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Warning: Adult language and situations, plus some disturbing images warranting an R rating.

This is a Pre-quel to 12 Degrees of Separation and takes
place within the same universe.

12 RITES OF PASSAGE
#9: "Regression"
By Anne Haynes
AHaynes33@aol.com

Warehouse District
Baltimore, MD
Feb. 16, 1998
7:02 p.m.

The warehouse was dimly lit outside and in, deep purple
shadows shifting and dancing with every movement inside. On
a catwalk two floors above, the man in gray struck a match
and touched the flame to the tip of his Morley. Smoke
billowed momentarily, clouding his vision, but it drifted
away soon, giving him a clear view of the warehouse floor
below.

How many places like this had he seen over the years? Had
he ever bothered to keep count, he'd have lost count long
ago. Suffice it to say that what he now saw was nothing
new. At least, not in theory.

But in practice....

The woman on the table was in her early thirties, Caucasian,
unremarkable-looking. Wavy brown hair tangled around her
head. Her build was slim, lanky--ordinary. Her eyes were
shut, but he knew they were a non-descript hazel-green
color. Were he to pass her on the street, he might think
her a pleasant-looking young woman, not beautiful, not
striking. A woman of no consequence.

But appearances could be deceiving. For Sarah Elizabeth
Chandler was a dangerous woman who had made dangerous
connections. There were those among his colleagues who felt
that her continued existence was too risky, but the man in
gray had assured them that once the reconditioning was
completed, Sarah Chandler would be no threat at all. On the
contrary, her very existence might be a very important
asset. They had relented, and Sarah was brought to this
warehouse to have her memories reburied again.

The smoking man turned to the slim man in the white lab coat
who stood beside him. "Why is this taking so long?"

"Her cover memories were becoming corrupted," the doctor
replied. "We've had to strip them away first. It had to be
done delicately--the mind is a fragile thing."

"So now she knows who she really is?"

"She knows who she was. She also knows who she became."

"How much longer before she no longer remembers?"

"We believe the final reconditioning will be finished by the
end of the week. That will give us time to reconstruct her
cover memories as well as create memories to explain her
whereabouts over the past couple of weeks."

The smoking man nodded. "Good. Good."

"She is extraordinarily resistant. Her earlier conditioning
was far less difficult."

"She was a child then."

"Did you know her before?" The doctor glanced at him, his
brown eyes curious.

The smoking man took a deep draw of his cigarette. He
released the smoke, obscuring his face.

"No," he said.

* * * * *

Margaret Scully's house
7:08 p.m.

Mulder stared at his partner. "You underwent hypnotic
regression therapy?"

"Just once." Scully looked down at the tape in her hands,
not meeting his eyes.

"When was this, honey?" Margaret leaned forward in her
chair.

"Just after I came back from New Mexico after Mulder--"
Scully's throat bobbed quickly and she looked up at Mulder.
For a second, her expression was raw with pain, making his
breath catch. Then she quickly schooled her features and
returned her eyes to the cassette tape in her hands. "I'd
just found the implant in the back of my neck and had no
memory of how it had gotten there. Missy convinced me that
I had to try to remember. She gave me Dr. Pomerantz's
name."

"And you underwent hypnosis?"

Scully's forehead creased. "I tried. I didn't think it was
getting anywhere, but--"

"But?" Mulder encouraged.

She held up the audio cassette tape. "This is a copy of Dr.
Pomerantz's notes after my session. I listened to it in the
car on the way here. Apparently I told him a lot more than
I remember." She crossed to the stereo system near the
fireplace and put the tape into the deck.

She pushed a button and a soft, pleasant voice began to
speak. "What I'm going to do is induce a non-ordinary
state, a modified form of hypnosis that involves what is
called holotropic breath work...."

Mulder sat forward, listening to the therapist explain the
procedure. Dr. Heitz Werber had used a somewhat different
form of hypnotherapy during his own hypnotic regression
sessions, but Mulder was familiar with holotropic breath
work from his own education in psychology.

"Now what I want you to do is to maintain a focus on your
breath. Relax your breathing. Now I want you to close your
eyes now and think of a place where you've always felt
completely comfortable...and safe...."

Mulder looked at Scully. Her eyes were on her mother, and
he realized he knew exactly what place she had imagined when
she closed her eyes during her session with Dr. Pomerantz.
She felt safe here, with her mother. He could sympathize.

"Tell me why you're here, Dana."

"I need to remember something that happened to me." On the
tape, Scully's voice was tight and faint. Mulder recognized
her reluctance, her feeling of ambivalence. She hadn't
really wanted to be there in Dr. Pomerantz's office, yet she
desperately wanted to know what had happened to her during
those lost months. He reached over and closed his hand over
her where it lay in her lap. She turned her head and met
his gaze, her expression betraying her discomfort.

On the tape, she told Dr. Pomerantz about the time she had
been missing, her memory loss and the implant in her neck.
Her voice grew fainter, more hesitant.

"You told me of your experience of being taken away and
losing time," Dr. Pomerantz said. "Do you remember how you
felt just before this happened?"

"I was afraid." On the tape, Scully's voice was slurred,
weary.

There was a brief pause before Pomerantz asked, "Do you
remember what you were afraid of?"

Mulder could hear soft, sussurative sounds. Then Scully
spoke. "That I would die...." Her voice faded away to a
sigh at the end.

"But you didn't die. Someone must have cared for you. Do
you remember who that someone was?"

"There were men. A man took me...I...."

Mulder's throat tightened. He looked over at Scully. She
was sitting still as a sculpture, her eyes downcast.

On the tape, her slurred voice continued. "There was a
light...loud sounds. My ears were pounding."

"They performed a procedure on you. Do you remember any
pain during this?"

"I'm trying. The sound is all screwed up. There's an
alarm.... I remember, um...they wanted to know if I was all
right...."

"Maybe you trusted them not to hurt you. Could this be
possible?"

"I don't know." For a second, the voice on the tape sounded
like the Scully Mulder knew. Stronger, tinged with
impatience at the slow process of unearthing her memories.

"At the FBI, you work with people you must entrust with your
life. Could it have been one of these people?" Dr.
Pomerantz asked.

"I had to trust someone." Scully sounded surprised on the
tape, as if the faint memory was unexpected. Then her voice
softened and darkened with pain. "I was powerless. I
couldn't...I could not resist them...."

Mulder tightened his grip on her hand as they listened to
her voice fade away. He watched the almost imperceptible
parade of dark emotions washing over her profile, wishing he
could spare her the pain of these revelations.

Dr. Pomerantz spoke quickly. "If this is too painful, I
want you to go back to that comfortable place where we began
and try again--"

There was a gasp of surprise, a quick, "No!" Then Scully's
voice, shaky and disoriented-sounding. "I'm sorry, I'm
trying, I'm trying..." Her voice gathered strength. "I
don't think this is working. I don't think we're getting
anywhere."

The tape picked up a faint rustling sound, the soft tapping
noise of footsteps. Something about that sound tickled a
memory hidden in Mulder's mind.

Something about a bridge--

"Thank you, but you'll have to excuse me." Scully's voice
again, stronger, slightly clipped, barely hinting at her
earlier distress. Then the sound of the door closing.

There was a click, as if Dr. Pomerantz turned off the
recorder. A second later, another click heralded the
therapist's low, modulated tones. "I suspect that Ms.
Scully will not return for a second session. She seems
remarkably resistant to hypnotic regression techniques,
despite her obvious distress at not knowing what happened to
her during her missing time. I sense that she fears knowing
what happened more than she fears not knowing at this time.

"I am certain, based on even this abbreviated session, that
Ms. Scully's experiences are not dissimilar to experiences
revealed by her sister Melissa in our therapy sessions.
However, unless Dana Scully chooses to resume therapy, I am
powerless to help her remove the barriers between her
conscious mind and the memories embedded deep in her
subconscious."

There was another click, and Scully crossed to the tape
player. She removed the tape and slowly turned to face
Mulder and her mother. "That's all there is. I don't
remember any of it after my initial explanation of why I was
there."

Mulder glanced at Margaret Scully, whose face was creased
with concern. Mrs. Scully met his gaze, her eyebrows
lifting slightly. Mulder made a little shrugging motion,
then turned to watch Scully's slow, bemused approach. He
stood, holding out his hand.

For a second, she stared at his outstretched palm, as if she
wasn't sure what he wanted her to do. Then she lifted her
hand and slipped her fingers into his gentle grip. He
closed his hand around hers and drew her back to the sofa.
They sat together, bodies close. She sandwiched his hand
between both of hers. "I don't know what those memories
mean, Mulder. I listen to myself speak and I sound like a
stranger. Those things I said--I have no conscious memory
of any of it. The sounds--someone to trust--" She shook
her head.

"Maybe you should undergo hypnosis again, Dana," Mrs. Scully
suggested.

Mulder looked over at Scully's mother, surprised but
grateful she had been the one to bring up the subject. He
agreed--Scully's memories were obviously too deeply buried
for her to be able to unearth them without help. But she
was more likely to accept the suggestion from her mother
than from him, considering their many disagreements over the
years about the value of hypnosis as a mnemonic tool.

"Mom, you heard the tape--it wasn't working."

"Honey, you were fighting it. Maybe you just didn't feel
comfortable with Dr. Pomerantz."

"I don't feel comfortable with the notion that a science as
inexact and open to charlatanry as hypnosis could have any
real value beyond the most general therapeutic benefits. I
certainly don't believe that 'memories' recovered by
regression hypnosis are the least bit trustworthy."

"So don't take it as truth, Scully," Mulder said softly.
"Just look at it as therapy--a way to ease some of your
fears."

She jerked her head around to meet his gaze, her hands relea
sing his. "How could it ease my fears?"

"Because you're afraid of what's buried in your
subconscious, Scully, that your imagination has created a
monster far more threatening than even the real monster
could be. By undergoing regression hypnotherapy, you may
not be able to 'identify the monster,' But at least you can
look it in the eye and show it you're not afraid anymore."

She stared at him, her pale face revealing the full scope of
her fear. He wanted to pull her into his arms and wrap
himself around her, protect her from all that would conspire
to cause her pain and harm. But he didn't have that power--
only she did. And he had to trust her to fight her own
demons.

"I can call Dr. Werber--"

"No." She shook her head. "I'm not putting his life in
danger--not after what happened to Dr. Pomerantz."

"You don't think his death might have been a coincidence?"
Mrs. Scully asked.

Scully looked across at her mother. "As much as I'd like to
believe that, I can't. He was killed right after his
session with me--and both my file and Melissa's are
missing." She turned to Mulder. "I'm not putting another
life in danger with this."

"We could arrange a secret meeting--" he began.

She shook her head violently. "No, Mulder."

"What if Fox regressed you?" Mrs Scully asked.

Mulder looked up quickly at Scully's mother. "Mrs. Scully,
I'm not a trained hypnotherapist--"

"But you're familiar with the procedures. You told that
yourself."

"Yes, but--"

"Could you do it, Mulder?" Scully put her hand on his arm.

He looked at her, surprised. "You want me to do this?"

Her lip crooked slightly. "'Want' might be an overstatement
of the situation."

He chuckled, releasing just a bit of burgeoning tension.
"I'm really not trained for it, Scully. And I know what you
think about the whole process."

"We don't have time for my memories to return on their own,
Mulder, since they're not exactly in any hurry. Deborah
Bennett said that my lost memories might hold the key to
finding Sarah Chandler--and finding out what happened to
Samantha. I'm not that optimistic, but I'm desperate enough
to take drastic measures."

He touched her face, tracing the curve of her jawline from
her ear to her chin. "You're a trouper, Scully."

Her little half-grin twitched a notch higher. "Bet you say
that to all the girls, Mulder." The smile faded and a
little crease of tension formed in her brow. "So, what
now?"

"I think we should do it here. Now. Before you have time
to work yourself into a nervous state. And I think this is
a place where you feel safe." He glanced over at Scully's
mother, who was watching them with a bemused half-smile on
her face.

Scully nodded. "I do feel safe here."

He looked into her eyes, seeking the depth of her resolve.
"So?"

She lifted her chin, a look of sheer determination darkening
her eyes. She took a deep breath.

"Let's do it," she said.

* * * * *

8:03 p.m.

Scully looked down at her clasped hands, noting that she'd
chipped a nail sometime over the course of the day. She
couldn't remember how.

Then again, apparently she couldn't remember a lot of
things.

Down the hall, she could hear the soft murmur of Mulder and
her mother conversing in low tones. Mulder had suggested,
and Scully had agreed, that it might be best for her mother
to wait in another room. Uncertain about what horrors she
might have undergone during her missing time, Scully knew
she'd find her mother's presence in the room inhibiting. It
was very sensitive of Mulder to realize that. But he'd also
promised to call her mother back into the room if she needed
her.

He returned to the living room and crossed slowly to her,
lifting the arm chair and pulling it closer to the sofa
where Scully sat. He sat and bent forward slightly so that
he could rest his hand atop hers. "Before we get started, I
want you to decide now how you want to control this
session."

"Control it?"

He nodded. "I want you to be in control of what happens in
your regressive state, Scully. I want you to feel that you
can safely explore any dark areas, no matter how frightening
they may appear, because you can escape them at any time.
Like Dr. Pomerantz told you, we're going to have a safe,
secure place where you can go at any time that the session
is too frightening for you. Let's decide right now where
that is."

"Right here."

He nodded. "This room?"

She shook her head. "The kitchen. I'm sitting at the table
and my mother is at the stove, making Dad's favorite chili."

A faint smile touched his lips. "Good choice. Okay--
ready?"

She nodded.

He let go of her hand and reached into his jacket for his
microcassette recorder. They had agreed that taping the session
was important. "Would you feel more comfortable sitting or lying
down?"

"Sitting," she said immediately. She didn't know why. She
only knew that Dr. Pomerantz had asked the same question and
she'd given the same quick answer.

"Okay. Like Dr. Pomerantz explained to you, what we're
going to try to do is focus on your breathing to help you
reduce your external awareness of your surroundings. I want
you to stop thinking analytically and let yourself relax."
He lifted his hand to her face, gently brushing his fingers
over her eyelids, closing her eyes. "You're going deep
inside yourself, into your center. You breathe slowly and
deeply. Feel your lungs pulling air inside. Feel the
muscles pushing air back out. Slowly, in and out."

She matched her breathing with the calm, rhythmic cadence of
his voice.

"You can feel the sofa supporting your body. You can relax
completely because the sofa is strong and can take all your
weight. Feel the back of the sofa pressing gently against
your spine, taking all your weight. The cushions under your
legs are enveloping them, helping you feel very peaceful,
very relaxed."

Her limbs grew warm and heavy. Her breathing evened. Her
mind went inward. Mulder's voice was like soothing music,
playing deep in her mind.

"Now, Scully, we're going to your mother's kitchen. It's a
bright, sunny Saturday afternoon, and you're sitting at the
table, watching your mother stir the chili. The sun is warm
on your face. You look out the window and you can see the
hummingbird feeder. There's a hummingbird feeding. He's
beautiful, isn't he?"

"Yes."

"You feel very happy. Very safe. You can see the
hummingbird, you can hear the soft sound of the breeze
rustling the leaves outside. You turn and look at your
mother. What is she doing now?"

"She's putting in a teaspoon of cocoa in the chili."
Scully's mouth curved in a smile. "Shh--that's the secret
ingredient."

"Is anyone else here?"

"No. Just Mom and me. This is our time."

"You feel very safe with your mom."

"Yes."

"And you know that no matter what happens from here on out,
you can always come right back here to the kitchen with your
mom."

"Yes."

"Good. But right now, Scully, I want you to relax even more
and go back to that place deep inside you. Down to your
core. You're very, very calm. Very relaxed, and yet your
mind is alert. Now, I want you to go back several years.
It's a couple of days after you helped me through the
hostage situation, remember? You talked me though it,
through that scary time. I was afraid, Scully, afraid Duane
Barry would kill me. But I could hear your voice in my ear,
telling me that you were watching out for me, and I wasn't
so afraid anymore. Because you'd never let anyone hurt me,
and I knew it. And that's what I want you to know now,
Scully. I want you to hear me in your ear now. Know that I
won't let anyone or anything hurt you now."

"I know that." Her tongue felt thick. To her own ears her
voice sounded slurred.

"Good. Now, you and I are going to have a little signal
between us, okay? Whenever we come across as situation
that's too frightening for you, I'm going to count to three
and put my hand on your knee. When you feel the warmth, the
weight on your knee, you'll know that I'm there. That I'm
going to stop the bad thing from happening so we can step
back for a moment and regroup, okay?"

"Yes."

"Now, I want you to go back to a couple of days after Duane
Barry was shot. The doctors had found something in his
abdomen. Do you remember what that was?"

"It was a piece of metal. Like shrapnel."

"What did Duane Barry say it was?"

"A probe."

"I come into your office and we talk about the metal. You
tell me you're going to do something with it. What do you
do with it?"

"I take it to Ballistics. They run a test on it. We find
something strange. Etchings."

Mulder's voice seemed closer somehow. Inside her. "What
kind of etchings?"

"They look like...." She hesitated, remembering how
foolish she'd thought the idea at first. "They look like
some kind of bar code. I decide to take it home with me.
I'm not really sure why."

"Do you go straight home?"

"No. No, I stop at a grocery store."

"Then what happens? You stop at the grocery store...."

"The clerk is walking away, and I remember how the metal
seemed to have a bar code. I'm curious...."

"What do you do, Scully? Do you take the implant out of
your purse?"

"My pocket. I take it from my pocket. I'm just curious. I
don't expect what happens."

"What happens, Scully?"

Her brow furrowed. "I pass the vial over the scanner and
the scanner display goes wild. The clerk comes running
back. I leave quickly."

"Do you go home then?"

"Yes. I go home and I don't even turn on all the lights. I
dial your home phone number. Damn it, it's the machine."

"You leave a message."

"I tell you that something strange happened to me....Oh. I
hear a noise outside. My skin crawls. I know that
something's...something's not right...Oh! God!" She
flailed her arm, seeing the scene unfolding in front of her.
The blinds parting to reveal Duane Barry lit by a flash of
lightning. "Mulder!" The scream tore from her throat as
she relived the moment when Barry burst through her
window, shattering glass, splintering wood. He was
surprisingly fast and forceful as he grabbed her.
"Mulder, I need your help!"

"I'm right here, Scully--hear me in your ear."

His voice was faint, faraway. Much farther away that Duane
Barry's hands grabbing at her, pulling her with him. He was
amazingly strong, considering his injury, she thought, one
part of her mind still functioning with the clinical
detachment hammered into her by years on the job. But
another part of her was shrieking in terror. "Mulder!"

"I'm here, Scully. Remember what I told you---when I put my
hand over your knee, it's our signal to step back for a
moment, to get away from the frightening situation. On the
count of three, I'm going to touch your knee and then I'll
be there in the room with you, and I'll stop him. One, two,
three...."

She felt the warmth and weight of his hand on her knee and
her panic began to rapidly subside. "Mulder...."

"Right here with you, Scully."

He was there, in the room. Standing between her and Duane
Barry. She focused on her breathing, on slowing it,
steadying her heart rate. "Better...."

"Good. Scully, in order to find out what happened, I'm
going to have to let Duane Barry take you. But remember,
YOU'RE in control. We're going along for the ride, but you
can back out anytime you want. All you have to do is go
back to your mother's kitchen. Now, tell me what's
happening."

"He's tying me up. I'm struggling, but he's so strong. How
can he be so strong? He was just shot...." She shook her
head, terror rising again. "He--I'm bleeding. I can feel
the blood trickling down my forehead."

"He puts a gag in your mouth and takes you out to your car."

"Yes. The carpet in the trunk burns my cheek as I skid
across it. He's not gentle." Pain stung her cheek as she
relived the memory. "The ropes are tight--" A moaning
sound escaped her throat. "My arms are aching already...."

"How long are you in the trunk?"

"I hear music. Muffled--strange. The sounds are all
screwed up...." She frowned. "Is this what I was
remembering from before?"

"I don't know. Tell me what you're remembering now."

"I hear--Oh, God, Mulder, I hear a siren! Mulder, it's a
siren! Someone's looking for me! You sent someone to look
for me!" Excitement roiled in her breast, speeding up her
breathing.

"Tell me what happens then."

"The car is pulling to a stop. I can feel the difference in
the speed, in the sound of the engine."

"Duane Barry pulls to a stop and then?"

"I hear voices. A man. I think he's asking Duane Barry to
step out of the car. I've got to find some way to let him
know I'm here. I can't let him walk away!" She made a
soft, keening sound of desperation. "I need his help!"

"Focus on your breathing, Scully. Focus on staying calm.
Deep breaths, in, out."

She followed Mulder's voice, the worst of her panic
subsiding. "I need his help. I try to move, try to bang
against the trunk so that he'll know---Oh!" She jerked back
as a phantom sound echoed in her head. "Oh, God, no!"

"Tell me what's happening, Scully."

"Oh, God, no, God, no...." She shook her head from side to
side. "Oh, please, God--"

"Scully, I'm here. Feel my hand on your knee...one, two,
three...."

The warmth. The weight. Then she felt his presence there
in the dark trunk. His arms holding her, keeping her safe.
She let his presence soothe her again.

"Tell me what you're seeing, Scully. Be my eyes."

She nodded, taking courage from his admission of need. She
could do it for him. "There's nothing but silence, and I
know that whoever stopped the car is dead. He's dead and
it's my fault." A hot tear trickled down her cheek. "It's
my fault."

"Scully, you didn't do anything wrong." Mulder's voice was
strong in her ear, strong and yet achingly gentle. "Now,
tell me what you're seeing."

"He's opening the trunk. I'm sure he's going to kill me
now, too." Panic threatened to surge to the surface again,
but she concentrated on the feel of Mulder's hand on her
knee and she was able to stop it. "But he just looks at
me."

"Does he say anything to you?"

"Yes." She creased her brow, remembering. "He says he's
not going to hurt me. That we have to meet someone."

"Does he tell you who you have to meet?"

"No, but he doesn't have to. I heard what he said to you in
the travel agency, Mulder. I know he thinks we're going to
meet an alien ship." Fear and anger coiled in her gut.
"Damn it, when that ship doesn't show up, my life's not
worth anything to him anymore! I've got to find a way out
of this." Tears squeezed from her eyes. "Mulder, I need
you to come get me. Please, Mulder...."

* * * * *

Scully's soft plea curled around Mulder's heart, and his
hand shook where it lay on Scully's knee. "I'm here,
Scully. I'm right here." He fought his rising anguish,
forcing his own breathing to stay calm and focused.
"Remember--whenever this gets too hard, we can go back to
your safe place."

He watched her struggled to regain control over her
burgeoning panic. Tears rolled down her cheeks, and he
wanted to reach up and brush them away, but touching her
face might break her focus and propel her out of the
hypnogogic state. So he remained still.

"Okay...okay." Her voice was a little stronger. "I'm
okay."

"Where are you now?"

"In the trunk. We've been driving up an incline; I can feel
the slant of the car. I've rolled to the front of the
trunk. There's something beneath my cheek, something small
and metallic."

"What is it?" He suspected he knew, remembering the tiny
cross pendant he'd found in the trunk of the car when he'd
reached the top of Skyland Mountain. But he didn't try to
lead her.

"I can't tell. It's pitch black in here. And my hands are
tied behind my back. I can't breathe very well, Mulder. I
feel closed in." Her breathing grew shallow, rapid. She
was hyperventilating. "I...c-can't...breathe...."

"Yes, you can, Scully. I want you to take a long, deep
breath and hold it as long as you can. That's it. Do it
again. In rhythm. Deep breath, hold it until I count to
five, then release. Then repeat it."

He helped her get her breathing back under control,
breathing with her to calm himself. He'd known that taking
Scully under hypnosis himself was going to be difficult, but
he'd had no idea just how difficult. He felt as if he were
reliving the whole nightmare--only it was worse, now,
because before, he had only had his imagination to tell him
what she had gone through.

Now, he had the first hand account, relived in front of him.

And it was worse than he'd ever imagined.

* * * * *

Warehouse District
Baltimore, Maryland
8:25 p.m.

The man in gray crossed slowly to the examining table and
bent over Sarah Chandler's still form. She was sleeping
now, the doctors had told him, aided by a strong sedative.
Her chest rose and fell in slow, steady rhythm.

He lay his hand on the young woman's bare shoulder, feeling
her warmth beneath his fingers. Against her smooth skin,
his nicotine-stained hand looked like sun-dried leather.
Prominent veins and splotches of melanin bespoke his age.
Once, he'd been as young as this woman, young and certain
that the world was his to conquer. He'd played the cards
dealt to him with skill and passion, and he'd won more often
than he'd lost, which was all that any man could really hope
for in the end.

The losses were calculated. Prepared for. Worth the
ultimate gain.

And he was not a cruel man. Whenever possible, he spared
life. Spared pain.

By all rights, Sarah Chandler should be dead now, but he'd
spared her. Spared her even after the initial tests
twenty-five years ago had revealed that, despite her unusual
conception, she was a normal child. Bright and remarkably
intuitive, certainly, but her parents were people of talent
and intellect. She and the boy had been trailblazers
without even realizing it. But not so special that the
consortium had felt the need to keep them around.

He had fought for her. For them. Protected them.

He looked down at her still, quiet form. Tender emotion was
rare with him, so rare that it never ceased to surprise him
when it surfaced, as it did now. Looking down at the girl,
he remembered the faraway past. Sunlight filtering through
the trees, dappling the carpeting of leaves on the ground,
sparkling on the lake. Laughter. A young boy's shout of
excitement. A little girl with chestnut brown hair and big
hazel eyes, begging for a piggy-back ride. She had looked
like her mother. And she'd thought he could do no wrong.

He drew his hand away from the woman's shoulder and turned
away. He left the main room, entering an access corridor
and heading for the exit. He paused in the doorway to the
outside and lit a cigarette. Smoke rushed into his lungs.
Filled him. Calmed him. He exhaled.

He left the warehouse, shrouded in smoke.

* * * * *

Mrs. Scully's house
8:38 p.m.

"Whatever they gave me has immobilized me. I'm aware of my
surroundings, but I can't move." Scully's voice was faint
and tinged with fear.

"Do you want to move?" Mulder fought to keep his voice
steady, to remain calm for her. But the last few minutes
had taxed his control as she'd relived in horrific detail
the second abduction. Within minutes after Duane Barry had
taken her to the top of Skyland Mountain, a black helicopter
had alit. Men in dark, nondescript uniforms had taken her
from Barry and thrown her in the back of the helicopter.
Bruised her. Hurt her.

His back ached from leaning forward to keep his hand on her
knee, but he couldn't pull away. His hand on her knee was
his link to her subconscious. Breaking that contact would
seem as if he were abandoning her.

"I hate this feeling." Her voice shook with anger. "I hate
feeling like I have no control over my own body. I want
these bastards to let me go!"

"Where are you? What do you see?"

"I'm in a small, narrow room. It's a boxcar. On a train.
I can feel the movement of the train. The sound of the
wheels clattering on the rails."

"Where are you in the room?"

"On a table. It's an autopsy tray." She shuddered. The
sensation vibrated up his tired arm. "They're...looking at
me."

He slid forward in the chair until he was sitting on the
very edge. The movement eased a bit of the growing tension
in his arm. "How are they looking at you? Just looking?
Or are they examining you?"

She shook her head. "No, they're just looking at me.
They're speaking to each other. Not in English."

"In Japanese?" he asked.

"Yes, I think so. There--that's Dr. Ishimaru. He seems to
be in charge. He seems to be telling everyone else what to
do."

"Do you know what he's telling them?"

"Oh, God!" Horror twisted her face, and she started gasping
for air.

His stomach clenched. "Focus on your breathing, Scully."

"No, please--what are they--I can feel that!" She cried
out, a sound of agonizing pain. "No, it hurts!"

"Scully, we're turning down the pain. Just like turning the
knob of a television set. We're lowering the volume of the
pain."

Tears squeezed from the corners of her eyes. "They're
cutting me, Mulder. They don't care that I can feel it."

"They aren't trying to anaesthetize you?" His voice came
out in a choked whisper.

"No, they don't care...." She made a soft whimper.

He swallowed a flood of rage. "Where are they cutting you,
Scully?"

"My abdomen. Small incisions--three, maybe four. I can't
tell--just...the pain...." She moaned, clenching her fists
in her lap.

Mulder closed his eyes for a second, forcing himself to
remain calm. After a couple of steadying breaths, he asked,
"Do you know what they're doing to you?"

"It's like laparoscopy--they're filling my abdomen with some
sort of gas, distending it...." She moaned again. "It
hurts...."

"I know it hurts, Scully. I'm so sorry it hurts." Tears
burned his eyes, pooled above his lower eyelids, blurred his
vision. "I'm sorry they're doing this to you, you know I
am. But remember the knob? Let's turn down the knob. Turn
down the pain." He scooted off the chair, moved forward and
knelt right in front of her, his hand never leaving her
knee. "Now that the volume of pain is turned down, we can
concentrate on other things, right? Can you tell what
they're trying to do to you?"

"I feel the instruments moving around inside me." Her
forehead wrinkled. "It's more horrifying than the pain.
Feeling them invade me. Violate my body. I want to kill
them for what they're doing to me."

Tears ran, unchecked, down his cheeks. "I'm so sorry,
Scully. I feel the same way, you know I do."

The rage and fear in her face softened. "I know. I think
about you as this is happening to me. I wonder what you're
doing. Are you worrying about me? Are you're blaming
yourself? I don't want to die this way, without telling you
goodbye...."

He choked back a low sob. "I'm thinking about you, too,
Scully. I'm wondering about you. Wondering if you
know...." He stopped himself, fighting to regain his control
over the session. He had to take his own step back--out of
the horrific nightmare vision she was showing him. He had
to stay grounded in the present, in reality. That was his
job. He closed his eyes, wiping away the tears with his
free hand. "Okay, Scully. I want you to tell me what's
happening now."

"It's over. They're closing the incisions--not with
sutures." Her voice held a hint of surprise, a touch of
curiosity. "It's something like a cauterizing laser, I
think. Tiny and precise. There's pain, but it's very
localized. More like a stinging sensation. I wonder what
it is--I've never seen anything like it."

He listened to her words, noting the sudden strength of her
voice. A bubble of amazed laughter hovered in his throat.
Only his Scully could find a way to combine scientific
curiosity with abject terror. "They've finished the
procedure. Now what's happening?"

"Nothing. Nothing happens for a long time. Some of the
doctors sit across the train compartment, talking among
themselves. Two of them are in another area. It looks like
a makeshift laboratory. They're looking at something." Her
expression twisted with outrage. "Something hurts deep
inside me. They cut me! They took something out of me!"
Her voice rose to a wail. "Oh, God, what have they taken
out of me?" She went rigid, her fists clenching. "Mulder, I
can't move, I can't move, I want to move, I want to kill
them for what they've done to me! Goddam bastards, what
have you done to me! You sons of bitches!" She flailed
out, striking a painful blow against Mulder's cheek.

He bit back a gasp of pain and tightened his grip on her
knee. "Scully--Scully, listen to me. Let's go back to that
safe place now. Let's take a breather from this. Scully?
Are you listening to me?"

"They took something out of me, Mulder." Her voice was soft,
almost childlike, dark with hurt. "They took something from
me."

He lowered his head, unable to bear the sight of her pain.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

He felt her hands in his hair, stroking gently. Her voice
was gentle when she spoke. "Let's go to the safe place,
Mulder."

He looked up. She was still in a hypnogogic state, her eyes
shut, tears trickling down her cheeks. Her forehead was
wrinkled with concern. Concern for him. Even now. He
wanted to pull her into his arms and hold her. He settled
for gently stroking her knee. "We're in that safe place,
Scully. We're safe now. I'm right here beside you."

She breathed slowly, deeply. He felt her leg muscles
loosening beneath his touch. "I don't want to go back
there, Mulder."

He didn't, either. Not ever. "That's okay, Scully. You
don't have to go back there if you don't want to." Maybe
what she'd remembered was enough to help them. It certainly
raised enough terrifying questions. "Do you want me to
bring you out?"

"Can we just stay here a little while, Mulder? Just you and
me, right here?"

"Sure." He moved his hand lightly over her knee. "Right
here."

Mulder didn't know how long he stayed that way, crouched in
front of her, gently caressing her knee. Time unraveled.
Only the soft click of his cassette recorder running out of
tape disturbed the amazing sense of peace and communion. He
reached out with his free hand and flipped the tape to the
other side to record what was left of the session. "Okay,
Scully, are you ready to for me to bring you out?"

She shook her head slowly. "No, Mulder...I have to go
back."

He frowned. "Scully, you don't have to--"

"I do. I have to go back. There's more...." She rolled
her neck as if her muscles were stiffening up. Already he
could feel the tension building up in her body again.
"There's more I need to remember...."

"Scully--"

She didn't wait for him. Her chin jutted with resolve. "I'm
back on the train. It's dark in the compartment. They've
finished their tests and they've gone to another part of the
train."

He took a deep breath and plunged in. "Are you alone?"

"There's a man with me. I can't see him, but I know he's
here. I can hear him breathing."

"Are you still immobilized?"

"Yes. I'm strapped down now, too, but I don't think I could
move even if the straps weren't there."

"Tell me what you're hearing."

"Breathing. Soft, a little raspy. It's a man--I can tell
it's a man. I smell something--aftershave, maybe. Scotch--
very faint." Her nose wrinkled. "Cigarette smoke."

Mulder leaned forward, rage building at his core. "Is it
him? Is it Cancerman?"

She frowned and shook her head slightly. "No, the voice is
wrong. A different...a different sound. Clipped.
Hmm...it's familiar. I can't...I can't place it..."

"The voice is familiar?"

"No. Just the accent. Umm...Brahmin."

"Brahmin?"

"Yeah. You know--New England. You have the same sound,
sometimes. Once in a while."

Mulder closed his eyes for a moment, trying not to think
what he was thinking. The dossier on her comings and
goings--that had been bad enough--

"He's next to me. I can feel the warmth of his body next to
mine." Scully's voice rose slightly. "Oh, God, he's
touching me! He's touching my hand. His hand is hot, dry.
It's so dark! I can't see him. I'm so afraid--I don't want him
to
touch me." She wrung her hands as if shaking away the
phantom hands in her memory.

"Is he h-hurting you?" Mulder swallowed with difficulty,
fighting a sudden surge of nausea.

"No. He's speaking again. He's saying my name. Very
softly. 'Dana.'" She winced. "I ask him how he knows me,
and he tells me that they know all about me."

Mulder closed his eyes. "Does he say anything else?"

"I ask him if he's going to hurt me. He tells me he's there
to help me. He says he's there to watch out for me, to make
sure I get back home safely to the people who care about
me...."

"Does he tell you who he is?"

She made a soft sound of frustration. "He speaks in riddles."

"Riddles."

"I don't know--riddles. Parables. He says that he's
Agamemnon. That he must atone for his sin."

Agamemnon. Mulder sat back on his heels, his heart
thudding wildly in his chest. Agamemnon, the Greek
king who sacrificed his daughter to ensure good winds
for his fleet in the battle against Troy. Agamemnon,
whose deed incurred the hatred of his wife.

Oh, God.

It was his father.

* * * * *

8:41 p.m.

The scream was weak, anguished, followed by a low, soothing
murmur. Dana and Fox, reliving nightmares together.
Margaret Scully closed her eyes, spilling tears down her
cheeks. She should never have agreed to stay in here. It
was her house. Her child. She should be out there with her
child. With her children. She shouldn't be waiting in here.

Life had taught Margaret about patience. Half her life
seemed to have been spent waiting. Waiting to grow up.
Waiting for William to realize she wasn't a little girl
anymore. Waiting for her children to be born. Waiting for
her husband to come home from sea.

She had learned to fill the time by staying busy.
Gardening, reading, cooking, teaching--she'd packed the
hours of waiting so full that she'd hardly noted the passage
of time. Her friends complimented her on her industry; her
family took pride in her accomplishments. And, eventually,
she'd come to understand that what she was doing wasn't
really waiting.

She was simply living.

Waiting was a darker, colder thing. Waiting was pacing in
the corridor of a hospital in the middle of the night until
a doctor emerged to tell you that the love of your life, the
father of your children, was gone. Waiting was months of
wondering where your baby girl was, what was happening to
her, who had taken her. Waiting was watching your eldest
daughter's life seep away before your eyes.

Waiting was listening to a nightmare being played out on the
other side of the wall and knowing that there was nothing
you could do to stop it.

The screams came again.

In agony, Margaret waited.

* * * * *

9:09 p.m.

"I don't know how long I have been unconscious. It feels
like forever." Scully's voice was weak, raspy. "I know I am
tired. So tired...."

Mulder sat at her feet, his hand still closed around her
knee. He was tired, too. Tired and hurting in ways he
didn't even want to think about. After the first procedure
she had described, there had been more. More mysterious
extractions. More pain. Time had ceased to mean anything to
her, days blurring into nights.

Regard for her as a human being was non-existent. She
remembered being strapped to a gurney for hours at a time,
catheterized, fed through a tube in her stomach. They left
her naked, exposed, while they went about their work around
her, oblivious to her humiliation.

Only one man bothered to treat her with any dignity
whatsoever. The man who called himself Agamemnon.

Mulder's father. He was more convinced now than ever.

"He's here," Scully murmured.

Mulder lifted his head wearily and looked up into her pale
face. "Agamemnon?"

"Yes. He covers me with a sheet and touches my hand. His
eyes--his eyes are haunted. I think he was not prepared for
what he's seen here...."

"Not prepared?"

"He's not one of them...."

"One of your captors?"

"I know he's not another prisoner, but he's not like the
others, either. What he sees them doing to me--it pains
him. But when I beg him to help me...." Her voice trailed
away.

"What does he do?"

"He looks away. He's afraid. Afraid of them." Her brow
creased suddenly. "He's arguing. I hear his voice. It's
loud...slurred...."

Mulder took a shuddery breath.

"I smell the Scotch he's been drinking. He drinks for
courage, I think. But his courage fails him."

"What are he and the others arguing about?"

"Me. He asks them why they have kept me so long when the
others have been released."

"The others--you mean the other women you met?"

"Yes. They've been returned. I'm the only one who remains.
Agamemnon...wants to know why...."

"What is he told?"

"That I'm being taken to another place for a final
procedure. But first--No!"

Her sharp cry sliced through his taxed nervous system like a
razor blade. His heart pounded. His fingers tightened on
her knee. "Breathe, Scully. Breathe...that's it. What's
happening? What are you seeing?"

Her face crumpled as if she had reached the utter end of her
emotional reserves. "They're putting something in my
neck...." Her last word elided into a heartbroken whimper.

He laid his head atop his hand where it rested on her knee.
The session had gone on too long--he'd let her continue too
long. But she was so determined to keep going, to remember
everything, rid her mind of the horrors. She wanted it
over. She didn't want to return to the past again.

He didn't want her to, either. Not for all the answers in
the world.

"I'm turning down...the pain...." she whispered, and he
lifted his head, kicking himself for his brief moment of
inattention. He was weakening, losing his focus. He should
bring her out--

"The world is spinning...I'm dizzy. My stomach--I'm throwing
up...." She made a choking sound. "I'm...I can't
breathe...can't move....I'm choking...."

"Scully, let's go back to the--"

"He's turning me over...so I don't choke..."

"Who?"

"Agamemnon. He's always there when it's over. I'm so
off balance...I think it must be what they put in my neck...
he's helping me...cleaning me...."

"Scully...."

She ignored him and forged ahead. "He's afraid...he says he
can't be there long...someone's coming...."

"Does he tell you anything?"

"Just that he can't stay long--but that he's trying to help
me. He tells me to be strong, that he's trying to help me
but things may get worse...."

Worse? How could things get worse? Mulder closed his eyes.

"I smell smoke...."

He opened his eyes. "Is there a fire?"

"No...tobacco smoke."

"Is Agamemnon back?"

"No. Not him. He was sent away...." Her lip curled in
disgust. "God, Mulder. It's him...."

"Who? Cancerman?"

She gave a weak nod. "I can't see him. The compartment is
dark. But I hear his voice. I know it's him."

"He's speaking?"

"He's talking to someone--the man who was arguing with
Agamemnon. I can't make...I can't make out sentences...I'm
sorry."

He rubbed her knee. "It's okay. Can you make out words?"

"Something...something about another test...." She made a
low moaning sound of fear, and his heart contracted.
"Mulder, they're taking me away...."

He didn't know if he could take anymore. "Scully--let's go
back--"

"Everything's black now. I can't...I can't see. I'm having
trouble hearing...." Her voice faded away.

Mulder waited for her to speak again. But she didn't. Not
for a minute. Two minutes. He shifted slightly, wondering
if she had gone to her safe place. "Are you in your
mother's kitchen?" he asked. "In the safe place?"

She didn't answer right away. He frowned, anxiety building.
He opened his mouth to call her name.

But she spoke first. "I'm dying, Mulder."

The words froze his blood.

Her voice was faint, faraway. Her body slumped with
weariness. Her lips were dry and bloodless. "I don't
know how long it has been since I was conscious. I
don't know if I'm conscious now. I can't see anything.
I can't hear. I can only feel."

"What do you feel?"

"I feel my body dying. Even the pain is dying." Tears
oozed from the corners of her eyes. "I don't want to die,
but I can't stop it...."

"You're not dying, Scully." He gripped her knee tightly.
"Feel my hand on your knee. Remember I'm here, and I won't
let anything happen--"

"I don't want to die, Mulder. I'm so afraid that I'm going
to die and I won't be able to tell you...."

He couldn't bear any more. Not one thing more. "Scully,
let's go back to the safe place. Come back with me to the
safe place. It's time to leave--"

"No, I can't leave yet," she moaned, weakly turning her head
back and forth as if trying to elude the grasp of death
itself. "I have to tell you...I have to...."

"You can tell me in the safe place, Scully...." In
desperation he removed his hand from her knee to break the
spell. She gasped aloud, as if he'd ripped the air from her
lungs.

"No, no, I have to tell you...Mulder!" Her cry was little
more than a weak murmur. "Don't...I need you Mulder...."

She wasn't coming with him. She was back there in her own
private hell, and he'd betrayed her with his weakness, his
fear.

Like father, like son....

No.

He laid his head against her knee, her linen pants rasping
against his damp cheek. "I"m here, Scully. Feel me?"

Her hands fluttered against his hair like pale butterflies.
"Yes."

"I'm here."

"I need to tell you something...before I die. I'm so afraid
I'm going to die and you'll never know that I didn't betray
you. Not ever." Her words came out in a rush, as if she
were racing death to speak her piece. "They wanted me to
destroy you, but I never....I know you must blame me for
losing the X-Files, but I never gave them anything...."

"I know."

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I think you must have hated me
from the first, and I'm so afraid that I'll die without
knowing if you still do...." She wept bitterly now, her
small body shaking.

He dared not hold her as he wanted to, afraid to do anything
to jar her in this state. But he turned his head and
pressed his lips against her leg, then put his hand over her
knee again. He looked up into her tear-streaked face.
"Never. I wanted to hate you Scully. I knew they sent you
to ruin me. I knew you were the enemy. But no matter how I
tried, I couldn't hate you. I never could. I thought I
couldn't bear to have you in my life, Scully. But I know
now that I can't bear to be without you in my life." He
pressed his forehead against the back of the hand on her
knee. "Before you came, I trusted only myself. But now,
you're the only one I trust, Scully. The only one."

She touched his head again, her fingers gentle against his
temple. "Let's go back to the safe place, Mulder. Let's go
back."

He took a deep breath and looked up. "We're back in your
mother's kitchen now, Scully. The sunlight is still bright.
Your mother is still at the stove, cooking. She turns to
look at you. She smiles, and you feel safe and warm."

"I see the hummingbird outside the window. He's small and
full of energy," she said. Her voice was raspy from
overuse, but it was stronger. More sure.

"I want you to stay here for just a few minutes, Scully.
Stay here and enjoy the peaceful feeling. You remember
nothing painful. Nothing that frightens you. You think
only of happy things. In a few minutes, I'm going to bring
you back out. And when you wake up, you'll remember only
the things you want to remember. You don't have to remember
anything that frightens you or pains you. We have the tape
for that, right? The tape will remember for you."

She nodded slowly. "Will you stay with me?"

"I'm going to leave the room for just a minute. Just a
minute. You stay here in the kitchen where it's safe, and
I'll be right back. I promise. You trust me to come back,
don't you?"

"I trust you, Mulder." She sounded like a child.

He brushed away his tears with his free hand. "On the count
of three, I'm going to take my hand away from your knee.
But it will be okay, because you know I'm coming right
back."

"Yes."

"One...two...three...." He slowly withdrew his hand and
pushed himself to his feet. Stiff from remaining so long in
a crouched position, his body protested. His legs felt like
rubber and wobbled a bit as he hurried down the hall to Mrs.
Scully's room.

She must have heard his approach, for she opened the door
before he could lift his hand to knock. "Is it over?"

He nodded. "I want you to be there when I bring her out,
like we discussed."

"Is she okay?"

He passed his hand over his burning eyes. "I think so."

Mrs. Scully put her hand on his arm. "How about you?"

He couldn't bring himself to utter the lie. "No," he
admitted.

She squeezed his arm, her eyes filling with tears. For a
moment he swayed toward her, wanting nothing more than for
this good woman to hold him and let him cry on her strong
shoulder. But he stopped himself. He stepped back,
gesturing toward the doorway. She went into the living room
ahead of him.

Scully sat on the sofa, her face tear-stained and white.
But her brow was smooth. Her body seemed relaxed. She was
still in the safe place.

Margaret hovered near the couch while Mulder sat in the
armchair again, leaning toward Scully. "I'm going to count
to three and then you'll feel my hand on your knee again.
When you feel this...when you feel the weight and the
warmth, you'll open your eyes. You'll feel as if you've had
a long sleep. You'll remember only what you want to
remember. Only what you feel safe remembering.
One...two...three...." He put his hand on her knee.

Scully's eyes fluttered open. She looked at him, her eyes
slightly unfocused. "Mulder?"

He stroked her knee gently. "Welcome back."

She lifted her fingers to her cheek, tracing the tears. A
small frown furrowed her forehead. "I...I feel strange."

"You want a glass of water?"

She nodded. Margaret went into the kitchen to get it.
Scully's eyes followed her mother, a hint of a smile
crossing her lips. "I remember that," she murmured. "I
remember the safe place."

Mulder lifted his hand to her cheek, wiping away an errant
tear. "What else do you remember, anything?"

She met his wary gaze. He could see her mind working,
searching, delving. Sadness crept into her eyes. "No.
It's like a dream...I know there was SOMETHING, but I don't
remember details...just...." She looked away, her gaze
dropping to her hands. She flexed her fingers, wincing.
"My hands are cramping...."

That was fairly common after a protracted regression
session, Mulder knew. He took her hands in his and gently
massaged the taut muscles. "Let Dr. Mulder take care of
this," he teased.

"I'm sorry. I know you wanted me to remember." She glanced
at him. "Did I?"

"Remember during the session? Yes. A few things." He
tried not to betray his anguish, but he could tell from her
crestfallen expression that he'd failed.

She pulled one hand from his and touched his cheek. "I'm
sorry."

"Do you want to hear the tape?" He prayed that she would
say no. He didn't want to hear it again.

"Yes." She sounded wary but resolute.

He closed his eyes for a moment.

Her fingers brushed his cheek again. "I need to know."

He met her gaze. "I know."

* * * * *

11:48 p.m.

Scully sat in stunned silence as Mulder shut off the tape
player. On the couch beside her, her mother was weeping
quietly. Her own eyes were dry; she couldn't connect the
voice she'd heard on the tape to herself. She remembered
almost none of the experiences she had related under
hypnosis.

She rubbed her hand over her abdomen, recalling the
nightmarish recounting of the invasive procedures she's
spoken of on the tape. "Confabulation," she murmured.

Mulder's eyes met hers. "You remember none of it?"

"More to the point, Mulder--I have no scars, beyond the one
in my neck, that would have to be present in the case of
such procedures as I described on the tape. Nor do I have
any missing organs."

He passed his hand over his stubbled jaw. "Something
happened to you, Scully, something more than having a chip
place subcutaneously in your neck, or you'd never have
turned up in a coma near death."

"I'm not arguing that, Mulder. I have no doubt that some
sort of test was performed on me. But it didn't happen the
way I described it under hypnosis." She waited for a
flicker of impatience to cross his weary features. But it
never came.

He doesn't want to believe those things happened to me, she
realized. Amazing--Fox Mulder doesn't want to believe.

"What DO you remember?" her mother asked softly.

She wrinkled her brow, considering the question. "I
remember my abduction. I remember being tied up in the
trunk and the trip to Skyland Mountain. I remember the
helicopter landing. Beyond that..." She didn't know if
anything beyond that could really be called memory.
Impressions might be a better word. "I recall a bright
light. I see flashes--people's faces. Dr. Ishimaru--I saw
him there, Mulder, like I told you when I first saw that
picture of the 731. I think--I have a sense of an alarm
sounding. I vaguely recall voices, though I can't begin to
tell you what they're saying."

"Do you remember the one you called Agamemnon?"

She had wondered how long it would take for him to ask about
that. She had seen by the expression on his face while
listening to the tape that he believed Agamemnon was his
father.

"Mulder, I doubt there WAS an Agamemnon."

"That's a pretty specific detail to confabulate, Scully."

"Not necessarily. We both know that the mind doesn't just
compartmentalize itself. Just because I 'regressed' doesn't
mean I didn't bring the sum total of my knowledge and
experiences there with me, right?"

He nodded slowly, waiting for her to continue.

"We have circumstantial evidence indicating that your father
MAY have been at least peripherally involved in my
abduction."

"So you conjured him up, named him Agamemnon and made him
your personal guardian angel?"

"Maybe." She sighed, rubbing her temples. She could tell
he wasn't sold on the story, but she was too tired to argue
with him. "Look, Mulder--we're all tired." She pushed to
her feet, swaying a little as her knees wobbled. Her
muscles were tight and sore as if she'd been running for
hours. "Why don't you go home?"

He raked his hand through his hair, pushing it off his
forehead. "What about you?"

"I'm going to talk to Mom for a little while, then I'll head
home, too."

"Maybe you should spend the night here," her mother
suggested. "Both of you," she added, glancing at Mulder.

"No, Mom. You've already gone above and beyond on this
one." Scully slipped her arm through her mother's. "But
thanks."

Mulder stepped back from them both, his expression
shuttered. "Scully's right, Mrs. Scully. We can talk about
everything in the morning. It's late and we're all tired."
He crossed to the coat rack near the door and retrieved his
suit jacket and overcoat. "Scully--call me when you get
home, okay?"

She nodded, acutely aware of the distance between them. She
could understand his need to take a step back, however. She
might not be able to remember the events of the hypnosis
session, but he obviously did. And judging from the tape,
the experience had been intensely painful for him.

She shouldn't have put him through this.

"It was a bad idea," she told her mother after Mulder left.

Margaret put her arm around Scully's shoulder and led her
into the kitchen. Scully sat automatically in the same
chair she'd occupied since she was a small child--the one to
the right of her father's empty place. Where she'd sat when
she retreated to her safe place during the hypnosis.
Margaret sat in Ahab's chair and closed her hand over
Scully's. "You don't believe that any of those memories
could be real?"

"Some portion of them, maybe," Scully admitted. "But
obviously, if I'd undergone all the procedures I remembered
on the tape, my abdomen would look like a roadmap of scars."
She turned her hand over, palm to palm with her mother's
hand. "Wouldn't it?"

Her mother inclined her head. "I'm sure you're right."

"No, you're not." Scully stared at her mother, surprised.

"Dana, what I heard on that tape--you were terrified." Her
mother's eyes filled with tears. "You sounded like a lost
child--and I haven't heard you sound that way since you were
a little girl."

Scully blinked back tears burning her eyes. "I don't
remember it, Mom. I don't want to remember, okay?" She let
go of her mother's hand and rose from the table. She paced
in agitation, pushing away the memory of the screams she'd
heard on the tape.

Look at the evidence, Scully. The evidence can't be wrong.

Fact--she had no scars on her abdomen consistent, or even
inconsistent, with ONE laparoscopic procedure, much less
several.

Fact--the ONLY physical evidence she had from her missing
time was a tiny metal chip that had been effectively
destroyed by Agent Pendrell while he was attempting to
analyze its properties.

Fact--the framework of her "memories" was remarkably
consistent with all the pieces of the puzzle she and Mulder
had already uncovered by old-fashioned detective work.

There were NO other implants--after the MUFON women had told
her about Betsy Hagopian's "undiagnosed cancer," Scully had
undergone extensive diagnostic tests, including a battery of
x-rays and ultra-sounds. If anything had been implanted--or
extracted--she'd know it.

If anything, her "recovered memories" were probably nothing
more than her subconscious mind trying to fit the pieces
together to fill in the blanks.

She stopped pacing and turned to look at her mother. "I'm
sorry, Mom. I'm sorry you had to go through this."

"I wasn't the only one, Dana."

She was talking about Mulder, Scully knew. Poor Mulder--
she'd certainly put him through hell tonight, then sent him
home alone to brood about it. "I shouldn't have done that
to him, Mom. I've just given him one more reason to kick
himself." She shook her head. "He blames himself for
everything, and I'm afraid I've only given him more
ammunition."

She clutched the back of her chair, lowering her head,
flexing her neck. She was sore. And tired. And, if she
dared to admit it, scared.

Because there was another fact she hadn't addressed--the
fact that whether or not her memories were real or
confabulated, SOMETHING had happened to her. Something had
stripped her of her memory and her health and left her lying
near death on a respirator at Northeast Georgetown Medical
Center three and a half years ago.

Something evil.

Something so terrifying her conscious mind refused to
remember.

Margaret rose and placed her hand on Scully's arm. "Are you
sure you won't stay the night, honey?"

Scully shook her head. "I just want to go to my own place
and sleep in my own bed. I--I need to reconnect with
myself."

Margaret nodded, closing her eyes for a brief moment as if
in pain. When she opened her eyes again she opened her
arms. "Call me when you get home?"

Scully's chuckle was a bit watery. "Nag, nag, nag," she
murmured, allowing her mother to enfold her in a warm
embrace. The tears she was trying to hold back spilled from
her eyes, but it was okay. It was her mother.

It was her safe place.

* * * * *

Hallway outside Dana Scully's apartment
12:29 a.m.

Mulder sat in the hallway outside Scully's apartment,
wondering if one of her neighbors was calling the police
at that moment to report the strange man sitting outside
Apt. 5. He could have used the spare key she'd given him
a while back, but after tonight, he thought it best not
to invade her space without her permission. He wanted her
to feel in control, and walking into her apartment to find
him waiting there was NOT the way to do that.

He glanced at his watch. Twelve-thirty.

Maybe she'd decided to stay at her mom's house after all.
Maybe she'd left a message on his answering machine.

No, she'd have tried his cellular phone. He pulled the
phone from his pocket to make sure it was in working order.
It was.

He leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes.
He was so tired. Wiped. Barely able to function. He
should have gone home, he supposed--what could he say or do
that couldn't wait until morning?

He couldn't erase what had happened to her. He couldn't
give her back the missing months.

He was useless to her. Worse than useless--he was dangerous
to her.

Deadly.

He pushed himself off the floor, wobbling a little as his
aching thigh muscles trembled from his weight. He placed
his hand against the wall for support, then turned and
slumped against the wall, defeated.

He couldn't leave her, even for her own good. It was his
most glaring weakness.

After several moments more, he heard soft footsteps coming
around the corner. The cadence was slower, more weary than
usual, but he knew it was Scully. He felt it in his marrow.

She gave a start as she rounded the corner and saw him
there. "Mulder."

"Hi, Scully."

She slowly closed the distance between them, pulling her
keys from her jacket pocket. "I thought you were going
home."

"Just wanted to make sure you got home safely."

"You couldn't have just called?" She opened the door and
entered, flicking on the light.

He closed the door behind them. "But that's so impersonal,
Scully."

She turned to face him, her expression a mixture of
exasperation and affection. "You plan to borrow my couch
again?"

"If you don't mind."

"Mi sofa es tu sofa." She graced him with a lopsided smile.

"How about your bathroom?"

An odd look darkened her eyes for a moment, and he wondered
what she was thinking. But the moment passed, and she
gestured toward the hallway. "I'll be in my room."

He went to the bathroom and relieved himself, pausing as he
was washing his hands to look around the tidy room. It
smelled like sunshine and seaspray, the undeniable scent of
Dana Scully. He breathed the fragrance, filled his lungs
with her essence. He found comfort in the mere fact of her
nearness, the fact that she was just beyond the door, just a
few feet away. Breathing. Heart beating.

There had been a time he'd not been able to say that. A
horrible time he'd relived in stark, horrific detail
tonight.

The bathroom opened into a narrow hall. From the bathroom
doorway, Mulder could look straight into Scully's bedroom
if the door was open. And it was open.

Scully stood in front of a full length mirror, already
dressed for bed in a pair of gray silk pajamas. She held
the front of the nightshirt up, baring her stomach to the
mirror.

Looking for scars, he realized.

She caught sight of him in the mirror. Her eyes closed and
she turned to face him. "Come here, Mulder."

He stared at her for a moment, unable to draw a breath. She
was so beautiful. So small, delicate-looking. He knew that
she was anything BUT delicate, but that knowledge only made
the illusion of fragility somehow more intoxicating. Such
an enigma. An endless puzzle.

He crossed the hall and entered her bedroom.

She held out her hand to him, and his heart began to race.
He closed the distance between them, placing his hand in
hers.

She drew him toward the bed. His mouth went dry.

"I want you to look at something," she murmured. She
released his hand and lifted the hem of her pajama top,
bunching the soft gray silk just beneath her breasts.

He stared at her for a second, his mind sluggish. Then he
realized what she wanted him to do.

He knelt in front of her and bent his face close to her bare
stomach. The skin was smooth, taut, milky white.

"No scars, Mulder," she murmured.

He lifted his hand and touched the small swell of her lower
abdomen. The skin was flawless.

No scars.

He ran his fingers over the soft, hot skin, circling the
small indentation of her navel.

No scars.

He traced the flat of her abdomen below her ribcage.

No scars.

His vision blurred with tears.

He wanted to believe.

He wanted to.

She cupped his chin and lifted his face, forcing him to look
up at her. His tears softened her image, painted her in
watercolors. She stroked his jaw, whispered his name.

To his surprise and horror, he realized that the low,
keening noises he was hearing were coming from his own
throat.

Embarrassment swept over him in a hot wave, and he tried to
draw away from her, wanting to hide. He couldn't seem to
stop the shuddering half-sobs that stole his breath.

She clutched him, not letting him go. He stared into her
loving, compassionate gaze and felt a dam break inside
himself. Pain and anger and guilt spilled through the
breach and he shook and shattered from the onslaught.
Beyond denial, beyond shame, he pressed his face against
her stomach and let her hold him while he cried.

End of #9

12 RITES OF PASSAGE
#10: "Reconstruction"
By Anne Haynes
AHaynes33@aol.com

Shakespeare's Pub
Washington D.C.
February 17, 1998
6:48 a.m.

The coffee at Shakespeare's Pub was hot and strong, the way
Walter Skinner liked it. The waitress knew him by sight and
brought a steaming mug to his table without having to be
told.

She was a pretty woman, tall and leggy, with straight
sandy-blond hair and beautiful green eyes. In her mid-
twenties, he guessed, a student, judging from the stack of
books he usually saw behind the counter when he went to
pay. Her nametag said, "Juliettt." He was curious about
the three t's, but didn't want to pry. Intrusiveness was
his
job, and he tended to leave it behind when he wasn't on
the clock.

Juliettt pulled an order pad from the pocket of her green
apron. "What will it be this morning, sir--bagel or
Danish?"

Feeling daring, he ordered the Danish and settled back to
read the morning newspaper.

He was barely through the editorial section--dishearteningly
full of anti-Matheson rhetoric--when the approach of
footsteps interrupted his reading. He looked up into the
face of a nondescript man in a dark suit and conservative
tie. Skinner pegged him immediately as Secret Service. He
folded his newspaper and lay it in front of him. "Yes?"

The man gave a little nod toward the door. "We're going to
the White House, Mr. Skinner."

* * * * *

J. Edgar Hoover Building
7:00 a.m.

Mulder wanted to talk. Scully could tell by the way he
continued to shift restlessly in his seat as he perused the
print-outs Pendrell had provided the day before.

She should probably just put him out of his misery. Let him
speak his mind. Tell her that she was abducted by little
green men, probed, prodded, and eventually robbed of her
memory. She knew that was what he still believed, despite
her protestations to the contrary.

The fact that even her hypnosis-aided confabulations didn't
bear out any such conclusion was of no consequence to
Mulder. He had always been one to come up with a theory
first and then seek the evidence to support it. Such a
backward way of doing things, really. Very unscientific.

Very Mulder.

She glanced across the room at him, wondering why she'd ever
become so attached to him in the first place. He was
gloomy, acerbic, stubborn and quite often childish. He had
no patience for the kind of painstaking detective work that
solved most mysteries. He bridled under her slower, careful
approach to their cases, chafed at her insistence that a
theory is worthless without some sort of evidence to back it
up. He sulked when she turned out to be right.

She should have gotten the hell out of this basement a long
time ago. She was at a loss to explain why she had not.

Unless maybe it was the way his passions enveloped her,
swept her up in the whirlwind, gave her life color and music
and fragrance. The way he listened to her, even when he
disagreed, because he respected her mind and her opinions.
The way he made her laugh against her better judgment and
will. The way he trusted only her.

The way his beard stubble had rasped against the bare skin
of her abdomen, the way his breath had stirred the fine
hairs of her belly and sent shudders of need below.

God, that had been an effort, resisting the urge to curl her
fingers in his hair and urge him lower....

"I've been thinking about my father's role in all of this."
Mulder's voice broke into her thoughts, shivering down her
spine like a flutter of kisses. His eyes lifted to meet
hers. He had slept very little again last night. After
leaving her bedroom, he'd tried to sleep on the couch again.

But she'd stayed awake, listening to the soft sounds of his
restlessness, well into the early morning hours. His face
showed the ravages of the past few days--he looked tired and
older than his 36 years.

"Mulder, I don't think--"

"I have to know."

She fell silent, knowing that he wouldn't be able to have
any sort of peace until he'd established the full extent of
his father's part in her abduction. Oddly, she felt no such
compunction for herself. Even if William Mulder had been
instrumental in her kidnapping, it changed nothing in her
mind. Her only concern in the matter was how such knowledge
would affect Mulder. She'd give almost anything to spare
him more pain--and she could imagine few injuries as
grievous as losing utter faith in one's father.

"How are you going to do that?" she asked after another
moment of silence. "It's been so long."

"Only four years, Scully." A haunted look crossed his face.

"Sometimes it feels like only yesterday."

She blinked back the tears that surprised her. "I know."

He looked down at the papers in front of him, hiding his
eyes from her. "I've got a flight to Boston booked for
later this afternoon."

"Boston?"

"I'm going to the Vineyard. To see if I can establish my
father's whereabouts from August to November, 1994. I
booked two seats." He glanced up at her.

She felt a niggle of discomfort, considering her own news
for him. "I'm afraid I've booked a flight for us myself,
Mulder. To Charleston."

He arched his eyebrow.

"We've been so busy looking at this case backwards, Mulder,
that we haven't even noticed that we've neglected the REAL
point of the search--finding Sarah Chandler. That's what our
302 authorizes. We haven't even talked to her parents, and
that should have been one of the first visits on our list."

He nodded and reached for the phone. "I'll cancel the
flight to Boston--"

"No." She shook her head. "You need to find out about your
father, Mulder. I understand that. I can handle the
interview with the Chandlers myself."

"I don't like the idea of your going there by yourself."

She pressed her lips together, feigning annoyance. She
wasn't really upset by Mulder's blatant display of
overprotectiveness, but she wasn't above using it to her
advantage. "Mulder, I'm quite capable of flying to
Charleston all by myself."

"How long do you think you'll be gone?"

"Two days, if that."

He nodded. "About the same amount of time I'll be in West
Tisbury, I expect."

"This is a good approach, Mulder. We'll attack the ends and
meet in the middle."

"We always do, Scully." His mouth curved slightly as he met
her gaze.

Yes, she thought, we always do.

* * * * *

Oval Office
7:14 a.m.

"Fox has booked a flight to Boston. Agent Scully has booked
a flight to Charleston. Were you aware of this?" President
Richard Matheson steepled his hands in front of him, leaning
across the massive desk that dominated the Oval Office.

Skinner didn't, but he wasn't surprised. Very little about
his two most brilliant--and difficult--agents surprised him
these days. "They've filed the proper paperwork, haven't
they?"

"Yes." Matheson sat back. "They are quite determined to
find this young woman they seek."

"Agents Mulder and Scully are quite determined about all the
cases they pursue." Skinner squirmed inwardly. He didn't
like playing politics. He sure as hell didn't like kissing
up, even to a man he more or less respected. And he didn't
like games.

Walter Skinner was not really such a complicated man. In
his work, he was forced to deal with the conflicting
motivations and goals of those above and below him, but at
heart he was a simple man with simple tenets. His
dedication to his work with the F.B.I. was not as cynical or
self-serving as his underlings or his superiors might have
imagined.

Rising in the ranks was a means to an end to Skinner, not
the end itself. His ambition sought power not for himself
but for the ideals he held sacred.

Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity.

The course his life had taken over the past six years
surprised him with its sheer complexity. He'd toed a
precarious line between autocracy and anarchy, trying to
hold the ripping seams of justice together. Neither his
shadowy puppetmasters nor his resentful charges understood
why he did what he did, but Skinner didn't have the luxury
of caring what people thought of him. He did his job, the
best he knew how, and sought to be true to his simple
tenets. And true to those whose lives he sometimes
literally held in his hands.

Fox Mulder and Dana Scully were two of those lives, and he
valued them perhaps above all others.

"It is a dangerous time for Fox and his partner to be
rocking the boat," Matheson commented.

Skinner remained silent, waiting for the president to
continue.

"The upcoming Congressional elections may well decide the
fate of my administration, Mr. Skinner. My supporters are
losing ground in the polls. Should a scandal arise, I'm not
certain my administration will achieve the goals we set out
in the beginning. And I don't like breaking my promises."

"Why are you telling me this?" Skinner simply didn't have
the patience to play nice. It was probably imprudent,
speaking this way to the President of the United States, but
he didn't exactly have much to lose these days.

"I'm telling you this because you have the power to guide
them in the way they should go."

"And what way is that?"

"Their success in this endeavor is imperative. I want full
bureau support behind whatever they choose to do. I've
informed Tom Shea of my wishes."

This is different, Skinner thought. He hid a slight smile.
Usually, his orders were quite the opposite. He wondered
what Shea had had to say. The FBI Director wasn't the
biggest fan of the X-Files Division. "I'll provide whatever
resources they require."

"Good, good." Matheson rose with a dismissive gesture.
"Glad to hear it."

Skinner stood as well, his brow creasing with curiosity.
That was it? The president had gone through this cloak and
dagger charade merely to inform Skinner that Mulder and
Scully were to be allowed to do their job?

There had to be more to this meeting. "Sir, may I ask why
you brought me here? Your wishes could have been conveyed
by Director Shea just as easily."

Matheson's expression gave away nothing. "I simply wanted
to meet you, Mr. Skinner. May I call you Walter?"

Skinner couldn't exactly refuse. "Certainly."

"Walter, I've heard a great deal about your work. I've
heard about the...difficulties...you've experienced since
the X-Files project was put under your supervision."
Matheson smiled. "Fox and Dana both speak quite highly of
you."

Skinner hid his pleasure, but he was flattered. Knowing his
wary young agents as well as he did, he realized that their
respect was given sparingly.

"The next few months are crucial to our work, Walter. To
the things I believe we all want to accomplish." Matheson
walked toward the exit, clearly expecting Skinner to follow.
"The wrong move could be very costly. For all of us."

Skinner felt tempted to ask the president to come to the
point.

"Remember, Walter--you have a stake in this as well. A far
higher stake than you might assume." Matheson opened the
door and gestured for Skinner to leave.

That's it? A few cryptic remarks? Some veiled promises--or
were those threats?

No, Skinner decided as he followed a Secret Service agent
through the corridors of the White House, he didn't like
politics at all.

The Secret Service agent let him out at the curb near
Shakespeare's Pub. Skinner glanced at his watch. 7:30 a.m.
He wasn't officially due at the office until 8:00, and
besides, he supposed a clandestine meeting with the
president would be considered "on the job" activity.

And he never had gotten to have that Danish.

Juliettt looked up when he entered, a smile of surprise
crossing her pretty face. She crossed to the coffee maker
immediately. "Mr. Skinner, back for that Danish after all?"

"Can't stay away, Juliettt." He sat at the bar instead of
his usual table, glancing at the stack of books near the
cash register. ELIZABETHAN LITERARY SUBVERSION was the
title of the book on top. "English major?"

Juliettt turned to smile at him. "Working on my
dissertation at Georgetown."

He nodded. "I got my PhD from Duke." He gestured toward
the books. "Renaissance Literature? My concentration was
American poets."

She chuckled. "Isn't that an oxymoron?" She winked. "Just
kidding. I'm rather fond of Emily Dickinson myself." She
poured him a fresh cup of coffee and placed it on the
counter next to his cream cheese Danish. "'After great
pain, a formal feeling comes...'."

"I'm a Frost man myself." He smiled at the young woman,
wondering what his life would be like if he'd taken that
Princeton professorship he'd turned down to enter the FBI.
God knew his job at the Bureau was thankless at best, and
nowadays he went home to an empty house. He could do that
anywhere, performing any job.

His only regret would be abandoning Mulder and Scully.
Sometimes he thought they were the sole reason he hadn't
resigned right after Sharon's death. He realized that he
was one of the few defenses the pair had against the forces
gathered against them.

And Walter Skinner was very good at being a fortress.

* * * * *

West Tisbury, MA
Martha's Vineyard
Feb. 17, 1998
9:48 p.m.

West Tisbury was what the locals called "up island,"
Vineyardese for the less touristy parts of the island that
had as much to do with local character as geography.
Unlike the crowded, pretty resort towns along the coast,
West Tis was a rural place, home to people who valued
their privacy.

Mulder's father's house was hidden away from the road by
tall boxwood hedges that loomed like giants in the darkness.

Since his father's death, the house had been leased to
non-residents during the season as additional income for
his mother. Off season, the house stood empty. But Mulder
had a key.

After he went to the main breaker to switch on the power,
Mulder turned on as many lights as possible, driving away
the inky darkness that covered him like a prickly blanket.
The house was icy cold and smelled musty. Unused. The
tourist season ended around Labor Day, and no doubt the
house had lain untouched since then. A fine layer of dust
covered every surface. Mulder briefly considered finding a
cloth and doing a quick once over, but he decided against
it. He was beat.

He did wipe off the tan leather couch before he stretched
out across it. The living room was three walls of windows;
outside the night was inpenetrable. The windows rattled in
their casements from the winter wind. He sank lower into
the
cushions and stared up at the ceiling, wishing he'd taken a
room at a hotel in Edgartown. Anyplace but this house.

He could feel his father. Feel the liquor-drenched sweat of
cowardice. He smelled the sour odor of fear and deceit.

Are you here, Dad? Come out and speak to me.

Murder most foul....

The shrill burr of his cellular phone jarred him. Scully,
of course. "Mulder."

"Hey, it's me."

Her voice sounded so far away. She must be in Charleston
now. "How's South Carolina?"

"Remarkably warm for February."

"Trade ya."

"Cold up there?"

"Yeah." The house was heated by steam radiators; a soft
hissing sound heralded the advent of heat, accompanied by
the occasional nervewracking clang. Already he was
feeling a little less shivery. "You sound tired."

"I am. So do you."

"I am, too."

"Where are you staying--what hotel?"

"I'm at my dad's place. It stays empty during the off
season. I didn't see a point in checking into a hotel."

She was silent for a long moment.

"I'm okay, Scully."

"I was just thinking that a hotel might have made it easier
for you--"

"I'd planned to give the place a once over any way--see if
there are any nooks or crannies that might have been missed
when we cleaned the place out after Dad's death."

"You're not planning to stay up tonight doing that, are
you?" Her voice took on a stern edge.

"No, Mom--I'm all settled down for bed."

"Really?"

"Yup."

"What are you wearing?"

"Ooo, Scully." He grinned at the phone. "I'll tell you if
you'll tell me."

She made a sound that might have been a stifled chuckle.
"Black pajamas and gray sweat socks. Your turn."

He looked down at his jeans and green sweater. "Bikini
briefs," he lied. "Leopard print. Thong style."

"Bull. You're still in the same jeans and green sweater you
were wearing when we said goodbye at the airport. You
haven't even kicked off your shoes."

He looked down at his thick leather hiking boots. The woman

was amazing. "But I'm in a thong in spirit."

"Now THAT I'll buy," she agreed.

"Are you in a red satin bustier in spirit?" he asked.

"God, Mulder, you are INCORRIGIBLE."

And you're an angel, Dana Scully, he thought. She was
playing along with him to help him keep his mind off the
fact that he was in his father's house, the same house where
he'd cradled his father's dead body after his murder. The
same house where he'd discovered the first of many lies his
father had lived. "Where are you staying, Scully?"

"Holiday Inn Express on Savannah Highway." She gave him the
room number. "I'm going to try to get an early start in the
morning--I called the Chandlers as soon as I got in and
arranged to meet them here at the motel around 9 a.m.
They've agreed to show me where Sarah was found when she
was a child--see if maybe we can round up some information
about who found her, how she was processed by social
workers--you know, typical legwork."

"I'm going to be doing something similar--" A knock on the
front door startled him. "Someone's at the door."

"Mulder--" Scully's voice was wary. "Are you expecting
someone?"

"Didn't order pizza, if that's what you mean...." Mulder
crossed to the front door. The porch light wasn't on, and
the glass in the door was opaque, obscuring his view of
whoever stood on the other side. He could barely make
out a dark shape. Small--Scully-sized, he thought.

Still, he checked to make sure his Sig was in the holster
still clipped at his hip before he opened the door.

A short, fair-skinned woman around his own age stood
on the porch, her eyes wide with surprise. "Oh my God.
Fox William Mulder, what the hell are YOU doing here?"

"Mulder?" Scully's voice was tight in his ear.

"Just the welcome wagon, Scully," he murmured into
the receiver. "I'll have to get back to you." He hung
up the phone and fumbled it into the pocket of his
jeans. He took a small step back. "Eve?"

"Fox, sweetie, didn't think I'd ever see YOU show your
face around this godforsaken place again!" Eve Wentworth
shook her head in disbelief, looking him up and down.
"Still can't dress worth a damn, and would you LOOK
at that hair!"

He grinned and caught her arm, pulling her inside. "Nobody
but you ever complained."

"Nobody complained to your FACE, you mean." She laughed,
her hazel-gray eyes sparkling. "God, it's great to see you,
Mulder!"

"You, too, Wentworth!" He waved her toward the couch. "But
what the hell are you doing here?"

She sat down on the sofa. "I live next door."

He arched his eyebrow. "You mean you leave the island, make
it big as a writer, make enough money to live ANYWHERE in
the WORLD, and you come back to West Tis?"

"What can I say?" She shrugged, a bemused smile on her
face. Age had been kind to her--she'd been a gawky teenager
when he'd known her, not really pretty but witty as hell and
one of the smartest people he knew. Now in her
mid-thirties, she was striking, elegant-looking in a quirky
way. Her reddish-gold hair had been wavy when they were
kids; she wore it straight and shoulder length--kind of like

Scully's, he thought. She was about Scully's height, about
her
size and weight. If he squinted and turned his head just
right--

"What ARE you doing?"

He blinked, realizing that he had, indeed, been squinting.
"Sorry--been a long day."

"What brings you to the Vineyard?"

"A little detective work."

"Oh?" Her eyebrows rose in interest. "Official FBI
business?"

He'd forgotten how it was to be from a small town where
everybody knew everything there was to know about everyone.
Of course, that should make his job here that much easier.
"Kind of official. I'm actually trying to track my father's
movements during three months a few years ago."

"Maybe I can help," Eve suggested. "I've been back here
since 1992."

"Living next door?"

"Yeah. I kept in touch with your dad, too. Made sure he
was doing okay...." Her voice trailed off, and she looked
away from him.

"Made sure he hadn't drunk until he'd passed out, you mean?"

She met his gaze, her expression sad. "It was getting
pretty bad toward the end. I was gone a lot the Spring of
1995, so I wasn't here when he was killed. I got the story,
though." She put her hand on his arm. "I heard it was a
bad time for you."

Me and Scully both, he thought. He patted her hand. "You
wouldn't know about his goings and comings August through
November of 1994, would you?"

Her eyes widened slightly. "As a matter of fact, I do. I
was working on RAINY NIGHT IN SOHO at the time--under a
wicked deadline, and had to turn down your dad when he asked
me if I could keep an eye on the house for him."

Mulder's stomach tightened. "So he was gone at that time?"

"Yeah. He got my friend Laurie to watch the place for him.
He was gone almost 'til Thanksgiving."

Mulder clenched his hands in his lap, his head suddenly
aching. "Damn it."

"What's the matter?"

He shook his head, knowing he could never explain the
situation to this woman. How could he say, "I just found
out my father helped perpetrate heinous tortures and tests
on the most important person in my life"?

"You want me to go?" Eve asked.

He shook his head, realizing that he didn't. He didn't want
to be alone right now. And with Scully so far away--

"Well, you got any decent coffee in this place?" Eve didn't
wait for an answer; she rose and headed for the kitchen. He
heard her rummaging around, then heard her utter a soft,
satisfied noise.

He pushed up from the sofa and went into the kitchen,
watching her wash out the coffee maker and put on a pot to
brew. "I didn't bother with decaf," she murmured. "I'm a
life-long insomniac, and I KNOW you are, too."

He smiled. "It's really good to see you again, Eve. I'd
forgotten how much fun you were."

"Yeah, you forgot about that the second you hit Oxford and
hooked up with that chippy--what was her name?"

He chuckled. Chippy--Phoebe would LOVE to hear herself
called that. Hell, it was probably one of her favorite
little sex games, knowing her.

"Penelope or something?" Eve rested her elbows on the
counter and leaned back, grinning at him.

"Phoebe."

"Yeah. The bitch."

Mulder chuckled. "You didn't exactly pine away the years
for me, either, Eve."

She shrugged. "A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.
So, I assume you eventually came to your senses about
Phoebe." She looked at his hand. "No wedding ring--"

"No wife."

"Married to the job?"

"I guess."

"What about this partner of yours I've heard about. Debbie
or something?"

He smiled slightly. "Dana Scully."

Eve's sandy blond eyebrows rose. "So THAT'S how things
are."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You and your partner--you've got something going, right?"

He cocked his head. "We're friends."

She nodded slowly. "Right."

"Good friends."

"Very good friends." She chuckled softly. "Can't fool me,
Fox Mulder. Remember, I'm the girl with the Amazing
Powers of Discernment."

He laughed at the old joke. She always HAD been the
first to notice a budding romance---sometimes even before
the participants did. She was one of the most observant
people he knew--and she had a memory that rivalled his
own.

His smile faded. Which is why she'd remembered that
his father had spent August through November of 1994
away from the Vineyard.

* * * * *

Holiday Inn Express
Charleston, SC
Feb. 17, 1998
8:30 a.m.

Dana Scully finished applying her lipstick with one hand
while hitting the speed dial on her cellular phone with the
other. After four rings, she was about to hang up when she
heard a click.

"Hello?"

The sound of a woman's voice startled her into temporary
silence. Her throat seemed to close.

"Hello?" the voice--low, cultured, with just a hint of a New
England accent--repeated.

Must be the welcome wagon, Scully thought blackly. "I'm
looking for Fox Mulder."

"He's in the shower--hey, is this Scully?"

Scully pulled the phone away from her ear and stared at it
as if it had come alive. In the shower. Mulder was in the
shower and the woman was answering---

Wait. They TALKED about me?

"Hello?"

She put the phone back to her ear. "Yes, this is Dana
Scully. And you are?"

"Eve Wentworth. An old friend of Fox's from WAY back." She
chuckled softly.

Scully frowned at the phone. "Will you tell him I called?"

"Sure."

"Thanks."

"Wait--aren't you gonna ask me?"

Scully arched her eyebrows. "Excuse me?"

"Well, if I were talking to the first girl my partner ever
kissed, I know I'D have some questions."

Scully dropped onto the bed, a little thrown by the turn of
the conversation. "What kind of questions?"

"Well, surely you've wondered if he knows how to put that
gorgeous pouty lower lip to full use--"

"Eve!" Mulder's voice rose in the background. There was a
soft scuffling sound, Mulder's low laughter mingling with
the woman's throaty chuckle, then Mulder's voice was strong
in Scully's ear. "Whatever she told you, I deny it."

"And here I was worrying about your spending the night alone
in your dad's house." She kept her voice light and teasing,
although her stomach was beginning to ache.

"Eve was kind enough to keep the ghosts at bay. She's an
old friend--we went all the way through school together
until my parents' divorce, and then we saw each other
summers and holidays."

"Old girlfriend?"

"Yeah. One of the less painful ones." Wry humor tinged his
voice. "She lives next door to Dad's house here in West
Tis."

"Isn't that nice?" Scully closed her eyes, immediately
ashamed of the catty bite of her voice. Damn it, she was
NOT going through this again. Jealousy was an ugly emotion,
and she'd succumbed to it because of Mulder too damned many
times. "I'm glad you didn't have to be alone," she added,
much more pleased with the even, sympathetic tone of the
latter statement.

Mulder was silent for a second. Probably too stunned to
reply, she thought with a self-deprecating grin.

"So, how are you? Getting ready to meet Sarah Chandler's
parents?" Mulder asked finally.

"Yes. They'll be here around 9:00 to pick me up. What
about you? What's on your agenda--how do you propose to
find out where your father was four years ago?"

He didn't answer.

"Mulder?"

"Been there, done that." His voice was tight.

"How?"

"Eve told me."

"Eve?"

"She was living here in 1994. She said that Dad asked her
to keep an eye on the house--that he was gone from August to
almost Thanksgiving."

Scully frowned. That was mighty convenient, she thought--
Eve Wentworth just happens to show up on Mulder's doorstep
and just happens to know the whereabouts of his father for a
three month period four years ago?

"Are you sure you can trust her, Mulder?"

"Of course." He sounded offended.

Scully closed her eyes. Great--now he WILL think I'm a
jealous shrew. But she plunged ahead anyway. "Don't you
think it's a little strange that your old friend shows up
with exactly the piece of information you were looking for?"

"Coincidence."

"Hell of a coincidence, I'd say."

Mulder's voice lowered. "I'll check it out, okay?"

She sighed. "Okay. So when are you going back to
Washington?"

"I'm going to see if I can get a flight out tonight. How
about you?"

"Same, if I'm lucky. It'll depend on what the Chandlers can
tell me."

"Scully, be careful, okay?"

The concern in his voice caught her by surprise. "I'll be
fine."

"I just worry when I'm not with you."

"I'm packing a Sig, Mulder. I think I can handle myself."

"I know." His voice softened even more. "But it just
doesn't feel right when we're not even in the same city."

"Sweet talker," she teased, covering the slight hitch in her
voice. Damn it, the big dumb jerk was going to make her
cry. "I miss you, too."

"I miss you MORE," he crooned just as a knock sounded on her
hotel room door.

She chuckled aloud. "There's someone knocking at my door,
Mulder--probably the Chandlers. I'll call you later, okay?
And you watch out for yourself, too--if Eve offers you an
apple, run!"

"Like the wind," he promised. "See ya."

She hung up the phone and blinked rapidly, surprised by how
much she really did miss him.

A knock sounded on her door again. She put her cell phone
in her pocket and crossed to answer it.

A middle-aged couple stood in the doorway, earnest faces a
little tense with apprehension. They seemed somewhat
relieved when they took in Scully's neat, professional
appearance. "Agent Scully?" the man asked.

"Yes." Scully extended her hand. "You must be Mr. and Mrs.
Chandler."

* * * * *

West Tisbury
Martha's Vineyard
9:05 a.m.

Mulder shut off his phone and tucked it in his pocket. He
turned to find Eve Wentworth staring at him. "What?"

"Is that how you always talk to your partner?"

"Not always."

"She sounded jealous on the phone. I confess, I might
not have helped matters."

Scully HAD sounded a bit miffed, he had to admit. Then
again, she was territorial by nature. She hadn't cared much

for Krycek, either, and there'd been nothing sexual about
that relationship. It had been enough that Krycek was
usurping her place as his partner.

He wasn't quite as sure he could dismiss her reactions to
Dr. Berenbaum or Det. White as easily--

"So," Eve interrupted his thoughts, "you were telling me
about the visit you and your mom made to Chilmark Friday."

Had it been just Friday? So much had happened in the
interim, it seemed like years ago. "Mom couldn't handle it.

She couldn't stand being in that house--in that room--"

"Understandable."

"It was horrible. The room--the room is like a crypt.
Nothing has been touched for years. It's frozen in time."
He shook his head. "I used to have this fantasy about
bringing Samantha home to that house--" He sighed. "But
it's never going to happen. I know that now."

"I never thought I'd see the day you gave up on her, Fox. I
never did." Eve's eyes were bright with tears she fought to
keep from shedding. Like Scully, he thought.

"I can't live my life trying to change the past, Eve. I'd
like to have a future, and that's not going to happen if my
whole life revolves around finding someone who probably died
twenty-five years ago. What good is putting my life on hold
to find a bundle of bones at the bottom of an unmarked
grave?" The image his words brought to mind ripped his
heart, and he looked away, his eyes burning.

"No good at all, I suppose." Her voice was soft,
comforting. "I'm just wondering what changed your mind
after all this time."

The image of Scully bleeding to death on the floor of a
convenience store filled his mind. In that moment, he
smelled the sharp tang of blood, the fear in his own sweat.
He heard the sirens and the babble of onlookers. "Almost a
month ago, Scully was shot and nearly killed, and I realized
that I had been given not only a second chance but a third
as well." He could tell by the small frown on Eve's face
that she didn't understand. "I've almost lost her twice.
The first time, I took her for granted. This time, I
won't."

"So you are in love with her."

"I don't know."

She smiled. "Men are always the last to know."

"I don't know if it's a good idea, Eve--Scully's the best
thing in my life. Hell, she IS my life--Scully and my work.
And they're inextricably intertwined."

"Then how could it not be a good idea?"

"What if I ruin everything by trying to take things between
us to a new level?"

"Do you really have a choice?" she countered.

He stared at her, considering the question. Was it even
possible to step back now? Was it within his power?

He honestly didn't know.

* * * * *

Borden Street
Charleston, SC
February 18, 1998
9:37 a.m.

Though Charleston, South Carolina, boasted a large Naval
reservation, it was one of the few places Dana Scully and
her family had never lived during her father's career.
Driving through the heart of Old Charleston, directed by
Sarah Chandler's parents, Ray and Linda, Scully found the
city utterly charming--from the palms and palmetto trees
lining the streets to the ubiquitous two- and three-
story Victorian houses that stood as stately reminders of
the city's rich culture and history.

Borden Street, however, had little in common with the
Charleston tourists got to see. It lay in the heart of a
run-down section of northeast Charleston. Warehouses lined
the narrow road, peeling paint and broken windows marring
their facades. Litter spotted the gutters and sidewalks like
leprous patches. Scully got a creepy feeling just driving
through, a weird sense of deja vu.

"There." Ray Chandler pointed.

Scully followed his gesture. A narrow alley split the
street between two abandoned warehouses. Scully pulled the
rental car up to the curb and parked.

"She was found right down there." Chandler led Scully and
his wife into the alley on foot. The asphalt was damp and
uneven, slick in patches. Scully had to be very careful of
her footing.

"Right there," Linda Chandler said, pointing at a doorway
near the end of the alley. Scully moved slightly ahead of
them, curiosity overcoming wariness.

She looked up at the door. It sagged a bit, paint peeling
in scabrous chunks. A faint gray logo was barely readable
on the warped wood, a large P with the words "Phipp's
Manufacturing" in peeling type below.

A sudden image darted through Scully's mind. A large gray
"P" with a dusty pink triangular slash through it. She
blinked, surprised.

What the hell was that?

"Is something wrong?" Linda Chandler asked.

Scully put her hand to her head, willing away the sudden
dizziness that spun her world. "No, nothing...."

The image pushed its way back into her mind. A fat gray
"P." A bold pink slash. Words--too small. Too small to
read on the vial....

Her stomach clenched. On the vial.

The vial Dr. Ishimaru had held in one gloved hand. The vial
he'd used to fill the syringe he'd jabbed into her hip.

Oh, God.

She remembered it. For real, this time--not as a hypnosis-
induced confabulation but an honest to God memory.

Heedless of the Chandlers, she took a couple of steps away
and pulled her notebook from her jacket pocket. Hastily she
sketched the "P" and the slash as accurately as the swift
flash of memory allowed.

"Is something wrong, Agent Scully?" Ray Chandler asked.

Scully shook her head. "No. Everything's fine."

Maybe better than fine.

Maybe they finally had a real lead.

* * * * *

Gay Head
Martha's Vineyard
Feb. 18, 1998
11:59 a.m.

Mulder couldn't remember how long it had been since he'd
been to this part of the island. Gay Head was vividly-
colored clay cliffs, stony beaches and ancient memories.
Called Aquinnah by the Wampanoag Indians who owned much of
the land in the southwest part of the island, Gay Head
wasn't for the faint of heart. Boulders, brambles and
treacherous footing were only a few of the obstacles he and
Eve Wentworth had faced in their fool-hardy plunge into the
distant past.

"I can't believe you talked me into this," Eve panted,
stopping near the edge of the high water line. "I haven't
been out here since that night after graduation...." Her
voice trailed off and she darted a glance at him.

He looked down at his shoes, noting that they were crusted
with sand from their descent down the 60 foot incline to the
beach. "Yeah, me either."

"Ancient history," she murmured.

He looked out across the shimmer of silvery-green water,
wondering whether his life would have been better if he'd
stayed in the States and attended Princeton the way his
mother had wanted him to. Oxford had been his father's
idea. Mulder had concurred simply to get the hell away from
his bitter, angry parents and their escalating animosity.

He hadn't really been tempted to stay. His relationship
with Eve had been over before that last fateful blow up on
the beach the night of graduation. Even then, he'd had
nothing to give another person. Nothing to offer.

"How much does Scully know about Samantha?"

"Everything." Much more than even Eve knew. He hadn't told
Eve about his recovered memories of the night his sister had
disappeared. She might have heard about it through the
Vineyard grapevine, of course--he hadn't exactly been
discreet with his theories over the past few years. But he
hadn't sat by her bed last night and spilled his guts, the
way he had with Scully a short two days after he met her.

"You've been together six years?"

He nodded, a smile on his lips. Eve spoke as if he and
Scully were married. "March 6 will be our sixth
anniversary--as partners."

Eve chuckled. "She must be a hell of a woman to put up with
you that long."

"I don't know why she does."

"Ah, probably just thinks you're pretty to look at, Fox.
Decorativeness can go a long way, you know."

He made a face at her. "You know, Evie, you've been pretty
quiet about your own state of affairs--is there a
significant other for you, or are you a slave to your art?"

"I'm a slave to my art." Her lips curved. "And I have a
significant other."

Mulder sat on a large boulder and patted the expanse of rock
beside him. "Do tell."

"Not much to tell--his name is David. He's an English
professor at Harvard, dabbles in the ART, is madly in
love with me and wants me to marry him."

Mulder arched his eyebrows. "And your answer would be?"

Eve cocked her head, a wry expression on her face. "My
answer would be yes, except I don't know if I'm marriage
material, you know? I LIKE being alone. I like not having
to answer to another person. I like not having to worry
about whether my insomnia is keeping someone else awake."

"Do you love him?"

Her eyes met Mulder's, naked with emotion. "God, yes. But
is that enough?"

Mulder didn't have an answer.

"I don't want to wake up one day realizing that David's love
for me has turned into contempt. I saw that happen with my
parents, Fox. I saw them go from love to indifference to
acrimony, and I won't do that to myself. Not for all the
world."

"It doesn't have to be that way," Mulder murmured. The
words from his own mouth surprised him. He wasn't used to
arguing the idea of true, abiding love. In fact, until this
moment, he had never really thought he believed in such a
thing.

Eve's sandy eyebrows rose with skepticism. "And you would
know about this subject because...?"

"Because I know a really wonderful woman who spent forty
years loving and being loved by the same man, right up until
the day he died. To this day, she loves him still. It's
the most amazing thing I've ever seen, and I guess maybe
it's given me hope." He couldn't help but smile--God, he
sounded like a damned Hallmark card.

Eve chewed her lower lip and looked down at her folded
hands. She was dressed almost completely in black,
just as she had been the night before--apparently a holdover
from her moody-artiste adolescence. Black leather gloves
and boots, a long black V-necked sweater, black leggings--
her tweed wool overcoat, brick red lipstick, and the narrow

silver hoops in her earlobes were the only hint of color.
The
more things change, he thought, the more they stay the
same.

"Why do I get the feeling this has something to do with
your Scully?" She looked up at him.

"Because I'm talking about her parents," he admitted. "I
never got to know her dad, but her mom and I became good
friends when--" His voice suddenly failed him.

"When she was gone?"

He nodded. He cleared his throat. "Scully knows how to
love, Eve. She honest to God knows how to love. She had
good teachers."

"Scares the shit out of you, doesn't it?"

He nodded again.

"You want it, but you're afraid of it."

He nodded a third time.

Eve sighed and looked out across the water, her chameleon
eyes absorbing the gray-green color, making it their own.
"What are we going to do with each other, Fox?" She
chuckled and cut her eyes at him. "We could just run away
together, you and me. Two chickenshits too afraid of love
to ever be happy. We could spend the rest of our lives
making each other as miserable as we think we deserve to be.
Whaddaya say?"

He looked at her. Really looked at her. Saw the fear
hiding behind the joke. Slowly he shook his head. "No. I
think you're going home right now, call your David, and tell
him yes, you want to marry him."

Her lip trembled. He could see the frantic hope surging
through her at the thought. He couldn't help but smile,
especially when she said, "I AM between novels. And the
break before Spring Term for David is only a few weeks
away--maybe we could elope?" She chuckled. "Maybe I
can live my lifelong dream of being married by an Elvis
impersonator in Vegas."

He laughed. "Sounds like a plan."

"And what's your plan?"

He looked down at his feet, half buried in gritty sand.
"I'm going to go home to Scully."

"And?" Eve prodded.

"And I'm going to see if friends really make the best
lovers."

Eve's face lit up with a smile. "Would you look at us? So
decisive."

He chuckled. "Well, at least for now. We'll see how we do
when you get back to West Tis and I get back to D.C."

"No, you've inspired me, Fox. I can do this."

And so can I, he thought. Warmth spread through him despite
the bitter cold wind swirling in from the sea.

I can do this.

* * * * *

South Carolina Dept. of Human Resources
Charleston Office
1:35 p.m.

Deena Cross looked over Scully's credentials thoroughly. "I
should be able to pull the physical record in a few minutes,
Agent Scully. Can you wait here for a moment?" The petite,
dark-haired caseworker smiled at Mr. and Mrs. Chandler as
she went through a connecting door.

Scully glanced at the Chandlers, noting their complete ease.
"I assume you've been here before more than once."

"We've been foster parents for the state for almost thirty
years." Ray smiled fondly at his wife. "We've taken care
of twenty-one children over the years."

"Is Sarah the only child you've ever adopted?"

Ray nodded. "We tried adopting a couple of others but
nothing came of it. Sarah was a special case."

Scully reached into her briefcase and pulled out the photo
she'd gotten from the New Haven Police Department. "I
understand this isn't a very accurate photo of Sarah?"

"It was the latest one we had." Ray's eyes darkened.
"Linda and I haven't seen her in over a year."

Scully arched her eyebrows. "I didn't know."

"When Sarah started looking for her real family...." Ray's
voice faltered, and he looked down at his work-worn hands.

The Chandlers had been hurt? Scully guessed. Insulted?
Worried?

"We fought her, I'll admit it. Linda and I couldn't see how
a child could come to be naked and comatose on a South
Carolina street if her parents had loved and cared for her.
We were afraid Sarah was setting herself up to be hurt
badly. And then she got hooked up with that bunch of
crazies up at Harvard, trying to convince her she'd been
abducted by aliens, for God's sake." He shook his head.
"Sarah's not a stupid girl--she's the brightest child I've
ever known my whole life. But she so desperately wants to
know where she came from, I'm afraid she'd consider almost
any possibility."

Sounds a lot like Mulder, Scully thought. Considering
extreme possibilities to find his lost family.

"What about younger pictures?" Scully was curious about
Sarah Chandler, the little girl with no past. She didn't
know how much had been done to find her real family 22 years
ago, but there were so many databanks these days to help
locate and identify missing children, maybe if she got one
of Sarah's childhood pictures and turned the job over to
Pendrell and his staff--

"We have albums full, believe me." Linda Chandler said with
a faint smile. "I have one of my favorites in my wallet.
It was her sophomore photo from UNC-Chapel Hill, where she
did her undergraduate work." Linda reached into her purse,
pulled out her wallet and passed it to her husband, who was
sitting nearer Scully.

Ray opened his wife's wallet to the photo sleeves, flipped
to the first photo and handed the wallet to Scully.

Scully looked at the photo of a girl of twenty, smiling into
the camera. She was beautiful, though not in any
conventional way. Her face was all angles and planes, her
nose prominent but in a way that didn't detract from her
beauty. She had the kind of arresting attractiveness that
Mulder had--piece by piece the features didn't seem to fit
together, but put them together...

She almost chuckled. Sarah Chandler even had a pouty lower
lip like Mulder's.

"She was happy then. That's before she started having
episodes," Ray said.

"Episodes?"

"She called them flashbacks," Linda said. "Like memories."

Scully nodded. "I've discussed this with Sarah myself over
e-mail. She didn't have any concrete, specific memories of
her missing time, did she?

"No. Just flashes of things--objects, sounds. Nothing we
could point to and say, 'Ah, there's a clue.'" Ray shook
his head. "She got so frustrated trying to remember on her
own. While she was at the University of Oregon working on
her Master's Degree, she heard about a psychology study at
Harvard that dealt in hypnotic regression therapy. She quit
school in the middle of the semester, lost all her credits,
and flew to Boston to meet some psychologist there. A Dr.
Chamberlain, I think her name was."

Linda nodded. "Dr. Chamberlain convinced Sarah that her
memory loss might be due to an alien abduction experience."

Scully pressed her lips together in annoyance. Great, she
thought, another Harvard psychologist adding to the
paranoia. Just what the world needs.

"You obviously don't share our daughter's opinion on the
subject?"

"I think that there are far more plausible reasons why your
daughter ended up in a coma on Borden Street, Mrs. Chandler.
And that's what I think we should focus on." Scully looked
up as Deena Cross reentered the room, carrying a manila
folder.

"This is what we have, Agent Scully. The photographs of
Sarah Chandler, then known as Jane Doe #4, taken right after
she was taken to the county hospital. A record of what
steps were taken to find her natural parents and the
procedures undertaken by the county to place her into foster
care with the Chandlers. The final disposition--which in
this case was adoption by the custodial foster parents."
Deena gave Scully the folder and returned to her desk.

"She came out of her coma two days after she was found, but
she didn't have any memory of her earlier life," Ray
murmured as Scully opened the folder. "She was weak and
dehydrated."

"How long was she in the hospital?" Scully glanced over the
official forms, searching for familiar names or words.
Nothing.

"Two weeks," Linda answered. "She was placed in our home
the day she was released."

Scully glaced over the medical record enclosed, noting the
dehydration mentioned. She stopped at the results of a
blood chemistry test. The white blood cell count was
extremely high with an attendant decrease in the leucocyte
population-- She flipped the page. Yep. A release of
glucocorticoids.

Symptoms of prolonged weightlessness.

"Did you find something, Agent Scully?" Linda asked.

Just more grist for Mulder's mill, she thought. She shook
her head slightly and flipped to the photograph clipped to
the back of the folder.

And froze.

Her heart lurched, began to race.

It wasn't possible.

It wasn't.

"Agent Scully?" Ray Chandler's voice made her nerves
jangle. She looked up, startled. "Is something wrong,
Agent Scully?"

She turned the folder so Chandler could see the eight by ten
photo attached to the file. "This is Sarah?" Her voice
sounded strangled to her own ears.

"Yes, taken right after she awoke from her coma. She was
twelve or so--maybe a little younger, maybe a little older.
The doctors were never sure. We just made her birthday May
14th, the day she was found, and we assumed from her size
that she was somewhere around twelve at the time."

More like eleven, Scully thought. Eleven and a half.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," Ray said.

I have, Scully thought, staring at the photograph in front
of her.

I've seen the ghost of Samantha Mulder.

Scully stared at the photograph clipped to the back of Sarah
Chandler's file, certain that she had to be mistaken.
Coincidence. That was all. Similar features, similar hair,
similar hazel-green eyes that looked just like--

Her breath hitched, caught in her throat.

Oh, God.

"Agent Scully, are you all right?" Ray Chandler put his
hand on her arm, making her jump.

"I'm--" She swallowed as her voice failed. "I'm sorry--I
just--"

"Can I get you some water?" Deena Cross stood, her pretty,
delicate features creased with worry.

Scully found her voice. "No, I'm all right. I'm just--
surprised." She lifted her chin and reached for her purse,
remembering something that might help clarify things for
everyone. A couple of years back, she and Mulder had
exchanged pictures of their sisters. A symbolic act of
common commitment to their goal of seeking the truth, she
supposed--an act they didn't talk about or analyze because
that wasn't how they did things. She carried the photo of
Samantha in her wallet, tucked between a photo of her mother
and of her sister.

She opened her wallet to the photograph and withdrew it from
the plastic sleeve. She held the small picture of Samantha
Mulder next to the eight-by-ten of young Sarah Chandler.

The girls looked virtually identical.

"Where did you get that picture of Sarah?" Ray Chandler
bent closer, his brow furrowed.

Scully held up the small photo to give him a better look.
"You're telling me this is your daughter?"

"Yes, but--" His eyes widened. "She looks so young...."

"The girl in this photograph was eight years old." Scully
marveled at the steady tone of her voice, because her
insides were rattling. "She was abducted from her home in
Chilmark, Massachusetts, on November 27, 1973. Her name is
Samantha Mulder."

"Oh, dear Jesus." Ray Chandler took the photograph from
Scully's hand and held it closer to his face, his green eyes
focusing on the small image of Samantha Mulder perched on a
jungle gym, grinning at the camera. "Linda--" He thrust
the photograph toward his wife.

Linda Chandler took the picture. Her eyes widened.

Scully drew a shuddery sigh. "Is that Sarah?"

Mrs. Chandler looked up at Scully, tears pooling on her
lower lids. "Yes. I believe it is."

Scully looked down at the folder on her lap, at the
painfully thin, sad-eyed eleven-year-old staring back at her
from the old photo. She didn't know what to feel. She
didn't know if she WANTED to feel anything. Because in a
few short hours, she was going to have to fly back to
Washington and tell Mulder what she'd found here. She had
to be pulled together and strong when she told Mulder,
because she had a feeling he was going to fly apart.

"You're telling us that you know who Sarah really is?" Ray
asked. "You have her picture--is she a relative?"

Scully shook her head. "I work with her brother. He's my
partner. He's spent the last twenty-five years looking for
his sister. For the last ten years or so, it's been his
driving quest in life."

His obsession, don't you mean, Scully?

His madness?

Isn't that what you've thought all these years? That he was
tilting at windmills?

...stop running after your sister, Mulder....

...he's really got you going, Mulder....

...Mulder, are you sure it's her?

...you're identifying with her as a victim--like your
sister....

...sometimes I don't understand what drives you, Mulder....

She closed her eyes, overwhelmed by one utterly unexpected
emotion.

Guilt.

* * * * *

Logan Airport
Boston, MA
2:44 p.m.

Mulder hitched the strap of his carry-on bag over his
shoulder and turned to smile at Eve Wentworth. "Okay--no
backing out, remember?"

She nodded, a faint smile curving her lips. "You either.
In fact, call her right now before I leave. See when her
plane is coming in. Surprise her with a gourmet dinner at
your place--"

Mulder chuckled. "I can manage soup, Eve--and my place
isn't exactly a swinging bachelor pad."

"If she loves you, it won't matter if it's saltines and a
sofa bed."

He gave her a playful cuff on the arm. "What a romantic."

"You're stalling, Fox. Call her now, before they announce
your flight. If I've gotta do this, so have you. No
backing
out, buster."

He sighed and pulled his cellular phone from his pocket.

Scully answered on the third ring, her voice tense.

"Hi, it's me," he murmured into the phone, his palms
suddenly clammy. His pulse thudded wildly in his throat.

"Mulder, I can't talk right now."

Yup, definitely tense, he thought. "Something wrong?"

"No--not exactly." She lowered her voice. "I'm just in the
middle of something."

"I was just going to tell you I'm at Logan, about to catch a
flight to D.C. Any idea when you'll be back home?"

"My flight leaves at 5:00," she answered tersely.

"Want me to pick you up at the airport?"

"No," she answered quickly. Too quickly.

"Scully, are you sure there's nothing wrong?"

"I may have some news."

"Bad news?"

"I can't explain it right now, Mulder. I'll meet you at
your place as soon as I get back to town. I'll explain
everything then."

"Scully--"

Click.

She had hung up.

He closed the phone and stuck it back into his pocket.
"Something's wrong."

"Something serious?" Eve asked.

He shook his head more in confusion than in denial. "I
don't know."

"Do you think I upset her this morning on the phone? I did
mess with her--"

"No, Scully's not that fragile." Whatever was going on with
Scully was bigger than an episode of territorialism. She'd
been trying to hide it, but he could tell by the sound of
her voice that something had shaken her to the core.

What had she discovered in South Carolina? Bad news about
Sarah Chandler? Or something about her own abduction?

A disembodied voice announced his flight to D.C. He pushed
aside his worries and turned to Eve, who was looking up at
him with tear-bright eyes.

"Why is it that I'm always watching your fine ass walking
away, Fox? Bad karma?"

He chuckled and opened his arms for a swift hug. "Some
folks might say that fortune is smiling on you."

Eve pressed her nose against his sternum, her arms tight
around his waist. "Don't forget to share those books with
your Scully, Fox--the couple that reads together stays
together."

"And you don't forget that you promised to send me your
Vegas honeymoon photos." He gently extricated himself from
her grasp. "Gotta go, Evie. Now--go make your David a very
happy man."

"And you go show your Scully that 'The Lip' is functional as
well as pretty." Eve gave him a little shove toward the
boarding gate.

He chuckled all the way onto the plane. But once he had
settled into his seat, his high spirits drifted away, and he
once again remembered the tension in Scully's voice. "I may
have some news," she'd said.

But she hadn't said it was good.

* * * * *

Fox Mulder's Apartment
Washington, DC
8:05 p.m.

When Scully's flight from Charleston arrived in D.C., rain
was falling in dense, cold sheets. She was able to catch a
cab from National Airport with little damage done, but when
the cab let her out at the curb in front of Mulder's
apartment building, not even her determined sprint could
spare her from a cold drenching. She stopped for a moment
on the stoop beneath the front awning and shook icy water
from her hair before entering.

Her briefcase was safely tucked under her arm beneath her
overcoat, protected from the rain. Her overnight bag fared
a little worse. She dropped the rain-spattered bag on the
floor of the elevator that took her to the fourth floor and
Mulder's apartment.

What was she going to say? "Mulder, I've found out where
your sister has spent the last twenty-one years. Problem
is, she's gone again"--?

She paused in front of his door, letting her breathing calm
and her heart rate slow. But before she could compose
herself, the door opened, and Mulder stood before her, his
hazel eyes dark with concern.

"Forgot your umbrella?" He drew her inside quickly, tugging
her overnight bag from her shoulder. She pulled her
briefcase from under her wet coat and shrugged the damp
garment off, putting it in Mulder's outstretched hand.

"Who knew it would rain?" She tried to keep her voice
light. She wondered if she was succeeding.

The worried expression on Mulder's face indicated that she
was not. "We need to get you dried off and warmed up. Why
don't you find some dry clothes and change? There's a pair
of clean sweats in my closet--you can roll up the cuffs."

She knew she was only prolonging the agony, but she did as
he suggested, changing from her damp suit into a warm, dry
heather gray sweatsuit she found hanging in the closet just
off the bathroom. While she towel-dried her soaked hair,
she silently rehearsed what she was going to say. Mulder, I
discovered the most amazing thing--Sarah Chandler isn't just
a missing person. She's--

"Scully?"

Mulder's voice, practically in her ear, made her jump. She
looked up at him, her eyes wide.

He put his hand on her shoulder. His touch burned through
the fleece-lined sweatsuit. "Sorry--didn't mean to startle
you."

"I didn't hear you." She tried to look away from him but
couldn't. Where he stood in the doorway of the bathroom,
his face was cast in half-shadow, emphasizing the angles and
planes of his unique face. He was so beautiful, she
thought. So damned beautiful sometimes it hurt to look at
him. Especially when he smiled.

But he didn't smile enough. Probably hadn't smiled enough
in twenty five years.

The news she had to tell him was double-edged. On one hand,
she was about to validate the last ten years of his life.
His sister HAD been alive. It hadn't been an exercise in
futility or madness.

Yet on the other hand, Scully couldn't produce Samantha
Mulder. She couldn't place the woman's hand in the hand of
her brother and say, "Look, Mulder. Here she is. I found
her for you."

Because she didn't know where the hell Samantha was. Or if
she was even alive anymore.

"You said you may have some news," Mulder said. His hand
remained on her shoulder, his thumb stroking lightly over
her collarbone beneath the sweatsuit.

"I already have Pendrell working on something." She gently
moved away from his touch, ducking beneath his arm into the
hallway. Leading him back into the living room, she told
him about her flash of memory in the alley in north
Charleston. "It was a thick, bold sanserif P with a
triangular pink slash across the top half of the letter. I
remembered seeing it on a vial--some drug Ishimaru used on
me."

Mulder's face darkened slightly. "You remembered that?"

She nodded, sitting on the sofa. She made room for him,
patting the leather cushion beside her. "Sit down, Mulder,
there's more."

He eyed her warily as she bent and picked up the briefcase
she'd set down next to the couch. She'd gotten Deena Cross
to give her a copy of Sarah Chandler's records as well as a
photocopy of the photograph clipped to the back of the file.
The Chandlers had been even more generous, providing her
with a photo album of Sarah's childhood pictures. Scully
had looked through all the photos during her flight back to
DC. Whatever doubts she'd had about Sarah's true identity
were very nearly gone. There was no way two girls could
look that much alike. Especially considering that Samantha
Mulder had disappeared when she was eight years old--and
Sarah Chandler had mysteriously appeared three and a half
years later with no memory of her previous life.

But there was one final test.

One final judge.

"Mulder, I went to the Charleston DHR with Sarah Chandler's
parents to look into Sarah's past. I wanted to know
everything there was to know about her case--any clues as to
her previous life, anything that might help us understand
why Carter Christopher and his consortium would be
interested enough to kidnap her. The social worker in
charge of the records was kind enough to make me a copy of
her file." She handed him the folder. She told him how
Sarah had been found, naked and comatose, on Borden Street.
"Her blood chemistry test indicates symptoms of prolonged
weightlessness," she admitted.

Mulder glanced at her. "Really."

She swallowed with difficulty. "Look at the photograph in
the back."

Mulder's eyes narrowed slightly at the choked sound of her
voice. Pressing his lips together, he bent his head and
flipped to the photocopied picture in the back of the file.

Scully watched his face carefully. Waiting.

At first there was no reaction. Not a blink. Nothing.
Then his Adam's apple bobbed a couple of times. The muscle
in his jaw twitched. His body went rigid. He went utterly
still.

Suddenly his breath exploded from his lungs and his
shoulders heaved. He jerked his head around, meeting
Scully's gaze. His lips moved wordlessly. She saw the
brightness of tears in his eyes.

And all doubt was gone.

Tears filled her own eyes. "It's her, isn't it, Mulder?
It's Samantha."

He stared at her for a long moment. Then his voice emerged
from somewhere deep inside him.

"Yes."

End of #10