skin was soft and his muscles hard, and no matter how ill-
advised the thought, she couldn't help but wonder what it
would be like to feel his bare skin against the bare skin of
her breasts, her stomach, her thighs--
He pulled the towel away from his head and looked up at her.
She lifted her eyes quickly to meet his gaze, hoping that
the heat she felt washing over her face and neck wasn't
quite so apparent to the eye.
"I think I left my razor at my mother's house--do you
have an extra? And shaving lotion?"
"In the cabinet over the sink." She followed him back to
the bathroom.
He opened the cabinet, rustling around until he found the
package of disposable razors and a can of shaving gel. His
lips curved at the sight of the pastel can. "Lucky I'm in
touch with my feminine side." He sniffed cautiously at the
top of the can.
Hiding a smile, Scully reached into the cabinet for her
moisturizing face wash and scooted in next to him at the
sink. "Mind if we share?"
He glanced at her. "Your sink."
She turned on the water, testing its warmth. He mirrored
her movements, his hand sliding against hers as he scooped
up a handful of water and dampened his stubbled jaw.
Scully trembled, suddenly aware of the innate intimacy of
what they were doing. Sharing the sink in her bathroom--
Mulder half-dressed, still damp from the shower. The
mingled scents of soap and his tangy masculine deodorant
filled her nostrils, invaded her lungs. She looked up in
the mirror and saw his reflection staring back at her.
His eyes locked with hers, he leaned over her shoulder and
dipped his hands into the stream of warm water again, his
fingers slipping over hers like a caress. She tried to
draw a breath and found she couldn't.
He eased away from her slowly, his touch gliding up her
wrist like a whisper. He trailed drops of water up her arm
before lifting his wet hand to his face again. She stood,
frozen, her hands still under the running water, and watched
his reflection squirt a dollop of shaving gel in the palm of
his hand. A faint sea-scent rose from the gel.
"Nice," he murmured. He spread the gel across his jaw, his
hand rasping softly against his beard stubble. His jaw
whitened with foam.
Scully swallowed with difficulty and tore her eyes away from
the mirror. She squirted moisturizing wash on a soft face
cloth and set about the business of cleaning her face and
neck. She was NOT going to look back in the mirror. She
was NOT.
She looked back in the mirror.
Mulder's eyes met hers in the glass. He ran the razor down
his jawline in a long, slow, sure stroke. Great hands,
Scully thought. The man could've been a surgeon. Long
fingers, strong and sure.
She trapped her lower lip between her teeth and watched him
maneuver the razor over the curve of his chin. The blade
left a swath of smooth skin, slightly pink from the rasping
of razor's sharp edge. Her fingers tingled with the
overwhelming need to touch his face, to feel the difference
between his harsh beard and his satiny smooth skin.
Only by the greatest of effort was she able to return her
attention to her own task. She finished washing her face
and bent over the sink to rinse away the soap. With her
eyes averted where Mulder couldn't read her every thought,
she could let herself admit that she liked the way she felt,
standing next to his half-naked body. She liked the utter
awareness of her femininity, the contrast to his maleness.
She liked the intimacy of his nearness, the way the heat of
his body washed over her like a caress. It felt natural and
phenomenal, all at the same time. She could imagine playing
out this scene morning after morning for the rest of her
life. Longed for it, even. Ached for it.
And that scared the hell out of her.
She straightened, patting her face dry with a hand towel.
When she moved the towel away, she darted another peek at
the mirror. Mulder was nearly finished shaving, only the
underside of his jaw left untouched. He stretched his neck,
baring his throat to her again, and dipped the razor beneath
his jaw.
He jerked suddenly and hissed a quiet oath. Blood beaded on
the skin beneath his jaw.
Scully turned and looked up at him, lifting her hand
automatically to his wound. "Let me--"
He grabbed her wrist, stopping her. "No."
She stared at him, startled by the sudden tension in his
voice. "I was just going to see how much damage you did."
He released her wrist. "It's a nick. Dr. Scully can take
the morning off." He grabbed the towel she'd just discarded
and patted the excess shaving lotion from his face, moving
several feet away from her, his back turned.
Scully stared at the reflection of his back in the mirror.
What the hell was that about? His shoulders were slightly
hunched, his muscles taut. For God's sake, she thought,
you'd have thought I was going to strangle him.
She closed her eyes, shutting out the sight of him. What
was happening to them? Every word, every touch seemed only
to intensify the aching tension between them. Mulder in
particular seemed unable to take a step forward without
taking two steps in retreat.
She opened her eyes and stared at his reflection, thinking
of a thousand things she should say to him about trust and
love and taking risks. But she said none of those things
when she finally spoke. "Do you want bagels for breakfast?
Or cereal?"
Mulder turned to look at her. His face relaxed slightly.
"Got anything loaded with fat and sugar?"
"I'll see what I can come up with," she answered, venturing
a slight smile. They were both making an effort to ease the
tension between them, she recognized. But it wasn't quite
working.
She followed him slowly to the kitchen, lagging behind,
trying to read his thoughts in the curve of his spine
and the set of his shoulders. He was on edge, tightly
wound. So was she.
And they couldn't go on that way forever.
One day soon, they were going to have to figure out what to
do about each other.
End of #7
Rated PG-13 for adult language and situations.
12 RITES OF PASSAGE
#8: "Reflection"
By Anne Haynes
AHaynes33@aol.com
Margaret Scully's home
February 16, 1998
8:04 a.m.
Margaret Scully knew something important was about to
happen. Something monumental and possibly life-changing.
She felt it in her marrow, in that same deep, dark place of
knowledge from which previous premonitions had sprung.
She'd felt the first vague fingers of unease on Friday, when,
in the middle of preparing dinner for one of the diocese
shut-ins, she'd been struck with the certainty that
something wasn't right with Dana. Benton Crane's call later
that evening had both confirmed and eased her fears--Dana
had been assaulted but she was all right. And Fox was there
with her, too, which eased Margaret's mind.
She had thought then that the uneasy feeling would go away.
But it hadn't. It had merely grown, transformed. It was
about Dana, still--she felt that clearly.
But not JUST about Dana.
She was tense, on edge, jumping at every little noise. That
unnamed something was coming. She could feel it, like the
change in air pressure before a storm.
When the doorbell rang, her heart leapt in her chest.
This was it.
She opened the door and found her daughter and Fox Mulder
standing on the porch, their bodies close but their souls
somehow apart. She sensed the tension and felt a little
niggle of sadness deep inside. What was so very clear to
her seemed to pose great difficulty for Dana and Fox. Had
they not yet come to understand how fragile and fleeting
life was? How rare the chances to find true joy?
As her first impressions--of tension, fear, anger--
dissipated, she noticed other more tangible things. The
scrape on her daughter's chin. The bandage on Fox's
forehead and the purple bruises on his cheek. "My God, what
happened to you?"
Dana ventured a reassuring smile, but it was Fox who spoke.
"Dana drove."
Chuckling at the glare her daughter sent in Fox's direction,
Margaret gestured them inside, her tension eased slightly
by the familiar sound of Fox'd dry humor. Even in the very
worst of times, back when she'd despaired of ever seeing
Dana again, Fox had been able to make her laugh. She would
always love Fox Mulder for giving her those few, stolen
moments of laughter in an otherwise dark and joyless time.
"Something is wrong, isn't it?" She didn't waste time,
leading them right to the kitchen, where all the important
Scully talks always took place. She didn't ask if they
wanted something to drink; she automatically poured coffee
for them--Dana's with cream, no sugar; Fox's black with a
teaspoon of honey. Dana paced quietly in the doorway of the
kitchen, while Fox leaned against the cabinets and watched
Margaret prepare the coffee. She was certain that Fox would
be the first to speak--he vibrated with unasked questions.
But Dana spoke first. "Mom, we need your help."
Margaret met her daughter's wary eyes. "Of course."
Dana took a deep breath, considering her words. Margaret
glanced from her daughter's troubled face to the vibrant
gaze of Fox Mulder standing at her elbow. He blazed with
nervous energy, the sheer intensity of his expression
threatening to overwhelm her. She looked away, marveling at
strong a woman her daughter must be to handle a man like Fox
Mulder on a daily basis.
Dana stopped pacing in the doorway and turned to look at
her. "Mom, just before Dad died, did he tell you about a
trip he made to Boston to see Bill Mulder?"
Margaret released a soft sigh, not quite able to hide the
sadness that rippled through her at the memory. William had
been so worried about their girl, so afraid of what danger
her new partner might pose. He had spent the greater part
of his life in the Navy, and though he'd thrived on doing
his duty to his country, he had not escaped without a
sense of cynicism. He had seen the price of freedom--and
the toll of deceit. And he'd feared for his daughter, for
the lessons she, too, would have to learn.
"You knew about it, didn't you, Mom?" Dana's face reflected
pain and betrayal.
Margaret closed her eyes for a moment. "Yes."
"Why? Why did he want to talk to Mr. Mulder?" Dana's voice
was taut with a combination of anger and pain.
Margaret eyes flickered open, widening with surprise.
"Dana? You know your father would never do anything
dishonorable, don't you? Surely you don't doubt that."
Fox spoke quickly. "Of course, Dana knows that. We both
do."
Dana looked up at Fox, her eyes widening slightly. He met
her searching gaze with an intensity that only served to
strengthen Margaret's certainty that he was the only man in
the world for her daughter. Without words they spoke
volumes; with mere flicks of their eyebrows they held entire
conversations.
Yet the most important words could not remain unspoken
forever. One of them would have to find the courage to say
them first.
Dana looked away from Fox, her gaze steady as she met
Margaret's eyes. "I know Dad would never have done anything
wrong. But he must have had a reason for wanting to meet
with Mulder's father."
"How did you find out about this?" Margaret asked.
Dana reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a slip of
paper and what looked like a pocket planner. "We found this
in a trunk that Mulder's father left for him."
Margaret took the slip of paper from Dana's outstretched
hand. She unfolded the note and scanned it quickly, her
breath catching in her lungs as she recognized the bold,
looping script of her late husband. Tears pricked the back
of her eyes as in that small, brief moment she relived every
letter, every note, every snippet of correspondence she'd
ever seen bearing his handwriting.
"What did Dad mean about 'something' Mr. Mulder might
consider worth a trade?" Dana asked.
Margaret shook her head, blinking back tears. "I don't
know."
"Did he tell you anything at all?" Fox asked. His voice was
gentle, hesitant.
Margaret looked up and met his earnest, slightly wary gaze.
"Let's sit down, and I'll tell you what I can remember."
* * * * *
Scully felt Mulder's eyes on her. His gaze was hot and
intense, alternately questioning and comforting. She
couldn't look at him now, however, not with her emotions raw
and exposed. Mulder depended on her strength and her
composure. She didn't want to fall apart in front of him
again.
"Fox, I've told you about Dana's father and how much he
loved serving his country."
"Yes."
"The only thing he loved more than the sea and the Navy was
his family. He would have given anything for us. Made any
sacrifice we asked of him. He would have turned his back on
the sea and his career if we had required that of him."
"But we would never ask that of him, no matter how much it
took him away from us," Scully murmured, a faint smile
touching her lips at the bittersweet memory of her father
and his passions. "Ahab and the sea were never meant to be
separated. We all knew that."
"Sounds like a lucky man." Beneath the table, Mulder's hand
brushed lightly over her knee, giving her a slight squeeze.
The comfort he meant to convey was colored by her own
shivering awareness of his nearness. She took a
deliberately deep breath to steady herself.
"We were the lucky ones," Margaret said, her voice soft, her
eyes misty and faraway. "He was a good husband, a good
father. William would have done anything to keep his
children safe."
"Is that why he wanted to meet with Mr. Mulder?" Scully
reached across the table to squeeze her mother's hand.
Margaret dragged herself back from her memories and met
Scully's gaze. "Yes. When you told us you were working
with Fox Mulder, the name rang a bell for him."
"Rang a bell?" Mulder asked.
"Apparently William and your father crossed paths a long
time ago, Fox. You couldn't have been more than a toddler--
Dana wasn't even born yet."
"When, Mom?" Scully asked. "Under what circumstances?"
"I barely remember, honey--it was so long ago. But it had
to do with a military accident. William lost a good friend."
"What kind of accident?" Fox asked.
"William was in the Silent Service for much of his early
career in the Navy," Margaret replied. "He was a lieutenant
j.g. on the USS Blaire in 1963 when he and his submarine
were called to deal with a rogue Russian submarine--
apparently the crew had mutinied and had loaded the torpedo
bays, looking for targets. William and his boat were
commanded to sink the Russian sub."
"But?" Scully prodded.
"But William told me later that the Blaire's sonar operator
swore that the Russian sub was no such thing--the sound of
the screws was all wrong."
"Could it have been another American sub?" Mulder asked.
Scully knew he was thinking of the USS Thresher. So was
she, to tell the truth. If someone in the government--or
someone on the fringes of the government--had wanted the
Thresher scuttled for whatever reason, they knew how to make
it happen. They knew how to cover it up, too.
"That's what William came to believe," Margaret admitted.
"That question haunted him 'til the end. Because the same
day the Blaire sank the so-called Russian sub, his friend
Thomas Linwood died in a freak submarine accident in the
same area."
"The Thresher," Mulder murmured.
Margaret looked up at him, surprised. "Yes. How did you
know?"
Mulder reached into the breast pocket of his suit. "This
was in my father's trunk."
Margaret took the newspaper clipping and glanced over it,
her forehead creased. "Why do you suppose your father kept
this?"
"Because I think it's connected to this." Mulder handed her
another slip of paper, this time the State Department memo
referring to the Russian submarine incident. "My father
wrote that memo about the sinking of that so-called Russian
sub. But I think maybe Capt. Scully was right. I think
maybe the Blaire sank the Thresher."
"But why?" Margaret asked.
Scully looked down at her hands, twining and untwining her
fingers. Why, indeed?
Had it been a simple snafu? Lack of communication leading
to a horrible accident that the military and the State
Department later covered up? Or had the sinking of the
Thresher been deliberate, a direct order from higher ups
with their own hidden agenda?
"Did Capt. Scully ever voice his suspicions?"
Margaret nodded. "He did. He was thanked for his concern
and informed that any further inquiry into the matter was
the business of military intelligence."
"And nothing ever came of it."
Margaret looked at Mulder. "William agonized over that for
all the years of his life. He had followed protocol,
informed the proper authorities in the subscribed manner--"
Mulder made soft, derisive sound. Both Margaret and Scully
looked up at him, and he reddened. "Sometimes it's hard to
keep track of who the good guys are."
Margaret nodded. "William said the same thing."
"You said that Capt. Scully had crossed paths with my father
during that incident. How?"
"I'm not clear on that," Margaret admitted. "He was out to
sea for a long time on that tour of duty. And there were
things he couldn't tell me about his work because of
security concerns." She pushed back her chair and rose to
her feet. "But I think I know where you might find more
answers."
Scully and Mulder stood as well, exchanging quick glances.
Mulder's eyes were dark with excitement. Scully herself was
torn between anticipation and dread. "Where, Mom?"
Margaret's face softened, and her lips curved in a slight
smile. "Your father can tell you in his own words."
* * * * *
Margaret Scully's House
Feb. 16th, 1998
8:58 a.m.
Mulder walked slowly around William Scully's study, noting
the simple, masculine feel of the room. Tall bookshelves
lined two of the four walls, while a battered but sturdy
mahogany desk and two Navy surplus file cabinets filled the
wall in front of the window. For a second, he was back in the
old house in Chilmark, in his father's study. The trappings
were finer there, but the same utilitarian austerity
prevailed. Bill Mulder and William Scully had shared that
much in common.
What else might they have shared?
Mulder had told Mrs. Scully that he had no doubts about
William Scully's honor, and for the most part that was true.
But he'd seen too much, lost too much to trust anyone
completely.
Anyone but Scully.
He glanced at her. She leaned against the edge of the desk
watching her mother unlock one of the file cabinets.
Scully's posture was deceptively relaxed, but Mulder had
been with her long enough to recognize the lines of tension
in her forehead and the rapid rise and fall of her chest as
her respiration quickened with anxiety. She was scared.
She was scared to death that something they found here today
might compromise her respect and admiration for her father.
He envied the fact that she still had illusions left to
be shattered. His own had been crushed long ago. The most
recent revelations about his father's treachery were nothing
but overkill.
She turned her head, her gaze meeting his for a moment
before sliding past him to stare at the wall beyond. "My
father kept a journal for as long as I can remember." Her
voice was faint, far away. "I remember when I was small, he
would ask me how to spell words he wanted to use in his
journal entries. It was a game we played. Mostly he'd ask
me about easy words like 'run' or 'water'--but sometimes,
he'd get the most mischievous look in his eye and ask me how
to spell a word like 'refraction.'" She chuckled softly,
gesturing at the small wool rug by the desk. "I learned how
to spell right there, sitting in the floor at my father's
feet."
"Won the state spelling bee when she was in the fifth
grade," Margaret tossed over her shoulder. She gave a
strong yank and the bottom drawer of the file cabinet
opened. She reached inside and withdrew several thin,
leatherbound volumes from the drawer. "These are the
journals from the early 1960's." She handed them to Scully
and opened one of the upper drawers. "And this is from
1992 and 1993." She gave that journal to Mulder.
He took the volume and pulled his glasses from the breast
pocket of his jacket. Settling in one of the leather
armchairs in front of the desk, he opened the journal and
began flipping pages, looking for his father's name.
"I don't know if I can do this." Scully's voice broke into
his concentration. He looked up and found her clutching the
journal against her abdomen, a deep frown on her face. "I
feel as if I'm invading Dad's privacy."
Margaret crossed to her daughter and slipped her arm around
Scully's shoulder. "Dana, Dad would have been glad to help
you find the answers to your questions."
Scully cut her eyes toward Mulder. He read her gaze with
the ease of a long-time companion. She knew as well as he
did that it was time to ask the OTHER question raised by the
information they'd gathered from his father's belongings.
The question of what happened to Melissa in 1973.
Scully didn't want to bring up the subject. She didn't want
him to say anything, either. She didn't want to think about
it. The reluctance was written all over her worried face.
He was torn, himself. He had no desire to add to Margaret
Scully's sadness--but if he could find out what happened to
Melissa, maybe he could find out what had happened to
Samantha, too. Maybe he could finally find proof of what
had been done to her, where he could find her remains.
Maybe he and his mother could finally put Samantha to rest
and get on with their lives.
"I need to run some errands, sweetheart." Margaret spoke,
snapping the band of tension stretching between Scully and
him. "You and Fox feel free to stay here as long as you
need. Make yourselves at home--there's tea in the fridge
and makings for sandwiches. I should be home before lunch,
though."
Scully was silent until she heard the front door shut behind
her mother. Then she turned to Mulder. "I think this is
really hard for her. She tries to hide it, but she misses
Dad so much. He'd retired just a year or two before his
death--they had so looked forward to the time when they
would be together every day, just the two of them...."
Mulder nodded. "Life can be unspeakably cruel."
Her eyes softened with compassion, and he felt something
stir deep inside. He knew with utter certainty that if he
went to her now and let go of the pain and fear he harbored
inside him, she would open her arms and take it all. Weep
with him, rail against heaven in his stead, hold him up with
her steely strength. Just when he'd gotten used to being
horribly alone, she'd been foisted upon him by his enemies.
Thank God.
Still, he couldn't let go of his tight grip on his pain.
Sometimes he thought that the pain was the only thing
holding him together. It was the glue that kept him from
shattering into a million little pieces. If he could feel
the pain, he knew he was still alive, still breathing.
He looked back at the journal in his lap. He'd flipped
pages up to March 1992. He turned to March 6, 1992, the
day Scully had been assigned to work with him. No entry,
but three days later, William Scully had jotted a brief
notation:
Dana has been assigned field agent status. She says
she's glad to be trying something new, but I don't like
the thought of my baby girl on the streets wearing a
gun. She's been assigned to an odd division as well--
a project, she says. Called the X-Files. I asked Bud
Cromwell about the division and he laughed. Apparently
some eccentric Bureau genius has taken to lurking in
the basement of FBI headquarter, looking for ghosts and
goblins. Good God, is this what I went to sea to
protect and serve?
And now poor Starbuck has to deal with this oddball.
Well, if anyone in the world can put the fellow in his
place, it's my girl.
Mulder's lips curled slightly. Indeed she could.
But he was sad that Scully's father had seen him this way,
as an oddball, a pariah. Someone whose unwelcome presence
his daughter was forced to endure. Despite his tendency
toward self-loathing, Mulder recognized that he was much
more to Dana Scully than a millstone around her neck. He'd
saved her life just as she'd saved his, many times over.
He'd been there, for the most part, when she'd needed his
comfort and support. And sometimes, though she'd never
admit it, he made her laugh.
He looked up and found her engrossed in the open journal in
front of her. He stole that moment to just watch her,
notice the way her facial expressions changed subtly as she
took in the words in front of her. He'd known her for so
many years--his relationship with her was the most intense,
exclusive and long-lived relationship of his entire life,
and yet he never really seemed to tire of her. He always
seemed to notice something new, something different about
her every time he looked at her--the way her hair curled
around her chin, the almost imperceptible beauty mark above
her lip, the way her eyecolor changed as often as the
weather.
"Any luck?" he asked.
She looked up, blinking as if he'd startled her. "I'm up to
April 11, 1963, the day after the Thresher sank. Mostly
Dad's entries are about losing his friend. He hasn't said
anything about his suspicions concerning the connection
between the Thresher and the alleged Russian sub. But
that's how Dad would have been--he'd have pursued the proper
channels first before even speculating in writing."
Mulder nodded and turned his attention back to the journal
in his lap. He slowly flipped through the pages, scanning
William Scully's entries in search of familiar names or
dates. He found another mention of the X-Files in October
of 1992:
Dana visited today. She seems happy with her work on
the X-Files, although when I asked her about her
partner, she rolled her eyes at me. Poor sad fool,
she's probably got him cowering in the basement by now,
trembling at the sight of her. That's my girl.
Mulder chuckled softly.
"What?" Scully looked up from the journal she was reading.
"Your father's opinion of me...left a lot to be desired."
"He never met you, Mulder."
"Well, apparently you gave him the impression that I was
like some kind of human mold, hiding out in the basement of
the FBI building, afraid of direct sunlight and hard-assed
G-women."
Her eyes twinkled for a moment. "I don't know WHERE he'd
have gotten that idea."
He arched one eyebrow at her and returned his attention to
the journal. The next entry of interest was dated October
15th, 1993:
Confirmed my lingering suspicions. Dana's Mulder IS
Bill Mulder's son. Suddenly I'm wondering just who
assigned her to this mysterious X-Files division and
why. It was bad enough spending my whole career being
manipulated and lied to--that's NOT going to happen to
my daughter, too. The danger to her is too great. I
won't stand for it. She'll be angry with me for my
interference, but I can't stand by and leave her in the
heart of danger without trying to stop it.
And then, November 12th:
I sent a letter to Bill Mulder, asking him to meet with
me in Boston on November 19th. I told him I was
willing to make a trade--something I want for something
he wants. It won't hurt for him to believe I know
something more than I do. It's a risk, perhaps, but my
sources say that Mulder is persona non grata among his
previous associates, that he's a drunkard and a coward.
I doubt I have anything to fear--but I'm certain I have
much to gain.
Mulder released a small sigh of relief. Whatever doubts he
had harbored about William Scully had faded to nothingness,
leaving only a deep and growing respect and admiration for
his partner's late father. Mulder regretted that he'd never
had the chance to meet him. Any man who could capture the
heart of Mrs. Scully and rear a daughter as fine as Dana had
to have been a hell of a man.
Then his relief faded into regret as he re-read the passage.
"...he's a drunkard and a coward...."
Mulder arched his eyebrows slightly. Come on, Captain
Scully, don't pull your punches. Tell me what you REALLY
think of the Mulder men....
"Mulder--listen to this." Scully's voice tugged him back
from the edge of darkness. She began to read from the
journal in front of her.
"I finally presented the Naval Review Board my suspicions
about the Russian submarine incident. I relayed sonar
operator Joffrey's concerns about the screw signature and my
own confirmation of what Joffrey heard, but to no avail.
The Review Board informed me that a team from the Pentagon
under direct supervision of the State Department had
thoroughly investigated both incidents and there was no
correlation. They showed me the State Department memo
settling the matter.
"I don't believe we are being told the truth, but I have no
proof to contradict the official report. I do have deep
reservations about the State Department's handling of the
inquiry, however. Neither I nor Lt. Joffrey was ever
questioned by anyone concerning the incident. And now Lt.
Joffrey has gone AWOL, so I have no one to corroborate my
own observations. All I have are suspicions--and the name
of the State Department's point man. William Mulder."
Scully looked up at him. "This must be the connection Mom
was talking about."
Mulder nodded. His head suddenly hurt; he pulled off his
glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb
and forefinger. "Anything else? Any mention of Lt.
Joffrey's death?"
Scully arched her eyebrows. "Death?"
"You don't think he simply went AWOL? That would be pretty
damned convenient, wouldn't it?"
"I suppose." She sighed softly, returning her attention to
the journal.
Mulder watched her for a moment, suffering a surprisingly
sharp pang of sheer jealousy. Must be nice, he thought,
knowing your father was such a damned paragon. Capt.
Straight Ass "I never met a rule book I didn't like" Scully.
Mr. "I'm so fucking perfect I make Bill Mulder look like the
goddam anti-Christ!" Scully....
Mulder wanted to throw something, break something, kill
something. Just for a second. Just long enough to remind
him that he still had the capacity to be his father's son.
Then the anger seeped away, leaving guilt and remorse in its
wake. He didn't resent William Scully, he knew. He
resented his own father's weakness and evil. God, he'd give
his right arm to have been William Scully's son. To have a
father who'd have fought the devil himself to protect his
children. William Scully would never have let anyone force
him into making a choice between his children. He'd have
died first.
Bitter tears stung Mulder's eyes. He rubbed his burning
eyes with his fingertips, trying to regather his wits.
Feeling sorry for himself wasn't going to solve this case.
"Joffrey was found dead in a back alley in San Francisco two
weeks after the submarine incident." Scully's voice was low
and tired.
He looked up at her, his vision slightly blurred. "Murder?"
"Opium overdose."
He nodded. "Same thing."
"That's what my father thought." Scully lay the journal on
her father's desk and pushed her hair back from her face.
"I had no idea he had gone through something like this. He
never told us."
"I suppose he wanted to spare you that kind of story. Kind
of hard to teach your children about patriotism when your
own country is screwing the hell out of you."
"Were you always this jaded, Mulder? Didn't your father try
to spare you, even a little bit?"
"Oh, yeah, he spared me," Mulder muttered, his voice thick
and ugly with bitter anger. "He spared me at the expense of
my sister's life. Thanks, Dad."
Scully's lower lip trembled a little, and he kicked himself
mentally, angry that he'd dumped his pain and anger in her
lap yet again. She didn't need any of this--not the danger
she faced daily because of him, not the loss of her
innocence and her faith--
"What about you? What have you found?" Scully regained
control over her trembling lip and nodded toward the journal
in his lap.
"Just a rundown of the Mulder family failings." He tried to
smile, but his face felt stiff. "I'm about to check your
father's account of his meeting with my father in Boston.
Assuming Dad bothered to show." Opening the journal, he
flipped through to the entry dated November 18, 1993 and
began reading aloud.
"Bill Mulder was so much smaller a man than I expected. Not
just physically but emotionally and spiritually as well. He
was more a shell than a man--a husk of humanity covering
utter emptiness. He has no life now; I didn't need to hear
almost those very words from him to know the truth. He has
lost everything, and for what? To what end? I don't know.
I don't think Mulder knows.
"I wanted to hate him because of the lies he has perpetrated
for all these years, but somehow it was pity that most
plagued me upon meeting him. I felt sorry for him because I
realized that I have what he longs for most--a family who
loves me. A clear conscience. A reason to live.
Mulder swallowed with difficulty and dropped the book in his
lap, suddenly unable to return his eyes to the page.
Scully rose from her father's desk chair and walked around
the mahogany desk to crouch at Mulder's side. She put her
hand over his and looked up into his face, her sheer will
forcing him to look at her. The gentle compassion in her
eyes almost broke him. He thrust the book at her. "Please
finish."
"Are you sure?"
He nodded.
She took the book from him and stood, leaning against the
edge of the desk. She began reading aloud.
"He was drunk. He was shaking and weak. He spoke in
riddles, his voice slurred. He asked me the strangest
question...." Scully's voice trailed off.
Mulder met her wary gaze. "What is it?"
She didn't answer right away.
"Read it, Scully." He braced himself mentally--and
physically as well, his hands clutching the arms of the
chair.
She took a breath and began again. "He asked me the
strangest question. 'Captain Scully, if your children were
in danger and you could only save one, how would you make
that choice?'"
* * * * *
Scully paused, glancing at Mulder. He closed his eyes,
as if unable to bear the sight of her pity. "Go on." His
voice was raspy, as if he'd swallowed broken glass.
She resumed reading. "I was so angry at the question I
almost hit him. But then I saw that he was in agony. I had
heard that his daughter disappeared when she was a little
girl--that must still haunt him. I can't imagine such pain
myself--I don't want to imagine it. So I walked away. I
suppose I found the answer I sought--Bill Mulder and his son
are not threats to my daughter. It was wretchedly obvious
that Bill Mulder means nothing to anyone anymore--probably
not even his son."
"He was wrong," Mulder murmured. "No matter what my father
did, no matter how he hurt us and failed us, I loved him
anyway. I still wanted his approval and his love. How sick
is that?"
Scully looked up at him, her heart breaking. "Mulder, he
was your father. You loved him because you were his son."
She touched his arm. "Sometimes that's all the reason
that's necessary--and there's nothing wrong with that."
Mulder pulled away from her touch, his movements quick and
jerky with anger. "He let me believe that it was MY fault
Samantha was taken, Scully. He KNEW why they'd taken her--
for God's sake, he made the choice himself!" He raked his
fingers through his hair. "I wish he'd chosen for them to
take me instead, Scully. I wish they'd taken me."
Scully shook her head violently. "No."
"At least I wouldn't have lived the last 25 years with this
empty place inside me that nothing else can fill." He shook
his head, his anger visibly transforming to bitter sadness.
"I've tried to fill it, Scully. I've tried my work, my
obsession with finding the truth. I've tried liquor, I've
tried sex--" He paused, turning his head slowly to look
into her eyes. "When we first started working together, I
thought maybe I could fill that place with you. You could
take Samantha's place for me. But you're not her."
Scully's heart sank into the deepest place inside her. She
couldn't bear to look into his eyes and see the sadness and
disappointment. "I'm sorry."
He reached out and cupped her jaw, forcing her to look up at
him. "No, Dana."
She blinked, surprised by his unaccustomed use of her first
name.
"You have your own place inside me that you fill perfectly.
I realized that when you were taken from me." He slid his
hand around the back of her neck and pulled her to him, his
other arm slipping around her shoulders to draw her into a
fierce embrace. He brushed his lips against her forehead.
"I used to take courage in the fact that you came back to
me. I thought maybe someday she would return as well." He
sighed, his warm breath stirring her hair. "But that's not
going to happen, is it?"
She tightened her arms around his waist, wanting to give him
hope, to offer something to ease the soul-deep ache she felt
from him with the empathy of a long-time companion. But
more than compassion, Mulder valued honesty. And the truth
was, there was little reason to hope for Samantha's return.
Mulder released her. "You really do put up with a lot of
crap from me, Scully. I don't say thank you enough."
"Cuts both ways, Mulder," she assured him with a smile.
"So--what now?"
"Well, we've cleared your father--that's one thing off our
minds."
She glanced at him, warmed by his obvious relief. She
wished she could find a way to at least partially redeem his
own father in his eyes. For all the damning evidence to the
contrary, Scully had a gut feeling that somewhere before the
end, Bill Mulder had tried to make amends for his earlier
sins. Maybe it was as simple as the confession he'd been
trying to make to his son right before he'd been shot. The
night of Bill Mulder's murder, when Mulder had been so out
of his head from the drugs in his water, he'd told Scully
all he could remember from his meeting with his father. The
details were blurred by the drugs, but she'd gleaned enough
to realize that Bill Mulder had been trying to tell his son
all the dirty secrets he had to hide.
He'd wanted to do the right thing in the end. That had to
count for something.
"There's still the question of Melissa, though."
Her stomach lurched and fell. "We have to be
misinterpreting those papers, Mulder. I can't believe my
sister could have been missing for two days without my
hearing something about it. Even at nine, I would've known
something was going on."
"What else could those papers be, Scully?"
"I don't know." She crossed to the file cabinet and rested
her hand on the drawer marked "1970-1980." The brass handle
beneath her fingers was cold and smooth. "There has to be
another explanation."
"That's what we're looking for, Scully. An explanation."
She looked up at him, searching his face. Is that really
what you're seeking? she wondered, studying the eager glint
in his eyes, the taut anticipation that corded every muscle
in his body. Or are you looking for evidence to prove your
own theories about what happened to your sister? Are you
looking for proof that my sister was an abductee?
She looked away, sudden anger firing through her. Damn him,
she thought. Damn his obsessions and his single-minded
pursuit of his narrow version of the truth. Sometimes she
wondered what would happen if they discovered proof that her
own missing time was a result of extraterrestrial
experimentation, as she knew he'd theorized. Would he be
thrilled? Elated? Would he rejoice at the final,
unalterable proof of his theory, even if it meant that
something unspeakably foul had been perpetrated against her?
Would he sacrifice her for his own truth?
In the throes of her anger, she remembered a dark night and
a moonlit bridge outside Bethesda, Maryland, when Fox Mulder
traded a woman he believed to be his sister for Scully's
safety. She knew he'd hedged his bets, taken every
precaution to ensure that neither of them were hurt, but the
bottom line was, he'd risked the goal of his quest for her.
And deep in her heart, beneath her questions and fears, she
knew he'd do it again.
She tugged on the file cabinet drawer. It opened with a
low, metallic groan. She looked through the neatly filed
journals, noting the dates written in bold black strokes on
the narrow spines of the books. She found the book labeled
"October 1972 - September 1973" and withdrew it from the
drawer. As she opened it near the back, she felt Mulder
come up behind her, his body heat seeping through the layers
of linen, cotton and silk she wore. She closed her eyes for
a second, taking strength from his nearness. Then she
looked down at the open journal.
She flipped forward to August 18 and glanced over her
father's entry for that day. "He was at sea then," she
murmured, noting the litany of daily duties and amusing
shipboard anecdotes her father had recorded. She slowly
flipped forward a few pages, scanning the pages for any
mention of Melissa. Still nothing--no mention of any of his
children, except a brief statement about calling them all as
soon as the sub was allowed out from under radio silence.
"Nothing?" Mulder asked, his voice tight with
disappointment.
Scully shook her head, turning to look at him. "Nothing."
"Then we have to ask your mother."
"Ask me what?"
Scully's heart lurched at the sound of her mother's voice.
She had been so intently searching her father's journal that
she hadn't heard the front door open or her mother's
approach. She pressed her palm against her chest. "You
scared the life out of me!"
Margaret looked from Scully to Mulder, her eyes wary. "What
do you want to ask me, Fox?"
Scully put her hand on Mulder's elbow and squeezed, hoping
he'd get the message. If he did, he ignored it.
"Mrs. Scully, in August of 1973, was Melissa missing for any
period of time?"
Her mother's eyes widened. "Yes. How did you know?"
Scully's heart dropped. "She was? When?"
Margaret walked deeper into the room. "Like Fox said, it
was August. Middle of the month, I think--I don't remember
exactly. Melissa was at summer camp just outside Bristol,
Virginia--Our Lady of Mercy. It's a Catholic girls' camp."
"I don't remember anything like that," Scully protested.
"You weren't there, honey. That was the summer you went to
Maine for the Young Scientists Camp. Remember--you won
first prize at the commencement fair."
She nodded, the memory teasing her mind. "But how--what--?"
She didn't know what question to ask.
"What happened, Mrs. Scully? How long was Melissa missing?"
"Only a day and a half. She went off in the woods by
herself and got lost. When they found her two days after,
she was fine. Tired and a little scraped up, but fine. She
said she went looking for trilliums in the woods and got
distracted by a family of rabbits playing tag in the
underbrush. She followed them and lost track of where she
was. The more she wandered, the more lost she became."
That sounded like Melissa, Scully thought. Never had a
great sense of direction--and so easily distracted. She
couldn't squelch a sad smile. "So that was it? She got
lost, and then she was found?"
Margaret nodded. "I didn't even think about it after it was
over. I didn't mention it to your father until weeks later,
when he managed a trip home."
"What about Bill and Charlie? They never said anything."
Margaret frowned slightly, arching one eyebrow at Scully.
Scully blushed, realizing her questions had sounded like a
cross-examination. "Bill was at boy's camp, and Charlie was
only four--I doubt he even knew what was happening."
"What about Melissa?" Mulder asked. "What did she remember
about the incident? Did she experience any missing time?"
Scully and Margaret both turned their heads toward him, and
he flinched slightly under the dual onslaught of their
gazes. Scully added a hint of warning to her gaze, hoping
he'd realize the wisdom of allowing her to ask the
questions. But, as happened far too often, Mulder ignored
her.
"Did she have a span of time she couldn't account for, Mrs.
Scully? Did she tell you a story about where she'd been and
how she'd passed her time that seemed implausible?"
"Mulder--" Scully began.
Her mother cut her off with an upraised hand. Slowly, she
approached Mulder, her chin held high. "Fox, what are you
suggesting?"
Mulder stared back at Scully's mother, his face flushed but
his jaw resolutely set. "Did she have missing time, Mrs.
Scully?"
Scully swallowed with difficulty, trapped between her
mother's anger and her partner's stubborn defiance. She had
never seen Mulder and her mother at odds this way; it felt
wrong, she realized with surprise. "Mulder, I think we
should go--"
"She was eleven years old, Fox. She couldn't account for
every second she was missing, but I'm not sure an adult
could have done so."
"Did she tell you she was in the woods the whole time? Or
did she say that she'd found shelter of some sort? Maybe an
abandoned cabin or a hidden cave?"
Margaret's eyes widened, and Scully's protest died in her
throat.
"Yes," Margaret said. "Melissa said she found a shack in
the woods where she spent the night."
"But no one in the area knew of any such place, right?"
Margaret nodded slowly. "How did you know?"
Mulder looked down at his shoes. "Abductees often return
with 'cover stories' that fill in their missing time. The
'cabin in the woods' is a common story--researchers theorize
that perhaps it's a post-hypnotic suggestion."
"What are you trying to tell me, Fox--that my daughter was
abducted by aliens?"
Margaret's question reverberated in the ensuing silence.
Tension roiled, thick and hot, between the three of them.
Scully didn't know what to think, how to feel. Anger was
inescapable, but so was fear. So was dread.
"After Melissa's--experience--in 1973, did she ever display
any strange behavior? More occurrences of missing time?
Episodes of sleepwalking or sleep paralysis?"
"Sleep paralysis?"
Scully looked at her mother, her stomach sinking.
"Did Melissa suffer sleep paralysis?" Mulder persisted.
Margaret nodded. "It terrified her. She'd be drifting to
sleep and suddenly feel as if she were paralyzed. She told
me she could hear people talking, but she couldn't respond.
She couldn't move. She felt as if something huge and heavy
was sitting on her chest, sucking her breath from her lungs.
It terrified her."
Scully realized she remembered this. She remembered
Melissa's nightmares, her cries and her terror of going to
sleep. Her parents had thought it was a pre-adolescent
phase, and within a year the incidents of night terrors had
subsided. But after that, Melissa had been--different.
Quieter. More inward, more contemplative. That had been
the beginning of her interest in New Age spiritualism.
Once, not long before Melissa left home for what had turned
out to be years of estrangement, Scully had asked her sister
why she'd turned to crystals and chakras for enlightenment.
At the time, she'd found her sister's answer typically
vague. "It's the only thing that allows me a sense of
peace."
"Sleep paralysis and sleepwalking are textbook
manifestations of post-abduction trauma," Mulder said, his
words tinted with a hint of excitement.
Scully's anger tripled and she turned on him, planting
herself firmly between him and her mother. "There ARE no
textbooks on the subject of alien abduction, Mulder, because
there are NO substantiated reports of any such phenomenon!"
He glared at her, his expression flitting between anger and
pity. "Scully, something happened to Melissa in 1973.
Something that changed her life. Something that had to do
with my father and his work--"
"Your father?" Margaret interrupted.
Mulder and Scully both turned to look at her. Mulder
shifted next to Scully, his arm brushing against hers. She
could feel the tension vibrating through his body.
"My father took part in a conspiracy to obtain tissue
samples from every person who was ever innoculated with the
smallpox vaccine."
Margaret's brow creased. "To what end?"
"We don't know," Scully interjected before Mulder could
frighten her mother further. "We have no evidence of ANY
sort suggesting the purpose of the tests."
"How do you know about this?" Margaret asked. "Is this
something you found out over the weekend?"
Mulder shook his head. "Right before Melissa died, Scully
and I discovered a mine in West Virginia that housed a
massive filing system of medical records. My sister's file
was there. So was Scully's."
"Dana's?" Margaret looked at Scully.
Scully squeezed her mother's arm reassuringly. "All we know
is that the files contained medical data. It may be
nothing."
"We were unable to secure the files at the time, and our
subsequent visit to the site revealed that the files had
been either removed or destroyed," Mulder added. "But it's
not out of the question that there was a similar file for
Melissa."
"And this 'missing time' you're asking me about--you believe
that someone took my daughter and performed some kind
of...tests...on her?"
"We don't know anything, Mom," Scully insisted before Mulder
could speak. "Mulder is only speculating." She turned to
her partner, pinning him with a furious glare. "We have the
answer we came for. I think you should be going now."
Mulder's eyes darkened and his lips pressed into a thin
line.
"Come to dinner tonight?" Margaret asked.
Scully turned to look at her. "Of course."
"Actually, Dana, I was asking Fox. But you know you're
always welcome, too."
Scully looked at her mother, surprised. She should be angry
at Mulder, not asking him to dinner. But her mother's
expression was placid, even affectionate, as she met
Mulder's questioning gaze.
"You'll come to dinner tonight, won't you, Fox?" Margaret
asked.
Mulder glanced at Scully. She closed her eyes and gave a
slight nod.
"Okay, Mrs. Scully. I'll be here."
Margaret tucked her arm through Scully's as she walked them
to the door. "You'll come too, Dana?"
Scully nodded. "Wouldn't miss it."
Margaret gave Scully a kiss before she left. She reached
out and squeezed Mulder's hand as well--once again
reassuring him that all was forgiven, Scully recognized.
Her mother's capacity for unconditional love was astounding.
"Thank you, Mrs. Scully, for all your help. I know that
answering my questions was difficult."
"If I remember anything else, I'll let you know," she
assured him. "See you both around six-thirty?"
Scully nodded and bent in for another hug before her mother
closed the door behind them. She walked a half-step ahead
of Mulder, silent until they reached the car. Then she
whirled and grabbed the front of his shirt. "What the HELL
did you think you were doing?"
* * * * *
Mulder looked down at the small, strong hand clutching the
front of his shirt. "I was asking your mother questions
about your sister's mysterious disappearance in 1973. Isn't
that part of the reason we came here?"
"You implied to my mother that my dead sister was an alien
abductee, Mulder! No subtlety, no sensitivity--"
"I asked her reasonable questions, Scully. She didn't seem
to resent them, so why do you?"
Scully's cheeks reddened with anger. "There is NO proof
that Melissa was abducted by aliens or even humans, Mulder.
Her name on a list doesn't prove anything."
"Not yet."
Her lips tightened with impatience. "You had no right."
"No right to what? Ask your mother about Melissa's
disappearance? Or no right to question YOUR rigid view of
the world?"
"Rigid?" She pressed her curled fist against his chest and
pushed herself away from him, letting go of his shirt. "I'd
say YOU'RE the rigid one, Mulder. You're so damned rigid
you won't consider ANY possibility that doesn't include
aliens or monster. Have you ever stopped to consider that
Melissa may simply have wandered off into the woods and
gotten lost, just like she told my mother?"
"Have you ever stopped to consider that the reason you fight
me about this subject is because you're SCARED SHITLESS?"
Mulder grabbed her shoulders. "I know you're afraid of what
happened to you. I'm afraid, too, Scully. I am. But is it
really
easier to live in fear and doubt than to face the truth
about what happened to you? Wouldn't it be better to know
the truth than to wonder about it for the rest of your
life?"
She shrugged his hands away from her shoulders, turning her
back to him. When she spoke, her voice was low and slightly
unsteady. "I know what happened to me. I saw the boxcar
where I was held. I remember Ishimaru and the other
doctors. I remember a probe in my gut...my stomach distended.
The only information I'm missing is the why...and whether or
not I can expect to die of an 'undiagnosed cancer' like the
women in Allentown expect to."
He closed his eyes, leaning against the car. God, he didn't
know what he wanted to believe. Would it really be easier
to believe that HUMANS had taken her? That they had put
that implant in the back of her neck, that they had done God
only knows what kind of tests on her? Would that be easier
than believing that other-worldly creatures had perpetrated
those crimes against her?
He opened his eyes. She still stood a few feet away, her
back to him. She looked so small, so damned fragile.
Deceptively so, he knew--she was the strongest person he had
ever known. But a long time ago, someone had reminded him
that despite her strength, she was still human. Flesh and
bone. She still bled and she still cried.
He took a deep breath before he spoke. "Scully, those
papers in my father's file must mean something or they
wouldn't be there."
She turned slowly, her eyes blazing at him with barely
checked anger. "So why don't you go back over those files
and see what you can uncover?"
"What about you?"
"I have a lead I'd like to follow."
"What?"
She shook her head, looking away. "I'm not sure. I'll tell
you more when I know more."
She was being deliberately vague, purposefully keeping him
at a distance. Now his own anger began to roil inside him.
She always accused him of going off on his own, never
heeding her words, but she had a nasty habit of going off on
her own as well. It wasn't a physical act--her escape was
to a hidden place behind a wall of ice. She froze people
out, making sure that they couldn't get close enough to
hurth her. She even did it to him. Sometimes ESPECIALLY to
him.
"Don't shut me out, Scully."
Her head snapped up and she arched one eyebrow at him,
reminding him of the irony of his words. He sighed and
looked away, pinching the bridge of his nose between his
thumb and forefinger. He'd slept less last night than
usual, and the result was the beginnings of screaming
headache.
He sighed deeply. "I don't like not knowing where you are,
Scully."
She made a low, dry sound that might have been a laugh. Not
that she was smiling when he turned to look at her. Her
expression was a mixture of anger and resignation.
"So...so...so what?" He threw up his hands, angered by her
stony silence. "This is payback?"
"You said it. I didn't."
"Oh, you said it, all right," he muttered.
"I'm sorry, Mulder, but I'm tired." She passed a hand over
her eyes.
"Of me?"
She looked up at him, her expression sad. "Sometimes."
Jaw clenched, he looked down at the cracked sidewalk under
his feet. Guess I asked for that, he thought. "Why do you
even bother to hang around?"
"Because I don't trust you to take care of yourself," she
answered.
He looked up to see if she was joking, but her expression
was deadly serious. She DIDN'T trust him to take care of
himself. And he could hardly blame her--his track record in
the self-preservation department was horrendous. Scully had
seen him in action too damned many times. "I don't want you
to feel responsible for me, Scully."
"Too late." She shrugged. "I imagine you put up with my
'rigid views' for much the same reason."
Not true, he thought. I stick with you because you keep me
honest. You make me look before I leap--at least, most of
the time. And because you're the most amazing person I've
ever known.
Why couldn't he say those things to her aloud? Because he
was afraid of what it might reveal about his feelings for
her? Hell, three days ago, he'd been set to pursue an
honest-to-God relationship with Dana Scully and now he
couldn't even find the guts to tell her that she was his
best friend?
Talk about scared shitless....
Scully released a soft sigh. "I'm going to talk to a
hypnotherapist that Melissa knew. IF, as you suggested to
Mom, Melissa was having episodes of sleepwalking or memory
loss, I believe she might have talked to Dr. Pomerantz about
it. So I want to see what he might be able to tell me."
His eyes widened with surprise. "A hypnotherapist?"
She looked uncomfortable. "Melissa didn't have the same
doubts about the reliability of hypnosis as a therapy tool
that I have."
"Think she might have undergone regression hypnotherapy?"
"If she thought there were things about her past that she
couldn't remember, I KNOW she would." Scully's gaze shifted
slightly, as if she were watching a scene happening
somewhere a million miles away. "And I'm sure she'd have
gone to Dr. Pomerantz." She focused on him again, her face
losing that soft, far away expression. "You go see if you
can figure out what those lists your father compiled for you
really mean. See if any other names are recognizable or if
you can discern a pattern of any sort. You're good at
that."
He accepted her gentle words as the peace offering they
were. "Okay. I'll call a cab. You take the car." He held
out his hand to give her the car keys. Her fingers closed
around his hand briefly as she refused the keys.
Her lips curved slightly. "I wrecked the car; I'll call the
cab."
He met her gaze and nodded slightly, as if to reassure her
that they were really okay.
Her eyes softened with a sort of affectionate resignation.
"I'm going to see if Mom has a copy of both of our birth
certificates. I think I'd rather approach Dr. Pomerantz as
Missy's sister rather than as an FBI agent."
He nodded again. "Good idea."
"I'll call you as soon as I finish with Dr. Pomerantz. See
if you've had any luck." She stepped back as he opened the
car door.
He slid behind the wheel and looked up at her. She gave a
little wave and turned back toward the house. He watched
her go, waiting until she was knocking on the door before he
slipped the car into gear and drove away.
* * * * *
J.Edgar Hoover FBI Building
SciCrime Division
11:13 a.m.
Alan Pendrell tried not to squirm under the intense gaze of
Special Agent Fox Mulder. It wouldn't do to let the older
agent know that he was feeling distinctly intimidated. Let
that happen and he could kiss his dream of being a field
agent goodbye. "Well, I think you're probably right about
the notations on this list. Definitely looks like a record
of physical and psychological testing."
He swiveled his chair and tried not to flinch as he realized
how close Mulder was standing. The lean, dark-haired agent
had a habit of invading people's personal space--
particularly that of his partner, Dana Scully.
Pendrell had heard all the scuttlebutt about "Spooky and the
Ice Queen." He hated both terms--Mulder might be
unorthodox, but Pendrell knew that the guy was brilliant.
In his ongoing effort to work his way up to field status,
Pendrell had made a point to learn all he could about what
it took to be a great agent. And all that he'd discovered
had led him to the unshakable belief that Fox Mulder was a
top notch investigator--one of the absolute best.
As for Agent Scully--he'd never found her to be cold. She
was a dedicated, single-minded investigator in her own
right, but she wasn't a bitch about it. She worked hard and
expected hard work from others, but she was quick with
praise and gratitude.
And when that woman smiled...God.
"Is there any way to run these names through the FBI
database, see if we can gather enough data to come up with
some sort of commonality?" Mulder interrupted Pendrell's
thoughts. "Maybe a pattern will emerge, explaining why
these particular people were abducted."
Mulder's words sent a little shiver down Pendrell's spine.
He knew, of course, about Agent Mulder's more unusual views
on the question of extraterrestrial life. Knowing what he
did about some of the cases Mulder and Scully had
investigated, Pendrell could understand why Mulder's view on
paranormal phenomena was a bit more inclusive than the
standard view. Of course, he himself tended to side with
Agent Scully on the matter. Surprise, surprise.
He hid a self-deprecating smile. "Running all those names
through the records search program could take several
hours."
"Any way to trim that time?" Mulder's voice was tight with
impatience.
"Possibly." He could probably tweak the program a bit, cut
out the dreck. He met Mulder's fierce gaze, his expression
a bit wry. "Do you trust me enough to let me use the disk
itself? Having the names already typed in will speed things
up considerably."
"I made a copy just for you. But I'm trusting you,
Pendrell--NOBODY sees this disk but you, and you take it
with you EVERYWHERE you go. Deal?"
He tried not to betray his surprise--or his wariness.
"Deal."
Mulder handed over a blue plastic floppy disk. It was
unmarked except for a small "x" written in pencil in the
upper right corner of the disk. "See what you can come up
with, Pendrell. I need printouts of everything."
Pendrell held back a frown of frustration. The way Mulder
talked, you'd think he believed that what he was asking was
no more difficult than tying one's shoes. But far be it
from HIM to complain. Whining wouldn't get him that bump up
the ladder he wanted so much. "You've got it," he promised
Mulder.
Mulder nodded, sparing a brief half-smile. "I'll be in
touch." He turned and left the SciCrime lab.
"So what did Agent Mulder want?" Annelle Hollis rolled her
chair closer, her dark eyes sparkling with curiosity.
Pendrell glanced at the dark-haired fingerprint technician,
surreptitiously pocketing the disk Mulder had given him.
"Just some names he wants run through the computer."
"Too bad Scully wasn't with him, huh, Alan?" She winked at
him.
He blushed and looked at his computer, where brightly colored
piranhas devoured each other on his screen saver. "Bite me,
Annelle."
"Aw, come on, Alan. I was just teasing." Annelle reached
out and squeezed his arm. Her grip was strong and warm,
forcing him to look up at her. "I'm sure if she wasn't
already so nuts about her partner, she'd be nuts about you."
"That's just the rumor mill, you know," Pendrell pointed
out. "I don't think there's really anything going on
between them."
Annelle chuckled. "You are SO into denial. I'm not saying
they're actually together--just that they both wish they
were."
Pendrell absently fingered the disk in his pocket,
remembering Mulder's territorial posture the night before,
when Alan had forgotten himself and touched Dana Scully's
chin. Definite alpha male vibes happening there, he had to
admit.
"Tell you what, Alan--why don't I take you to lunch, let you
drown your sorrows in a big old sloppy cheeseburger?"
Annelle arched her eyebrows at him, her cheeks dimpling with
a gentle smile. "My treat."
Her grin was infectious, pushing away his momentary
depression. "Wish I could, Nelle. But looks like it's going
to be a busy day for me."
"Well, how about I pick up something for you while I'm out?"
She rolled back to her cubicle to fetch her purse, then
returned, pausing behind his chair to ruffle his hair. "A
growing boy like you needs his nourishment."
He made a face at her. "Just for that, throw in something
for dessert."
Annelle chuckled, bending close to whisper in his ear.
"Dana Scully's a fool, Alan. You're definitely the catch of
the day." She squeezed his shoulder, then turned and left
the lab.
A bemused smile still curving his lips, he withdrew the disk
from his pocket and inserted it into his floppy drive. With
a soft sigh he shifted in his chair, seeking a more
comfortable position as he accessed the record search
database. It was going to be a long day.
* * * * *
HealthServices Building
Silver Spring, MD
12:28 p.m.
Dr. Mark Pomerantz's name was no longer on the door of the
office, Scully noted with surprise. Instead, the placard
read, "Dr. Lucinda Brown. Psychotherapy and Hypnosis."
She frowned, considering her options. Obviously Pomerantz
had moved his office elsewhere. She could check the yellow
pages, she supposed. She really should have done so before
she came here in the first place.
Of course, it was possible Dr. Brown knew where Dr.
Pomerantz had relocated. It was worth asking. And if she
didn't know, Scully could borrow the yellow pages and look
up his new address herself.
She pushed open the door. Behind the tall reception desk, a
slim brunette was engrossed in a book. Scully glanced at
the title on the spine. 'SOUL OVERMANNED': QUEER SUBTEXT IN
'MOBY DICK' She arched one eyebrow.
The receptionist caught her expression and made a face.
"Grad school," she murmured, as if that explained
everything.
Scully looked at the engraved placard on the desk. "Ms.
Hewick, my name is Dana Scully. Is Dr. Brown with a
patient?"
"Do you have an appointment?" Barbara Hewick asked.
"No, but I'm not here as a patient. I'm trying to locate
Dr. Mark Pomerantz."
Barbara's expression changed subtly, her eyes darkening. "I
see." She reached for the phone and pressed a button near
the bottom. A soft beeping sound ensued, followed by a
crackle of static.
A distorted voice filtered through the speaker. "Yes?"
"Dr. Brown, a Ms. Scully is here trying to locate Dr.
Pomerantz."
There was a thick pause. Then Dr. Brown said, "I'll be
right there."
Seconds later, the inner door of the office opened, and a
petite, pretty blonde emerged, her slim hand outstretched
toward Scully. She was immaculately dressed, every stitch
of clothing perfectly color-coordinated. Intellect blazed
from her cornflower blue eyes. "Ms. Scully, I'm Lucinda
Brown."
"Nice to meet you." Scully shook her hand, hiding her
impatience with the niceties. "As Ms. Hewick mentioned, I'm
trying to get in touch with Dr. Mark Pomerantz."
"Were you a patient of Dr. Pomerantz?" Dr. Brown asked.
"No." Not beyond that one time right after she'd returned
from New Mexico thinking that Mulder was dead. "But I think
my sister may have been a patient, and I need to ask Dr.
Pomerantz some questions."
"I'm afraid that will be impossible." Dr. Brown's voice
softened, saddened. "Dr. Pomerantz died almost three years
ago."
* * * * *
J. Edgar Hoover FBI Headquarters
February 16, 1998
12:29 p.m.
Fox Mulder flipped through the printouts of his father's
file, wishing he could glean some clue, some truth that
would answer all the lingering questions about five decades
of secrets. So many lives touched, twisted, destroyed--and
for what?
For what?
He let the pages flutter to the desk top and leaned forward,
pulling off his glasses and pressing the heels of his hands
to his burning eyes. For him, the questions were distilled
to two: What had happened to his sister--and what had they
done to Scully?
Scully's tight, angry words haunted him. "The only
information I'm missing is the why...and whether or not I
can expect to die of an 'undiagnosed cancer' like the women
in Allentown expect to."
He wasn't sure he even believed in a benevolent God who
listened to the self-serving prayers of humankind, but he
lifted a silent prayer anyway, just in case. Because he
couldn't keep going without Scully. It just wasn't
possible. Maybe if he'd never met her--maybe then. Maybe
he could've kept on the way he had been, in self-imposed
exile.
But not now.
Was that REALLY why they'd sent her to him in the first
place? he wondered. To remind him what it was like to have
someone--only to rip her from him in the end? Had they
known that she would become as essential to him as air?
A soft tap on the door startled him. He sat up, blinking to
clear his vision. "Yeah?"
"I've got some information for you, Agent Mulder."
Pendrell's voice was muffled by the closed door.
"It's unlocked," Mulder called. He put his glasses back on
and straightened the papers in front of him, stacking them
to his right.
Pendrell entered bearing a thick sheaf of papers. "These
are the FBI records on the names listed from 1969 through
1975. There are a lot more to come, but I thought you'd
want the first batch." He put the papers on Mulder's desk.
"Say, Agent Mulder--have you had lunch?"
Mulder arched one eyebrow, surprised by the question. "Not
yet."
"I suspected as much." Pendrell reached into his lab coat
pocket and withdrew a brown bag. His expression was
slightly apologetic as he dropped the bag on Mulder's desk.
"I should warn you--it's a veggie burger. Agent Hollis
thinks it's her duty to watch my cholesterol level."
Mulder grinned at the younger agent. Pendrell blushed a
little but smiled back. "Women," Pendrell added with a
shrug. "She promised me a big sloppy cheeseburger and came
back with that."
"Hey, Pendrell--you know when they start watching your fat
intake, it's a sign of affection." Mulder unwrapped the
sandwich and gave a wary sniff. It smelled okay. "I've
heard these things are pretty good."
"I'm sure they are, but I grew up in Oklahoma. Beef
country. Eating a veggie burger is against my religion."
Pendrell's half-grin widened. "Well, I'm off to run another
batch of record checks. I hope you find something in those
files." He headed for the door.
"Thanks, Pendrell."
Pendrell gave a little goodbye wave and closed the door
behind him.
Mulder took a bite of the veggie burger and picked up the
first page of dossiers. The sandwich had an unusual but not
unpleasant taste. He wished he could say the same of the
dossier---it was as bland as cardboard and about half as
informative.
He finished the sandwich in five uncaring bites as he
scanned through the FBI records, trying to discern some sort
of pattern, some link between the people listed on his
father's disk.
Two patterns became evident about halfway through the stack.
About a third of the people listed either now belonged or
had once belonged to some sort of UFO organization. And
fully 1/4th of the people on the list were now deceased.
* * * * *
Dr. Lucinda Brown's Office
12:45 p.m.
Scully stared at Dr. Brown, surprised by her words. Dr.
Mark Pomerantz had died three years ago? "But I met Dr.
Pomerantz myself just three years ago."
"It must have been shortly before his death."
"How did he die?"
"The police seem to think that Dr. Pomerantz walked in on
someone trying to steal drugs. He was shot to death and the
office was ransacked. The burglar must not have realized
that psychologist can't prescribe meds." Dr. Brown
shrugged.
His office was ransacked? An odd feeling swept over Scully,
a strange certainty that led her to a leap worthy of Fox
Mulder. "Do you remember when he died? The date?"
Dr. Brown's eyebrows quirked slightly. "April of 1995.
Late in the month--maybe the twentieth or after? I know it
was after the tax deadline, because when I took over his
practice right after his death, I was relieved to know I
wouldn't have to deal with the IRS right away."
April of 1995. Right after her own hypnotherapy session.
About the time that Melissa had taken the bullet meant for
Dana.
Scully's lips trembled open. "I want to see the files on my
sister."
Dr. Brown looked at her with surprise. "Patient records are
confidential, Agent Scully."
"My sister died around the same time Dr. Pomerantz died.
But some recent information has called into question her
mental state at the time of her death, and I need to know if
something in her patient records can shed light on my
sister's life." Scully pulled Melissa's birth and death
certificates from her coat pocket, as well as her own birth
certificate. She handed them to Dr. Brown. "I don't know
what the proper procedure would be, but there is the proof
you need to see that I am who I am and I'm telling you the
truth."
Dr. Brown looked over the papers. "What do you expect to
find in your sister's records, Ms. Scully?"
Scully nibbled her lower lip, wondering how to answer. What
DID she expect to find, evidence of Mulder's theory--that
her sister had been an alien abductee? Or proof that he was
wrong? She glanced at the doctor, who was awaiting her
answer, an expectant expression on her pretty face. Scully
took a deep breath and forged ahead. "Dr. Brown, what is
your opinion about alien abduction memories?"
* * * * *
FBI Headquarters
4:29 p.m.
Pendrell brought the last of the printouts to Mulder's
office around 4:00 that afternoon. He'd offered to stay and
help Mulder sift through the information, and Mulder had
surprised himself by agreeing. Usually he didn't like
sharing an office with anyone but Scully, but to Pendrell's
credit, the techie was being quiet and industrious as he
flipped through the printouts, looking for the details
Mulder had instructed him to seek--vitals like age, sex,
race and place of birth, plus membership in UFO
organizations. Pendrell was noting such information with
singleminded concentration, the tip of his pen scratching
lightly across the surface of his notepad.
Pendrell finished his stack around 5:15; Mulder finished his
about five minutes later. He looked across the room at the
techie. "Well?"
"Seventy percent female. Current ages ranging from 19 to
49, with approximately 40% between the ages of 30 and 40.
Crossreferencing with the dates listed on the original file,
most people were...." Pendrell stumbled in the midst of his
recitation, apparently seeking the right word.
"Abducted?" Mulder supplied.
Pendrell reddened. "Examined," he substituted, "between the
ages of 10 and 25. Seventy-five percent underwent only
standard physical exams, assuming that's what SPE stands
for, and RFLP testing. Twenty-five percent underwent
Genetic Material Extraction and what we presume to be
psychological profiles."
Pendrell's numbers were jibing with Mulder's own
tabulations. "What about the other factors?"
"Approximately 80% caucasion, 15% African-American and 5%
other."
"An equal opportunity abductor," Mulder murmured. "Right in
line with the U.S. population."
"Thirty percent of the people on this list either currently
belong to a UFO group or did at one time. Of those, 70%
belong to MUFON, 20% to NICAP and 10% to various others."
Mulder nodded. That wasn't very surprising, either. MUFON
was the most accessible of the groups, with a very
supportive membership.
"And approximately 26% of the people listed on your father's
disk are now deceased. Of those, 60% died of various forms
of rare cancers, 30% died in accidents, and 10% were victims
of either suicide or homicide." Pendrell put down his
notebook and looked up at Mulder. "Those percentages are
alarming for people in this age group."
Mulder nodded, tapping his pencil against his chin.
Scully's words still ran through his head, "...whether or
not I can expect to die of an 'undiagnosed cancer'...." He
closed his eyes, not wanting to think about it. Scully had
undergone a battery of tests to ease her mind, Benton Crane
had told him. Everything had come up negative. Surely by
now she would had developed symptoms if there was anything
to worry about.
"Agent Mulder?"
Mulder looked up, realizing that Pendrell had been calling
his name for several seconds. "Yeah?"
"Does this have anything to do with what happened to Agent
Scully?"
Mulder passed his hand over his mouth and chin, wondering
how to answer. "Not that we're aware of."
Pendrell didn't look relieved. "What else can I help you
with, Agent Mulder?"
Mulder smiled at his earnestness. Pendrell was obviously
bucking for a promotion. Too bad he'd chosen to suck up to
the Bureau pariah instead of someone who could REALLY help
him out. Still, he supposed, he could drop a hint or two to
Skinner. Probably wouldn't hurt Pendrell's chances. "Nah,
Pendrell--you've gone above and beyond today. I owe you."
Pendrell looked ridiculously pleased. "Any time, Agent
Mulder." From his lab coat pocket he pulled the blue disk
Mulder had given him that morning. "Here--thought you'd
want to keep this with you." He put it on Mulder's desk and
headed for the door.
Mulder picked up the disk, impressed with the techie's
discretion. Pendrell might just do. "Thanks, Alan. I'll
let you know if there's anything else you can do to help us
out."
Pendrell turned in the doorway, grinning. "You do that,
Mulder." He closed the door behind him.
Mulder sat back in his desk chair, rocking it precariously
backwards as he turned the disk in his hands, staring at it
as if it could somehow reveal all the secrets of the
universe. For all the interesting statistical information
the lists had provided, there were still more questions than
answers. Why had these people been chosen for these tests?
Why were some given different tests from others? And why
had so many of them ended up dead?
He pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, willing away
the tension headache creeping up his shoulders and neck. He
reached for the phone and dialled Scully's cell phone
number. He'd given her the space he'd sensed she wanted but
now he needed to hear her voice.
"Scully." She sounded tense.
"Hi, it's me."
"Hi." Her voice softened slightly. "I can't talk right
this minute Mulder, but I have something to tell you when I
see you."
"Same here. Do you need me to pick you up somewhere?"
"No, I'll catch a cab to Mom's. I'll see you there, okay?"
"Okay."
He hung up the phone and started gathering the papers he and
Pendrell had just spent the afternoon sifting through. He
put them in a cardboard box and locked them securely in the
office safe he and Scully had purchased with their own funds
just over a year ago. Only he and she had the combination.
Then he grabbed his coat and headed for Margaret Scully's.
* * * * *
Margaret Scully's house
Feb. 16, 1998
6:45 p.m.
Dana paused on the front stoop, gathering her thoughts
before she knocked on the door. But while she was waiting,
the door opened and her mother greeted her with a smile.
"Hi, honey. Let me take your coat."
Scully shrugged off her overcoat and followed her mother
into the living room. Mulder was sitting on the sofa, glass
of tea on a coaster in front of him. He'd stripped off his
jacket and tie, and the sleeves of his white dress shirt
were rolled up to his elbows. He stood as she entered, a
courtly gesture that she found endearing in Mulder, though
irritating in almost any other man. "Can I get you some
tea?"
She arched her eyebrows, unable to hold back a smile. She
knew that he and her mother had grown to be close friends
over the past couple of years, but she'd always been careful
not to intrude on that relationship. It was between Mulder
and her mother, and she respected their privacy. Still, it
was decidedly odd to have her partner playing host in her
own mother's house. "I think I know where the tea is,
Mulder. But thank you." She put out her hand, her
fingertips brushing across his arm as she passed him, a
gesture of reconciliation. She didn't like it when they
fought, and considering what she'd found out at Dr. Brown's
office today, she might owe him at least a bit of an
apology.
She poured herself a glass of tea and returned to the living
room. Her mother sat in the armchair facing the sofa,
leaving Scully to sit next to Mulder. She sensed a bit of
matchmaking going on, but she didn't really mind. It wasn't
like her mother's wishes were anything new. And it wasn't
like the thought hadn't crossed her own mind, especially
over the last few days.
Besides, what she'd discovered at Dr. Brown's office was a
little unnerving. She could use Mulder by her side on this
one.
She opened up without preamble. "Mulder, Dr. Pomerantz is
dead. He was murdered three years ago, only a day or so
before Melissa's death. All of his patient records were
turned over to a Dr. Lucinda Brown at the time, and Dr.
Brown let me look through the records. I found billing
statements for Melissa, but her records were missing. I
believe that whoever broke into Dr. Pomerantz's office and
killed him also took all of Melissa's records and files."
Mulder's left eyebrow rose.
"And that's not all." Scully reached into the pocket of her
suit jacket and withdrew an audiotape. "This is the only
thing we were able to find. It's Dr. Pomerantz's notes
about a hypnotic regression therapy session. It hadn't yet
been transcribed and was found in his pocket, which is why
I believe it wasn't taken upon his death as well."
"Melissa underwent hypnotic regression therapy?" Mulder's
eyes darkened with anticipation.
Scully felt the muscles of her stomach knot. She looked
from Mulder's expectant expression to her mother's wary
gaze. "Probably," she admitted, "but that tape isn't from
any of Melissa's sessions with Dr. Pomerantz."
"Then...?" Mulder cocked his head.
"Mulder...it's from mine."
End of #8