Disclaimer in The Headers. 

PART I


*****


THE LOST LAND


"I have two daughters.

They are all I ever wanted from the earth.

Or almost all.

I also wanted one piece of ground:

One city trapped by hills. One urban river. 
An island in its element.

So I could say MINE. MY OWN. 
And mean it.....


At night, 
on the edge of sleep, 
I can see the shore of Dublin Bay.
Its rocky sweep and its granite pier.

Is this, I say 
how they must have seen it, 
backing out on the mailboat at twilight,

shadows falling 
on everything they had to leave? 
And would love forever?....


I see myself 
on the underworld side of that water, 
the darkness coming in fast, saying 
all the names I know for a lost land:

Ireland. Absence. Daughter. --


Eavan Boland, excerpts from "The Lost Land"


************


EDEN, SAPPHIRE COAST 
SOUTH COAST, NEW SOUTH WALES, AUSTRALIA
FEBRUARY 17 
5:32 a.m.



Late summer on the southern coast and the sun was coming up over the
torn pink of the cloudy east, the breeze coming in off the ocean warm
and light. The house, little more than a bungalow there on the thumb
of sea that came into the lagoon, was full of noise -- a baby crying,
a young boy's voice as he laughed, the banging of a screen door as a
woman and a man moved back and forth from the house to a worn Jeep
parked on the yard in front of the house. The woman and the man
calling the boy's name. 

It was the sounds of family, familiar and warm as the ocean breeze.
Their voices were as light as the tropical sun, clear as the blue
water that lapped the sand by the small boat pier outside the house.
A small wooden boat knocked softly on the pilings, the long blanket
of pier planks stitched with seabirds, and the trees, pushed by a
constant breeze off the sea, leaned as if listening to the people in
the house and the land, their backs toward the coming light. 

*

"Come on now! You three are going to make me late!" 

Mae Porter pushed her long dark hair back, gathering it in a thick
ponytail of curls as she leaned over the baby, who had finally
stopped crying with the removal of the soaked diaper. Mae finished
tying back her hair and smiled down at the baby, the little girl's
legs kicking the air in glee as the breeze flowed in the open window,
billowing the white of the nursery's curtains. 

"That's my girl," Mae said, deftly diapering the baby and lifting
her up off the changing table, smoothing down the child's green
cotton dress, straightening the straps. Mae had slathered the baby in
sunblock, which was smeared faintly white across the little arms and
the exposed skin of the girl's back. Reaching down, Mae lifted the
white hat, the lip of it an uneven scallop of cotton, and laid it on
the baby's blonde head. 

A horn honked, a playful little "shave and a haircut" cadence. 

"Coming, Joe!" Mae called through the window, hustling through the
doorway to the hallway with the baby, the first rays of the morning
sun laid out on the wooden floor. 

Laughter reached her again from the bedroom at the end of the
hallway. 

"Sean," Mae said, loud enough to be heard over the television she
heard in the boy's room. "Turn off the cartoons and come on. The
boat's leaving in a little while and we're going to make Joe late for
work if we don't hurry." 

The television turned off obediently and Sean exited the room
carrying a small backpack covered with dinosaurs, his tank top too
large and hanging off one shoulder slightly around the backpack
strap. 

"Let's go put your things in the truck with Katherine's bag and then
you can help me carry the cooler and snacks in," she said, putting
her hand on the boy's head, ruffling his sandy red hair, bleached by
the constant sun. Sean smiled up at her, and Mae smiled back. 

"You're excited, eh?" she said, pleased. Katherine fussed softly,
reaching for her hat, and Mae righted it before the baby could knock
the hat off. 

"Aye," Sean said shyly, his eyes shining. "I hope Joe catches
another shark today. A great big one." 

Mae grinned even wider. "Well, these people he's taking out are
looking for shark, he said, so that very well could be," she replied.
"I don't know how you can stand it. It scares me to death just to
look at the things. All those teeth." She bared her teeth in a
facsimile of a snarl at him and provoked another chirp of laughter. 

The horn sounded again, a little longer now. 

"Mae! Let's get the show on the road!" Joe's voice carried through
the screen door into the house, and she could hear he was as excited
as Sean. Joe loved it when they all came along on his charters, the
day on the boat like a vacation for them all. 

"Come on," Mae said, and she and Sean hustled out the front door
across the yard toward the Jeep where Joe Porter stood next to the
driver's door, smiling at them both, his skin deeply tanned, his T-
shirt tight across his chest, his jeans faded almost white. 

He reached for the baby, and Mae handed Katherine to him. Joe held
her up over his head as the baby let out a shrill noise in glee at
being swooped up high. Mae looked at him warmly and shouldered the
diaper bag into the vehicle's back seat, took Sean's bag and laid it
on the floor beside the pink, overstuffed bag. 

"What do we have left to get?" Joe asked her, jiggling the baby from
side to side and smiling up at her. 

"Just the food," Mae replied. "Then we'll be all set."

"You need help?" Joe asked. 

"No," Mae said, watching Katherine as he dropped her down into his
arms, the baby squealing with the sudden movement. "Sean can help
me." 

A gurgle and Katherine spit up, a pale rush of liquid going down the
baby's chin and staining the dress' front. 

"Oh Joe," Mae whined. "You shouldn't be so rough with her right
after she's eaten like that." 

Joe grimaced. "I'm sorry," he said. "You want me to go change her?" 

Mae gave him a put-upon look but a smile was still curling her lips.
"No, just start the car and get the air conditioning up so it's not
hot, all right? You know how fussy she gets if she's hot." 

"Not to mention how fussy *you* are when you get hot," he teased,
and leaned in to kiss her quickly as he handed her the baby. 

"Okay, Sean," Mae said, rubbing the boy's back. "You get the cooler
while I change Katherine's dress." 

"All right," Sean said, and the two of them made their way back to
the house. Mae listened to the Jeep's engine start up, a cough, then
another, then it finally turned over, rumbling from the yard. 

She made quick work of putting a fresh dress on Katherine, this one
yellow, patterned with sunflowers. The baby's hat back in place to
protect her pale, half-Irish skin, Mae made her way to the kitchen
where Sean was eating a cookie from the cooler. 

"Augh, you're as bad as Joe," she said, closing the cooler and
handing it to him. "Let's go." 

They went out the screen door, Mae closing the door behind them.
There was no need to lock it. The nearest house was over two miles
away, down a long dirt road that led to the main road into town. 

Music was coming through the open window of the Jeep, and Joe was
smiling. Sean tussled the cooler, his body leaned over to the side
with the weight and Mae put her arm around his slight shoulders, the
baby on her hip. 

From the direction of the car, a clicking sound. A pop. 

Mae's brow creased down at the strangeness of the sound, her eyes on
Joe, who was looking at the dash, his expression puzzled. 

Then, memory came back to her. Something buried. Long since pushed
away.

"Oh God," she breathed, and pulled Sean against her, knocking the
cooler from his hand as she pressed his face against her belly. 

In a split second, in the space of a breath...

"JOE!" she screamed, loud enough to break glass.

Then flame. 

The explosion roared up in a cloud of red and orange and black, the
sound loud enough to make her ears shriek with pain as the blast wave
knocked she and Sean down on the ground, Katherine's crying shrilling
in surprise and terror as Mae clenched her against her body, covering
the baby's face as glass flew over them, flaming debris raining down. 

She opened her eyes, the sound of things burning all around her, sat
up, tears rushing to her eyes as she looked at the burning wreckage
of the Jeep. 

She couldn't breathe, bile rising up in her throat.

In the driver's seat, through the wall of fire, she could see the
body burning, Joe slumped over the steering wheel, still, the only
thing moving in the vehicle the flames.

"NO!" she screamed, and the sound rushed up through her, pushing her
to her feet, the baby sprawled on the ground beside her, choking on
cries. 

Beside her, Sean scrambled to his feet, took a step forward and
stopped, his small chest rising and falling, his fists clenched at
his side. 

Mae reached for him, grabbed him roughly and spun him away from the
sight of Joe's body burning. 

"Don't look," she said, though she was hyperventilating. The words
came out breathy. "God, don't look..." She choked on a sob. 

Sean was tensed in her arms, shaking uncontrollably. She could feel
his fast breath through her light shirt but he made no sound.

At her feet, Katherine screamed, the sound rising with the roar of
the fire, the baby's small fists clenching the ground.


***********


BANGKOK GARDENS 
ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA 
FEBRUARY 23 
7:34 p.m.


The place was warm and smelled deliciously of spice, the walls lined
with ornate paintings flecked with gold, the light dim and candles
illuminating the waiting area. The late dinner crowd was just
starting to filter into the posh restaurant, the coat check area
clogged with people in nice dresses and suits. Thai music filtered in
from the dining area, lilting with its exotic and somehow mournful
sounds. 

Scully stood beside the large picture window that overlooked the
street, her belly full from the delicious meal and a sweet feeling of
ease settling over her. 

She glanced over at Mulder, looking smart in his dark suit as he
waited in the line with Granger to get their coats. Mulder was
laughing over something Granger was telling him, and she loved the
look of his face as he did it. It was a look she'd seen more and more
of from him in the past months. She was getting used to seeing him
smile. 

And she'd been smiling herself a lot in the past months, as well.
She was doing it now, a small secret smile as her hand came around
and touched the slight, firm bulge of her belly. 

She'd just started to show that week, the top button of her neatly
fitted slacks not closing for the first time when she'd started the
work week on Monday. Mulder had come out of the bathroom and caught
her standing there, her fingers on the button and its hole, staring
at the scant inch of new space between them in something akin to
surprise. 

He'd come forward, a towel around his waist but still dripping water
from the shower, and slid his hand down her belly between the open
flaps of her shirt. He settled his fingers in the space between her
pants, caressed the new firmness there. 

"You're beautiful," he'd said softly, and the tone of his voice had
made her look up from his fingers, into his eyes. 

"Tell me that in a few more months," she'd quipped, but she'd felt a
flush rise on her cheeks. The idea of the baby, still so new to her
even after all these weeks, was suddenly so wondrously real. 

He'd leaned forward and kissed her then, his lips warm against hers.
She held the kiss for a long time, her hands going to his cheeks. 

"I will," he'd whispered when they'd parted, keeping his face close
as though afraid someone else might hear. "Believe me. I will." 

She looked up as Mulder came forward with her coat and his, looting
around in the side pocket of his suit jacket. Granger was still
behind him at the coat room, the next in line, and Robin returned
from the restroom and joined him there.

Mulder finally found what he was looking for, the valet parking
ticket, and handed the slip of paper to a young Asian man standing by
the door. The man went out the glass doors into the street, a blast
of winter filtering into the warm room as the door swung closed.
Another man appeared from the side of the waiting area to take the
other's place. 

"Here you go," Mulder said, and handed Scully her coat. She
shouldered into the heavy wool, and he did the same, watching her. 

"You still feeling queasy?" he asked gently, standing close. 

She buttoned her coat, looked down as she did so. "I'm all right,"
she said. "It's better than before. Eating helped." 

"Phad Kapou done extra spicy helped?" he asked, amusement in his
voice. "We're going to have to buy this baby asbestos diapers if
these cravings keep up." 

She laughed, looked up at him. "It wasn't a craving this time," she
said. "It's just what I wanted for my birthday." 

"You wanted heartburn for your birthday?" he replied, his eyes
mischievous.

"No," she replied patiently. "I wanted a delicious meal in a fancy
restaurant." She nodded toward Granger and Robin. "And time with our
friends. And a night out with you."

He made a soft affirmative noise and she inched closer to him, her
eyes searching his out. 

"There's something else I want for my birthday," she murmured, loud
enough for only him to hear. 

"Oh yeah?" he replied, matching her tone. 

"Mmm hmm," she said, nodding, her lips curling, and smoothed down
his lapel. 

He searched her face and then chuckled softly. "Does that mean it
was your birthday yesterday, too?" he asked, and now she did blush,
which made him laugh again. 

"Don't make fun of me," she admonished, but she couldn't hide the
smile on her face. 

"Oh, I'm not making fun," Mulder assured, shaking his head. He
cupped her cheek, brushing her cheekbone with his thumb. "But have I
told you how much I love the second trimester?" 

And she laughed and touched his wrist, her eyes shining up at his.
"You don't have to tell me," she murmured, bemused. "It shows." 

Granger and Robin came up beside them, both of them putting on their
coats. Granger moved a little slowly, and Robin had to hold the right
side open for him as he reached back to slide his arm in the sleeve. 

"You can do it, Grandpa," Robin teased as Granger grimaced at the
motion. 

"Very funny," Granger replied, and she pushed the shoulder up,
settling the coat on his body. 

"How's it feeling?" Scully asked, taking a step away from Mulder and
looking at Granger with concern. "I noticed you were holding yourself
a little stiffly at dinner." 

"Eh, it's all right," Granger said casually. "I just had physical
therapy today and you know how that is. They're working on adhesions
and it's slow going." 

The gunshot wound he'd suffered had done a lot of damage to the
muscles in his shoulder and back and chest. Scully was frankly
surprised he was doing as well as he was, hurt as badly as he'd been.

Granger held up a ticket for the new valet by the door, who came
forward and took it and headed out into the cold. Scully watched him
go, saw she and Mulder's car pull into the valet spot out in front of
the building, the driver getting out and coming around the idylling
vehicle, rubbing his hands together for warmth. 

Robin was looting around her purse and brought out a small wrapped
box, festooned with a bright foil ribbon. She smiled as she held it
up in front of Scully. 

"This," she said, "is just a little something from both of us for
you to open when you feel like it."

Scully felt her face redden again and she looked at the box shyly,
took it, and accepted Robin's warm embrace. 

"Thank you so much," she replied. "I'm sure I'll love it, whatever
it is." 

They parted, and Scully squeezed Granger's good arm, returned his
gentle smile. 

"Happy birthday, Dana," Granger said, and smiled wider. 

A couple was coming into the restaurant, and as the door opened,
Scully heard a series of clicks, then a popping sound, like a cork
coming off a bottle of champagne. The couple turned toward the
street, and Scully and Mulder did, as well, Granger and Robin looking
around them at the door. 

"What was that?" Mulder asked.

Scully's brow creased. "I don't know," she said. "But it sounded
like it was coming from our--" 

A flash. A terrible deafening sound. 

Scully felt seering pain in her ears as the pressure in the room
changed suddenly, her hands going up to guard her eyes against the
light. 

Then nothing but the sound of glass shattering, the roar of fire and
heat. Nothing but the feel of her body tumbling backward in a cloud
of splintered wood and glass. The sound of screaming, the heaviness
of bodies crashing against hers and the sudden feeling of impact
against her head, her side. 

In a haze of pain, she heard someone shouting her name. 

Then she heard and felt nothing. Nothing at all. 


**********


GEORGETOWN UNIVERSITY HOSPITAL 
WASHINGTON, D.C. 
10:24 p.m.


"Mulder, please." 

He didn't know how long the voice had been talking to him, gentle in
its insistence. He didn't know how long the cup of steaming liquid
had been poised in front of him, though he could tell by the smell of
it now that it was coffee, acrid coffee out of a vending machine,
foamed on the top. 

He brought his eyes up from where they'd been staring at his folded
hands, his elbows on his knees. He looked at the dark hand, followed
the arm up to Robin's face, the warm black pools of her eyes. The
noise of the emergency room waiting room filtered back into his
awareness, people moving back and forth behind Robin, the room
bustling. A voice paged a doctor over the intercom. 

To Mulder, it was like the world existed in liquid, everything
seeming to echo and move too slowly. 

He didn't know where he'd been. 

"You with me?" Robin asked, proffering the coffee a little closer.
There was a bandage on the side of her face in front of her ear and
one of her eyes was slightly swollen from the area around the gash.
The shoulder of her deep purple dress was stained dark with blood.

Mulder leaned up, took the coffee in his left hand, which was
wrapped with gauze. 

"Yeah," he said at last. His voice cracked as if it hadn't been used
in some time, which, in fact, it hadn't. A few words to the doctor
who had stitched up his hand. A phone call to Skinner at the
restaurant, Mulder shivering in the cold outside the waiting room so
he could talk on the cell. 

He cleared his throat. The stinging of the cuts on his face came
back to him, and he rubbed at the rough lines of dried blood,
ignoring the pain. 

"Good," Robin said as she sized him up, her hand going to his
shoulder. "Stay with me now." 

Mulder nodded, and Robin removed her hand. 

"Where's Granger?" he asked, looking around. 

Robin nodded toward the corner, where a knot of police stood, people
all around them. Most of the victims of the bombing had ended up
here, and the police were taking statements, pens and notebooks out. 

"They're going to want to talk to you, too," Robin said, regret in
her voice. 

"I'll talk to Skinner when he gets here," Mulder said gruffly, and
stood, placing the coffee in the chair, and took a couple of steps,
his hands going into his pockets. He was facing the double-doors to
the emergency room now, closed tight as a mouth. 

"She's going to be okay, Mulder," Robin said softly from behind him,
standing close. 

He wanted to believe her, but he had nothing on which to base what
she said. For once, he desperately needed that evidence, couldn't
make the leap. 

He reached up and ran a hand through his hair roughly, closed his
eyes. 

He couldn't banish the image of Scully, unconscious, in the mass of
writhing bodies and rubble on the floor in the restaurant, a gash at
her hairline, her face clammy and pale. 

They'd kept him out when they'd whisked her from the ambulance to
the examining room, a nurse having to hold his shoulders to stop his
forward motion toward the doors. 

"But...she's pregnant," he'd stammered, as if that explained the
necessity of his going back with her. As if there was something only
he could do. 

"Yes, the paramedics told us," the nurse had replied. "But we need
you to just wait here for now, sir. The doctor will come get you when
he's finished his exam. And you need to be looked at yourself." She'd
gestured down to his hand, the make-shift bandage the paramedic had
swathed around it in the ambulance soaked through with blood. 

She'd left him standing there, Granger and Robin coming in their own
car to free up an ambulance for the more seriously injured. There
were so many hurt. A dozen or more, and at least two dead that Mulder
had seen, one of them the young man who'd gotten their car.

"Mulder," Granger said from behind him, and Mulder reluctantly
turned from the door to face him. Granger's face was scraped up, as
well, but he'd taken the least damage of any of them. 

"What are they saying?" Mulder asked. 

Granger shook his head. "Not much at this point," he said. "Only
that it was a very professional job. Sophisticated device. Meant to
do a lot of damage." 

Mulder nodded. He could feel his face reddening as emotions surged
in him. 

Not fear, but pure rage. 

Granger must have seen it, the other man's face hardening, as well.
"We'll get to the bottom of this," he said firmly. 

The doors behind Mulder opened and he turned instinctively, saw
Hannah White, Scully's obstetrician, coming toward him in her usual
long skirt and bright sweater beneath her white coat, her long gray
hair pulled back into a loose braid. Her lined face was carefully
neutral, a small smile forced onto her lips. 

"Hannah?" Mulder said quickly as she reached him. "When did you get
here?" 

"I tried to find you when I came in, but you must have been back in
the treatment area." She put a calming hand on his forearm. "I came
as fast as my service contacted me about your call." 

"Has Scully regained consciousness yet?" He felt something in him
unhitch at seeing her. 

"Yes, she has," Hannah said. "I'm sorry the physician who treated
her injuries hasn't come out and told you that by now. Things are
pretty crazy back there. If I'd known no one had spoken to you, I
would have come out sooner myself--"

"Tell me how she is," Mulder interrupted. He felt taut as wire. 

"She's okay," Hannah replied, her voice patient, soothing. She
squeezed his arm. "She's got a concussion and two cracked ribs, but
she's going to be all right." 

"Thank God," Robin said from behind him.

Mulder let out a breath, nodded. "And the baby?" he asked. "The
baby's okay then?" 

White hesitated, and Mulder felt his stomach go into free-fall. 

"I want you to be calm, Mulder," she said softly. "And not jump to
any conclusions, okay?" 

Mulder looked at Robin and Granger, who had both gone still behind
him, then back at Hannah, his eyes wide. "Okay," he said, hoping he
didn't sound like he felt. "Okay. Tell me." 

Hannah met his eyes. "She's developed some spotting in the past
hour. It's been fairly steady." 

The words hung in the air, heavy. Mulder swallowed. "What does that
mean?" he asked. 

"Well," Hannah said, and crossed her arms. "It could mean nothing.
Just her body's reaction to the trauma and it will stop on its own." 

"Or?" The word pushed out of him. 

The older woman's gaze bore into his, unflinching. "Or, worst-case
scenario, she could be miscarrying." 

He shifted his weight, struggling for words. "But you can do
something." He said it with assurance when he finally found the
words. 

Hannah shook her head. "At 19 weeks, no," she said. "The fetus isn't
viable at this point. It can't survive outside the womb. And we can't
stop the process if her body decides to spontaneously abort." 

Mulder reached up and covered his mouth, rubbed at his chin to cover
the motion. "I see," he said, and his voice was almost too quiet to
be heard over the din of the room. 

"It's far too early to make that kind of conclusion, though," Hannah
said. "So I don't want you to dwell on that, or let her, if you can
help it, all right? Getting upset yourself or allowing her to is only
going to make matters worse. And it's already difficult enough that
she's a doctor and knows too much for her own good about the
possibilities of things."

Mulder nodded. "Yes," he said, looked down for a beat, gathering
himself, then back up again. "Can I see her?" 

White nodded. "Yes," she said. "I want you to be with her. You need
to help keep her as relaxed as you can. She's refusing medication
right now, even the mild sedative the Emergency Physician wanted to
give her, so you're going to be all she's got for the night." She
studied his face. "Can you do that, Mulder?" 

He stood up a little straighter, nodded. He swallowed again, and it
was like he had a stone in his throat. 

"I can do that, yes," he said, and he felt the conviction in the
words. 

Yes. He could do that. 

He *would*. 


**


11:03 p.m.



When he entered the hospital room, it was dark except for the light
over the bed, the rest of the room bathed in shadows and silence. The
door made no sound as he pushed it closed to a crack behind him,
shutting out the light from the hall and making the room more dim and
the light above Scully more stark. 

She was on her side, facing him and the door, and though her eyes
were closed, he knew she wasn't asleep. She had a fist balled in
front of her face covering her mouth, and her brow was knitted down
above her closed lids. He recognized that expression, the tautness of
her face. Control. The struggle for it. 

He went to the bed and sat on the edge carefully, his uninjured hand
going to her hair, being careful of the bandage on her forehead by
her hairline. He tunneled his fingers through the strands, stroking
slowly, and it took her a few seconds before she opened her eyes.
When she did, she would not look him in the face, her eyes focussed
on the bend of his knee. 

"Are you okay?" she asked in a faint voice, almost a whisper. 

He nodded. "Yes," he replied softly. "Some stitches in my hand and
some bumps and bruises. That's all." 

She nodded, opened her fisted hand and touched his thigh, her
fingers tentative as they brushed the fabric of his dress pants. 

"Paul and Robin?" she asked, and her voice trembled, her control
sliding. He knew the tears were not far now, and cupped her head in
his large hand, reached down and took her hand, gave it a squeeze. 

"They're all right. They went home to get Bo and take him back to
their place for the night."

She nodded, a jerked motion. "Good," she said. "Good. We're
all...very lucky..." Her voice cracked and she clenched down on his
hand, her eyes closing. She still had not looked at his face. 

He leaned down, stricken, pressed his lips against her temple.
"Scully, you don't have to do this," he whispered into her ear. "Not
with me. Just let go..."

And with that, her breath caught and her free hand went to her side,
holding her injured ribs. He could feel the tears against his cheek
and turned and kissed her face. 

"Mulder..." Her voice was choked. "I can't lose this baby...I can't
lose her..." 

"We're not going to lose her, Scully," he said softly. "It's going
to be all right. The doctor said this could be nothing. You know it
could be nothing." He paused. "And you've seen her, Scully. You know
she's going to be all right."

"How do I know the baby I've seen is the one I'm carrying?" she said
in a rush. "How do I know the things I've seen are even real, Mulder,
and not a dream...a dream for what I wish I could have?" A sob caught
in her throat. "Oh God...I'm so sorry..."

"Hey," he said, gently and firmly. "You've got nothing to be sorry
for. Nothing. Don't do that to yourself, Scully. Please..."

She trembled on the bed, her hand going up to hide her face, grief
and fear overwhelming her. Her usual fierce control over her emotions
was not what it had been before her pregnancy, and though he welcomed
that in many ways, right now it could be dangerous. For her and for
the baby. 

You're going to be all she has for the night, Hannah had said. 

The thought made his gut hurt in the face of the anguish he saw
taking her. He felt completely useless, and he *had* to be of use. 

He decided on a different tact. 

"Hey Scully," he said softly, stroking her hair. "Tell me a story."

She shook her head. "I can't..." she whispered. 

"Come on," he urged. "Tell me a story about her. Tell me what she
looks like." 

Scully sniffed, reached up and wiped her eyes, hiding her face. "You
know what she looks like, Mulder," she replied softly. 

"I like it when *you* tell me, though," he replied, smiling, forcing
ease. He smoothed her hair back and inched closer on the bed. 

"Mulder..." she began, shaking her head. 

"Come on, Scully," he said again. "Tell me what she looks like and
then tell me a story you haven't told me yet. I know you've got at
least one you haven't told me yet." 

She sniffed again, the tears still coming. "Okay..." she said,
trying to pull the tatters of her control around her. "Okay..." She
drew in a breath, still holding her side. Then she began to speak. 

"She...she looks like you. When she's born...she has lots of
hair...your color. She's very small and..." She caught on a sob
again, covered her eyes. "I can't do this, Mulder...I can't...not
with knowing I could--"

"Keep going, Scully," he urged. "Just keep going. 'She's very small
and' what?"

She wiped at her eyes, the words coming haltingly. "And...she's thin
and tall...like you."

He rubbed at her back gently. "Tell me again about her eyes." 

Scully kept her own gaze down, still staring at his knee. "She's got
my eyes. Big and blue...so blue...deep blue...but your
eyelashes...long..."

Her voice was unhitching now, her breath evening out. He smiled,
nuzzled her hairline beside the bandage. "Yes," he said softly. He
swore he could see them, Scully's beautiful eyes set into the tiny
face like jewels. "Now tell me something else. Something you haven't
told me yet." 

He knew she worried about telling him too much, worried about giving
too much away about the things she'd seen about their future. Part of
it was her distrust of her own abilities, a desire not to get his
hopes up for things that she assumed might not be. 

But he wanted to know them all anyway. He wanted to see what she
saw. Snapshots of a life he hadn't lived yet with her, a life he
would live. 

Feelings rose in him with the thought, and he reached down, put his
hand on her belly, his thumb rubbing against the small swell beneath
the blankets. Scully put her hand over his, squeezed.

"You're lying on the floor in the living room," she murmured. 

"Our living room now? The new place?" 

She nodded. "Yes. In front of the fireplace. Bo is there. He's got
his head on your belly. And she..." She hesitated. "And Rose...she's
lying on her stomach across you with her ear to your chest." 

"Hmm..." Mulder smiled. "How old is she?" 

"Three or four," she replied, and a tiny smile touched her lips,
though the tears were still coming. "She's got long long hair. A dark
french braid down her back. You're twirling it in your hand.
You're..." She swallowed.

He rubbed her belly again. "I'm what?"

"You're...teaching her how to count," she whispered. "She's trying
to count your heartbeats." 

His eyes burned. Something bloomed in his chest and he could feel
the small weight there. 

Scully turned to look at him now, her eyes shining in the light. 

He leaned down and kissed her lips softly once, twice. Then he
withdrew just enough to be able to meet her gaze. 

"Scully, you have to believe," he murmured. "No matter what's
happening now, you have to believe in what you see." He pressed his
palm against her belly. "Because Rose is already here. With us. Right
beneath our hands." 

She lay her hand on the side of his face, searching his eyes, nodded. 

"I love you," she said on a breath, kissed him again, lingering
there, her words and the kiss passed between them like secrets. 


**********


7912 LAUREL STREET 
ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA 
FEBRUARY 24 
7:21 p.m.



It had begun to snow, the sky a heavy cobalt darkness, the huge
flakes coming down around Mulder as he gathered firewood from the
holder in the townhouse's tiny backyard, stacking the pieces in the
crook of his elbow. The night was quiet, and he looked up at the
windows of the house, which glowed a warm gold. From the bedroom on
the second floor there was a tiny trickle of dancing light, the
fireplace in the bedroom lit but waning. Seeing this, he went back
into the house, his shoulders and hair dotted with snow. 

Through the living room with its own fire burning more brightly than
the one upstairs, past his black leather couch, its shoulders covered
with a Navajo blanket, he made his way up the staircase almost
silently. He passed the second bedroom, the room that would be the
baby's, still empty except for a few boxes left over from the move.
The office was across from it, his computer screen glowing faintly
with Flying Toasters, Scully's laptop closed on her neat desk against
the far wall, circled with papers and files. 

Down the hallway, his socked feet making no sound on the hardwood
floor, he finally entered he and Scully's large bedroom, light
flickering from the hearth. Scully was facing away from him, a bump
beneath the covers, her breathing deep and even. 

Bo lifted his coal-dark head from the foot of the bed, his eyes
catching the firelight as he watched Mulder pull back the screen and
place more wood on the fire. Mulder fumbled the logs around carefully
until fresh flames peeked between the wood, and then, satisfied,
replaced the screen, wiping his hands on his jeans. 

He turned then and went for the bed, reaching out and stroking Bo's
soft head as he rounded the foot. Then he stood next to Scully, saw
her face smoothed out with sleep, her eyes shifting beneath her
closed lids as she dreamed. He smiled faintly. 

Then the memory of the explosion came back to him, the screaming in
the restaurant, the high-pitched sound of glass as it shattered. The
scrambling over bodies to find her in the chaos that followed. 

The smile melted away. 

He pulled the covers up over her shoulder, his fingers playing on
the hair trailing out along the pillow, then withdrew from the
bedroom, Bo coming down off the bed and falling in slowly behind him
as he went back down the stairs. 

He was in the kitchen making a pot of decaf, Bo leaned against his
leg, when the doorbell rang. He flicked the coffeemaker on and went
to answer it. 

There, outside on the front steps, Skinner stood, a bunch of flowers
in his hand and a stiff expression on his face. 

"Mulder," he said gruffly. Snow tapped on his shoulders. 

"Sir," Mulder replied, stepping aside and gesturing for Skinner to
enter, which he did. 

"Are those for me?" Mulder quipped, nodding toward the flowers as
Skinner shouldered out of his jacket, revealing casual clothes
beneath. Jeans. A dark sweater. It was to be only a partial business
meeting.

"No, you I got one of those smiley-faced silver balloons but it flew
away between here and the car," Skinner replied through his teeth.
"These are for your *wife*." He stuck the flowers out toward Mulder
without ceremony. 

Mulder laughed, both at his joke and at his purposefully heavy use
of Scully's married title. "Thank you," he said. "You want coffee?" 

"Leaded or unleaded?" 

"Decaf," Mulder replied.

"Sure then," Skinner said, and followed him into the kitchen, where
Bo still sat in front of the coffeemaker, a bone in his mouth. The
dog whined softly on seeing Skinner, and Mulder touched his head as
he lay the flowers on the counter. He went for the cabinet beside the
sink, drew out two mugs. 

"Where's Scully?" Skinner asked. "Sleeping, I hope?" 

"Yeah," Mulder said. He poured from the half-full carafe. "She's
been asleep most of the day since we got home." 

"How's she doing?" Skinner took the mug Mulder offered. 

"She's okay," Mulder said. "Bad headache from the concussion, and I
think it makes her sore to move around too much with those ribs, but
she's all right." He picked up his own mug, took a sip. 

Skinner looked down into the coffee, hesitated. "And the baby?" he
said finally, barely loud enough to hear. 

Mulder nearly choked on his drink, but held his reaction in check.
He lowered the mug, felt his face flush. 

"So that's out now, I see," he said. 

"Not to everyone, I don't think," Skinner replied. "But yes, some of
us know. The people who need to know." 

Mulder took another sip of his coffee. "So much for privacy in the
workplace," he said, and he couldn't keep the irritation from his
voice. 

"You want privacy in the workplace, go work for Dunkin' Donuts,"
Skinner replied, echoing the irritation. "I wish you'd told me a long
time ago."

"Not my call," Mulder said, not meeting his boss' intense gaze.

"I figured as much." Skinner went for the refrigerator and the milk.
"You didn't answer my question." 

"The baby's okay," Mulder said softly. "We had a bit of a scare, but
they did an ultrasound this morning and everything looks all right.
Normal." 

"Thank God for that," Skinner said, pouring milk and replacing it,
closing the door. 

"Yeah," Mulder said faintly, uncomfortable. He cleared his throat.
"What have you found out so far about the bomb?" 

Skinner turned to him now, his hip against the counter. "A
professional job. The folks in Ballistics have been all over it,
collecting evidence. Whoever did this had a lot of money and a lot of
practice. No one's claimed responsibility for it, either. Not a peep
from the usual suspects." He looked down at Bo, then up again. "We're
thinking it's personal."

Mulder nodded. "Yeah," he said. "It sure felt like it." 

"You know what Granger's doing, right?" 

"Checking cases from my VCU days, looking for anyone who could have
the means." 

Skinner nodded. "Can you think of anyone off the top of your head?" 

Mulder shook his head, said nothing. 

"I thought of something else," Skinner ventured. "I'm sure you've
thought of it, too." 

Mulder nodded. "Curran."

"Yes," Skinner said. "I've checked with Counterterrorism and there
aren't any Path left, though. And he didn't leave a lot of friends by
the time he was done. As far as the IRA goes, you and Scully did them
a favor by putting down a rabid dog who was biting them on the ass.
That was the general vibe when all that was over, I'm told. So that
doesn't make sense either." 

Mulder put his mug down, leaned on the counter himself. "None of it
makes any sense. Why us? And why now?" Frustration leaked into his
voice, the thin edge of the anger.

"That's what Granger's looking into all that stuff from VCU for,"
Skinner said. "To see if anyone you put away has recently gotten
loose again. We're not coming up with much at this point, though. But
we'll keep looking." 

Mulder looked down. "Thank you, sir," he said, relenting. 

Skinner drained his mug. "In the meantime, cabs for both of you," he
said, stood up straight. "I gotta get going. I just wanted to check
in." He nodded to the flowers, looking uncomfortable again. "And
bring those by and see how things were." 

"I appreciate all you're doing," Mulder said, and meant it. 

Skinner waved him off. "We'll catch this guy," he grunted.

Mulder set his mug down and led Skinner through the living room to
the door, where the AD put on his jacket again, zipped it against the
coming cold. 

"Give her my best when she wakes up," Skinner said. "When are you
coming back in?" 

Mulder considered. "Her doctor wants her out for a week. Me...give
me a couple of days to make sure she's all right. Then I'll be back." 

Skinner nodded. "Yeah, take a couple. And be careful, Mulder." 

"I will," Mulder replied. 

Skinner opened the door and went out into the night. 

Mulder closed the heavy wooden door behind him, stood still for a
long moment, just listening to the house. A log fell in the fire with
a hiss, and Mulder watched the sparks wink out. 

A whine and he looked down at Bo, standing there with that worried
look he got when things were out of sorts, his eyes darting. 

"It's all right," he said, gave the dog's bone a playful tug. Bo
wouldn't give it up, as usual, just stared, and Mulder chuffed
softly. 

Sighing, he went around to the couch, grabbed the remote and flicked
on the television, sinking into the familiar leather and putting his
feet up on the coffee table, flipping channels idylly. 

Bo ducked under his legs and went into a heap, dropped the bone and
lay his chin on the floor, his eyes closing.

Mulder let the sound of the television drift over him, felt his
muscles beginning to unknot a bit, thinking. 

He'd stayed up most of the night with Scully, neither of them able
to sleep as the bleeding had continued. Around four, it had begun to
slow, and by six it had all but stopped, just in time for Hannah to
return to perform the ultrasound. 

Everything looked fine, White had said, a smile on her face, and
when she'd asked if they wanted to know the sex and Scully had
nodded, Hannah had confirmed that the baby was indeed a girl. 

He closed his eyes.

Rose's head on his chest. Scully's eyes. His hand playing in his
daughter's long hair, hair the color of his...

He smiled, a wide easy smile. 

Things were going to be all right, he told himself. Things would be
just fine...

The doorbell rang again.

Mulder turned to face it, then looked toward the kitchen, wondering
what Skinner could have left behind.

Probably forgot to tell him something, he thought. That was all. 

He rose, stepping over the dog, and went to the door, opened it with
a joke on the tip of his tongue about Skinner getting old and senile. 

Then he froze, his eyes going wide.

Mae Curran stood there in the falling snow, a baby bundled in a
blanket against her shoulder. Her other arm was around Sean Curran's
thin chest, the boy shivering in a lightweight jacket, his eyes huge
and filled with some emotion Mulder couldn't name but which he did
not ever want to feel. 

Mulder's mouth opened, closed, opened again. He couldn't find words.
Emotion rose up in him, filling him. 

Anger. Anger borne of fear. 

Mae looked at him, her lip trembling. He could see a tear track down
her cheek in the porchlight, catching on a deep slice in her face
that was swollen and scabbed. 

"Mulder," she said softly. "Please let us in."

He didn't move, his hand tightening on the door. 

"Mulder," Mae implored again, pulling Sean and the baby closer to
her. Her voice broke. "I'm begging you. Please...let us in."


***

"Mulder, let them in." 

Scully said it so softly behind him that he barely registered that
she'd spoken, a ghost of her voice. 

He turned to face her there in the small entrance hallway. She was
wearing his robe, the deep green of it swallowing her in soft terry
cloth, her hair pushed behind her ears, her hand on her ribs. The
bandage was stark on her forehead, and her eyes were serious beneath
it, deeply sad and more than a little afraid. 

He turned back to Mae in the doorway. She made no move to come
forward despite what Scully had said, seeming to wait for his
permission to enter the house. She looked at him, unblinking, and
there was a strength beneath the desperation in her eyes. Something
quiet beneath the tears. 

A cough and the baby began to cry on her shoulder, a miserable sound. 

Hearing it, he stepped aside and let the three enter the house.

"You must be freezing," Scully said as he closed the door behind
them. "Go on into the living room." She nodded behind her. "There's a
fire."

It was true that they must be cold, he noted. None of them seemed
dressed for the weather, Mae's long curled hair covered with snow. 

"Thank you, Dana," Mae said, angling Sean that way, the baby
fussing, wriggling against her. 

Mulder looked at Scully there in the hallway, and he let what he was
feeling show on his face. She reached out and touched his arm. 

"It's okay," she murmured, Mae well out of earshot now. 

"HOW could this be OKAY?" he hissed. 

"Mulder," she replied softly, gave his arm a squeeze. "She wouldn't
be here if she had a choice." 

He began to say something else, but Scully shook her head, moved
around him and went into the living room, moving slowly. He
hesitated, then finally followed. 

Mae had settled onto the couch with the baby, Sean beside her,
sitting with his hands folded in his lap, his eyes drawn to the
television in the dim room. Mae was peeling out of her jacket and
unbuttoning her shirt, the baby full-throated wailing now. 

Bo got up from where he'd been lying at the sound and the sight of
strangers, his ears flat against his head in distress, and skulked up
the stairs, his tail between his legs. Mulder watched him go and
understood the sentiment completely. 

"Do you want something?" Scully asked, taking a chair beside the
couch. "I think I smell coffee." 

"No, thank you," Mae said, and she exposed her breast for an instant
as she guided the baby to it, the crying stopping abruptly as the
baby latched on and began to nurse. Mae covered the child's head with
the blanket, rubbing softly. "Sean might like something, though. Some
cocoa or the like if you've got it." 

Mulder was still standing, his hands in his pockets, in front of the
fire, looking at them all warily. He wanted to say something, but
he'd be damned if he could figure out the right thing to say in this
circumstance. 

"Do you want some cocoa, Sean?" Scully asked, looking at the boy.
"Or some milk?" 

Sean stared back at her, his eyes like glass, his mouth closed. 

"Why don't you go wash up before you have something, Sean?" Mae said
into the beat of silence. She turned to Scully. "Bathroom?"

Scully nodded toward short hallway to the kitchen. "Just down there.
On the right." 

"Go on," Mae said, touching the back of Sean's head, and the boy
obediently rose and went the way Scully had indicated. They all
watched him go.

Once the door closed down the hallway, Mae looked at them,
swallowed, and spoke. 

"He...He's not much for talking these days," she said. "Not since..." 

Scully leaned back and he could see her face fall. 

"Joe," she said. 

Mae nodded, smoothing the baby's hair gently, looking down into the
child's face. "Yes," she whispered, and a tear rushed down her face. 

Mulder's face dropped, as well. "A bomb," he said. 

Mae looked at him. "Yes," she said again, and seemed surprised at
his words. 

Mulder raked a hand through his hair. "Shit...." he breathed. 

"I'm so sorry," Scully said, emotion heavy in her voice. "Were you
hurt? Besides your face? You or Sean or...it's Katherine, right?" 

Mae nodded, looking down at the little girl again. "Just some cuts
and scorching here and there...but Sean...he hasn't spoken since."

"Probably shock," Mulder said.

Mae wiped at another tear on her face, dabbing around the gash. "He
won't even talk to me," she said softly. "I don't know what to do." 

The bathroom door opened and Sean came back into the room, retaking
his seat beside Mae, quiet as a tomb. He looked at Scully and Mulder
in turn, his mouth a thin line. 

Scully stood slowly, still holding her side, went to the couch and
knelt in front of him, reached for his hands, feeling them. She
checked his eyes, her hand running over his head gently. 

"Can you talk to me, Sean?" Scully asked softly. "Tell me how you're
feeling? If you're okay?"

Sean simply looked at her, his face blank. 

No tears. No nothing. No one was home. 

"It happened...right in front of him." Mae seemed to have a hard
time speaking about it herself. "Right in front of all of us." 

"He seems okay physically," Scully said, finishing her cursory exam.
"A little dehydrated." 

"We've been travelling a long time," Mae said. "Days to get here
from Australia. I'm not surprised if we're all a bit worse for wear." 

Scully turned to Mulder now. "I think we have some hot chocolate in
the pantry," she said, and he nodded, moved off to the kitchen,
relieved to be doing something. 

He pulled the milk from the fridge, poured it into a mug and set it
in the microwave, his mind racing as the milk heated, the machine
humming. 

Two bombs.

No coincidences.

The past, with its cold hand, reached out and touched the back of
his neck, straightening his spine as the microwave beeped. 

"Fuck..." he said under his breath, and pulled the mug out, going
for the counter and the pantry, the box of Nestle's on the top shelf. 

"...so I followed you home yesterday from work," Mae was saying as
he re-entered the living room. Scully had retaken her seat, the thick
robe curled around her. 

He went to Sean, offered the hot chocolate out toward the boy, who
looked at it, then at Mulder with those same vacant eyes. Mulder
reached down and lifted the small hand, set it around the handle.

"Drink," he urged gently, and like throwing a switch, Sean put the
cup to his mouth and took a sip. Mulder wondered vaguely if Sean
might have burned his mouth. 

He put the remote control in front of Sean on the coffee table. "You
watch what you want, okay?" he said to the boy, and then he nodded to
Scully and Mae, gesturing toward the kitchen. 

"Let's talk in there," he said, and both women rose, Scully moving
slowly, and followed him down the short hallway to the eat-in area
off to the side of the counters. Both of them sank into the chairs
around the table, Katherine still nursing steadily, undisturbed, as
Mulder leaned against the counter in the dim room, the only light the
bulb above the range. 

"How long have you been in the States?" Scully asked.

"Two days here in D.C.," Mae replied. "I was going to come here last
night, but you went out again so quickly. I waited until late for you
to come back, but with the baby and Sean...I went back to the motel
off the highway and waited until tonight."

"We were at the hospital all night," Mulder said, an edge in his
voice.

Mae looked at Scully, touched her forehead in the same place where
Scully's bandage sat.

"That?" she asked. "And Mulder's face and hand?"

Scully nodded. "Yes," she said, looked down toward her belly
unconsciously. "And...other concerns. I was in for observation after
we were in...an accident." 

Mae's face grew more grim. "You were in that restaurant, weren't
you? The one I saw on the news this morning. The car bomb." 

"Yes," Scully replied, nodding. 

The baby fussed, her head turning from side to side, and Mae pulled
her up, closing her shirt and leaning Katherine on her shoulder in
one deft movement, rubbing at the baby's back. Mae was quiet, looking
down at the baby blonde head as though afraid to meet he and Scully's
faces. 

Mulder's hands went to his hips, his temper flaring at her silence. 

"What is it you want from us, Mae?" he asked, his voice quiet in
deference to Sean in the nearby room, but his tone sharp. 

Mae met his eyes, and they glinted, even in the dim light. "It's not
a question of what *I* want anymore, is it?" she said, nodded to
Scully then returned her gaze to his hard stare. "It's a question of
what we both *need.*" 

"We can't protect you," Scully interjected, sounding more tired than
anything else. "Not without exposing you." 

Mae looked at the baby. "I don't care about exposure," she said.
"I'm not here for myself. I'm here for Sean and for Katherine." She
paused, her voice lowering. "Nothing matters to me anymore but what's
left of my family. They're my home now. I want them safe." 

She met Mulder's eyes again. He hadn't moved. 

"And you need me," she said softly. "You need what I know." 

"We can do this without you," Mulder said. "We have the resources of
the FBI, Counterterrorism--"

"Yes, and look how well they've dealt with the IRA and the Path in
the past," Mae replied, hard. "The IRA has been here for *years*
right beneath your noses and you've done nothing to stop them. You
haven't even noticed most of the time, and when you did, you didn't
care enough -- until your glorious hand in the *peace* -- to lift a
bloody finger to stop it. Jesus, if your government knew what has
been done from your own cities--" 

"I'm not going to argue politics with you, Mae," Mulder said, waving
her off with his bandaged hand. "I don't give a damn about your
politics. All I care about is *my* family." 

"Then you'd better bloody well give a damn about my politics," Mae
shot back. "Because that's what this is about."

"No, it's not," Mulder replied hotly. "This is personal." 

"Our politics *is* personal," Mae replied quietly. "That's the thing
you people have never understood." She looked at Scully. "Until now,
it seems." 

Scully looked back. "Who is doing this?" she asked, and Mulder saw
her cup her belly, as though protecting herself, their child. 

Mae looked down. "I don't know," she said, just above a whisper. 

"You don't *know*?" Mulder repeated. "You tell us we need you and
you don't have any idea who it could be?" 

Mae's eyes flashed up at him again. "I know it's someone connected
to the Path, but it's someone I don't know. Someone connected to Owen
somehow..." 

"How do you know that?" Scully asked quietly. 

Mae looked down. "Because everyone I know from the Path is dead. And
the IRA wouldn't come after me. They wouldn't blame me for what Owen
did, not after I..."

"After you betrayed him," Mulder finished. He didn't care if it hurt. 

"Yes," Mae whispered. 

Katherine had gone still against her shoulder, and Mae rubbed at her
back. Mulder couldn't tell for whose comfort the action was done --
the baby's or Mae's. 

Suddenly, Scully covered her mouth, rising as quickly as her ribs
would allow and coming around the table. 

"Excuse me..." she said, and went for the bathroom off the kitchen,
closing the door behind her and leaving Mulder and Mae with her baby
alone. 

The sounds of coughing reached them, intermittent, choked. 

"Is she all right?" Mae asked, looking toward the door and then back
at him. 

Mulder's gaze dropped to the floor, his jaw working. "She's
pregnant." 

"Oh God," Mae said. "And last night--"

"She's okay," Mulder interjected. He didn't want Mae's concern. Not
Mae's. "They're both okay. We got lucky." 

"Yes," Mae said softly. "I'm so sorry. This should be a happy time
for you. Not...this." 

He looked up her, sitting there with her eyes on the bathroom door
with the sleeping baby in her arms... 

And he blamed her. 

He couldn't help it. From the moment she'd come into their lives,
Scully had been in danger. He would always associate her with that
danger. With everything he stood to lose. 

He leaned up from the counter, shook his head. 

Scully wouldn't want him to feel that way, he told himself. Mae had
saved Scully's life, had been Scully's friend. The two women had a
bond that Mulder didn't understand but couldn't deny. 

And, thinking of the kind man he'd met in the house in Show Low,
this man Joe Porter, he realized that Mae had been punished enough
for her past, paid her penance for her sins. 

He wanted to believe that. But not for Mae's sake exactly.

For her children's sake, so vulnerable in the crossfire of this. 

And for Scully's sake. It was what she would want from him.

The toilet flushed and Scully emerged, pale, holding her side even
more tightly now, moving even more slowly. 

"I'm sorry," she began. "But I need to lie down."

"You okay?" Mulder asked gently, taking a step toward her
instinctively. 

"Yeah," Scully said, trying to sound nonchalant. "I'm just...sore.
Tired." She turned to Mae. "We have a futon in the office and the
couch for Sean. Stay here tonight. We'll call people in the morning.
The house has been swept for devices before we came home today. We'll
be safe for the night."

Mulder didn't like it, but he kept quiet, and when Scully looked at
him, he nodded. 

"Let's get you upstairs," he said softly, and Scully nodded,
resigned. 

So he left Mae in the kitchen with Katherine, moved past Sean --
still as a statue with the remote still lying in front of him -- and
followed Scully slowly up the stairs to begin settling them all in
for the night. 


************

FEBRUARY 25 
7:32 a.m.



The house was warm, so warm there was vapor clouding the corners of
the windows like cobwebs in the kitchen, light flakes of snow falling
outside in the gray morning as Scully looked into the woods behind
the tiny fenced backyard. Snow was clinging to the trunks of the
trees, the world washed in white. 

Mae sat at the kitchen table, Katherine sitting on the flat surface
as Mae held her hands to steady her, talking softly to the baby, who
was smiling, her blue eyes dancing, her downy hair mussed with sleep.
Sean was in front of the television, the bright, strange sounds of
cartoons filtering into the kitchen over the sound of bacon sizzling,
Mulder at the stove in his faded jeans and a black T-shirt and bare
feet, every burner holding a pan full of something cooking, his hands
moving over the stovetop, turning things. 

Bo leaned against Mulder's leg, looking at Scully uncertainly. He
whined softly as she looked at him, and Mulder reached into the paper-
towel covered plate in the center of the burners and broke off a
corner of cooled bacon and fed it to the dog.

She went to Mulder, stood next to him, and took the two pieces of
toast that popped from the silver toaster beside the stove, began to
butter them. 

"Don't do that," he said. "I've got everything under control. I wish
you'd go back to bed."

She finished buttering the two pieces, set them on the stack with
the others on the cornflower-colored plate. "I'm fine, Mulder," she
said. "Really. I feel okay."

And she was mostly telling the truth. More than her physical health,
she felt an anticipation this morning, having woken to the feel of
the baby moving inside her, a fluttering in her belly, as though she
were suddenly filled with tiny wings. 

It made her smile when she'd awakened, and she'd taken Mulder's
hand, already pressed against her from where his arm was draped
across her in his sleep. Holding it against her abdomen, she'd wished
he could feel it, too, as he'd drawn in a breath behind her. 

"Somebody get up early?" he'd said, his voice heavy and soft with
sleep. The sun was just coming in through the windows. 

"Yes," she'd whispered, smiled, and he rubbed his fingers against
her, pressed a kiss to her temple. 

The doorbell rang, breaking her out of the memory, and, her hand
trailing on his back, she went around him, through the living room to
the front door, opening it. 

Maggie Scully stood there, a bag of groceries in one arm and pack of
diapers in the other, her expression clearly quizzical and concerned. 

"Good morning, Mom," she said, leaned forward and kissed her mother
as the older woman entered the house. 

"I have to tell you," her mother said, handing the bag of diapers
off to Scully. "That is one of the oddest phone calls I've ever
gotten from you. Six o'clock in the morning and you call with 'Come
as soon as you can with milk and fruit roll-ups, and bring diapers
for a 23-pound baby'?" 

Scully chuckled. "I imagine that wasn't the best way to wake up,
no," she said, and took her mother's coat as she shed it. "I'm sorry,
Mom." 

Maggie smiled, though her eyes were still filled with concern. "It's
okay. You know I was coming anyway, jetlagged or not." 

Scully smiled. "Yes," she said. "I know I couldn't keep you away for
long." 

Maggie smoothed her hair down around the bandage. "Of course not,"
she replied.

Her mother had been in San Diego until yesterday afternoon, visiting
her brother Bill. Hearing of the accident from Mulder yesterday
morning, she'd taken the first plane back she could find. 

Scully had asked Mulder to wait and call her until they knew about
the baby, wanting that to be just between the two of them until they
knew something for certain. The thought of sharing that grief too
soon had been too much for her, even though it was her mother. 

Maggie looked into the living room, her brow creasing down at the
sight of Sean on the couch. "Who's here?" she asked. 

Now Scully grew serious. "Someone who might be able to help find
some answers to what happened," she said. "I don't want you to get
upset..."

"Why would I be upset about someone helping you get to the bottom of
what happened?" her mother asked incredulously. 

"Because it's Mae Curran," Scully said quietly. 

Her mother blanched, her mouth falling open. "That Irish woman?" she
whispered. 

"Yes," Scully said.

"You've got a terrorist in your house??" her mother hissed. "My God,
Dana--"

"It's all right," Scully hurried to interrupt. "AD Skinner has
already been notified that she's here. She's turning herself in,
because someone tried to kill her, too."

Maggie shook her head. "Dana, I know she saved your life, and I'm
forever in her debt for that, but having her here can't be a good
thing."

"Mom," Scully said tiredly. "This might be the *only* good thing
that can happen right now. If someone's trying to kill her, as well,
then it's someone associated with her family, with the Irish Cause,
that's doing this. And she's our link to that." 

"But isn't having her here like going fishing in a barrel?" her
mother asked, her voice exasperated, but still just above a whisper.

"Mom, I can't argue with you about this," Scully said, putting a
hand on her mother's arm. "I don't have the energy to do it. Mae can
help us. I feel certain of that. But regardless of that, in the end
all I know is that someone who has been my friend is in danger, and
she's got two children with her who rely on her. That's all I care
about right now. I'm asking you to understand that." 

Her mother drew in a breath, relenting. "All right," she said at
last. "I'll respect what you want, even if I don't like it."

Scully nodded. "Thank you, Mom," she said softly, and ushered her
mother into the living room. 

"Sean?" Scully called, rooting around in the bag her mother still
held. "Mae said you liked these?" 

Sean turned to look at her, the same blank look on his face. Scully
smiled at him, drew out the fruit roll-ups, a whole box of mixed
flavors, and handed them to him. He took them automatically, but made
no move to open the box. 

"Hi there," Maggie said, smiling broadly. Sean said nothing, simply
turned back to the television, and Scully motioned to the kitchen,
her mother following along. 

"Is he all right?" Maggie whispered as they went down the hallway. 

"No," was all Scully said as they entered the kitchen, and then they
were standing in front of Mae and Katherine, Mae looking up at Maggie
with interest. 

"Mae," Scully said. "This is my mother, Maggie Scully. Mom, this is
Mae Curran."

"Porter," Mae corrected gently, and reached her hand toward Scully's
mother. "I'm very pleased to meet you." 

Maggie put the bag down and shook Mae's hand, smiling politely.
"It's good to meet you, as well," she said. "After everything you've
done for Dana." 

"I was happy to do it," Mae said, and Maggie's smile became a
fraction warmer. 

Maggie turned to Mulder, still at the stove, turning eggs.

"Good morning, Fox," she said, and Scully heard the warmth come back
into her voice. 

"Maggie," Mulder replied, waving a spatula and licking the finger
he'd just burned as he'd fumbled bacon. "The road's okay?"

Maggie nodded, reached down and touched Katherine's hand that was
reaching toward her. "Yes, they're fine. Everything's plowed and
salted." 

"Good," Mulder replied. "We've got more people coming."

"Mr. Skinner?" Maggie replied.

"Yes," Scully said, sinking into a chair. "And Paul Granger is on
his way." 

"Let me help you with breakfast then," Maggie said, and moved toward
the stove just as the doorbell rang again. Scully went to get it,
relieved to see that Sean had dug into the box she'd given him,
though he still paid her no mind as she moved through the room. 

Outside the door, Skinner was there, flanked by two men she'd seen
before but whose names she did not know. Paul Granger was coming up
the walk behind him, the snow still falling. Skinner was in his suit
and trench, looking all business. His face matched his outfit. 

"Agent Scully," he said. "How are you?" 

"I'm all right, sir," she said, her brow creasing as she looked at
the two men with Skinner. Granger's face was grim as he stopped
behind them all. 

Skinner nodded to the men beside him. "This is Frank Music, John
Kucinski. They're both from Counterterrorism." 

"But sir, I--" She shook her head.

"Let us in, Scully," Skinner said softly, and Scully didn't realize
until then that she'd been blocking the door. 

She looked at the grim set of his face and swallowed, nodded. 

So this was how this was going to go, she thought. 

By the numbers.

She stepped aside and let them into the house. 

"Hey," Granger said softly as he followed them in, smiling down at
her. "You don't look so worse for wear." 

Her lips curled. "And you're lying," she replied, and Granger smiled
wider. 

She and Granger followed the men into the kitchen, watched with
dismay as Mae's face fell from the smile she'd been giving her
daughter, toddling on the floor beside her. Mulder and her mother's
faces almost sad as the procession came in. 

"Mae Curran?" Skinner asked, standing in front of Mae. His voice was
soft, but clearly official. 

"It's Porter," Mae corrected again. "But yes." 

"My name is Walter Skinner. I'm an Assistant Director with the FBI."
He introduced the other two men, who were looking down at Mae, their
gazes hard, their postures guarded, as though Mae were herself a bomb
that might go off at any second. 

Skinner glanced at the baby, and regret was on his face. Scully
looked at Mae, the same emotion in her eyes. 

God, she hated this. Hated it so much. 

"It's all right," Mae said as if reading her thoughts, and picked up
Katherine, hugged her close. The baby whimpered, fussing. Mae looked
at Skinner, strength in her eyes. "Go on." 

Skinner took in a breath, let it out. "Ms. Porter, you're under
arrest for Conspiracy charges stemming from the bombing of the Irish
Embassy in Washington D.C. You have the right to remain silent..." 

Mae looked at him, hugged her daughter closer, and Scully was struck
by how small she looked, wreathed by the men, the kitchen heavy with
silence except for the sound of the baby's beginning cries and
Skinner's formal, quiet voice. 


****

"....Do you understand the rights as they have been presented to
you, Ms. Porter?" 

Skinner looked at Mae expectantly, the other two men still staring
down at her. Frank Music slipped his hands in his pockets beneath his
coat. 

Scully watched Mae's face, the same determined set of it, but
something had fallen in it now a touch, and her expression was
colored with something else. 

Relief? 

Katherine was pushing off her mother now, clearly wanting to get
down as she cried, and Mae reluctantly set her down on the floor and
watched her walk away, toward the stove and Mulder and Scully's
mother. 

"Do you understand the rights?" Skinner said again, tight in the jaw. 

"Yes," Mae responded now, looking up at him and nodding. "I
understand." 

Skinner nodded back, a slight bob of his head. "Good," he said, and
it sounded almost dismissive. 

Scully knew she still had the look of protest on her face, and she
started to say something -- something about how they couldn't
separate Mae from her baby or Sean, about how Mae wasn't a danger to
anyone, about how Mae was, herself, the one who needed Skinner's
help, not this -- when Skinner pinned her with his eyes and raised a
finger, not at Mae as she expected, but at Mulder. The gesture threw
her, silenced her as her mouth began to open to voice everything
she'd been thinking. 

"Now," Skinner said. "Should I be afraid that he's cooking?" 

This threw her even more. She looked with surprise at Skinner, at
the incongruity of his treatment of Mae and that statement, one of
his usual busts of Mulder's chops. 

"Yes..." Scully stammered. "But he does all right, though--"

"Good," Skinner grunted again, and started peeling off his coat, the
other two men doing the same now. "Then someone make me a plate." 

And he pulled out a chair across from Mae, threw his coat over the
back of it and sat, leaning on his elbows, the other men clamoring
into chairs, as well. 

Mae turned and looked at Scully in surprise, and Scully looked back,
then at Mulder, who was standing agape as Maggie reached around him
to stir the eggs, which had begun to smoke faintly. 

"Sir, I think--" Scully began, tentative, looking at her boss. 

"There's nothing to think about, Agent Scully," Skinner interrupted.
"I've been in a meeting with Deputy Director Rosen this morning, and
we've come to a consensus on how to proceed." 

He turned to Mae now. 

"Ms. Porter, the charges against you are serious ones, but the
Deputy Director and I have also taken into account your past behavior
in protecting the life of a Federal Agent -- at risk to yourself --
and...other circumstances that seem to mitigate that you are no
longer as severe a threat as you may seem in your record." 

"No," Mae said softly, regaining her own composure. "No, I am not a
threat to you." 

Skinner nodded. "That doesn't dismiss these charges, and I want you
to understand that. But given recent events and the urgency of the
current situation, I've been instructed to attempt to make a deal
with you for your cooperation in our investigation." 

Scully exhaled, relieved. Skinner's attitude at the door was
urgency, yes, but not to get at Mae to arrest her. Not to take her
away. The urgency was about her and Mulder, about solving the
bombing, and Skinner and Rosen has apparently come to the conclusion,
as she had, that Mae was the way to do that. 

Thank God, she thought, watching her mother reach for a piece of
toast on the plate beside the stove and hand it down into Katherine's
reaching hands to distract the toddler from grabbing onto Bo. 

Skinner knew about Mae killing Fagan to save Scully's life. He knew
about Mae's taking her and hiding her until Mulder could get to her,
helpless as she'd been then. Those were the "other circumstances"
Skinner referred to. 

He did not know, however, that Mae had helped save Mulder's life in
the canyon in Show Low when Owen Curran had been killed. Skinner
didn't know she'd been there at all, or that Scully had herself let
Mae and Joe and Sean go free. 

And, Scully thought with even more relief, Mae was savvy enough not
to reveal any of that. 

As was Granger, who had helped her prepare the Bronco for Mae's
escape, participated in the cover. He was still standing there,
silent behind her.

"All right, Mr. Skinner," Mae said, sitting up a bit straighter as
though she'd just been dealt a complicated hand of cards. "What is it
you're after from me exactly?" 

Scully moved forward as the three men stared at Mae, went to where
her mother was pouring cups of coffee from the brimming pot, and took
them, bringing them to the table for the newcomers. Kucinski and
Music took their cups -- Music with a friendly smile -- and Scully's
mother moved in behind Scully with the cup for Skinner. 

Scully retook her place by the door beside Granger. Her ribs were
aching already and it wasn't even 9:00. 

"I think you know what we want," Skinner said, eyeing Mae. 

"Aye, I do," Mae said softly. "But what I know is very dear to me,
even if I have turned my back on it. It's about my family and my
history and the life I knew. It won't come cheaply." 

"You need our protection, Ms. Porter," Skinner said, and Scully
could see he was losing his patience now. 

"You need what I know more," Mae responded evenly. She'd looked at
her hand of cards, clearly, and seen a lot of cards with faces.
Scully knew because she saw them, too. 

"What is it you want?" Skinner said, his teeth together, though he
tried to look easy as he sipped at the coffee. Scully knew him well
enough to know he was anything but at ease. 

Mae made her bet. "I want immunity from prosecution for the bombing
and protection from your government for both me and the children." 

Skinner lowered his mug. "Anything else with that, Ms. Porter?" he
said tightly, rolling the coffee around in the mug. "A cup of coffee?
Some milk? I bet you we could even get Mulder over there to bake you
some nice muffins or something..." 

"Very funny, sir," Mulder said sourly from the stove and Kucinski
and Music smirked.

"I'm not joking," Mae said with a bit more force, and Scully could
see the hard set of the visible side of her face. "What I know is
worth that much. And if you two men are from Counterterrorism and
know much of my history, you know that's the truth."

"We know how highly placed you were, yes," Music said. "We know what
you *could* tell us." 

"All right then," Mae said, sat back. 

Call, Scully thought. She looked at Skinner, who was searching Mae's
face as though trying to measure either how serious she was or how
much to believe her. He glanced at Scully, and she gave a slight nod. 

Yes, she said with her eyes. You can trust her. 

She wanted him to believe that. Because she believed it herself. 

Skinner's eyes were drawn to Katherine again as the baby wobbled
over, a bitten-into piece of toast in her hand. The baby went to her
mother and reached up to be picked up now, and Mae did, balancing the
little girl on her lap. Katherine looked at Skinner, pulled off a
crust of her bread and offered it up to her mother's face. 

"Obstruction of justice, which is a much lesser charge. Federal
protection for you and the children." 

"I will not," Mae said clearly, "be separated from my baby or my
nephew." 

"Arrangements would be made around that," Skinner said, his eyes on
Mae intensely, like any good poker player looking for a bluff. He
wasn't finding one and Scully knew it. "I can promise you that.
That's as low as I can go." 

Mae looked at Scully, and the two women's gazes hung. This time
Scully was relaying her trust for Skinner in her eyes. She nodded. It
was about as low as Skinner and Rosen could go given Mae's history,
and she knew that. 

A rustling behind her, and Sean pushed into the room, all the
adults' eyes going to the motion. 

Mae looked at him, at Skinner, and Scully knew what was going
through the other woman's mind. Time to lay it all down. For the
children's sake if for nothing else. For Sean, who had been through
so much -- too much -- already. 

"Agreed," Mae said, still looking at Sean, and reached a hand out
toward the boy. 

He wouldn't come, and Scully put a hand gently on his head, smoothed
down his sleep-dented hair. 

"Everything's okay, Sean," she said softly. "Go back in and watch
television and we'll bring you a plate. You must be hungry."

Sean looked up at her with his wide, wet eyes, and then turned and
left the room. 

Maggie was making up plates now and came forward, putting one in
front of Skinner, another in front of Mae. Mae reached for the eggs
and picked up a tiny piece, put it in Katherine's mouth and the baby
obediently chewed. 

"Where are you going to take us?" she asked Skinner. "To protect us?" 

Skinner took the fork off his plate, looked down. He looked slightly
flustered, his face reddening. "The four of you are going to a place
close by," he said, took a bite. 

"The 'four' of us?" Mae asked, feeding the baby again and taking up
her fork, taking a bite of her breakfast herself. 

"Yes," Skinner said. "The three of you and..." He looked at Scully.
"And you, too, Agent Scully." 

Scully's mouth came open, and Granger moved further into the kitchen
as if he meant to get away from her. Scully knew from the movement
that he'd known this was coming, and she stared at his back, then at
Mulder, who had flicked off the burners with a snap.

"Wait a minute," Mulder said as Maggie pulled a plate away and went
by Scully toward the living room and Sean. Her mother looked
relieved, and it made Scully even angrier, her face flushing. 

"This is coming from Rosen," Skinner hurried to interrupt. "He wants
you put away, Scully." 

"I am part of this investigation," Scully said indignantly. "I will
not be sequestered away while it is going on. I'm an agent in the
FBI, not--"

"I won't have us separated," Mulder jumped in. "We can protect her
better by having her--"

"It's coming from *Rosen,*" Skinner said, louder this time, each
word enunciated. He looked at Scully, looking uncomfortable again.
"The Deputy Director and I feel that your...condition warrants this
added precaution." 

Scully felt her face flush even more, and she drew herself up to her
full height. It didn't seem nearly tall enough suddenly. "I hope,
sir, that you and the Deputy Director are referring to my injuries
when you use that word." 

Her voice was soft. Dangerously so. 

"You know what I'm talking about, Scully," Skinner said. 

Music and Kucinski didn't look surprised at all, both men studying
the whorls on the table. Scully burned, this time with embarrassment
she couldn't stave.

"She's not going into Protective Custody without me there--" Mulder
began, blustering. Bo shot out of the room as he spoke. 

"You told the Deputy Director that I'm pregnant?" Scully spat. There
was no use pussy-footing around it, she decided, Kucinski and Music's
heads still coming up, surprised to hear it spoken so frankly.
"Begging your pardon, sir, but that was *never* anyone's business--"

"Scully, he's the one who told *me,*" Skinner said sharply, his
volume rising to her tone and her words. 

"How did he know? How did he find out?" Scully bit the words out,
her eyes flaring. 

"You filed an insurance claim for an obstetrician," Skinner said
quickly. "That's all it takes at the FBI." 

That silenced her for a moment, and Mulder, too, who put his hands
on his hips, looking down and letting out a hard breath. Granger had
moved to stand beside him, and Granger was looking at Scully, his
expression sympathetic but resigned. 

"Look, the Protective Custody isn't open for discussion," Skinner
continued. "Mulder, you're going to be working on the case with me,
Granger and some of the other profiling people, and the
Counterterrorism Unit. Scully, you're going under. That's it. Those
are orders. We're keeping you close to home so that you can see your
doctors and so we can get to Ms. Porter easily for information. But
that's all there is to it. I'm sorry."

Mulder turned and picked up a pan, heading for the sink, and it made
a loud metal-on metal sound as he dropped it too hard into the sink. 

She understood his ire, though she knew he was not angry for the
same reasons she was. For her, it was the being coddled. For him, it
was the separation, the need to protect her himself, and though she
loved him for the sentiment, it stuck in her craw, as well. 

They weren't done with this, she decided. But she would let it go
for now. 

Skinner pushed his plate away, barely touched, as though the food
suddenly turned his stomach, as though Scully and Mulder's ire had
suddenly contaminated it. He reached for his coffee. 

"Tunes," he said to Frank Music. "Why don't you start the
conversation with Ms. Porter?" 

Scully felt nausea beginning to swim in her stomach, and she pushed
it savagely down, despite the sweat coming onto her face. 

She would not be sick in front of these men. 

"Ms. Porter," Music began, "We're aware, as we've said, of how you
were highly placed in The Path's organizational structure and--"

"It was family," Mae corrected quietly. "Pure and simple." 

"Yes," Music said awkwardly. "Well. Now, if you could give us some
idea of who might be remaining in that hierarchy, we could begin to--"

"There aren't any left," Mae said. "No Path. Not that I know of. But
I don't think that matters. This is bigger than The Path. This is
someone better connected than that, someone connected to the Cause
somehow. Or bigger than that even. That's the only way they could
have found me Australia. With my husband. I'd changed my name and
everything."

"Can you give us some idea of where we might begin to look then?"
Kucinski said, finally speaking. Even when he spoke, it seemed as
though he didn't want to, his keen dark eyes peering out from beneath
thick brows. 

Mae thought for a moment, feeding Katherine another blot of egg. "I
think you should begin with what's left of the old IRA. Many of them
are here in the States. Inactive, but still well-connected." 

"We need names," Skinner said.

Mae seemed to struggle with herself, not wanting to be that
specific. It would, Scully realized, be taking a big leap. Her turn
would be complete with involvement of even one other person. 

"There's a man in New York," Mae said softly. "His name is Conail
Rutherford. He's done work for the Campaign before."

"The Campaign for Free Ireland?" Music said. "Malcolm Flaherty's
organization, when he was alive?" 

"Yes," Mae replied, nodding. "He might be a good person to begin
with because he was sort of a go-between. Between the IRA in Ireland -
- the Old Guard -- and people here in the States. He knew a lot of
people. He might know someone who's left." She looked at the men.
"He's not a terrorist, though. He was never active that way. Just
a...go-between. Good at keeping lines open, if you take my meaning.
His family knew my family." 

She seemed lost in thought for a beat. "His family knew everyone's
family," she added, almost as an afterthought. She looked back up
from where she'd been looking into Katherine's face. 

"Start there," she said. "I'll have to think more about who else you
could talk to." 

"All right," Skinner said, and drained his cup, standing and
reaching for his coat. Music and Kucinski did the same. "We'll get on
that. The safehouse is still being arranged. We need a few hours.
It'll give you some time." He glanced at Scully. "I'm leaving Ms.
Porter in your custody until we send a car for you all." 

"I appreciate the vote of confidence, sir," Scully said evenly, and
she saw Skinner wince as he pulled the coat on. 

"Thank you for breakfast," he mumbled, and he made his way out of
the kitchen with the two men, who she heard let themselves out, the
door closing behind them. 

Quiet fell over the kitchen except for the baby, who was talking, in
single words, to her mother, picking at the plate, making a mess. 

Scully looked at Mulder across the room, his fury still boiling off
him. 

Granger spoke into the quiet. "I knew that was coming from the phone
call with Skinner this morning after he met with Rosen. I tried. I
really did. I'm really sorry."

"It's not your fault," Scully said, the nausea still rocking her,
worse now. Her whole body ached, and she already felt exhausted. 

"She will be safer," Mae interjected. "We all will be. These people
have long arms and they know what they're doing better than almost
anyone in the world. It's best to lay as low as possible." 

"I don't mind the hiding as much as I can't stand the reason,"
Scully said softly, feeling too ill to sound too angry. "A woman gets
pregnant and the men all gather around like a bunch of brooding hens.
I don't think my own father would be this patriarchal, and that's
saying something." 

"Yes," Mae said softly. "I think that would anger me, as well."

Scully sighed. The mention of her father had made her think of her
mother, who had withdrawn in the middle of things. She appreciated
that. The experience had been difficult enough without having to go
through it in front of her mother. 

It also made her think of Sean. 

"Paul," she said. "I hate to ask you to put on your psychologist hat
but..."

"What is it?" Granger asked, looking concerned. 

"Could you go in and talk to Sean in the living room? Spend some
time with him. Do an assessment of some kind if you can." 

Granger's background was far more clinical than Mulder's. He could
do it with more ease, and he wasn't personally connected, as Mulder
was to Sean. Perhaps Sean would talk to him. 

"Sure," Granger said, and he painfully came out of his coat, laying
it on the back of one of the chairs the men had vacated. "I'll be out
in a while." And he moved out of the kitchen, past her to the living
room. 

Again the quiet reigned for a few seconds. 

"Hey, I made you a plate," Mulder said, forcing his voice into
composure, but anger still tinged it. Frustration. "I'll warm it up
in the microwave for you, okay?" 

She looked at him, rubbing a knot of a headache that had started
between her eyes. 

He did not say that he wanted her to eat. And for that, she was
thankful. Even if she knew the thought was implicit in his offer. 

She felt like she had a hundred hands on her, guiding her this way
and that. It made her feel even more tired. 

She relented, though. She would not get upset with Mulder. She
pushed it away as best she could. 

"Okay," she said, and sat down next to Mae and Katherine to eat. 



**************


JOHN F. KENNEDY INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT 
NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK 
9:52 a.m.



The International Terminal was teeming with faces from all
countries, all walks of life. Whole families of Americans, standing
out by their boisterousness and their bright clothes. People in
turbans, their white clothes looking like dresses, with the no
nonsense shoes of travelers. Businessmen in casual clothes but who
did not look at rest as they hefted laptop carriers and heavy
briefcases through to their gates. All of them ready to board planes -
- huge ones, white and silver -- to carry them away from America and
to places that many of them called home. 

The young man walked among them, his smallish backpack over his
shoulder. He wore a thick wool sweater, white, and faded jeans with a
hole at the pocket. He looked a bit like a college student, though he
was a few years too old for that. But he still carried that look
about him, a veneer of youth, which was accentuated by his pale face
and his light red hair, cut close in a military style, a leftover
from a recent life. His eyes were light -- sky blue, but lighter. The
color of ice.

He wore headphones that curled behind his head, the sounds of the
airport drowned out by the rich sounds of a band that did not sing in
English. The man understood every word, humming to himself, the
Discman in his free hand. 

He moved to the side of the bustle of people, checking his bulky
watch as he did so. 

Almost 10:00 a.m. Time to make the call. 

There were payphones lined up against the wall in the distance, and
he went towards them, drawing out his wallet as he pushed the
headphones off around his neck. A receiver in his hand, he pulled out
the pre-paid phonecard, checked the dialing instructions once again,
and punched in the international number and all the codes, waiting to
be cleared. With a series of clicks, the phone began to ring. 

It was picked up on the first ring. 

"Yes." 

It was an old voice that answered. A woman's voice. Thin and
delicate as paper. 

"It's me," the young man said, his voice soft and deeply tinged with
accent. "Flight's leaving in an hour, so I'm calling in."

"Yes," the woman said again. "You've checked your bags then?"

The young man shifted against the half-booth, not liking the sound
of that. 

"Aye," he said. "That I have. Just now."

A pause. "You'll need to go retrieve them, Christie." 

He was surprised she used his name. He looked around to see if
anyone was paying him any mind, and no one was.

"A problem then?" he said, keeping his voice soft. 

"Yes," the woman said. "All sorts of problems, I expect."

He paused, considering. The news disappointed him, but he was not
exactly surprised. 

"Aye, well, I'll go get the bags then." He tried to sound reassuring
when he said it, as though he didn't mind the trouble. "Be right back
on it." 

He forced a smile, as if the old woman could see it. It's what he'd
do if he stood in front of her, and it came from habit.

"There's a flight back to Washington in an hour and a half. On
United. Go purchase a ticket and call me when you get in. We'll find
a nice place for you to stay in the meantime."

"All right then," he said. "I'll be in touch."

"Travel safely," she said, as she always did, and she hung up the
phone. 

He set down the receiver, slid the phonecard back into his wallet
and the wallet into his worn jeans pocket. Then he moved the
headphones back into place, the music still playing. 

It reminded him of home -- the fiddles, the guitars, the hollow
sounds of hand drums. The voices singing in their rich harmonies.

He moved back through the crowd toward the check-in area. He knew
that -- for the time being, least -- the music was as close to home
as he was going to get. 


************


7912 LAUREL STREET 
ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA 
11:31 a.m.



Paul Granger sat in front of the television, his eyes bleary behind
his glasses as he alternately watched the cartoons streaming on the
television and the boy beside him, who had a box of crayons from his
backpack spread all over the coffee table and was coloring on a piece
of paper Granger had retrieved from Mulder's printer upstairs. 

He was relieved to see Sean working on his picture. It had taken
quite a bit of work to get him to do it. 

Granger had had to sit there for a long time and draw and color
several pictures himself before he'd even gotten Sean to look at what
he was doing. He had drawn a picture of himself first, over-
accentuating his nearly bald head and his small glasses in an attempt
to make Sean laugh, which he'd failed miserably at doing. Then he'd
drawn Bo, a simple picture of the dog lying in front the couch. 

His apartment building. His car. Still nothing from the boy, Sean's
eyes on the television. 

Finally, beginning to feel slightly foolish, he'd drawn a picture of
Robin, which (if he did say so himself) was a decent likeness of her,
with her lovely braids and her rich dark eyes he'd colored in with a
brown crayon. He'd bore down slightly harder to make the eyes deeper
in her already-brown face.

It was this picture that had finally gotten young Sean's attention,
the boy turning his head from time to time to check Granger's
progress. 

"You like this picture?" Granger had said when Sean had first
started to glance the picture's way. 

Sean said nothing, simply met Granger's eyes. 

"This is Robin," Granger said. "Robin Brock. She works at the FBI,
too." 

Sean blinked up at him, seeming to be listening, and Granger
continued, despite the fact that he felt like he was yammering. 

"She looks at DNA on pieces of evidence all day. I don't know how
she can stand it, but she's really good at it. One of the best
there." 

He'd gone back to coloring the picture as Sean returned his gaze to
it. 

Then Sean had done something he hadn't done in all the time Granger
had been sitting with him. 

He reached across Granger's body, touched his left sleeve, and took
the fabric of his shirt between his small fingers, drawing Granger's
arm up. Then his hand ran to Granger's hand, which he turned over,
palm up. 

Granger let him do this, confused, but encouraged at the boy wanting
to touch him at all. 

Then Sean had run a finger over Granger's ring finger on that hand,
and quickly withdrawn his hand when he'd found nothing there. 

"Ohh...." Granger had said, understanding. "No, we're not married,"
and then he'd flashed Sean a smile. "Yet." 

He winked, but Sean did nothing. 

Sean then reached onto the coffee table and picked up the picture of
Granger, looking at the caricature for a long moment. 

"Why don't you draw me a picture of yourself?" Granger'd said then.
"You can make it look any way you want to, even funny like mine if
you want. Any way you like." He pulled up a piece of paper off the
stack and put it on a book on pathology he'd pulled from the
bookcase, its cover bare. 

"Go on," he'd said. "Give it a try." 

And Sean had reached for the book and paper and a pencil and
actually started to do it, turning slightly to hide the page from
Granger's eyes.

Granger had been thrilled at the progress. He'd been trying to get
Sean to talk for over an hour, with barely a look in response. This
was something, at least. A start. 

Granger sighed as Scooby Doo ran, legs akimbo, across the television
screen, a man in a giant voodoo mask running behind he and Shaggy. He
yawned and tried to ignore the nagging pain in his chest and
shoulder, always there since the shooting in West Virginia. It made
him feel old, much older than his almost 35 years. 

Behind him, Scully moved up from the basement, followed by her
mother. They were carrying some clothes from the laundry room
downstairs, and Scully wasn't moving any better than he'd seen her so
far. 

"I wish you'd just lie down and let me and Mulder do this for you,"
her mother was saying as they moved through the room toward the
stairs. "You can tell us what you need and--"

"Mom," Scully said, her voice firm but tired. "I'm fine. Please..."

And then they moved up the stairs and out of earshot again, their
voices faint in the hallway going toward the back of the house.

Sean turned slightly now, set an orange crayon down on the table,
brushing at his picture to get the eraser dust off of it, stroking at
the image. 

"Can I see?" Granger said softly, returning his attention to Sean.
There was a large scrape on Sean's forearm, and Granger touched him
lightly just below it. Sean pulled his arm slightly away, looking up
into Granger's face. He still hid the picture on his other side. 

"Please?" Granger asked. "I showed you mine. It doesn't have to be
good or anything. Don't worry about that. I just want to see what you
did. Sort of like trading pictures." He smiled kindly. 

Still Sean didn't move. 

"Here," Granger said, reaching for his self-portrait and holding it
on his lap. "We'll put them on our laps and look at them side by
side." 

And with that, Sean slowly brought his picture up and held it
between his hands beside Granger's.

And Granger had to compose his face.

For starters, it was clear that Sean had considerable artistic
talent for his age. The image was clear, well drawn, and the colors
were vivid and blended naturally from hue to hue.

Despite what the picture showed.

A figure. Arms outstretched, legs spread wide, like he was falling
down the center of the page. Every one of the limbs a different size.
A grotesquely large foot. One hand as tiny as the other was huge.
Reddish hair like Sean's, but the figure without clothes and
genderless. In the face, huge gaping eyes, but no nose or mouth, the
eyes misshapen, one seeming to drip down the face as though it had
melted. 

And all around the body, encasing it --

Flames. Perfectly drawn, angry flames filling every inch of white
space on the page, licking out from the strange body in the center.

Sean, at his silence, began to draw the picture away.

"No, no," Granger said hurried, touching the picture. "It's a really
good picture, Sean. I like it. You're a very good artist."

Sean held still now at his words, looking down at the picture. 

"You're very upset, I know," Granger said gently. "I can see from
your picture how upset you are. But things are going to get better
now. You're safe here." 

Sean looked up at him now, and Granger saw the beginnings of tears,
tears he knew wouldn't really come. 

And then Sean shook his head. 

Granger swallowed. "You're going to be okay, Sean," he tried again.
"Really."

But Sean only shook his head again, and put the picture away. 


******

THE BLUE AND THE GREY MOTEL AND EFFICIENCIES 
FREDRICKSBURG, VIRGINIA
FEBRUARY 27 (TWO DAYS LATER) 
7:23 a.m.


Two beakers on a battered countertop beside an ancient Amana stove.
A television, its picture dulled around the edges, reruns of "Hogan's
Heroes" playing into the room for background noise, canned laughter
filling the room. The bed, unslept in, was neatly made with its cheap
comforter, the Bible taken out of the nightstand drawer and open to
the gospel of John. Beside it, Airborne Express boxes cut open with a
sharp knife, mounds of styrofoam and packing peanuts.

"That sure is a lot of boxes," the manager had said cheerfully when
the young man had gone to the desk to pick them up. 

"Yes, it's all from eBay," he'd replied, smiling, his American
accent perfect, even a hint of drawl in it to put the manager at
ease. "I love getting in them auctions and picking up things here and
there to turn around and sell myself." 

"That your business here in Fredricksburg?" the manager asked, and
the young man smiled amiably. The man wasn't suspicious -- merely
being friendly. The nosiness of the South.

"Yeah, I'm selling some things at the flea market off exit 39," he
replied. "It's a living."

"Everybody's got to make their way, that's so," the manager said,
bored now. "Good luck to you, Mr. Price," he added, and took his
leave to the room in the back. 

Now he set the bottles in front of him. 

Sulfuric acid.

Nitric acid.

Toluene. 

Distilled water. 

He'd prepared an ice bath, had his syringe and the best Celsius
thermometer money could buy. A small digital scale stood on the
counter beside him and he began his measurements, careful percentages
done by weight. 

It would take about five hours, as it always did, a series of
heating and cooling, of drawing off liquid that floated to the top,
of rinsing and waiting. But in the end, he would have what he needed. 

He glanced at the timing device he'd built from a digital wristwatch
at his own hotel the night before. It sprang wires like a colored
spider, the display flashing, waiting to be set, then triggered by
the electronic impulses of an automobile. 

Christie made the first solution, emptied an exact amount into a
beaker and placed it in the ice bath. He added the toluene, began to
stir, fighting off the chill in the room, his sweater's sleeves
pushed up to his elbows so he could work. 

He glanced at the television as he stirred. The men on the screen
all lit their cigarettes against the night sky lined up in the shape
of an arrow, pointing an aircraft to the target nearby. 

The audience laughed and Hogan looked at the screen, sharing the
joke with a sly smile, a gleam in his eyes. 



***********


PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE 
WASHINGTON, D.C. 
FEBRUARY 28 
9:20 a.m.



Mulder wished, for one of the few times in his life, that he smoked. 

He had the image in his head of him riding shotgun in the Bureau
sedan, the window cracked, and him chain-smoking his way down
Pennsylvania Avenue. He'd seen enough people do it that it always
seemed a soothing ritual, a way to calm one's nerves, even if he did
hate the things. 

Right now, he needed something, though. Something to do with his
hands, some way to compose himself he hadn't found yet. 

The company he was keeping didn't help matters much. Kucinski and
"Tunes" Music were riding in the backseat, Agent Glickman driving.
Music and Kucinski were speaking, talking about college basketball,
Duke's chances this year. Glickman -- a somewhat dim, bullying sort
of man -- was quiet next to him, glancing his way from time to time
as they made their way through traffic down the street. 

The conversations of the past 12 hours were still fresh in Mulder's
mind. First, the call from Scully at around 9:30 last night, his cell
phone chirping into the quiet, the television's sound barely audible
in the room. He'd been brooding, even Bo keeping his distance in
front of the chair on the other side of the room. 

"Mulder," she said. Her voice had been quiet, terse. He'd just
spoken to her about five that evening, their nightly check-in that
Rosen allowed, as long as no land lines were used, and she'd sounded
pinched even then. Frustrated and somehow dulled by the isolation. 

But this was different. Something was wrong this time, and she was
trying to hide it. It was hidden there, though, beneath the two
syllables of his name. 

"What is it, Scully?" he asked. "Something's wrong." 

"Yes," she'd said, hesitated. "Mulder, I'm spotting again." 

He'd sat upright on sofa a bit more, the leather squeaking. "How
bad?" 

"It's not bad, but it's steady," she'd replied. 

"You want me to call Hannah for you." He didn't ask it as a question. 

"Yes, I think you should. Tell her it started about six and it's
been steady since." 

Since six. She'd waited almost four hours to call him. He pictured
her in the room, some of Rosen's agents outside the door, and her
with no one there...

"I'll call her right now," he'd said, his tone now matching hers.
"Sit tight. I'll be right back to you." 

And he had called Hannah, waited for her return call. After, he'd
picked up the phone again and called Skinner, who'd called Rosen.
While he sat there and waited for Skinner to get back to him, he'd
grown more and more tense, more frustrated. 

It was Rosen who called him back.

"Agent Mulder," Rosen had said without prelude, "I understand your
wife needs some medical attention." 

"Yes, she does," Mulder replied, the frustration coming out in his
tone. "And don't call her 'my wife,' sir, if you don't mind." 

A pause. "How serious is Agent Scully's condition?" 

"Serious enough that her doctor has said she should come to the
hospital in the morning for tests," Mulder replied. 

"I'm not going to lie to you, Agent Mulder," Rosen said, his voice
formal but otherwise unreadable. "Extracting her for this is going to
be a production." 

"I understand that, sir, but you'll understand if I'm not as
sympathetic to the Bureau's trouble in this as you are." 

"You shouldn't forget," Rosen ventured, "that we're doing all this
to protect Agent Scully's life." 

"I haven't forgotten," Mulder said. "I appreciate the Bureau's
intentions in this, though, as you know, I have deep concerns with
the execution."

"Yes, I'm aware," Rosen said mildly, and paused again. "What time do
you need her at the hospital?" 

"Ten o'clock. For about an hour." 

"All right then," Rosen said. "I'll send four agents to accompany
her from the safehouse to the hospital." 

Mulder went still. "I'm going with her," he said, and his tone said
he wouldn't take any argument. 

"You could be being followed to trace her location. You know this." 

"There are precautions we can take to ensure that I'm not followed,"
Mulder replied. "I"m sure that, considering we're already talking
about a production here, a bit more song and dance won't be that
difficult to manage." 

Rosen was silent for a beat. "All right, Agent Mulder. Be at the
Hoover Building tomorrow at 8:30 in the morning. We'll go from there.
Contact Agent Scully and tell her to be prepared to go at 9:30." 

"Thank you, sir," Mulder said, relenting. "I...appreciate your
efforts in this." The words nearly caught in his throat. 

"Goodnight, Agent Mulder." And Rosen had hung up. 

Now, close to 9:30, Mulder watched the scenery stream by -- the
government buildings, the parks, the monuments in the distance.
They'd been doubling back around the city for almost an hour, with
two car changes along the way at two different parking garages across
town. Rosen had made it a production, all right. 

They passed the White House, Tunes and Kucinski still bitching about
the Duke team going downhill since someone named Christian had
graduated, when the hotel came into view, a tall, white and blue
building in the distance. Mulder found himself sitting up a little
bit in his seat as he saw it. His palms had begun to sweat. 

The Willard was one of the best hotels in Washington, just two
blocks from the White House. It had a wide, U-shaped driveway that
led up elegant steps to a glass front with a revolving door. The
driveway was jammed with cars, all their hazards flashing, people
jumbled around with bellhops and carts for carrying luggage topped
with shining brass bars. 

"What the hell are all these cars doing here?" Mulder hissed as they
wedged themselves in behind a parked car, empty, its tail lights
blinking. 

"It's a hotel?" Glickman said, and his voice sounded as dense and
sour as his face looked. 

"Well, get them to move them out while we get her down here," Mulder
snapped back, unbuckling his seat belt. "We need this area clear." 

"Relax, Papa," Glickman said. "It would take a fucking wizard to
have followed us here, and the car's been checked over with a comb.
Just chill out." 

Mulder scowled at him, particularly for the "Papa" comment, and got
out of the car, Music and Kucinski following him as the three of them
wove their way through the cars and people and through the revolving
door into the lush lobby beyond. 

They rode the shining, carpeted elevator to the seventh floor, and
Mulder immediately saw the agent sitting there in the small sitting
area outside the elevators, reading the paper. He nodded to the man,
who nodded back and let them pass.

Down the hallway to room 710, then Mulder rapped on the door
lightly, and Scully immediately answered. She looked put together,
her hair in its neat curve around her jaw, her black and white suit
on. He could tell from the slight bulge at her side that she carried
her gun. 

Only her pale face and the bandage still in place on her forehead
gave the appearance that anything was amiss. That and the flash of
relief that crossed her face as she saw him, so fast that only he
could have noticed it. He did his best not to smile, but he was
relieved to see her so much it made it difficult.

"You ready?" he asked. 

"Yes," she said, nodding to Kucinski and Music, and to Agent Dodd,
who had come in from the end of the hallway. 

"I'll walk you down," Dodd said. Another agent, a female agent
Mulder didn't know, was at the stairwell, her hand dipped inside her
jacket. Mulder nodded to her. 

Mulder looked behind Scully, saw Mae there with Katherine, sitting
on the neatly made bed. Mae met his eyes over the baby's head, her
face concerned. 

So she'd been here with Scully, he realized. And though he still had
hard feelings toward Mae, he was thankful to her, and let a bit of
that touch his eyes. Mae smiled to him wanly. 

You're welcome, she said with her eyes, and Mulder stood aside to
let Scully leave the room. 

They walked in a circle around her, like four points on a compass,
Mulder beside her, Dodd in the front. 

When they reached the elevator, which the agent from the sitting
area had held for them, he couldn't help it. 

His hand reached down and touched her back as he ushered her in
front of him, then he stood in the circle around her inside the car,
her bright red head barely visible in the halo of dark suits and
silence. 


**

Outside, on the opposite side of the street, a figure stood, a small
device the size of a keychain in his palm. He wore a dark wig, the
hair slicked back, an expensive suit, a black moustache. A briefcase
was beside him, a typical Washington businessman on the Washington
street. He'd gone in the front of the hotel, told them he'd just be a
moment to check in, and then slipped out the side entrance and
crossed the street, coming back around the front so he could see
inside the great glass entrance to the lobby.

He'd seen the men go in the front door, the driver arguing with the
doorman to get the cars out of the way, without much luck. It was a
scene of controlled confusion. The man's own car sat silent in front
of the door, just in front of the car the men had come in. The driver
-- the agent -- was gesturing toward it and the doorman was
shrugging, his hands out helplessly. 

He watched the lobby, saw the knot of men coming through the large
central area, then come through the doors on one side of the shining
revolving door. 

He caught sight of the woman, there surrounded by the men, all of
their heads swiveling, taking in the scene around them. The tall dark-
haired man beside her -- her husband, he assumed, from watching them
get out of the car at the restaurant days before -- was looking
around particularly keenly, his hand on the woman's back. 

The group pulled up short, waiting for the driver to finish his
argument with the doorman. 

Christie waited, his hand poised on the button in his hand. 

Wait for it, he told himself. He had to be certain this time.

Just wait... 

Finally they started toward the car, weaving through the people
coming into the hotel. 

Christie touched the button in his hand. Across the street, the car
he'd left there coughed to life, the engine humming. 

He picked up the briefcase, satisfied. 

Thirty second delay. 

He began counting in his mind as he headed to a car parked there on
the street, opened the door, the keys already in it. He tossed the
suitcase in the passenger seat, his own suitcase in the backseat
behind him. 

Then he started the car and pulled out quickly, driving away.


**

Scully was walking toward the car, being hustled along by Mulder and
Kucinski, when something began to niggle at her mind, as though there
was something she'd forgotten and was just now remembering...

Cars were starting up all around them, and Frank Music turned toward
the one in front of their car as it coughed to life, idling. 

She pulled up short, looked around, her hand going to her head. 

"Scully?" Mulder murmured next to her, stopping with her. "What is
it?" 

"I don't know," she said, taking in the scene around her, the
people, the cars. "I don't know. I just feel like...there's something
I..."

She looked at the woman getting out of her car in front of them, a
bellhop going to her trunk, the woman following behind to open it. 

(The woman was on fire.)

"I..." Scully's hand gripped her forehead as she looked around.

"Scully?" Mulder said, grabbing her. 

(Everywhere, hulks of cars burning, people running, others on fire
trying to crawl away...)

"Mulder, there's a bomb," she said suddenly, feeling lightheaded,
the images making her stomach lurch. 

"What??" he said from beside her, holding her arm as she swayed.
"Where??" 

She turned, pushing at him, grabbed Kucinski's arm as well. 

"What the fuck?" Music said, looking at her. 

Mulder reached over and pushed at Music, dragging Scully with the
other arm. 

"Back in the lobby! Hurry!" He turned toward the people in the
driveway. "THERE'S A BOMB! RUN!" 

And then she and Mulder started to do just that, Scully staggering
along beside him, Music and Kucinski following. 

They reached the glass doors, bolted inside, the sound of shouting
and screaming behind them. People were pressing through the glass
doors, into the revolving door, jamming it up...

Scully sprinted as best she could, Mulder beside her. They reached
the ornate flower arrangement in the center of the lobby, people
standing up everywhere, bewildered. 

They headed for the marble front desk when--

An eruption from outside, and the whole glass front of the lobby was
suddenly orange and yellow with flame.

Glass dissolved to splinters in a wall of fire, bodies flying, the
blast wave coming into the lobby and knocking everyone down in the
shower of shards and metal. 

Scully felt the terrible feeling of her legs being knocked from
beneath her and she and Mulder went tumbling together toward the
desk, heat blasting over them, Mulder flattening his body on top of
hers as the full sound of the blast boomed in the high ceilinged
room, pieces of the crystal chandelier, plaster, bits of metal
falling everywhere. 

"Oh God," she said, feeling renewed pain in her side, curling into a
ball around it. It was agony. She struggled beneath him. 

"Stay down," Mulder said, keeping his body on her as glass continued
to rain down. "Just stay down, Scully..." 

Scully turned her head, feeling strangely groggy, her side shrieking
with pain, and looked at the front of the lobby, over the ruin and
the smoke and the people struggling everywhere. 

In the cloudy haze, she saw the woman now, moving as though she were
dancing, dancing and on fire. People were screaming outside, awful
screaming, the bodies jammed in the revolving door writhing, encased
in flames.


**

10:16 a.m.


Granger pulled his truck up just outside the police tape, pulling
out his FBI identification as an officer came up to the window to
immediately tell him to move the car. 

"All right," the officer said. "Watch your step, Mr. Granger.
There's glass and sharp objects everywhere around the scene, all
right?" 

"Sure," Granger said, and climbed out of the X-Terra, ducked
carefully under the yellow tape and headed toward the battered hotel,
fire trucks still there hosing off the front of the building,
ambulances gathered everywhere. People walked around as if in a daze,
some with bandages, streaks of blood on their arms and faces. 

He caught sight of Skinner, standing in a knot of agents, and found
his way onto the perimeter, listening in on what Skinner was saying. 

"...he's a white male, somewhere between 30 and 40, about six feet
tall, approximately 160-175 pounds, black hair with a black
moustache. When he was last seen, he was wearing a navy or black
business suit and carrying a briefcase. We're to assume he's armed
and extremely dangerous. A sketch should be available shortly for you
to look at it, and even if the suspect was wearing a disguise, we'll
get a general idea of his facial shape and structure. Now start
combing the area. Dismissed." 

The agents broke away, moving quickly through the emergency
personnel, leaving Granger there with Skinner, who looked over at
him. Granger had never seen him look more tense, a vein bulging from
his temple. 

"It's about time you got here," he snapped, started walking toward
the side of the hotel, where the press was gathered, held at bay by
police. Granger could see Rosen standing in the distance, talking to
a bunch of very official looking men, including, Granger realized,
Don Martin, the head of the ATF. 

"I came as fast as I could," Granger said. "I was roughing up a
quick profile sketch before I came over, based on what you told me
over the phone about the physical description and the initial
ballistics." Keeping up with Skinner's pace was making his chest and
shoulder ache worse. 

"Yeah, I'd like to read your profile," Skinner grunted. "Son-of-a-
bitch kills 18 people at a hotel, using enough TNT to blow up *ten*
cars, two blocks from the fucking White House. I'd like to get ahold
of this one's *profile* all right." He swore again under his breath. 

"He was more determined this time," Granger said, getting winded. "I
think he was shamed by having missed last time and wanted to be
certain he hit the target."

"He hit the target all right," Skinner said under his breath. "Look
at this place." 

They were skirting the front of the building now, the lovely white
stone of the entrance blasted, as though someone had thrown black
paint up to the third floor. Curtains billowed out broken windows,
and the roof over the driveway had collapsed onto the ruined shapes
of many cars, some of them still billowing smoke, firemen hosing the
scene down. Here and there around the entrance, white sheets were
thrown over bodies, the sheets stark against all the blackness. 

"My God, sir," Granger said, stricken. "How could this happen? Did
he follow Mulder here?"

"No," Skinner said dully, as though he were in shock. His voice was
sad. "No way. The bomb was planted before they got here. We don't
know how he found her." 

They were silent for a long beat, taking it all in, letting it sink
in. It was a lot to take. 

"Rosen's got to talk to the press," Skinner said into the quiet.
"Come on." 

They closed the distance between them and the knot of official-
looking men, Rosen turning and going with them toward the cluster of
media, cameras waving over heads, a podium set up and a collection of
microphones gathered at the front of it. Reporters started shouting
questions immediately as Rosen took the podium, his arms raised for
silence. 

Granger and Skinner stopped behind them, both of them looking as
grave as they felt. 

"We're going to do this in an orderly fashion," Rosen said. "I have
a statement, and then I'll take the questions I can answer at this
point, which won't be many, I can assure you." He drew himself up,
cameras going off, hand-held tape recorders jutting towards his face
as the reporters quieted down. 

Rosen cleared his throat. "At 9:36 this morning, an explosive device
was detonated here outside the Willard Hotel. The device was planted
in a parked automobile at the entrance, and was, apparently,
detonated remotely in an attempt to take the life of a Federal Agent
being sequestered here for her own protection. This agent was, at the
time, being moved to another location." 

"What is the condition of this agent?" one of the reporters shouted. 

Rosen took in a deep breath and continued as though the reporter
hadn't spoken. "There were 18 deaths as result of the bombing, and 42
injured, nine critically. Among the 18 dead are three agents in the
FBI. Agent Bill Dodd and Special Agent Don Glickman, both killed in
the initial blast out in the driveway." 

He looked at the reporters, paused, camera flashing. 

"And the third is the person whom we believe was the intended target
for the bombing, who died en route to the hospital of massive
internal injuries..."

Granger swallowed, looked down. He felt hollow inside, from all of it.

Even before he heard the name. 



*******


THE AMBASSADOR HOTEL 
NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK 
MARCH 4 
11:32 a.m.



A dark cherry casket covered with white sweetheart roses, the roses
dusted with the falling snow. A hill overlooking a wide dark body of
water stitched with boats moored near the shore, the water's surface
choppy and capped with white as the storm clouds huddled on the
horizon. A grey day in late-winter.

The bar across the bottom of the television said: "Live. Church of
the Resurrection. Annapolis, Maryland," the camera pulled back some
distance from the knot of people around the coffin, the sea of
wreathes and flowers so bright against all the black and grey. 

Even the blanket over the man in the wheelchair, which was set close
to the middle of the coffin, was the color of charcoal and matched
the heavy sky. 

Christie watched the scene unfolding on the television, a tray of
food in front of him on the table brought up by room service. His
eyes were on the man in the wheelchair -- this man Christie knew only
as "Mulder" -- on his blank face beneath the bandages swathing his
head, his left eye covered by white. Mulder's hands were folded on
his lap on the blanket, his knuckles white. His leg was extended in
front of him and bulged beneath the covers, the obvious shape of a
full-leg cast. 

Christie took another bite of his lunch -- a burger cooked extra
rare -- and scanned the other people in the crowd. An older woman
dressed in a black wool coat on one side of Mulder, her face like
steel despite the tears she dabbed from her cheeks with a crisp white
handkerchief in her black-gloved hands. A black man and woman
standing close to the wheelchair, the woman's hand on the rest beside
Mulder's arm. Then the man Christie had come to know as Deputy
Director Jack Rosen, his hands folded behind him, his eyes down. A
bald man with glasses who he'd seen with Rosen on the news reports,
standing there still as a headstone. Only one man seemed out of place
-- a wild array of long blonde hair and black glasses, a black T
shirt peeking out from the vee of his jacket. He was the only one,
along with the short bespectacled man beside him, who didn't look
like he'd just come from the FBI. 

Agent Scully's life seemed to have been her work -- her work and
Mulder, whose battered, scratched face was so drawn at this point,
his jaw so tight, that Christie thought it might crack. 

Mulder had yet to cry. He seemed to be beyond that now. 

A priest with a full, kind face was speaking, reading from the
Psalms. The bar on the bottom of the screen identified him as Father
Daniel McCue, Agent Scully's pastor. Then he read from John, a verse
Christie knew well. He recited it in his head as the priest read. 

"'There are many rooms in my Father's house, and I am glad to
prepare them for your coming. When everything is ready, then I will
come and get you, so that you can always be with me where I am...'"

Christie pushed the food away, his appetite waning. 

McCue turned to the group now, a card in his hand. His face was
grim. "Dana was a light to us all, a very bright light. All of us --
myself included -- can only comfort ourselves with the fact that she
is with God now, safe from the troubles of this world in her Father's
house and is at peace." 

He turned slightly now, looking directly at Mulder. "I know she
would not want us to grieve her, to despair. She would want to
comfort us in this time, and she would want us to celebrate her life
and her memory. For this reason, I offer to her mother, Margaret, and
to her husband, Fox, these words, words which I think Dana would say
to each of you herself."

He lifted the card. 

"This comes from Harry Scott Holland, the Canon of St. Paul's
Cathedral. He offers this: 'Death is nothing at all. I have only
slipped away into the next room. I am I, and you are you. Whatever we
were to each other, that we still are. Call me by my old familiar
name, speak to me in the easy way which you always used. Put no
difference in your tone, wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.
Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes we enjoyed together.
Pray, smile, think of me, pray for me. Let my name be ever the
household word that it always was. Let it be spoken without affect,
without a trace of shadow on it. Life means all that it ever meant.
It is the same as it ever was; there is unbroken continuity. Why
should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? I am waiting for
you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just round the corner. All
is well.'" 

Christie watched Scully's mother. Margaret. He sounded the name in
his mind. She had reached her hand over and placed it over both of
Mulder's at his waist. Now Christie saw the tears on Mulder's face,
which Mulder made no move to wipe away. He seemed unable to move at
all. 

"I offer you all Christ's peace," McCue said, and he stepped away
from the microphone that had been set up on the small podium. 

Then, the long note of a bagpipe playing into the snowy air, a
throaty sound. "Amazing Grace." 

Across the room, Christie's phone rang and he rose to get it, almost
relieved at the jarring sound. 

"Yes," he said into the receiver. 

"Are you watching CNN, Christie?" the ancient voice said, breathy
and frail. 

"Aye, I've been watching a bit," he replied, trying to sound
nonchalant. 

A pause. "Time for you to come home then. Until we find where the
other one has gone to." Another pause. "Time for you to be home." 

"That's good then," he said. "Good to be home." He meant the words
more than he could say.

"There's a ticket waiting for you at the British Airways counter at
La Guardia. The flight leaves in four hours. They'll be a car to pick
you up on the other side. Not to worry about that." 

"All right, then," Christie said. "I'll get my things packed up. Be
on my way." 

"Travel safely," and the line went dead. 

The song was still playing in the room from the television, the
camera's microphone picking up the faint sound of wind as it
fluttered the blanket of roses on the coffin. Christie watched it as
he hung up the phone, then sunk his hands in his pockets. 

He listened for a moment as the camera panned the scene, the sea of
faces, the deep cold bay beyond them. 

The song was still playing as he came forward and reached for the
remote on the table, hit the power button, and the screen went
mercifully black. 



************


CAPITAL BELTWAY, INNER LOOP 
OUTSIDE BETHESDA, MARYLAND 
1:34 p.m.


Mulder lay on his back on the stretcher, the ambulance rocking
gently around him, soothing him. He looked up at the ceiling,
pretending to be alone, pretending the paramedic wasn't sitting
beside him. He'd asked for the interior light to be turned off, and
he lay in the relative dimness and closed his one uncovered eye, let
out a deep breath.

"You okay, Mr. Mulder?" the paramedic asked from beside him,
sounding uncertain. 

"Yeah," Mulder said dully. "Thank you." 

The paramedic leaned back against the opposite wall and let him be. 

He relished the quiet, the darkness. The cameras at the funeral had
been nearly too much to take. It all had been. His mother-in-law's
grief and worry, the silent faces that looked on him with such pity
as he'd wheeled himself up to the coffin, Skinner and Rosen talking
to Maggie, and waited for everyone to leave. 

He remembered sitting there, looking at the covering of roses, the
snow. He'd reached out after a moment and gently tugged a handful of
the tiny flowers from the blanket, their faint fragrance drifting in
the frigid air. 

He'd held the flowers up to his face, inhaled deeply, his eyes
clenching shut. He was suddenly shaking, his whole body tightening. 

Not with sorrow. With rage. 

His fist closed around the flowers, tiny thorns digging into his
palm. 

"Fox," Maggie had said from behind him.

He'd composed himself as best he could, opened his fist. He was
painfully aware of cameras clicking off around him, agents holding
reporters with cameras away. 

The flowers dropped softly onto his lap with a tap. 

Maggie came around beside him, reached out and touched his shoulder.
Squeezed. In her other hand, a bunch of flowers. "Time to go." 

Granger had appeared then and pushed him slowly away from the coffin
toward the ambulance waiting on the road below. Maggie walked with
him, and the Lone Gunmen had followed, Robin behind them, looking
like a bulldog as she shooed the reporters away. 

"Let us know if you need anything," Frohike had said, standing there
as they'd loaded Mulder onto a stretcher, two paramedics attending.
Frohike looked glum, his eyes rimmed with red. "Anything at all. We
got your back." 

Langley and Byers had nodded silently, put their hands on his arm as
he thanked them for coming, and then the three of them had walked
away. 

Granger and Robin had done the same with a promise to call later,
and then they, too, had drifted off. 

"Are you all right?" Mulder asked Maggie as they finished strapping
him in. 

Maggie nodded, wiped her eyes. "Yes," she said softly. "I'm going to
go home and call Charlie and Bill. They said they'd be waiting to
hear from me, that they'd be watching." 

Mulder nodded. "Give them my best," he said, and Maggie leaned over
and kissed his cheek softly, mindful of his battered face, Mulder
turning his face to do the same. 

"Here," Maggie said, and she handed him the bunch of flowers. They
were bright. Wildflowers. "A "Get-Well.'" 

Mulder took them, lay them beside him. "Thank you," he murmured.
"I'll call." 

And they'd put him in the ambulance, Maggie's face the last thing he
saw as they'd driven away. 

"Almost there," the paramedic said from beside him as the ambulance
slowed, taking a wide turn off the highway.

He tried to block the memory from coming. He couldn't. 


He'd been waiting at her old apartment for her, a frozen pizza
beginning to burn in the oven as she'd come in and he'd met her in
the living room. 

"I was getting worried," he'd said. "You didn't say you'd be late." 

She had not, in fact, said where'd she been going that afternoon at
all. Only that she had an errand to run and that she'd meet him back
at home. 

He looked at her carefully, standing there fumbling her keys onto
the table behind the couch. Her eyes were red. She'd been crying,
though she looked down and tried to hide her eyes from him, her face. 

"What is it?" he'd asked. "Scully?" 

He'd closed the space between them, put his hands on her upper arms,
their bodies almost touching. "Tell me," he said softly. 

"Mulder," she began, her voice halting. "There are...some things I
haven't told you."

He hadn't liked the sound of that, but he'd nodded. "Okay," he'd
said. "What things?" 

She'd hesitated again. "Some things I've been seeing. Since we
finished the case with the Dillards in Virginia." She looked up into
his face, and something had crossed her features then, something a
little guilty and sad. "I'm sorry." 

He knew she didn't fully trust her abilities, so it was not exactly
a shock to him. It still made him concerned. "Bad things again?" he
asked. 

And she shook her head. "No. Not this time." 

He grew more puzzled. "Then why didn't you tell me?" His voice was
gentle, urging. 

She looked down, then up into his face again. "I wanted to be sure
before I said anything."

"'Sure'? Sure of what?" He was shaking his head, trying to find his
footing. Her reticence wasn't helping. 

"Where did you go today?"

Tears were welling, but she pressed forward. "I went to the doctor,"
she said softly. "I had some tests." 

"And?" he urged, his stomach dropping.

She looked up at him, smiled a bit uncertainly, almost shy. 

"Mulder, I'm pregnant." 

He hadn't breathed for a few seconds, searching her face. She
reached up and cupped his elbows, nodded when he didn't speak. A lump
had formed in his throat. 

Then a smile bloomed on his face, warmth rushing through him. He
leaned forward and kissed her, stayed close when they parted, his
forehead touching hers. 

"Tell me," he'd breathed at last, watching her tears, her matching
smile. "I want you to tell me...everything..."


There in the ambulance, he turned his head to the side, his hand
coming up to cover his face. The hand was trembling, and his face
felt hot enough to blister.

"Mr. Mulder?" the paramedic said again. "You sure you're okay?"

Mulder didn't look up, didn't move his hand. "Leave me alone," he
said, his jaw clenched. "Just leave me alone." 

And the poor man, mumbling an apology, did just that. 

They were on a city street now, moving through traffic. It wasn't
but another few minutes before they turned into the driveway for
Bethesda Naval Hospital, through the wide gate. 

Then they were wheeling him out, and they deftly transferred him to
a wheelchair. An orderly took him from there, pushed him into the
elevator, the flowers balanced on Mulder's lap. 

The orderly turned a key for one of the higher floors, and the car
began to move. 

Then he was in his room, light from the window meek on the bed, the
snow heavier now, everything quiet. 

Mulder sat for a few moments in front of that window, simply looking
out at the sky. His mind was numb, clouded over, anger still coursing
through him like a second pulse. 

On the night stand, the room's phone rang. Once. Twice. 

Mulder at first made no move to get it. He seemed frozen in place. 

Three times. Four. 

Finally, he put his hands on the wheels of the chair he sat in,
backed toward the table, and lifted the phone. 

"Yeah," he said into it. 

"Mulder." It was Skinner, his voice quiet. 

"Yeah," Mulder said again, flat. 

"I've got a call waiting here for you," Skinner said. "I'm going to
put it through to you on this line." 

"I don't want to talk to anyone," Mulder said immediately. The anger
was in his voice now. Anger and fatigue. 

"You'll want to talk to this person," Skinner insisted, unflapped by
his tone. 

Mulder heaved out a breath, his eyes still staring blankly out the
window. "All right," he said. "Put it through."

There was a series of clicks, then a voice came quietly through the
receiver. 

"Agent Mulder." 

Mulder's eyes widened and he sat up a bit straighter in the chair,
as much as the cast would allow him. He didn't need to hear an
introduction to know that voice. He'd know it anywhere. Its gentle
timbre. 

Albert Hosteen.

"Mr. Hosteen?" Mulder said, his surprise in his voice. "What--"

"I have been watching the television this morning," the other man
said softly. "I see things. Things I do not like to see."

"Yes," Mulder replied. If Hosteen had seen the news, there was
little else for Mulder to say to him. 

"It is time for you to come see me again," Hosteen said into the
beat of silence. "You should come here to grieve. And to heal." 

"Mr. Hosteen, that's a generous offer, but I--" Mulder was shaking
his head. 

"Yes, time for you to come. And for you to bring whoever and
whatever you need to feel safe again." Another small pause. "Do you
understand me, Agent Mulder?" 

Mulder froze then, turning Hosteen's words over in his mind. 

"I can't ask that of you," Mulder said at last. 

"You are not asking me for anything," Hosteen said quietly, his
voice firm. "I am offering." 

"You don't know what you're offering," Mulder tried again. 

His head had begun to itch beneath the bandages. He reached up and
felt for the seam, pulled at the tape, unwound the gauze. The patch
fell away from his eye and he was relieved when he opened it again. 

He tossed the bandages aside into the trashcan, rubbed at his eyes. 

"I know what I am offering," Hosteen said. "I know what I have seen.
I know what it means." 

Mulder leaned over, put the flowers on the bed, then pulled the
blanket off himself, balanced the phone on his shoulder as he lowered
the leg of the chair holding his cast up, set his heel on the floor.
He pushed himself up, then balanced carefully in his black coat and
pajamas and robe. He took off the coat, laid it on the bed. Then he
untied the robe, took it off, moving slowly, his hip against the bed. 

"There are more people involved this time," he said. "People you
don't know. I wouldn't be coming alone." 

He peeled out of the plain blue top, not even unbuttoning it, just
pulling over his head, being careful of the deep scratches on his
face, the bruises. 

"Lots of room," Hosteen said mildly. "Quiet. Peaceful. A good place
to heal." 

Mulder considered this. 

"Let me do some asking around," he said. 

"Yes," the other man said. "You do that. I will be waiting, Agent
Mulder. Goodbye." 

And the line went dead. 

Mulder looked at the phone in his hand, the dial tone humming at him
as the phone clicked over. Then he replaced it on the cradle. 

He watched the snow, thinking again. 

Then he put his hands on the waist of his pajama bottoms, pushed
them down over his boxers, down the heavy leg of the cast, stepping
out of them.

On the inside of the cast, a zipper was hidden in a fold of gauze.
He moved the gauze aside and grabbed hold of it, pushed it down with
a scratching sound, and the cast gaped open. He pushed it around his
leg and lay it at the foot of the bed, flexing his knee. 

He walked the few steps to the small wardrobe in his underwear,
pulled out a pair of jeans, a long-sleeved henley, and slipped them
on. A pair of socks and his shoes, and he returned to the bed, where
the bunch of wildflowers sat, the three tiny white roses from the
coffin. 

He picked them up, then headed out into the hall. 

Orderlies, people in white coats who looked like doctors and nurses,
all nodded to him as he passed. 

Finally he reached a door, the name on the chart outside the door
"Elizabeth Shultz." He knocked gently and went inside. 

She was lying on the bed, facing away from him, but her head turned
up toward a television suspended from the ceiling. He recognized the
sound and the channel as CNN. She craned her neck to look at him,
turning slightly on her back, the movement obviously painful. 

"Hey," Scully said, her voice hoarse. 

"Hey," he said, and tried to smile. He came around to the chair on
the side she was facing, stood in front of it and leaned over her,
pressed a kiss to her forehead, lingering there, breathing her in.
Her hand came up and stroked his face, curled around the back of his
neck. 

"How you feeling?" he asked softly. 

"Sore," she said. "But okay. The baby's been moving a lot today."
She smiled at him, brightening her battered face. "I think she's
playing."

He smiled at the thought. "I'm glad," he said. Then he turned to the
television.

"You said you weren't going to watch," he murmured. 

"I know," she said softly. "But I wanted to be there with you. Any
way I could."

He kissed her lips softly, then sat down on the edge of the chair,
leaned on his forearms on the bed, taking her hand. He laid the
wildflowers on the mattress beside her. 

"These are from your mother," he said. "She said they're a 'get-
well.'" 

Scully smiled, but it was sad. "It was hard on her," she said
faintly. 

He nodded. "She did fine, though. They all did." 

He glanced up at the television again, stroking her hand. They'd
watched Agent Dodd's funeral yesterday, sitting almost like this. The
memory made him ache, and he could see from her face that the
familarity of it did the same to her. 

"Mulder," she'd said as they'd watched, her voice soft. "I don't
want anyone else to die. There are 19 people dead now. Nineteen
people who didn't have to die. I can't help but feel responsible for
it in some way..." 

He could see the same feelings on her now as she studied his face. 

"You cried," she whispered, stroking back the hair at his temple. 

He nodded. "Yes." 

He reached up and laid the tiny sweetheart roses next to her now,
rubbed the soft body of one against her bruised cheek, trying to
tease a smile. It didn't work. 

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm sorry it was so hard for you, too." 

He looked down, then into her eyes. "I have a lot to lose," he said
simply. 

She nodded. "So do I." And she took the rose from his hand. 

He leaned up, the flowers between them, kissed her again. 

"I've never seen you as angry as you were when you picked these up,"
she said. "The rage on your face."

He nodded, though her words made him ashamed. 

"You've got to control it somehow, Mulder," she said gently, but her
voice was serious. "You're not going to do me or you or the baby any
good unless you can." 

He looked down, unable to meet her eyes. Even now he could feel the
tinge of the fury in him, like something hot in his chest. 

He'd never felt more threatened. Never felt like so much was at
stake. He reached down and touched her belly beneath the heavy tape
where her ribs -- broken and set now -- were braced. 

"I'm going to be all right," she said. "And so is Rose. We're going
to be safe now." 

He looked at her, thinking of the phone call with Hosteen. 

He remembered the mornings on the porch at Hosteen's place, looking
out over the desert, the way the sky opened up there, no one around.
The sounds of horses and the smells of coffee and good cooking. The
bright bright stars at night. 

A quiet place. 

A peaceful place.

A place to heal. 

And finally, squeezing her hand, he nodded. 


************

CONTINUED IN PART II. 
TITLE: THE LOST LAND 

AUTHOR: Bonetree 

RATING: NC-17 for graphic violence, adult language, disturbing
content, and sexual situations.

CATEGORY: Novel, Angst, X-File 

SPOILERS: Everything through "All Souls." 

KEYWORDS: A, MSR, X, AU 

SUMMARY: Months after the events of "The Mercy Seat," past, present
and future      collide as Mulder, Scully, Skinner and Granger go cross-
country and around the world in a race against time to find a serial
bomber on a very personal mission. 

ARCHIVE: Please don't post parts of this story while it is in
progress. Check back here when it's finished for official archiving
instructions. 

FEEDBACK: Welcomed and responded to at Bonetree@gmail.com. 

DISCLAIMER: The following is a work of fiction. The characters of
Mulder, Scully, Skinner, Maggie Scully, Albert Hosteen (and anyone
else from the show who appears suddenly) are the property of 1013
Productions, Chris Carter, and Fox. No copyright infringement is
intended, and no profit is being made from the use of these
characters. Paul Granger and all other characters are my own
creation and they, along with the story in this form, are the
intellectual property of the holder of the above AOL account.


HISTORY NOTE: This story takes place in what I call the Goshen
Universe, an AU started with the story "Goshen" and which continues
through "Secret World," "City of Light," and "The Mercy Seat." I
would strongly recommend, for the purposes of this particular story,
having read at least "Secret World" and "City of Light," though there
will be references to events from all four stories through this one
and original characters whose histories it will be assumed you are
already familiar with which reading all four stories will help you
with. I've heard from people who have read the stories without having
read the series and they seem to get by all right, but you're going
to start wondering what I'm referring a lot if you haven't read the
other stories, particularly with this one. This is also a very much
established MSR story, and the previous four stories detail the
beginning and evolution of the relationship, which might be helpful
for you to know.

"Goshen" (a novella), "Secret World," "City of Light," and "The
Mercy Seat" (all novels) can be found on the main page of this
website or at Gossamer.

TIMELINE NOTE: This story takes place roughly current day (though
without the events of September 11 -- they shouldn't have happened in
real life, so they didn't happen in this universe). However, for the
purposes of this story, seasons six through nine have not happened.
There is no William, no Doggett and Reyes, no Mulder abduction or
resurrection...nothing like that. Just plain old Mulder and Scully
doing what they were doing in the fifth season and having had some
adventures that the show didn't have them have.

Whew, that's a long author's note! Other notes, even longer most
likely, will go at the end of the story. Many thanks, right from the
start, to the Wonder Beta Team of Three - Dani, Shari and Sheri. The
hardest working Betas in the business. ;o)

Thanks for coming along!
PART II


******


ST. MATTHEW'S CATHEDRAL 
HIGHBRIDGE, THE BRONX 
NEW YORK, NEW YORK
MARCH 8 (FOUR DAYS LATER) 
10:04 a.m.



The cathedral smelled faintly of incense and dust and oiled wood,
the ceiling drifting with wisps of smoke from the offering candles at
the front of the massive building, glowing with pinpricks of light
that bathed the alabaster statues above them in flickering light. 

Skinner took all this in as he came down the wide main aisle, moving
against the thin crowd coming away from the 9:00 a.m. Mass, mostly
old women leaning on canes and wearing various shades of grey and
black. Still others were emerging from the squat bodies of
confessionals at the sides of the church, their eyes down. They
looked to Skinner like frail old birds moving in their dark plumage,
their hands trailing the shiny bodies of rosaries. 

Granger walked beside him, one hand in the pocket of his leather
jacket, his eyes darting around the expanse. It was Granger who held
the photograph, the picture of the man Mae had sent them to, taken
from the man's house which they'd just visited, frightening the man's
aged mother in the process. She'd handed over the picture, taking it
from a frame on the mantle, her eyes still as wide as they'd been
when Skinner had introduced himself and flashed his badge. 

"My son's done nothing wrong," she'd said, her voice heavy Irish and
quiet as the grave. She wore a heavy black dress, her hair in a grey
bun. The house smelled like bread. 

"I'm sure you're right," Skinner had said, smiling stiffly, and
taken the picture just the same, heading to the church where his
mother said her son would be. 

Now Skinner stopped in the middle of the cathedral, glanced at the
photo in Granger's hand once again, and looked around. Granger did
the same. 

Only a few figures remained in the pews, and only one of them a man
who looked, from the back, that he might be the right age they were
searching for. He was in the second row, in conversation with an
elderly priest, their heads bent close together as though they didn't
want anyone else to hear what they were saying. 

"That's got to be him," Granger said softly, noting the curly black
hair above the neck of the navy jacket, hair that matched the
picture, that of the smiling man in the center of a group of smiling
men. 

Skinner nodded, said nothing, and began walking again, Granger
falling in behind him.

The priest looked up as they approached and some look Skinner
couldn't quite place passed over the aged man's face. Whatever it
was, it passed quickly, and the man took his leave, the younger man
in the pew turning to face them as they approached, coming around the
front of the pew, the man following them with his eyes. 

He regarded them with a studied, careful expression, his blue eyes
bright even in the dim light. 

"Conail Rutherford?" Skinner said. He did not remove his hands from
his trench coat as he spoke. 

"Aye, I'm Rutherford," the man replied. He eyed Granger. "Can I help
you with something?"

Skinner introduced himself, and Granger, noted that Rutherford
didn't flinch at their titles. Then he gave a look around, listening
to the hollow sounds of footsteps in the wide open space.

"We'd like to speak to you, if we may. Would you prefer to go
somewhere else to do it?"

Rutherford's gaze didn't waver. "I've got nothing to say I can't say
here," he said, but he kept his voice pitched soft. His accent was as
thick as his mother's. "In fact, no offense, but I've got nothing to
say at all." 

"No offense taken," Skinner said, shaking his head. "But I do think
you've got something to say."

"How d'you figure that, Mr. Skinner?" Rutherford said, leaning back
and putting his arms across the back of the pew. 

Skinner glanced at Granger, who began to speak. 

"Mr. Rutherford, are you aware of two recent bombings in the D.C.
area?" Granger said, his voice even, non-confrontational.

The other man's eyes darted from Granger to Skinner and back again. 

"Aye," he said. "Those agents who got killed? That woman?" 

"Yes," Skinner said. "Agent Dana Scully. Does that name mean
anything to you, sir?" 

Rutherford gnawed on his bottom lip. "No, it doesn't," he said. 

Skinner was about to say something, but Granger, whom Skinner could
see was watching Rutherford as though he were studying a particularly
intricate painting in a museum, beat him to it. 

"You're lying, sir," Granger said, his voice that same even timbre. 

Rutherford's face grew red, as though someone had just smeared him
with blush on his pale cheeks. "I like your approach, Mr. Granger,"
he said, and there was something low in his voice, angry. "You'll
call me a liar but still call me 'sir.' I like that." 

"No offense, of course," Granger replied, tossing Rutherford's
earlier words back at him. He gave a small smile. 

"Right," Rutherford said, glanced around. "Now if you two will
excuse me, my father just passed away a few days ago. I'm here for
some solace, not--"

"Mae Curran sent us to you, Mr. Rutherford," Skinner said, opening
the bomb-bay doors and letting it fly. 

The bomb hit its target. Rutherford gaped, and his face grew redder. 

"I don't know who you mean," Rutherford tried, but even he couldn't
seem to muster an ounce of earnestness in the words. 

"Let's cut the bull--" Skinner glanced at the disapproving eyes of a
saint in the stained glass on his right, and bit back the word he
intended to use. "We know who you are, Mr. Rutherford. And what you
do. And who your friends are. There's no use hiding any of that from
us. Or trying to." 

Rutherford looked down at Skinner's feet, his jaw working. 

"And frankly," Skinner continued. "We don't give a good god--" He
bit off the word again. "We don't care about any of that. From what
we understand, you have never been involved with the operations of
the terrorist arm of the IRA, at least not in any direct way that we
can implicate you."

"So what is it you want from me then?" Rutherford said sharply. 

"Those bombs, the ones that killed those people in D.C., were from
someone connected to the IRA," Granger said softly. 

"Not a chance," Rutherford said, scoffing. "Not a bloody chance."

"What makes you say that?" Skinner asked. "How can you be so sure?" 

"The IRA doesn't operate outside of Ireland like that, not that it
operates at all anymore. And they've got no reason to go after that
woman or any of those other people. They don't do a thing without a
reason and a damned good one at that." 

"If you say so," Skinner said, feeling the hair on the back of his
neck stand on end. The words stuck in his craw. He couldn't help the
sardonic tone that came with his reply. 

"Don't be so quick to judge what you don't know a thing about,"
Rutherford said, his voice getting quieter, his teeth clenched. 

"I know enough," Skinner said, unable to help himself. 

"How can you be so sure this is IRA?" Rutherford shot back. "It
could be anyone--"

"Because whoever it is is trying to kill Mae Curran, too," Granger
interjected calmly, his voice almost like a presence interposing
itself between the two men. 

Rutherford paused, regarding him. "Then it's not IRA," he said. "For
certain."

"What makes you so sure?" Skinner repeated, calmer now. 

Rutherford seemed to struggle with himself, then he said,
hesitantly: "Because there's a 'hands-off' on her. No one would dare
touch her, even if they wanted to, which they *don't*. And besides.
No one even knows she's alive. We assumed Owen Curran killed her."

"No," Skinner said. Time to roll the dice. "We have her. In
protective custody. Her and her baby and Owen Curran's son. Her
husband was killed in Australia. By a bomb that Australian
authorities say matches the device used in both the bombs used in
D.C. to kill Agent Scully."

Rutherford met his eyes seriously. "Australia?" he said
incredulously. "That's no IRA I know of. Nobody's got arms that long.
And they wouldn't kill Mae. No one blames her for what she did to
Owen. Not a person in Ireland blames her after what he did to the
embassy here." He looked at both of them. "And no one blames that
agent who died, either." 

"Someone blames both of them," Granger said. "Very much." 

Rutherford seemed to consider for a moment, looking down. "I can't
help you find who is doing it," he said at last. "I don't know where
to start looking for someone who would have that kind of capability.
To even find Mae would be close to impossible. She knows how to
hide." 

He seemed far away for a moment, in the land of memory. "She always
did," he added, and he sounded somehow sad. 

Skinner regarded the man, let out a breath. "Who then?" he asked.
"Who can we go to?" 

Rutherford balked again, shaking his head. 

"Twenty people have died, Mr. Rutherford," he pressed, speaking
softly through his teeth. "Twenty-one counting Mae's husband. There's
got to be someone we can talk to." 

Granger's quiet voice filled the space again. "We're talking about
protecting Mae's life now. Mae and her baby and Sean Curran. That
matters to you. I can tell that matters to you." 

Rutherford regarded Granger silently. "Aye," he said after a beat.
"That matters to me."

Skinner looked at Granger, at the look the two men were giving each
other. He was once again reminded of how good Granger was at his job.
It was who he was. 

"Then give us someone to talk to," Granger said. "A direction.
Anything." 

Skinner watched Rutherford war with himself again. Then finally he
spoke. 

"John Fagan is the one thing those two had in common besides Owen.
And the only thing Owen had in common with them was the IRA, and the
IRA wouldn't do this. So it's got to be someone connected to John."

He paused, looked at Skinner. "Word is one of them killed John
Fagan," he ventured. "Is that so?" 

"Yes," Skinner said. "One of them did." 

Rutherford nodded. "The agent? The woman who died?" 

Skinner rolled the dice again. 

"Yes, Agent Scully killed him." 

It was a lie. The only one he would tell outright. 

Rutherford nodded again. "All right," he said. "I'll...find a way to
let that bit get out. If this person is doing this for John, maybe
he'll stop now, knowing that. Knowing he's done his job." 

Skinner nodded. It was what he hoped Rutherford would say. 

"Where do we go to find this person?" he pressed, trying to be
gentle with his probing, following Granger's lead. 

Rutherford looked at the floor. "I don't know anything about John.
He was more slick than Owen, kept everything a secret. Kept even his
family a secret. He seemed to just appear in Belfast one day all
those years ago. Nobody knew where he came from." 

"Surely there must be *someone* who knows where he came from, who
his friends were," Granger said. 

"Have you talked to Ed Renahan?" Rutherford offered. 

"Who is that?" Skinner asked, feeling a pulse of adrenaline with
getting a name. 

"He's Scotland Yard," Rutherford said. "Knows everything there is to
know about the IRA that the British know. He might know something.
Something that even I don't know. And he's got...contacts in the IRA.
Ones I definitely don't know. Or want to know. He might be a good
place for you start." 

Skinner nodded, looked at Granger, who nodded back, agreeing with
him silently. They'd gotten all they were going to get. 

"Thank you for your help, Mr. Rutherford," Skinner said, jamming his
hands in his pockets, as though he could already feel the cold
outside. 

"And we're sorry for your loss," Granger said, nodding to the black
armband pinned to Rutherford's jacket. He handed the man the picture
from his mother's house, which Rutherford took.

"Thank you," Rutherford said. "Give Mae...my best. And do what you
can to care for her. I'll see what I can get around." 

"We will," Skinner said. "Thank you." 

He wished Rutherford a good day and turned, heading back around to
the front of the altar, the priest still there like a sentinel,
watching he and Granger go back up the main aisle and back out into
the sunlight. 


*************


HIGHWAY 371 
OUTSIDE FARMINGTON, NEW MEXICO 
12:33 p.m.



It all felt so familiar -- the sand of the desert and the dark
shapes of the mountains in the distance, the scrubby trees and brush
streaming by the window, the dull winter sky the color of slate. A
storm was coming in from the north, the sun coming through in
brilliant rays and piercing down onto the landscape below in wide
white bars of light. 

Mulder had found a station that played something besides country
music, oldies from the fifties coming through, "The Great Pretender."
Scully shifted in the passenger seat of the minivan, being mindful of
her battered side, and glanced over at Mulder in the driver's seat,
both his hands on the steering wheel as if he needed his grip to keep
the car's wheels on the road. 

In a gauzy haze of memory, she saw him there beside her, a beard on
his face, her own gaunt reflection in the distorted curve of his
sunglasses. 

Another time, she reminded herself, sitting up a little straighter
still and forcing herself into the present. 

Her hand went to her belly, the soft roundness of it beneath her
navel, as the baby fluttered with the movement. She rubbed softly
against the cotton of her top, the first piece of maternity clothes
she'd purchased, a deep green pullover that bagged a bit around her
middle, making room. 

She craned her neck to look into the back seats. Katherine was
chattering in the far back seat from the carseat they'd secured from
the rental agency, oblivious to the tension of the other members of
the car. Sean sat beside her, Katherine patting his upper arm with
her hand and Sean ignoring her, his eyes out the window and his face
a slate. He held an action figure in his hand, but only because Mae
had handed it to him. He would do anything he was told. 

Mae met Scully's eyes for a beat as she looked in her direction, and
Mae forced a tense smile, just a curl of her lips, as though she
meant to reassure Scully of something. Scully returned the gesture,
but she knew the smiles did nothing to comfort either of them. 

In the middle seat, Tunes Music sat, Bo curled up beside him, the
agent's eyes guarded by sunglasses despite the gloom outside. He was
chewing a piece of gum, and blew a small bubble quickly, a nervous
habit. He nodded to Scully, and she did feel somewhat reassured by
his presence, as though he were the close of the parentheses that
started with she and Mulder. He'd volunteered for the duty to be in
charge of Mae's custody and a contact person for the Counterterrorism
Unit. A man with no family of his own, he'd jumped at the chance to
be so close to the action on the case.

She faced forward again, Mulder glancing at her and asking the
ubiquitous question with his hazel eyes. She answered it with her
own, and then turned her attention to the road, the straight line of
it, the pavement a battered white and grey split by a broken line. 

She'd slept some on the plane, the government jet that Rosen had
secured for their transport, and she felt reasonably rested, though
her mind was heavy with a worry so extreme is was almost like a kind
of grief. 

Mulder turned onto a smaller highway, this one a two-lane, and a
sign indicated that they were entering the Navajo reservation, a gas
station right on the non-reservation side of the line and advertising
with huge signs that it sold beer. They kept driving, nothing around
them, hardly even other cars, and those that they did see pickup
trucks with people riding, bundled, in the back, many of them
children with hair the color of coal.

It wasn't long before they turned down an even smaller rural route
and then Mulder was slowing at a long dirt driveway, turning, and the
trailer was off in the distance, smoke coming idly from the steel
pipe chimney and drifting in the cool air. 

Two figures were on the porch, and they both stood as the minivan
came up in front of the house and came to a stop. One, the younger of
the two, was smiling amiably, his hands jammed in his jeans jacket
pocket. Victor Hosteen, his hair shorter than she remembered it and
his eyes just as bright. 

And beside him, looking thinner in a heavy plaid flannel jacket and
worn jeans, his silver hair draped around his shoulders, was Albert
Hosteen. He was looking directly at her and standing very still,
though Victor came forward as the passengers in the car all made
moves to get out, Music pulling the heavy sliding side door open and
stepping out with Bo. 

Victor had gone to Mulder's window, his smile even wider now as
Mulder opened the door, the younger man standing in the gap of the
door. 

"Hey, Mulder," he said, reaching in and slapping Mulder on the
shoulder. "You look like hell, man! Your face!" 

Scully had been looking at the deep scratches and bruises on
Mulder's face for so long now that she hadn't even noticed them
anymore. It made her painfully aware of how her own face would look
to Hosteen, bruised as it was, the cut on her forehead uncovered now
but still angry and red. 

"Thanks, Victor," Mulder grumbled. "It's good to see you, too." 

Victor laughed, and Mulder got out. 

Scully was still looking at Albert Hosteen, and he at her, through
the window. She tried to smile, but couldn't. Hosteen seemed to see
it, his lip curling slightly, and he nodded to her. She opened the
door and got out, easing herself down from the van slowly, holding
her side. She moved like an old woman, but she couldn't help the
lingering pain, the stiffness of the travelling. 

Now Albert did come forward, stopped a few feet from her, and she
looked up at him. 

"Hello, Mr. Hosteen," she said softly, her voice barely there.
Something about seeing him choked her, emotion rising. She glanced
away from his intense gaze as she saw him taking her in, his head
cocking to the side. 

"Agent Scully," he said just as quietly. 

There was a beat of silence between them, Mae coming out of the van
holding Katherine, Sean close behind her. Mulder and Victor were
talking on the other side of the car, and Victor was laughing.
Something about Bo, who had joined them with Music, and something
about horses.

Scully looked back at Hosteen, and her hand came up to touch her
forehead. "I look bad, I know," she said. 

He huffed a small laugh. "For someone dead, you look very good," he
replied, amusement in his voice. She saw his eyes dart to her middle,
to the obvious protrusion there. "And I told you that I saw you with
a child." 

Her hand went to cover her belly as though she meant to hide it.
"Yes," she said, and a tiny smile spread on her lips. "You did,
didn't you?" 

Mae came and stood beside her, Katherine reaching toward Hosteen
with one hand, and Sean beside her. Sean was gaping up at Albert as
though the elderly man had just stepped off a spacecraft. Which,
Scully supposed, to Sean, he might as well have.

"Mr. Hosteen, this is Mae Porter, her daughter Katherine, and her
nephew Sean." 

Hosteen reached a hand out and took Katherine's, rubbing his thumb
along the back of her hand. 

"Mr. Hosteen," Mae said. "A pleasure to meet you. I don't know how
to thank you for your help by giving us a place to stay." 

Hosteen took her in, studying her. "Plenty of room," he said simply
with a kind smile, repeating the words Scully knew he'd said to
Mulder. "A friend of friends is always welcome." 

Now Albert turned to Sean, and Scully saw his brow crease down as he
looked at him, at the hollow look in Sean's eyes. Sean looked a
little afraid as Albert reached out and put a hand on his head. 

"Hello," Hosteen said, and Sean did not reply, but his eyes grew a
bit more wide. Albert only smiled. 

The front door to the trailer opened with a creak and a woman came
out, a young Navajo woman dressed similarly to Albert, swallowed up
in flannel and sweatpants. She had long black hair, her face dark and
full. Her eyes were set deep in her face, and as black as her hair.
Scully guessed she was about 20, if that.

Albert turned to face her as she came forward, an enigmatic smile on
her face. 

"This is Sara," he said as she stopped beside him. "Sara Whistler." 

Scully's eyes darted to Hosteen uncertainly at this stranger's
presence among them, but Albert nodded toward Victor. "She is with
Victor. She will be here from time to time." 

Scully relaxed some at that, nodded, and Mae reached out and shook
her hand, Sara saying nothing, that same strange smile on her face. 

Then Sara looked at Scully, taking in her face, the bruising, the
cuts, her brow coming down for an instant. Then she saw Scully's hand
on her belly. 

She reached out, and much to Scully surprise, she placed her warm
hand on top of Scully's over the baby, stroking Scully's shirt with
her fingers. 

"A girl," Sara said, and her smile grew wider. "A healthy girl."

Scully's eyes widened, and she drew her hand away without meaning to. 

Albert laughed, chuffing softly. 

"Come," he said, nodding toward the ramshackle trailer. "We have
been cooking. You all should eat." 

And he turned and went toward the house, Sara following with Mae and
Katherine and Sean, though Mae exchanged a nervous look with Scully
as she went.

Scully stood there for a few seconds, Mulder coming around the front
of the van with Victor and Music, Mulder holding Bo's leash. Mulder
looked at her, the smile he'd shared with Victor melting off his face
as he saw her hesitate. 

"You okay?" he asked, and Music and Victor looked at her, as well,
stopping on their way to the house. 

Scully pulled herself up, shaking her surprise and the strange
feeling of vulnerability and exposure off as best she could. 

"I'm fine," she said softly, and she reached for his outstretched
hand as he urged her forward and into the house. 


**

2:32 p.m.


The meal was excellent, if not the healthiest in the world -- fry
bread, chicken, cole slaw bathed in mayonnaise. Everyone ate, even
Scully, who did not feel up to eating much, her stomach unsettled
from hormones and travel. She'd managed a wing, a dab of the cole
slaw, and Albert's wonderful bread had helped to settle everything
down. 

Victor had done most of the talking, engaging Mulder with stories
about the horses, talking about basketball, which he'd apparently
started watching. Music joined in with vigor, his elbows on the table
as he ate a leg. 

There weren't enough seats at the table, all the chairs full,
Katherine toddling on the floor around everyone's legs. Hosteen stood
at the counter, eating quietly, watching everyone with a small smile
on his face, as though the sight of all of them in his kitchen
pleased him somehow. Every once in a while Scully would see him look
her way, as though checking the progress of her meal. He spent a good
bit of time watching Sean, as well, who was staring down at his
plate, eating only when Mae asked him to in a quiet voice. 

"... And UNC--" Victor began.

"Oh, don't talk to me about the Tarheels," Music interrupted, waving
his hand, making Victor laugh. 

"Come on, man!" he said jovially, and Music continued his protest. 

Scully appreciated the two men's ease -- it all felt normal in a way
things had not for some time. No talk of bombs or death. Nothing more
important to them at that moment than March Madness and the Final
Four. 

She could tell from Hosteen's face as she caught him looking at her
again that the rest was on his mind, though. Mulder had told him a
lot on the phone from the hospital, and it was showing on his face.

Not yet, she said to him with her eyes. She needed time. They all
did. 

Hosteen nodded, drew in a breath and let it out, reaching for his
coffee.

She looked down at her plate, the remnants of her food, then up at
Katherine, who was moving away from the table, stumbling across the
floor.

Scully froze. 

(A tiny hand on the silver handle, reaching up...)

"Mulder," she said, urgent. 

Mulder looked over at her, Tunes and Victor arguing about Duke now,
Tunes' favorite topic. Mulder's brow furrowed. 

"What is it?" he asked. Mae was getting another piece of chicken for
Sean, talking to him, Sara at the refrigerator getting more tea.

Scully looked at him. "Get Katherine."

Mulder looked over at the baby, who'd stopped to pick up a napkin on
the floor. "She's fine, Scully," he said, confused. 

(The skillet tipping, grease the color of amber...)

"GET HER NOW!" she snapped, starting to rise, but her ribs slowed
her. The room was stunned into silence, Mae coming up, as well. 

Katherine had reached the stove, her hand reaching for the shine of
the handle, metal on metal as the skillet slid--

Mulder was up in an instant, stepping over Bo quickly. Two long
strides and he'd grabbed the baby, pulling her out of the way as the
skillet flipped and grease rained down on the floor with a clatter
and a hiss. Katherine began to cry in surprise at being jerked so
hard into Mulder's arms. 

"Jesus!" Mae cried, coming around to get the baby from Mulder, who
was checking her to make sure no grease had gotten on her exposed
skin. He handed the screaming baby over to her mother, looking at
Scully. 

"She's okay," he offered, nodding. "She's all right." 

The room had gone still and quiet except for the baby's cries.
Everyone was looking at Scully, all of them looking surprised. 

Even Albert looked surprised, looking from the baby and the skillet
to Scully and back again. 

"How did you...?" Mae began, rubbing the baby's back to calm her. 

Scully pushed off from the table, rubbing at the cut on her
forehead, her hand shaking slightly, her breathing a bit uneven with
the waning of her terror at what she'd seen. 

She didn't answer Mae. She felt ashamed. All the eyes on her,
everyone still, looking at her in confusion and something like fear. 

"I'm sorry," she said softly, her hand still on her forehead.
"I'm..." She glanced at Mulder. "I'm going to get some air." 

He nodded, looked at the others in the room.

Scully chanced a look at Hosteen, who leaned back on the counter,
crossed his arms over his chest, and nodded to her, making a small
affirmative sound in his throat as his eyes bore into hers. Something
knowing in his gaze.

The feeling of exposure returning, Scully turned and hurried from
the room. 


******


TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO 
MARCH 15 (ONE WEEK LATER) 
5:34 a.m.



The sky on the horizon was the color of fire, the contrast of the
darkness fighting with the light so distinct that Mulder could not
help but focus on the place where the two seemed to meet, blended a
milky blue, a few stars still peering out from behind the night's
thick lid. The sun was a semi-circle of brightness bleeding across
the desert, turning the mountains around them into dark shapes
throwing darker shadows, everything around him washed in silence. 

His feet were on the cold floor, his elbows on his knees and his
hands folded in front of him. He was perched on the edge of the bed
as if to rise, but he hadn't moved for what felt like hours now, his
bare chest and legs feeling so cold he was almost numb with it. His
flannel boxers did little to chase away the chill of morning in the
desert, the ground so bare it held nothing like warmth, the walls of
the trailer they slept in thin and seeming to make the room even
colder, the air still. 

But there was warmth behind him, Scully on her side facing him, her
hair spread out on the pillow behind her, her hands half-hidden in
the sleeves of a faded Maryland sweatshirt, so old the red was almost
pink. One socked foot protruded from beneath the many covers, quilts
on top of quilts on top of worn sheets. 

She had rolled towards him when he'd awoken well before dawn and sat
up, but had not moved since, only the soft rising and falling of her
chest, one of her hands on his pillow, clutching softly at the
mismatched pillowcase. 

The room was simple -- a large window with the drapes half opened,
the bed made for two. A dresser that looked like it was meant for a
child's clothes, a drawer-pull missing from the middle. A small table
with a lamp beside the bed. A braided rug that used to be green, on
which Bo lay on his side, still as a stone. 

As the sun turned now to a wide bar of light coming in through the
window, Mulder looked out over the expanse of ground behind the
house, into the sky, watched a hawk circle lazily on the updrafts,
looking like it was riding the streams of light. 

He watched the wings, wide and dark. He watched the ribbons of cloud
above them, moving slowly across the openess of the sky, and he swore
he could feel the room growing smaller around him, trapping him there
in the quiet. 

Nowhere. 

That was the word Skinner had used to describe where they were
going. Nowhere. 

"This guy Renahan is some kind of nutjob," Skinner had said on the
phone two nights before, his words low as a growl with his
frustration. "I called Scotland Yard and he's on some kind of
extended leave -- medical reasons. They wouldn't tell me more. Said
they weren't giving out his number or putting me in contact with
him." 

"They can't do that," Mulder had protested over the sounds of the
television, Hosteen watching some show about whales, everything on
the screen a bright blue. Scully was watching Mulder from her seat in
the corner, her brows furrowing at his tone and his words. 

"I'm getting Rosen involved. I'm going to leave footprints on
somebody's scalp on the way to doing it, too. It's the only lead
we've got at this point. Granger's beat every bush with Kucinski and
Anderson from Counterterrorism, and there is exactly *shit* about
John Fagan in those files. The sonofabitch could have hatched for all
we know. Nothing. About the only thing we can figure is that Fagan's
not his real name, and we can't trace an alias from before he got
together with Curran in the early nineties. No history. No criminal
records. No nothing. He was just suddenly THERE."

"I've asked Mae everything she knows about him," Mulder replied,
stepping into the quieter hallway that led to the bedroom he and
Scully shared in the house, on the opposite end of the house from
Hosteen's. "He never talked about his past. She can't remember him
ever talking about any sort of family or even any friends. She just
keeps saying: 'Owen would have known.'" 

"Well, a fat lot of good that does us," Skinner gruffed. "Has she
said anything that might be of any help?"

Mulder sighed in frustration. "It's hard to get her to talk," he
said. "She's not exactly keeping things from us, but she's not
exactly singing either." 

"Keep working on her," Skinner replied. "We'll see what Rosen can do
with this guy Renahan. Whatever the hell his deal his. He might be in
a rubber room for all we know, but we don't have any choice right now
but to keep after him. I'll be in touch."

We don't have any choice...

Mulder watched the hawk do a few more circles in the sky, still as a
kite. 

He thought of wings. 

Then he felt a warm hand on his back, right over the long raised
scar near his side, the remnants of the surgery to save his life the
last time he'd come to the desert, running and hiding. The skin still
felt overly sensitive where Scully's fingers were tracing, stroking
the scar, the puckered skin. 

His eyes dropped to the ragged circle of the exit wound on his
belly, the scar around it. His body was like a relief map of rough
terrain. 

"Talk to me," came her whisper, and he turned his head to look at
her. She hadn't moved, her hair still a lovely blanket of red on the
pillow, but her blue eyes were open. Her cross was tangled in its
chain at her throat. 

He said nothing, but he did move.

Leaning over her, his arms going on either side of her body, he
touched his mouth to hers, her face turning up to meet him. Her lips
were as soft as they'd looked as she'd spoken, as soft as her voice
had been, and he pressed himself closer down toward her, seeking out
that feeling, the warmth. Her hands slid up beneath his arms, her
fingers on the juts of his shoulder blades. 

Their tongues met and she turned on her back slowly, her nails
grazing him with the contact. A breath escaped her as they parted,
and she drew another in, her hand going to his face, tracing his
lips. 

He asked the question with his eyes, and in answer she reached
beneath the covers and began to pull at her sweatshirt, drawing it
up, rising slightly as she did so.

Bare belly, bare breasts, nipples tight with arousal and chill and
the color of plums. A storm of bruises on her side. 

He peeled the covers back and reached for the rest of her clothes,
standing to slide them from her body.

In a moment, she lay open as a land surrendering, the small mound of
her belly like a world, round beneath his kisses. 

He held his daughter between his hands as he slid his tongue beneath
Scully's navel, moving down between her legs.

He spoke to her then without words, rough skin of his cheek against
her thighs. He knew she heard everything, her hand stroking his hair,
then clenching, his whispered name and the softest moans from her
lips like the songs of doves. 

He answered with his tongue and fingers and breath, hard. Achingly
alive. 

In a while, she seemed to rise on a great breath, a soft cry caught
in her palm, and then she was fluttering inside. As though she were
filled with wings.

His cheek against her belly, he breathed, breathed her in. She
smelled rich. Of earth and desire. 

Then, moving carefully, he slipped out of his boxers, and, balancing
on his hands on either side of her head, poised on his knees, he was
inside her, and he wasn't cold anymore. 

He watched her face as he moved, her eyes wide and on his, her lip
caught between her teeth, her hands on his chest, smoothing down his
sides, his hips, clenching as his muscles clenched, pushing into her,
pushing him out of himself. 

The room flooded with amber light, warm across the bed, pooling in
her hair. It was so bright he closed his eyes, against it and against
a pleasure so complete it was almost like pain. 

His face twisted with it, his mouth coming open, and her hand
covered his lips. 

"Shhhh...." she whispered. 

He swallowed the sound rising in him, his body pulsing, then growing
still, except for his chest, rising and falling hard beneath her
other hand.

Moving beside her, he lay facing her, her hands cradling his face.
Her eyes were sleepy and sated, and there was a small smile on her
face. 

Their lips moved over the other's and she drowsed in his arms, her
eyes half-hidden after awhile, her body growing more limp beneath his
hands. He rubbed his cheek against hers, kissed the soft skin beneath
her eyes. 

The baby was pressed between them, and his hand moved to cup the
curve, his thumb stroking the bump of Scully's navel. 

He remembered the things she'd told him. The things he'd seen.

The head of dark hair, tiny body in Scully's arms...

A little girl's head on his chest, his fingers playing in a long
braid...

Then his face darkened, the smile melting from his face.

Glass shattering, siren wails...

A face hidden in shadows, except for the eyes. 

Watching. Waiting.

Bodies on fire.

He watched Scully's face, watched her beginning to drift, her
breathing deep.

"Sleep," he whispered. 

She made a small sound of assent, and he pulled the covers back over
her, over the white of her shoulder to the creamy skin of her throat.
She didn't move as he slipped from the bed.

He stood and stretched, letting the light play over his body for a
long moment as he stared out onto the desert, back up into the sky. 

The hawk was gone, nothing above him but a blue so faint it was
almost white. 

He grabbed his robe and headed for the shower. He did not stay in
long, his head bowed beneath the spray, the water only lukewarm.

After, Bo stirred, looked up at him with his obsidian eyes as he
entered the room. His tail thumped the floor once, twice. 

Mulder reached in the top drawer for boxers, for his jeans on the
dresser, a plain white T-shirt. A pair of socks and his brown boots.
Beside the door, a jeans jacket lined with white fleece that he
slipped into, moving in silence. 

He tapped his thigh and Bo rose, going to him, looking up
expectantly. 

Then he and the dog were out the door, moving down the hallway,
through the empty kitchen, the living room, and through the front
door, the screen door creaking closed behind him. 

He stopped just off the porch, his hands in his pockets. 

Move. He needed to move. It didn't matter where.

Nowhere. Nowhere to go.

Turning, he followed the worn path around the side of the house, out
into the barren backyard. There was a small wind, and it followed him
and Bo out into the desert beyond the quiet house.


** 


Pushing back the curtains on his window, Albert Hosteen watched
Mulder and the dog disappearing down the path, both their heads down.
At the edge of the boundary of the yard, Mulder stopped, did a full
circle, his eyes on the house. 

Hosteen watched the look that crossed over the other man's face, the
way his face dropped, the shake of his head, saying "no." 

To everything.

Then Mulder turned and seemed the survey the mountains in the
distance for a long moment, Bo sitting beside him, waiting. 

Hosteen watched him, standing still. 

Finally Mulder started walking again, heading down the trail until
he and the dog disappeared from sight.

Hosteen let the drapes fall closed again, drew in a breath and let
it out, thinking. 

After a moment, he nodded to himself, coming to some decision. Then
he turned and began to dress.


*****

8:07 a.m.



Scully awoke to sunlight flooding the room, naked beneath the
covers, a warm cocoon she lay within made warmer by the morning sun.
She reached across the bed, felt the empty space beside her, and
opened her eyes onto the room around her. 

Mulder gone, and Bo gone, and she could tell from the light that it
was still early. 

She remembered waking and seeing him sitting on the bed beside her,
recognized from the curve of his back, his head bowed, that he had
been deep in thought, and awake for awhile. He hadn't been sleeping
well since the second or third day they'd arrived, and she had not
been surprised to find him poised on the bed like that. 

Something was troubling him. More than just the situation they were
in. Something he wouldn't speak about or name. 

She turned on her back, stared up at the ceiling, and pushed the
thoughts, the suspicions she had, away. She couldn't think about that
now. She wouldn't.

So she rose, fumbled on her robe that hung on a hook on the back of
the door beside his, and went out the door into the hallway, the
heavy smell of things cooking washing over her, the sound of bumping
in the kitchen, the elegant, soft sounds of Navajo coming down the
hallway. Albert Hosteen laughed quietly over something another voice -
- a woman's voice she recognized as Sara Whistler's -- had said. The
sound of the different language informed her the two were alone in
the room. 

A shower of tepid water, her hands smoothing over her belly in a
lather of soap. The baby shifted inside her and she kept her hand
there as she rinsed her hair.

She took a long time drying her hair, putting herself together. She
had tried to keep her morning routine as close to what she did at
home as possible, struggling for a sense of normalcy, hoping it would
rub onto everything else if she did so. She could pretend she was
simply visiting a friend, instead of what she was actually doing, if
she kept to her routine. 

Or so she hoped. It wasn't actually working.

By the time she emerged from her room, dressed in a brown shirt that
buttoned up the front, its tails large enough to go over her belly --
which seemed to be growing inches by the day now -- a pair of
maternity jeans that actually didn't look so bad, her brown boots,
she heard a baby's laugh from the kitchen, and she knew that Mae had
joined them for breakfast. 

"Good morning," she said to them all as she came into the room, her
eyes taking in the space, looking for Mulder, who was not there. Bo
was still gone, as well. Mae smiled up at her, though there were dark
circles beneath her eyes and she looked care-worn, Katherine standing
on her lap and bouncing on her legs. Sean sat beside her, dutifully
eating the food that had been put in front of him, his eyes down. 

Whistler stood at the stove, making pancakes, swallowed in an
overgrown sweatshirt and a pair of jeans that were too large for her,
her long black hair tied back in a pony tail. The young woman always
looked like she were wearing someone else's clothing, someone much
larger than her tiny form. She was humming something softly to
herself in a very pleasant voice, though the song was filled with
minor notes. She smiled to Scully as Scully went to the counter and
picked up a plate off the mismatched stack, and helped herself to a
couple of the large, golden cakes, thanking Whistler as she did so. 

Hosteen himself stood beside the open window on the other side of
the small room, his pipe in the corner of his mouth, a thin stream of
bluish smoke leaking out into the open window. His eyes were on
Scully, his lip curling around the pipe. She forced a wan smile back. 

"I bought fruit for you," Hosteen said. "Oranges." He nodded toward
the refrigerator. 

"Thank you," Scully said again, and she went to the refrigerator and
drew out a fat navel orange, placing it on her plate beside the two
pancakes. "You shouldn't have gone to all that trouble. They can't be
easy to get here." 

"No trouble," Hosteen said, taking another pull on his pipe. "Mr.
Skinner sent a check. I went to the store this morning. I keep seeing
these commercials on television about pregnant women and oranges,
orange juice. Not sure what it means, but television cannot lie, you
know." He winked. 

Scully chuffed. "No, never," she said, and she sat beside Mae and
Katherine, reached for the syrup on the table, for a plastic tumbler.
She filled the cup with milk. "But in this case, television is
right." She began to eat, looking at Mae. 

Mae's curly black hair looked frazzled, strands of it refusing its
ponytail. Katherine reached out a hand toward Scully and said, quite
clearly, the word "red." 

"Are you sleeping at all?" Scully asked Mae, touching Katherine's
hand. 

Mae shrugged. "Not much," she said quietly, as though she didn't
want Hosteen to hear her. 

"The baby?" Scully pressed, taking another bite of pancake. 

Mae shook her head. "No...she sleeps through the night," she said
softly. "I.." She looked down. "I just have a lot on my mind right
now." 

Scully nodded. She knew how conflicted Mae was, knew that the other
woman was aware of the precariousness of her situation, the things
she needed to say but was keeping hidden. Scully had had to keep
Mulder from pushing her too hard, knowing that Mae would have to come
to things she needed to say in her own time. 

The time was coming, though. Scully could see the fissures starting
in Mae's hard exterior. 

The same way she could see them cracking her own. Hiding would do
that to a person, being in danger and knowing there was little you
could do to help the situation would do it. 

Only Mae *could* help it. And Scully knew that Mae was aware of that. 

"Is there something you want to tell me?" Scully asked quietly,
trying not to sound as urgent as she felt at the notion of new
information. She reached for the orange, sunk her thumbnail into the
skin and the air in front of her filled with its sweet smell. 

Mae hesitated, put Katherine down the floor, where the baby, holding
a tiny wedge of pancake, began to toddle over toward Hosteen, who was
watching the two women at the table. Whistler continued her humming,
placed another pancake on the plate and poured another, seemingly
oblivious to the rest of the room. 

Mae looked at Scully now. She spoke in halting, short sentences. 

"There's a man. Eamon. I don't know his last name. I was never told
it. He had a lot of dealings with Owen. And with John. John didn't
trust him, but Owen did. He was a custom's officer and he used his
position to scout out targets for us. He went to jail, though. I
don't know if he's out or not. They didn't get him for killing
anyone. Just for conspiring. He was careful not to have anything too
close to him. Kept clear of most of the trouble. When Owen split the
Path off, Eamon stayed with the IRA. Owen was very disappointed he
didn't come with us. He was quite useful. Smart. Very dedicated." 

"How do you think he can help us?" Scully asked, though she was
thrilled to get a name. 

Mae shrugged. "He knew everyone in that area. He knew John. He
coordinated a lot of things. I just wondered if he might be a good
place to start. I'm willing to bet this man, Renahan, knows of him
since he was arrested. He might have a way in to talk to him." 

Scully nodded. "Did you tell any of this to Agent Music yet?" she
asked. 

She wasn't surprised when Mae shook her head. Mae seemed more
comfortable talking to her than anyone else, even Mulder. There was
still tension between the two of them, still that sense of blame from
Mulder when the two of them were together. She wished Mulder could
help it, but she knew that right now he couldn't. 

"I'll tell Mulder," Scully said. "And he can talk to Agent Music and
A.D. Skinner about it." 

Sean had finished his meal, and sat there, looking down at his
plate. Scully looked at him, then up at Hosteen, who was watching the
boy. 

"Where is Mulder?" she asked, trying to sound nonchalant about it,
tearing off a wedge of orange, and putting it into her mouth. 

"He went out early," Hosteen said, smoke coming with the words.
Hosteen looked at the end of his pipe, then back up at Scully.
"Seemed to have something on his mind when he left." 

Scully looked down. "He's just worried," she said. "He's adjusting." 

Whistler turned to Hosteen, said something in Navajo, and Hosteen
nodded, and said something back, which clearly cut Whistler's line of
thinking off. He put up a hand to silence her. 

"He needed to leave," Hosteen said. "That feeling will stay. He will
not adjust to it." 

Scully looked up at him, feeling color rise in her face. What she
had been thinking that morning as she'd stared up at the ceiling,
Hosteen now voiced. 

"He's fine," she said, like a knee-jerk. "Mulder's fine." 

But Hosteen shook his head, his eyes boring into hers. Then he
returned his attention to Sean, brushing Scully's concerns away. 

"Sean and I are going to go down and visit the horses," he said,
leaning up, and Sean's head shot around to Hosteen, his eyes wide. He
still didn't speak, but Scully could tell he wanted to. 

"Come with me," Hosteen said softly, reaching his hand out. 

Sean looked to Mae, as if hoping for rescue, but Mae was looking at
Hosteen. 

"Go with him, Sean," she said softly. "Go see the horses." 

Sean hesitated again, but Hosteen stood still, his hand out. 

"A surprise," he said, and winked at Sean. "Come with me." 

Mae put a hand on the boy's shoulder, urging him up, and Sean got up
and slowly followed Hosteen out of the kitchen. He did not take the
older man's hand, and Hosteen did not seem to mind. 

Once they were gone, Scully kept turning over Hosteen's words about
Mulder in her mind as they gnawed at her. She kept returning to her
own words to comfort herself. 

Mulder's fine... 

The kettle whistled and Sara got it off the burner, poured it into a
mug sitting by the sink. A strong smell of mint and herbs filled the
room. It was not an entirely pleasant smell. 

Then she was bringing the mug to Scully, setting it in front of her
as she sat across from her, that same knowing smile on her face.

"Drink," she said simply, nodding toward the mug. 

"What is it?" Scully asked, eyeing the other woman and the mug. 

"All the pregnant women here drink this. At least twice a week. Good
for the baby." 

Scully looked down at the dark liquid. Bits of leaves floated in it
like ash. 

"No, thank you," Scully said as politely as she could. 

"Smells like a boot," Mae said from beside her, and Whistler laughed. 

"Bad smell, yes," Sara said. "Bad taste, too. But good for the baby." 

Scully wasn't up for a fight, not with Hosteen's strange words
swirling in her mind, swirling with her own niggling worries, the
strangeness of the place. 

"What's in it?" she tried, and Whistler only smiled at her. 

"Trust," she said, and pushed the mug a little closer to Scully. "No
one will hurt you or your baby here." 

Scully looked at Whistler, at that enigmatic smile. 

Trust....

She did trust these people. Hosteen would not let anyone harm her
here. Not even the odd woman in front of her.

With one final look at Mae, who was looking bemused, Scully reached
for the mug and began to drink.



************


29 COOKE STREET 
ISLINGTON 
LONDON, ENGLAND 
1:33 p.m. 


Beneath the window, people from all walks of life milled along the
streets, cars clogging the roadway, cabs and minis and buses, a buzz
of activity everywhere, the sounds of laughter filtering through the
thin glass. Light shone in, illuminating the dust in the heavy air,
swirling in the sunlight. 

Beneath the window, a desk. A trail of cigarette smoke that curled
up into the brightness. The room was thick with it, and it hung in
the air like ghosts. 

Over the noise of the street, two women laughing two stories down,
the sound of scissors, and the rustling of newspaper. Methodical,
slow sounds of cutting. The hand that held the scissors trembled
slightly, trying to make a straight line along the edges of the
article, around the picture, already going yellow from sitting on the
desk in the sunlight. 

Beside the newspapers, a highball glass filled with scotch, the ice
melting. The room smelled like the strong liquid, like the smoke, the
stale smells of a pub. 

The man holding the scissors finished cutting around the picture
that accompanied the article, the picture of another man, heavily
bandaged, holding a handful of tiny roses against his face. The man
in the picture's visible eye was clenched closed, a blanket of
flowers obscuring most the rest of the his body. A blanket on the
dark shape of a coffin. 

The man put the scissors down, held the article up, read the
headline for the hundredth time. 

"No Leads in the Death of FBI Agent in Washington D.C. Car Bombing."

The man did not read the article itself again. At this point, he had
it memorized. Instead, he lay the article down and picked up his
glass, taking a long swallow of the amber whiskey, enjoying the burn
down his throat. The feeling reminded him he was alive at all. 

He pushed his long hair from his face, ran a hand over his dark, too-
long beard. He took a drag off the cigarette, and breathed out into
the cool, stale air. 

The phone sat beside him on the desk. He took one long look at the
picture of the man again, at the tiny lines of text beneath it. Then,
seeming to come to some decision, he picked up the phone and dialed a
number from memory. 

"Scotland Yard," a woman's voice said. "Your extension?"

"Simon Davis," the man said, his voice sounding hoarse and overused.
Though he had not, in fact, spoken for what felt like days. 

"Connecting you now," the prim voice replied, and there was a click. 

The man waited, nursing his scotch and his cigarette in equal turns.
Then the line was picked up, and Simon Davis said his name.

"Simon," the man said. "Been a long time."

A beat of silence, then: "A surprise hearing from you, Ed. How are
you? What have you been up to?"

"Well enough," the man said, responding to the first question. To
the second he said: "Going to the country house, foxhunting. The
usual fare." 

Davis barely managed a laugh, but it sounded forced. "Yeah, that
would be you," he said. A pause. "You're calling for a reason. This
can't be just to chat, after all this time." 

The man pushed his hair back again, leaned forward, his eyes on the
wall in front of him. "It's beginning again."

Another pause from Davis. "I don't know what you mean," he evaded,
and it was so clearly a dodge that the man smiled. 

"Been reading the paper," he said. "I'm sure you have been, too. And
I'd wager a guess that there's been a call for me. Am I right?"

"You're drunk," Davis said by way of answer. "You're even slurring.
I see some things haven't changed." 

"Am I *right*?" the man enunciated carefully, keeping his voice
level. 

"You're right," Davis said after a beat. "The FBI." 

"And you didn't give my number," the man stated. "You shouldn't have
done that."

"Ed, we all decided a long time ago it was time for this to stop for
you. You decided yourself it was time to stop. That's why you let
things go the way you did. That's why you went. And all that's over
now anyway. They've got the wrong idea. Wrong people." 

"No, they don't," He heard the slur himself this time, though he
didn't put the glass down. "The Americans have got the right idea."
He paused, looking at the wall. "It's starting all over again." 

A shifting, as though Davis had switched ears. "Ed, no one's going
to believe you. Not with how you left. You shouldn't be involved
anymore. You have to know that." 

"NO one knows these people the way I do. NO one." His voice rose.
"Don't bloody well tell me you don't believe that." 

"No, you're right," Davis said. "No one does. But you've had enough.
You had enough 10 years ago, and you kept on. Time to lay it down.
Quit reading the paper. It doesn't concern you anymore."

The man considered this for a long moment, his eyes still on the
wall. 

"Call him back and give him my number," he said. 

"Ed--"

"Call him, Simon." He had grown very still, and the silence that
followed stilled him even more. 

"You want your crusade?" Davis said, his voice a cross between
exasperation and sadness. "All right then. I'll call them. I just
hope you know what you're doing, getting back into this. I hope
you're up for it." 

And Davis hung up. 

Ed Renahan sat back in the chair, its springs squeaking in protest
at the movement, and lay the phone down on its cradle, his eyes
scanning the wall.

It was layered with photographs, with newspaper clippings. Dozens of
them neatly pinned and yellowing in the light. Pictures of bodies,
pictures of men. 

At the center, he looked into the face of one man in particular,
staring at the camera with his blue eyes, a scar down his face. Owen
Curran, aware even at the moment the clandestine photo was taken he
was being watched. 

Renahan stared into the face for a long moment, sipped from his
glass. His cigarette had long since burned to ash. 

Finally he stood, picked up two gold pins from the pile on the
corner of the desk. He reached the clipping of the man and the
flowers, lifting it carefully, though he staggered a bit as he leaned
forward. 

He pinned the clipping carefully on the wall beside Owen Curran's
picture, said the name from the caption in his mind, trying it on for
size as he drained his glass, the ice cubes tinkling. 

Fox Mulder...

So strange.

Renahan surveyed the clippings, staring into this man Mulder's face,
settling on it. 

He poured himself another drink.


**********


TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO 
9:16 a.m.



The two had walked in silence the entire mile to Victor Hosteen's
ranch, Sean trailing slightly behind Albert Hosteen, though the old
man had slowed several times to allow the boy to catch up so that
they ended up, at times, walking side by side. 

Hosteen noted that Sean kept his eyes on the ground, his hands
jammed in the pockets of the jacket that Mulder had just bought him
at the Target in Farmington a few days before, the boy and his aunt
and the baby seeming to have few belongings of their own, and nothing
for the cold mornings in the desert here in early spring. Mulder had
bought Sean an Arizona Cardinal's jacket, a gaudy shock of red on
white, but it looked warm enough, and Hosteen was pleased by this. 

Hosteen kept his face forward, but he caught Sean looking up at him
from time to time out of the corner of his eye, but he didn't look
directly back. He didn't want to frighten him any more than he had
to, and Sean was clearly already afraid of him. This troubled
Hosteen, but did not surprise him. 

He'd spent several afternoons on the porch this week in his chair
with his pipe, thinking about the boy, about Sean's life. 

Now it was time to act.

They reached the edge of the property, and Hosteen could see the men
all gathered in the corral, Victor riding the high fence of it,
shouting orders down at the others. 

He noticed immediately, too, that Mulder was not there, and again,
he was not surprised. 

"Grandfather!" Victor called, catching sight of the two of them. He
hopped down from the fence in a cloud of dust, brushing the sand from
his jeans. He smiled down at Sean. 

"Hello, Sean," he said gently, his smile wide. He touched the boy's
head when Sean said nothing in return. 

"You have what you said you would get for me?" Hosteen asked his
grandson, and Victor nodded. 

"Yes," he said. "The barn." He jerked his jaw in that direction, and
Hosteen quirked a small smile in appreciation, put his hand on Sean's
shoulder. 

"Come," he said, and led Sean away toward the barn. 

It was an old barn, the wood so faded it was almost gray. The wide
doors were open, and the air smelled of oat and hay. Several birds
startled up as Hosteen led Sean into the building, going toward a pen
in the back. 

Sean seemed to hang back again, and Hosteen stopped, turned to him. 

"Come and see," he said in his gentlest voice. "You will like it. I
promise." 

Sean eyed him, cocked his head, his hands still in his pockets. 

"Trust," Hosteen said. "Just a little trust." And he held out his
hand.

Sean hesitated, but then slowly started forward toward the pen. 

Hosteen leaned on the low railing, looked in, and Sean came up
beside him, looked into the enclosure, as well. 

An appaloosa pony stood there, chewing lazily on a bit of straw, its
eyes half closed. Its mane reached well below its neck, its black and
white tail swishing softly. 

It opened its eyes and looked at the two of them with its brown eyes. 

Sean's hands came out of his pockets and went around the boards of
the pen, his face pressing over the top. 

Hosteen smiled to himself. It was the most reaction he'd seen from
Sean in a week, since he'd reacted so strongly to seeing Hosteen
himself. 

But this was very different. This wasn't fear. This was something
else entirely. 

"This," he said softly, "is to be yours while you are here." 

Sean turned and looked up at him, his eyes wide. He blinked, and
Hosteen had to keep the smile from blooming on his face at the
reaction. He remained stoic, serious. "A lot to take care of," he
said, shaking his head. 

Sean blinked again, looking from the pony back to Hosteen. He licked
his lips in what Hosteen recognized as a nervous gesture, and also
one of something else. 

Sean wanted the pony. Very badly. It was emanating from him so
clearly that to Hosteen it was like the boy, so dark, was giving off
a low light. 

"Do you think you can take care of the pony while you are here?" he
said, his voice quiet. "Come down here every day. Feed him. Care for
his pen. Care for tack if I give it to you to use. Do you think you
can do that?" 

Sean looked at the pony for another long few seconds, then back up
at Hosteen. 

He nodded. 

And Hosteen smiled, though he hid it quickly. 

"All right," he said, crossing his arms. "The first thing you must
do it come up with a name. He does not have a name. That will be your
first job. The naming." 

Sean looked at him, licked his lips again. He shook his head "no."

"You can do it," Hosteen said, put a hand on Sean's unruly reddish
hair, smoothing it down. "And then we will go from there." 

For once, Sean did not tense when Hosteen touched him. He held
still, his eyes wide and frightened, but bright.


*******

11:10 a.m.



She set off into the desert. 

The sun was climbing, a great white light, as Scully left Hosteen in
the house, watching a History Channel program on the destruction of
Pompeii, the plaster casts of figures too much for her, too much like
burned bodies in their glass cases, the feeling augmented by
Hosteen's curl of pipe smoke from the other side of the room. 

When she'd risen to leave, only his eyes had flicked toward her, his
hand on his pipe in the corner of his mouth, and she'd looked back,
saying nothing, and left the house. 

Now on the trail that led off the property in the back, she walked
slowly, a hand resting on her belly. It was warming up, the desert
going a touch green in the dawning springtime, tiny purple flowers
among the brush. Mostly, though, the land was the color of buckskin,
and reflected the harsh light, making her squint against it as she
stared down at the ground. 

She stepped on hoofprints leading to and from the house, deep Us in
the ground, Ghost's footprints. Or so she imagined. She remembered so
vividly sitting on the gray horse, the sun going down, all that time
ago, almost drowsing on his back as she'd come in from the desert,
her demons burned down with the fire she'd left so far in the
distance the night before she'd ridden back to Hosteen's home. 

She was chasing demons again this time. But they were not her own. 

Instinct. That's what she was following. It was like following a
thread, the one that connected her to him. 

She walked for what felt like a long time, the structure behind her
disappearing in the distance, the only sounds her footsteps, her
breath. She tired easily, and the walk seemed very long. 

Then she saw it in the distance. A white shape, the trailer she'd
stayed in so long ago. She could see from where she was that the door
was open. 

The firepit was filled with charred logs, burned to white. The same
chairs sat outside it, and it looked just as old and tired as it had
then. Just as private. It was this latter sense of the place that
made her stop at the open door and tap lightly on the metal side. 

"Mulder?" she called softly, her voice sounding loud in all the
quiet. Only wind answered her for a few seconds, sand billowing in
the breeze. Then, over it, she heard her name, then his soft voice
telling her to come in. 

She climbed the steps carefully, the trailer creaking with even her
slight weight. The room she entered smelled of bacon grease and dust. 

Mulder sat on the edge of the bed, the same as he had when she'd
awoken that morning, before they'd made love, his back that same
curve, his elbows on his knees. He drew himself up as he turned his
face from where it faced forward, staring at the window, and looked
at her with his dark eyes. 

He looked older to her somehow. The set of his face. 

She said nothing, simply closed the space between them, moving to
stand in front of him. He parted his knees a bit wider and reached
out, his hands on the small of her back, and drew her forward a step
to stand between them. Her hands went to the back of his neck and he
leaned forward, his forehead on her collarbone. She heard him breathe
out a sigh, but it did not sound like relief.

She stroked his hair in the silence that followed. Bo, on the floor
in the corner, watched them with his wet eyes, looking as worried as
she felt. 

Mulder's grip on her tightened, his hands going to her shoulder
blades. His legs closed around her thighs with a gentle pressure, and
his head began to move side to side, his mouth brushing her breasts
through the material of her shirt. 

She felt the urgency growing in him, urgent like the morning when
he'd kissed her, his hands pulling her tight against his face. His
mouth opened and she felt his teeth graze her nipple. 

That was when she put her hands on either side of his face, stilling
him, gently urging his face up so she could look into his eyes again. 

She shook her head. No.

He met her eyes, as if looking for rebuke, and she knew he found
none. Finally he nodded, and returned his forehead to her sternum,
still now, her hands bracketing his head.

"Mulder," she said into the silence. "I know."

He breathed out another sigh. "No," he said softly. "You don't."

"Yes," she replied, nodding, though he couldn't see it. She stared
out the window into the desert beyond, steeling herself for the words
she didn't want to speak, but had to speak. And then she said them.

"You have to leave." 

He looked up at her again, and now when she nodded to him, he did
see. He seemed surprised. 

"I can't leave you," he said. "Not like this." His eyes took in her
belly, and he shook his head. 

"I'm safe here," she said quietly. " And the baby and I are both
fine." 

"But--"

She shook her head. "I can feel it. You can feel it. You can't stay
here. Not this time. This time is different."

"Scully--"

She held his gaze. "Mulder, you can't change who you are," she said
firmly, though her voice was heavy. "I don't *want* you to change.
Not even for me. It's eating away at you. I can feel how conflicted
you are. You want to stay to protect me, and you want to leave to
protect me, and you don't know which is the right thing to do."

He nodded. "Yes." 

She stroked the hair at his temples. "You know which is the thing
you need to do for *you.* And this is a time when I want that to be
what you listen to."

He swallowed. "You sound like you want me to go," he said, his voice
sad. 

She shook her head. "No," she said. "No." And now her eyes burned,
welling. "I don't ever want to be away from you. You have to know
that by now." 

She took in the room, the desolate space, remembered herself, alone,
on the same mattress, how empty she'd felt as she'd watched the sun
through the windows for those weeks, learning to listen for the sound
of hooves, learning to come back to herself and, eventually, to him. 

He was watching her as she looked around, and seemed to know what
she was feeling, because he nodded. Here he was coming back to
himself, as well. 

"Scully, I..." His hands came down and around now, stroking her
waist, his thumbs on the sides of her abdomen. "I keep
thinking...about Rose."

"Tell me," she murmured. 

She looked at him, waiting, knowing he would speak when he found the
words, and she wanted to hear them.

He looked down. "I don't know if I can tell you what the idea of
being a father has done to me. I think about...the life I want her to
have, that I want us to have with her." 

He met her gaze again, and she saw the beginning of tears.

"I feel...like the rest of my life was to get me ready for what I've
built with you. The life we'll have with her. And someone's taking
that away from me, from us. I want that life back. More than
anything, I want it back. I'll do anything to protect it."

She stroked at his temples, feeling something both harden and soften
within her. When she spoke, her voice was quiet and firm.

"Then take that life back." 

He shook his head, resisting. "I don't want you to be alone," he
replied. "I can't stand to think of leaving you." 

She nodded. "I know. But Mulder, sometimes...to protect the things
we love, we have do things that we don't want to do. Sometimes to
protect we have to hide, and sometimes we have to fight." 

She watched his face, the resolve dawning in it as she continued.
"For the life we have, for Rose, I'm willing to hide, even though
it's not what I want." 

She leaned forward, kissed his forehead, watched his eyes flutter
closed, his lashes wet. 

"And you..." she said. "You know what you have to do. For her. For
me. And for yourself." 

She leaned down, his eyes opening. She kissed him, pulled back
enough to meet his intense gaze. 

"Fight," she whispered fiercely. "Fight."



***********

FBI HEADQUARTERS 
WASHINGTON, D.C. 
12:16 p.m.


The phone was ringing now, the strange double rings of a European
phone line. Skinner listened to the static playing on the line and
hoped the connection would be all right as he looked at Granger
sitting in the chair across from him. Granger had a phone up to his
ear, as well, another phone on the same extension, his ankle on his
knee, but his clenched hands in his lap belying the younger man's
tension. That and the set of his eyes, his brows squinted down. 

They were gambling here on the only lead they had. The man from
Scotland Yard who'd called, Davis, had made it seem uncertain,
evading questions about this Renahan, his status. His state. Davis
had simply given out the phone number and hurried off the line as
though he were late for a date. 

The phone continued to ring. Five times. Six. 

Then it was picked up, the sound of fumbling, then a very British
accent. A tired voice full of breath.

"Yeah...Renahan..."

Skinner's eye met Granger's as he spoke, as Granger listened.

"Mr. Renahan, this is Assistant Director Walter Skinner from the FBI
in Washington. I got your number from--"

"From Davis, yes," Renahan said, more clearly now. He sounded
groggy, but was coming around.

"I'm sorry if I've disturbed you, sir," Skinner said. "If you were
asleep. I know it's later there and--" 

"No, no," the other voice hurried in. "Just...resting." He cleared
his throat. "FBI, you say?"

"Yes," Skinner said, leaning on his desk. "I'm calling--"

"You're calling about the bombs. The ones there in Washington." 

Skinner grew still, as did Granger. 

"Yes," Skinner said softly. "I assume Mr. Davis spoke to you about
my inquiry and--"

"No, Davis didn't tell me. I knew already. Reading the papers and
such." The man cleared his throat again. His accent was as thick as
his deep voice, and just as rich.

"Ah, I see," Skinner said. "Mr. Renahan, I'm calling because--"

"Because you've got an Irish problem on your hands," Renahan
interrupted. Skinner thought he heard a slight slur now, more than
fatigue. "A Path problem, I think. Going after that agent of yours,
the woman who was killed. The woman who got Owen Curran killed. Or so
some may think."

"You sound sure of all that," Skinner said, and saw Granger lean
forward slightly in his chair, his eyebrows climbing, the phone
pressed to his ear.

"Oh, I'm sure all right," Renahan replied. His voice was far away,
almost monotone. "I know these people. Better than they know
themselves. I know the things they would do, and revenge is the one
thing that's been driving them these past years since the peace. It
holds them together, those that are still holding together. Revenge
against each other, against people doing too much talking, for
starters. And then revenge against anyone who cost them. Your agent
cost some of them a lot." 

Skinner listened to the strange tenor in the man's voice, the
certainty in it. The weariness.

"We agree with your assessment, of course," Skinner said.

"And what is it that makes *you* so sure of it, Mr. Skinner?"
Renahan asked, sounding genuinely curious. "Why not the usual
suspects?" 

"Anyone else would want to simply terrorize," Skinner replied. "This
was very calculated. Two bombs where Agent Scully was in close
proximity, one in her car. It's too much of a coincidence."

"You're right," the other man said. "It is. But there's something
else, some other reason you're not saying." 

Definitely a slur there. Skinner pursed his lips, looked at Granger.
Granger heard it, too. Skinner could see it on his face. He nodded to
Skinner, his assessment of the other man telling him to tell Skinner
to talk. Skinner nodded back. 

"We have Mae Curran," he said. 

A pause. "Mae Curran is alive?" 

"Yes, and in our custody. There was another bombing, this one in
Australia where she was hiding with her husband and daughter and Owen
Curran's son. Her husband was killed." 

"Another car bomb."

"Yes." 

A longer beat of silence. Skinner and Granger waited, exchanging a
look. 

"It's not mainstream IRA," Renahan said at last. An edge had entered
his voice, some energy. "None of them would go after Mae. Must be
some Path left somewhere, though I'd thought they were all dead. That
drug business and a few hits. There weren't many to begin with." 

Granger nodded to Skinner, urging him to continue, which he did.

"She gave us a name of a contact here in the States. He's the one
who gave us your name. This man seemed to think that it has some
connection to John Fagan, since both Mae and Agent Scully were
implicated in his death." 

"'The Bogey Man' himself," Renahan said, dark amusement in his
voice. "He was on the Nutting Squad before he turned up with the
Currans. Used to police the IRA. I'm not sure of that, but that's
what I suspect...one of the worst, that one. The worst sort..." He
trailed off, as though thinking. 

Skinner leaned back in his chair. "Mr. Renahan, we're prepared to
fly you to the States and compensate you for consulting with us on
the case."

A silence. Then Renahan did something that neither Skinner nor
Granger expected. 

He laughed. 

"You think the people doing this are still in the States?" he said.
"No, Mr. Skinner. Whoever did this will run home as fast as he can,
his job done there. If he's looking for Mae, he'll do it from home,
not look for her there. They never stay away from even their
hometowns for long over there. It's not their way. That's why this
couldn't be IRA in the first place. They'd never strike that far from
home. Path, yes. IRA, no." 

"So what would you suggest would be the best course of action at
this juncture?" Skinner said, treading carefully. "You say you know
these people, and I believe you do. What should we do?"

Renahan drew in a breath. "You want to find the Irish, Mr. Skinner?
You come to Ireland." 

Skinner looked at Granger, who looked surprised. 

"Surely we could have local authorities look into the matter--"

But Renahan laughed again. 

"This is your fight, Mr. Skinner. No Irish police are going to help
you protect Mae Curran, and they could give bloody hell about your
agent, as well. You'll have to come yourself. As for me, I'll meet
you there. I've got a lot of contacts. Even now. People who might do
some talking. We'll crawl through it together." 

Skinner considered this, thinking over his options. Granger seemed
to be doing the same thing, and he was nodding.

"I'll go," Granger mouthed. 

Skinner thought about it. About Mulder and Scully at the Hosteen's.
About the silent boy and the blonde baby he'd seen playing on the
floor. 

He thought about the other agents who had died. Glickman. The
others. All those people at the hotel. The restaurant.

Finally, Skinner nodded. "All right," he said. "I'll come see what
you have to show me. Me and another member of the FBI."

"Who's that then?" Renahan asked immediately. 

"A civilian working with the Bureau. A profiler named Paul Granger." 

"The black bloke?" Renahan replied after a beat. 

Skinner and Granger exchanged surprised looks. 

"Yes, he's black," Skinner said, puzzled and a bit peeved. "How did
you know--?"

"Because I'm looking at his picture right now. Standing next to you.
I'm looking at your picture." 

Skinner's eyes widened, and he leaned forward. "I see," he said
noncommitedly. 

He reached for a pen, scribbled something on a pad on his desk, held
it up for Granger to see. 

It said: "Medical Leave, my ass." 

Granger smirked, nodding.

"Granger can't come," Renahan said firmly. "Nothing personal against
him, mind you, but he'd draw too much attention to us. Stand out too
much. Bring someone else if you have to." 

"There's no one else to bring," Skinner said, putting the pad down.
"I'll come alone then."

"What about this agent's husband, this...Agent Mulder. How bad is he
hurt? Can he travel?" 

"No, he can't," Skinner said immediately.

"A shame, that," Renahan said softly. "He would be good to have
along. Makes it personal for the people we'll meet. The grieving
husband and all that. Personal in a way they can understand." 

"He can't come," Skinner replied firmly. "It'll just be me. We'll
coordinate the local authorities as we need them, whether they want
to do it or not."

Renahan sighed. "All right," he said. "I'll go to Belfast. I'll be
there tomorrow, and I'll start some looking around. When can you meet
me?"

Skinner considered. "Give me a couple of days to put things on hold
here so I can get away. I'll come on Friday."

"Go to The Hanged Man, a pub. I'll be staying in one of the rooms
over it. You can find me there."

"Mr. Renahan," Skinner jumped in, hearing the dismissal in Renahan's
tone. "I have to ask...your status with Scotland Yard..."

"That's got nothing to do with this, Mr. Skinner," the other man
replied, a touch of anger in his voice. "You'll have to take me as I
come. Those are my terms for helping you. Agreed?"

Granger looked at Skinner again. After a beat, he angled his head. 

Take the terms, he said with his eyes, and Skinner gnawed his lip,
but nodded. 

"Agreed," he said. 

And Renahan hung up. 

Granger leaned forward, replaced the phone on the cradle on the edge
of the desk. Skinner did the same with his own, then took his glasses
off, rubbing at his eyes. 

"Jesus Christ," he said, still rubbing. "What the hell have I
stepped in this time?"

"Whatever it is," Granger replied, "it certainly has a stink." 

Skinner replaced his glasses, pinned the other man with his eyes.
"I'm so sorry you can't go with me," he said sardonically. "I mean
after all, who would want to pass this up? A trip to Ireland to go
pub crawling with some crazy sonofabitch wash-up cop." He shook his
head. 

"You said you'd do what you had to do to get to the bottom of this,"
Granger said quietly. "That's what you told Rosen this morning. This
is the only lead we've got. And crazy or not, everything he said made
sense. He knows this case. He knows these people." 

"He was drunk!" Skinner exclaimed, waving at the phone as if to shoo
it away.

"Yes, but he was RIGHT," Granger replied firmly. 

Skinner looked down. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, he was. God help me." 

Granger rose from his seat. "I'm going to do some more looking, see
what I can scare up about this guy with the boys from
Counterterrorism. And I'll call Mulder. Tell him what we've got."

Skinner stood, as well. "I'm heading up to Rosen to get cleared for
this. It's going to take some string-pulling to make all this look
neat. It's damned irregular. All of it."

Granger smiled. "He'll make it look all right. Even he knows this is
all we've got."

Skinner watched him go, listened to the soft close of the door
behind him. 

He stood for a long time, looked around his office, thinking,
letting it all sink in. 

The picture of Ashcroft... 

The shelves of books...

The silver pen on the blotter... 

The two empty chairs in front of the desk. 

He wiped his hand over his bald pate, a bitter laugh coming. 

"Ireland..." he said ruefully. "Shit..." And he shook his head again. 



**********

TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO 
2:21 p.m.


Mulder sat before the flickering television, news streaming by on
MSNBC, a can of Coke in his hand. It was warming up in the house, and
he was glad for this, considering how cold the room had been in the
morning. It would be warmer in the bedroom now, warmer for Scully,
who'd lain down with Bo for a nap. 

They'd spent awhile after their talk walking the desert behind the
trailer, walking holding hands. They rarely did this, and it reminded
him of something they would do on a date, had they ever really dated.
The thought made him smile a bittersweet smile, the memory of her
small hand in his, then his arm over her shoulder, her body pressed
against his as they'd walked. 

He'd felt himself beginning to both knot and unknot as he'd walked
with her, feeling simultaneously better and somehow worse as they'd
gone further away from the house. They'd spoken little, words seeming
unnecessary. 

They'd stopped and kissed for a long time at the foot of a steep
rise, then turned and went back the way they'd come, Scully looking
tired. He was relieved he hadn't had to urge her toward a nap once
they'd returned to the empty house.

Now the screen door creaked open and the wooden door swung in,
admitting Albert Hosteen, looking a bit windblown, his long hair over
his shoulders and a knowing look on his face.

"Mr. Hosteen," he said, taking a swig of his soda, trying to appear
nonchalant. 

Hosteen regarded him for a long moment, glancing down the hallway
toward where Scully lay asleep. 

"Hm," Hosteen said, nodding. 

"What?" Mulder asked.

"You are leaving," Hosteen said.

Mulder didn't know why he was surprised, but he was. 

"Yes," he said after a beat. "I'm going back to Washington. I made
the reservations a little while ago."

Hosteen smiled gently. "A hard decision for you, I know. For both of
you. But the right thing for you to do." 

Mulder nodded, looked down, feeling exposed. "Yes," he said. "It
was. It is." 

Hosteen entered the room now, took his seat in the corner, where he
always sat, his pipe and tobacco on a small TV table by the chair's
worn upholstered arm. 

"I do not need to tell you that everything will be done to keep her
safe here," he said, picking up the pipe. 

Mulder shook his head, smiled faintly. "No, you don't need to tell
me that. I know you'll do everything you can. I know she's safe here.
That's one of the reasons I know it's all right for me to go." 

Hosteen stuffed the pipe, tapping the tobacco down with his
calloused thumb. "The time alone will be good for her, as well. She
has some things to think on, I should think." He lit the pipe. 

Mulder remembered Katherine in the kitchen, the splatter of grease,
the child's surprised cry. Scully's voice as she'd withdrawn from
them all. He'd seen Hosteen's face when she left, seen the look on
the old man's face. 

He knew. About the visions and the dreams. 

Mulder swallowed. "Yes," he said again. "Yes, she does." 

Sweet-smelling smoke drifted toward him, riding the light coming in
the window. The room now seemed very warm. 

The phone rang, and Hosteen pushed himself up, going for the phone
in the kitchen. Mulder watched him go, still thinking about Scully,
Hosteen knowing. What it all meant, or could mean...

"Agent Mulder," Hosteen said from the kitchen. He held the receiver
out toward Mulder. "It is Paul Granger. For you." 

Mulder rose, feeling a rush of nerves. He hadn't called to tell them
he was returning. He didn't know what they would say. 

He met Hosteen in the kitchen, the two men passing as Hosteen handed
off the phone. 

"Granger," Mulder said softly.

"Mulder, how's Scully?" Granger replied. 

"She's okay," Mulder said. "She's asleep. I think it's going to take
a little more time."

"I hope so. Are you ready for this?"

Mulder felt his nerves go up another notch. "What? What have you
got?" 

He listened intently as Granger relayed the conversation with
Renahan, the things the man had said, the way he'd seemed. Mulder
found himself tensing the more he heard, the more pieces began to
fall into place in the puzzle they'd been trying to put together,
pieces Renahan and -- just today -- Mae were providing. 

A lot of pieces still missing. 

"....so Skinner got cleared this afternoon to go to Belfast, to work
with this guy with his contacts there. He's leaving on Friday morning
first thing. Rosen told him to go this afternoon." 

"You're going with him, I assume?"

"No," Granger said softly. "Apparently I can't pass for anyone's
'cousin Seamus,' so Renahan wants me to stay away. I'm disappointed,
but I understand." 

Mulder stood still, thinking. 

He knew what he had to do.

"Tell Skinner..." he said, his voice quiet. "Tell him I'm coming
with him." 

The silence he expected. 

"What?" Granger said at last. "You're not serious." 

"I am," Mulder replied. "Scully and I spent the morning talking
about it. I was coming back to D.C. anyway, to help out any way I
could. Now I know how I'm going to do that." 

Another silence, this one not expected. He wondered for a moment if
Granger was going to try to talk him out of it. 

What he *did* say took Mulder completely off guard.

"Then I'm going to come out there," Granger said softly. "Help watch
over things." 

Mulder stood still, watching Hosteen watching him. A puff of smoke
came out of the corner of the elder man's lips, obscuring his face
except for his eyes.

"I can't ask you to do that," Mulder said after a beat. 

"You didn't ask me," Granger replied. "I'm offering. There needs to
be at least two people there, another gun." 

"But to leave Robin like that..." Mulder tried.

"She can come out and stay for a little while. She'll understand.
Dana is her friend, too. She'll want her as protected as I do."

"Granger, I..." Mulder trailed off. He didn't know what to say.
Granger was his friend. Scully's friend. Mulder couldn't have asked
for the help, but he appreciated it more than he could say. 

"I know," Granger replied. "You don't have to say anything. I just
want to do what little I can." 

"I..." Mulder tried again. Then he let out a breath, and said the
only words he could think of. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Granger replied. "I'll come as fast as I can. And
I'll tell Skinner you're on your way." 

Mulder looked at Hosteen as he hung up the phone. He started to
speak but couldn't.

And Hosteen, puffing on his pipe, smiled.


*******

SOUTHWEST AIRLINES 
FLIGHT 1359 
SOMEWHERE OVER THE MIDWEST 
MARCH 17
11:31 a.m.


He was seated over the silver wing, enough a view over its rounded
edge to see the landscape below the plane, thousands of feet down,
the burnt tan ground of the desert finally giving way to some green
now, the circular farms of Kansas or Nebraska, boxes of roads around
the farmland, too high to make out anything but the green, and the
clear blue of the sky around the plane, dotted with high thin clouds
that streamed by the wing. 

The plane was fairly silent, everyone reading or watching the film
on the small screens that had swung down from the ceilings, things
blowing up on the tiny monitors. He had no headset, so he couldn't
hear the sounds, and for that he was thankful. Instead, he'd aimed
his face out the window, watching, ignoring even the flight
attendants with their drink and food carts, his tray table down on
his lap but empty. 

He looked like any other traveler, he supposed. Worn jeans, a long-
sleeved white T shirt to chase away the plane's persistent chill. His
jeans jacket was balled beneath the seat in front of him. He had a
suitcase in the overhead, a duffle of T-shirts and more jeans, his
boots. The rest of his clothes were in the cargo hold beneath.

He would not unpack the bags when he arrived in Washington. They
would go straight onto another plane that night, bound for Ireland. 

Only one article of his clothing had remained behind at the
Hosteen's -- his Yankee's sweatshirt, faded blue and the team's
insignia worn off the front. He'd left it because Scully had put it
on when he'd left the shower that morning, laying claim to it, her
hands vanishing in the sleeves, the rest of it pulled over her bare
body to her hips. The blankets covered the rest of her, making her
look small beneath the covers, lonely on the full-sized bed. 

She'd watched him dress, put the last of his things into his
suitcase -- his shaving kit, a bottle of shampoo. Her eyes followed
him as he moved around the room, but she said nothing, her hands,
within the sweatshirt, curled in front of her face, hiding everything
but the bridge of her nose and her wide blue eyes. 

Her eyes...

There on the plane, he closed his own eyes, remembering how they
looked as the sun had begun to come up, him on his back, Scully
astride him, her knees bracketing his hips, her hands on his waist as
she moved, her hips pushing, his own rising and falling beneath her
in a careful rhythm. He'd watched a bead of sweat travel down between
her full breasts, watched it as it moved down her chest and over the
rise of her belly. He'd reached out then, smoothing it over the mound
with his thumb, his hand stroking over the baby, then down between
her legs, teasing through the curls there, feeling where their bodies
were joined, the heat. 

So much he wanted to say to her. So much. Words seemed meaningless
in the face of what he wanted to convey. The goodbye he needed to
say, a word he had never been good at saying, and had never said to
her this way. 

So, he met her eyes, listened to her breath, his own labored,
answering hers. He clenched a hand around her hip, guiding her, and
said goodbye with his body instead. 

No sound but their breath in the quiet of the house. 

He bit down on his lip as the pleasure began to build in him, her
own body stiffening, her head back, her hair against her shoulders,
damp strands of red. 

When he came, he pulled her forward, draping her small frame over
his, her hands on his shoulders as their lips met and held. He tasted
her, the sweetness of her mouth, the warmth of her like bread. He
swore he could feel her everywhere -- in the battering of his heart
against his chest, the tingle in his belly, the lingering of all
they'd made. 

It was over too quickly for him, but it was enough. He'd said what
he needed to say. Once he'd situated her on the bed beside him, he
kissed her once more and sat up, on the edge of the bed, gathered his
sweatpants, and headed from the room to rest of the house, which
smelled of dust. 

His eyes burned as he looked into the sunlight out the airplane's
thick window, the sun streaming in onto his body, warm.

Warm as her hand on his thigh as he'd finished dressing, the
suitcases by the door. Her eyes were still on his, though she said
nothing. The mattress dipped, creaking, as he sat on the edge of it,
in the curve of her where she lay on her side facing him, and her
hand slid up onto his back. 

"I'll see you," he'd said, forcing the weakest of smiles, which she
did not return. Instead, she sat up to meet his lips again, and he
expected, when he pulled away, to see tears. There were none, her
head bowed against his chest. 

"Try to go back to sleep," he whispered, and angled her back down on
the bed. "I don't want you to get up and watch me go. I want to
remember you here. Like this." 

She nodded, settling back down on the pillow, the sweatshirt
swallowing her. Dutifully, she closed her eyes, let out a shaking
breath. 

He'd leaned down then, lifting the sweatshirt slightly to get to her
skin, cupped the baby between his hands. He pressed a long kiss to
the center of her belly, rubbed it with his cheek, her hand on the
back of his head, moving through his hair. 

Then a kiss on her forehead. 

No goodbyes. 

He went for the door, Bo rising from his place on the rug to follow
him as he went for the suitcases. He reached down and touched the
dog's soft head, stroked back a long ear. 

"Stay," he said softly. "Stay." 

The dog whined softly in return, looking uncertain, but he obeyed.

Then he was out the door with his bags to where Victor Hosteen
waited in his pickup to take him to Farmington, the truck rumbling
faintly, puffing out steam into the morning air. 

There on the plane, he closed his eyes again, let out a breath. The
picture of her on the bed was burned into his memory, the way she'd
turned her head into the pillow as he'd gone out the door, her hair
curtaining her face. 

That was what he'd take with him, to what already felt like light-
years away. 

He looked out at the wing, the silver of it slicing through the high
thin air. He pictured the jet-trail, white cloud of motion,
stretching, pulling thin, leaving everything he had and loved on the
burnt ground behind him.


****

WASHINGTON DULLES INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT 
OUTSIDE WASHINGTON, D.C.
3:32 p.m.



"Hey there, Papa."

Mulder turned from where he'd been hefting his suitcase off the
baggage carousel to find Frohike standing behind him, his black
leather jacket and rumpled black jeans and shirt making him look like
an aged Black Sabbath fan just in from a concert. The two-days growth
of beard didn't help the look much. Nor did the fingerless gloves. 

Mulder felt his lip curl at the greeting, which Frohike returned, a
wan smile that did not touch his eyes. 

"Frohike," Mulder replied, lifting the bag. Frohike reached down and
took the smaller one, threw it over his slight shoulder. 

"Come on," the short man said, gesturing toward the door. "The van's
out front. Langley's been circling. Too cheap to park." 

"Thanks," Mulder said, and followed him out through the throng of
people from the afternoon flights. 

"I hope you don't need to go to your house," Frohike said as they
hit the sliding double doors. "Byers went and checked it out this
morning. There's still a reporter snooping around there. Sonofabitch
can't even make a good attempt at hiding himself, either. Sitting
around in a Channel 8 van right outside the door." 

"No," Mulder said as they came out into the bright sunlight. There
was a slight nip in the air still. Still early spring. "I've got
everything I need from the house." He didn't want to say what he
knew, though -- he didn't want to have to go back there, to his and
Scully's house and find it so empty, the box with the white-wood crib
in it leaned up against the wall in the corner of the spare bedroom,
everything still and quiet.

"We're keeping an eye on it for you," Frohike said, as if reading
his thoughts, and then he stepped on the curb, waving his gloved hand
out as a beat-up Volkswagen van came sputtering up along the front of
the airport, weaving in and out of parked cars. 

Finally it pulled up beside them, the side door sliding open with a
creak of thin metal on metal. Byers stood there, in his usual suit
and tie, his neatly trimmed beard, his eyes darting to the sides then
settling on Mulder, taking in his face.

"You're looking better," he said, reached out and took the
suitcases, moving them into the back as Mulder and Frohike climbed
into the van and slid the door shut. 

"Thanks," Mulder said, settling onto a bench seat that had been
pushed up against the side of the van. He'd forgotten about his face
completely, the cuts on it, the bruising. He rubbed his hand over it
as if to wipe them away. "I'm healing up." 

Langley gave him a crooked, friendly smile, then returned his gaze
to the side-view mirror, revving the van up.

"How's Scully?" Byers asked, his soft voice hedged with concern.
Frohike was moving around to take the passenger seat, Langley gunning
the tired engine to merge into the traffic. 

"She's okay," Mulder said, just as quietly. "She's getting around
now. The ribs aren't bothering her as much, though she's still
bruised pretty badly." 

"And the sprout?" Frohike asked. 

Mulder smiled despite himself. "Seems to be doing all right. Scully
says she moves a lot, though I can't feel it yet myself." 

The thought blind-sided him, made him ache. 

Would he ever be able to feel it? He didn't know how long this would
take, how long he would be gone from her, how much he would miss. The
thought of not being able to feel his daughter's movements beneath
his hand as she grew pained him. 

He pushed it away, staring out the window. 

"Granger and Skinner are meeting us back at our place in a couple of
hours," Frohike said. "Going over what we've found so far. It's taken
some looking but we've got a few things for you. And we've cooked up
a little something special."

"What is it?"

The three men exchanged looks, and Frohike turned and winked at
Mulder. 

"It's a surprise," he said, and he reached over and flicked on the
van's tape player, The Ramones blaring out of the chintzy speaker,
drowning out Mulder's reply. 


*****


UNDISCLOSED LOCATION 
TAKOMA PARK, MARYLAND 
5:46 p.m.


Mulder was on the beat-up, over-stuffed couch, straight from a
thrift store and a recent acquisition, as near as he could figure, a
piece of pizza in his hand, when the knock came at the door to the
Gunmen's lair. Frohike, who'd been fiddling with something on the
nearest computer screen, rose and went to the door, having to stand
on his tip toes to look through the fish-eye peephole. 

The other two men, more paranoid than Mulder would ever be (for
which he was thankful), tensed where they were sitting, the soft
sounds of CCR the only sound in the room for a few seconds as Frohike
began undoing the many locks on the door. When he swung the thick
door open onto the alley beyond, Skinner and Granger were standing
there, both in casual clothes, their jackets open. 

"Hail, hail, the gang's all here," Mulder said, putting the slice
down and rising, wiping his hands on the legs of his jeans as he
reached a hand toward Skinner and Granger, which they both shook.
Frohike was busying himself with relocking the door after having
scanned the alley, as though the two men might have been followed. 

"Mulder," Skinner grunted. "You're looking better. I hope Scully's
made some progress, too." 

"She has," Mulder replied, and noted Granger's wan smile. He was
holding his arm at the same guarded angle against his side, looking
stiff.

"Physical therapy today?" he said, and Granger nodded. 

"Yeah," the other man replied. "Didn't go so well, but it's the last
for awhile, and I'm glad." 

"We haven't got much time," Skinner said, this time to the room.
"We've got to be cleared to have our guns on the plane, so we've got
to get there early. Flight leaves at nine."

Mulder was wearing his Sig again, feeling, for the first time in
awhile, very FBI. He noted Granger was wearing his, as well, as the
younger man carefully took off his jacket and laid it on the couch,
his Ruger shining silver in the light. 

"When's your flight?" he asked.

"Same time as yours," Granger replied. "I'm staying the night in
Albuquerque, then catching the puddle-jumper to Farmington in the
morning. I'm going straight there from here. I've already said my
goodbyes." 

Mulder nodded, noted the lilt in Granger's voice at the mention of
the parting with Robin. He was sorry for it, and said so.

"It's okay," Granger said, waving him off. "She's coming in a little
while. As soon as she finishes a big case she's working on, a bunch
of tests to get them caught up. I'll see her soon." He turned to
Byers and Langley. "You all said you've got something for me?"

"Yes," Byers said. "But let's go over what we have on Renahan before
we do that." He took a seat at a computer screen, tapped a few keys,
Langley standing beside him. Frohike stood by the door, his arms
crossed over his black shirt, his face serious now, almost grave.
Skinner and Granger sat, Granger on the couch beside Mulder, still
moving slowly. Skinner took the chair Frohike had vacated when he
opened the door. 

"We've done some digging through the files at Scotland Yard," Byers
began. "Some on Owen Curran, trying to find some records of John
Fagan's activities, and as you probably have guessed, we didn't find
much." 

"He was a slick bastard," Frohike said. "Greased. Nothing stuck to
him at all. There are a lot of pictures of him with Curran, and a few
from before that with some known IRA folks in Belfast, but we
couldn't find a damn thing on him. He was arrested one time for
questioning about the death of a suspected IRA member in Newry, but
the cops didn't seem to care too much about the death of a Provo like
that, so they let him go. Nothing on his background at all. A street
address that he gave them, but it's a fake. We checked it out.
There's no such place." 

"Renahan seems to know a little about him," Skinner said. "Said he
was a member of something called 'The Nutting Squad'?" 

"Yeah," Langley said, looking up from the screen, the eerie blue of
the screen reflecting in his horn-rims. "Sort of terrorists within
the terrorists. They kept the IRA in line with themselves, knocking
off people who snitched or didn't follow through with what they said
they were going to do. Kept everything nice and tight. Even the IRA
was afraid of them."

"The IRA was afraid of The Path, too," Byers joined in. "I'm not
surprised Fagan went with them when Curran broke off. Anybody in the
Nutting Squad would be perfect for something a little more radical,
and I'm not surprised Fagan didn't want any part of the peace." 

"We'll keep digging, see what we can find out," Frohike said. "Our
guess is that he's using some kind of alias, as I think you're aware.
Not that surprising. We'll do what we can to find out what his real
name is, and that will help us possibly figure out who might still be
out there who might have a grudge."

Mulder nodded. "What about this guy Renahan?" he asked. "What did
you find out about him?"

"An absolute genius of an investigator," Byers said, admiration in
his voice. "He got people to talk to him who nobody else could,
apparently, though I shudder to think how he did it. He knew nearly
everything about the IRA. Its members, most of their inner structure.
By the time the peace came he had it all basically mapped out, who
was who and what was what. But, like so much surrounding terrorism,
he couldn't pin many specific terrorist activities on individuals, so
there weren't a lot of arrests when all was said and done. He knows a
lot, though. He should be a big help to you."

"If..." Frohike ventured, and Mulder, Granger and Skinner turned to
look at him.

"'If' what?" Skinner said, shaking his head in confusion.

"If he's not out of his freaking mind at this point," Langley said,
and tapped on the screen. A face appeared on it, a hard looking man
with a beard and eyes like flint. It looked like a mug shot, which,
Mulder realized, it was. 

"He was the best Scotland Yard had until about five years ago,"
Byers said. "Then...well, the wheels seemed to come off the wagon.
Right after the peace accord was signed. Started getting picked up
for being drunk in public. Several assaults. One domestic dispute
that turned ugly. He was formally reprimanded several times by
Scotland Yard, put on light duty. Finally they had to get rid of him,
though I think his exemplary record kept him from being ousted
completely. So it's listed as 'medical leave' on the official
records."

"He sounded drunk when I talked to him on the phone," Skinner said,
shaking his head. 

"Yeah, that's our guess," Frohike said. "That he's a complete lush
at this point. An embarrassment to the force, but still knows enough
that they want to keep him around. We checked his tax returns -- he's
still drawing pay from Scotland Yard. No family. No nothing. He lives
in a tiny apartment in London. Not much else to him, besides an
occasional arrest for being drunk and disorderly." 

"Not much to him except the IRA," Langley said. "He spent his whole
life investigating them, moving back and forth between London and
Belfast and Dublin." 

Mulder chewed his lip, considering this. For a man like Renahan,
peace would be difficult to take. 

"When war's your whole life," Granger said, breaking his thoughts,
"and the war's over, there's not much left for a soldier to do, is
there?"

They all seemed to consider this for a beat, Mulder still gnawing
his lip, thinking. He knew about causes. He knew about crusades. 

He wondered, if he didn't have Scully to ground him, if something
similar might become of him, as well. 

"That's what we've got so far," Frohike said, moving around to get
another piece of pizza from the grease-stained box on the edge of a
desk. "We'll have more as you give us more names. We've been checking
Immigration Records, too -- Irish citizens coming in and out of the
U.S. around the times of the first bombing and the second at the
hotel, but nobody's pinged up anything yet. Nobody with IRA ties at
all in the databases." 

"Very good," Skinner said, looking grim. "Though it's not a lot to
go on at this point. We've got a lot of work ahead of us, and we
can't be sure this guy Renahan is going to be any fucking help at
all, the state he's in." 

"He's the best you're going to get over there," Frohike said,
talking around a mouthful of pizza. "He'll turn up something. I bet
you anything." 

"So," Mulder said. "What's this surprise you've got in store for me?" 

The Gunmen looked at each other, looking pleased with themselves.

"Surprise?" Skinner said, his brow squinting down.

"Yeah, we've been cooking something up for you." Frohike finished
stuffing the slice in his mouth and went to the corner of the desk
where two laptops sat, two brand-new looking iBooks, their silver-
grey cases shining. 

"We did some thinking on how this person knew Scully was leaving the
hotel when she was," Byers said, swiveling toward Mulder. "The only
thing we can figure is that the phone calls you said you and Scully
made the night before, when you decided on the time to pick her up,
were being monitored." 

"My cell phone?" Mulder asked. "How the hell would someone know to
do that?"

"Near as we can figure," Langley piped up, "someone must have hacked
into the FBI and gotten a finger on your signal. Found the right
frequency and started listening in." 

Mulder turned to Skinner. "You have a record of our cell phone
frequencies?" he asked, and Skinner looked a little uncomfortable.

"Yes," he said. "All the FBI-issued phones' frequencies are
recorded. In case they ever need to be traced. It's a standard
security protocol." He glared at the Gunmen. "Though not one we
publicize." 

"Well, someone knew about it," Frohike said. "That's probably how he
figured out where you all would be eating that night, too. I bet you
made the reservations at the Thai place over the phone, too?" 

Mulder nodded. "Yes," he said. "From the car. On the way home that
night." 

"You're going to have to leave your phone here with us," Byers said. 

"We'll get him another one," Skinner said firmly. "And won't record
the frequency." 

"We can't risk it," Mulder said, peeved. "Who's to say I wouldn't be
watched somewhere using it and someone could trace the signal right
where I was standing? Who knows who could be watching?"

"My guess," Frohike said gravely, "is that you take a cell phone and
turn it on in Ireland, someone's eventually going to figure out
you're there, that you're snooping around. And if you try to contact
Scully in New Mexico with it, they'll know where she is, and that
she's alive. And she can't use one there, either."

"They don't work on the reservation anyway," Mulder said. "It's a
'no signal' zone. Only the land lines work in the houses." 

"Good," Byers said. "They don't know where she is, so they won't
know to go looking there, not that they'll be looking for her at all.
And Mae Curran will be safe, as well." 

Mulder nodded to the laptops. "So what are those?" he asked. 

Frohike smiled. "Your lifeline, compadre," he said, and laid the
laptop in Mulder's hands.

Mulder looked at it, shook his head, not understanding.

"Satellite modems in both of them," Langley said. "Untraceable. We
thought you might like a way to communicate with Scully without there
being any way for you to be traced. We'll give one to Granger to take
to Scully, and you can take one with you." 

Mulder was touched, and it showed on his face. "How do you know it
can't be traced, though?" he asked, feeling some of the Gunmen's
paranoia leaking into him with the news about his phone.

Langley gave a broad, proud smile. "Because they're going to hack
straight into a DoD satellite using a scrambled coder we picked up
off the Chinese," he said, his chest puffed out. "We've already
tested it and the Feds have no clue we're using their signal and--"

"Wait a minute," Skinner said, cutting him off. "Do I want to know
about this?" 

"No," Frohike, Byers and Langley said together, looking at him. 

Skinner nodded. "That's what I thought," he said under his breath. 

Granger laughed from the couch, a pained sound.

Mulder held the laptop in his hands, looked up into Frohike's
smiling face. 

"Thank you," he said, feeling warm. He had a way to talk to her. A
safe way. He was overwhelmed with the thought.

"You're welcome," Frohike said, and slapped his arm. He picked up
the other computer and handed it to Granger on the couch as though it
might break. Granger took it and nodded. 

"We've got to go, Mulder," Skinner said, his voice quiet, as though
he didn't want to break the moment. "We've got paperwork to do at the
airport."

Mulder looked at the Gunmen, feeling color rise in his face. "I
don't know how to repay you guys for what you're doing for us," he
said. 

Frohike waved him off. "Don't worry. It's a slow month anyway. New
JFK theory -- aliens and the Chinese -- but that's about it." He
winked, and Mulder laughed.

Skinner reached a hand toward Granger on the couch. Granger was
rising slowly, and Skinner helped him the rest of the way up. 

"Let's go," Skinner said, and he looked at the Gunmen. "Keep in
touch with anything you've got. I'll call from a land line when we
get to Belfast, tell you where we are." 

"We'll wait for your call," Frohike said, undoing the locks. 

Mulder turned to look at them, the computer under his arm. 

"Good luck," Byers said, nodding grimly. 

"Thanks," Mulder replied, and Frohike let him and Skinner and
Granger out into the alley, into the falling night. 


************

OUTSIDE CUSHENDUN, ANTRIM COAST 
NORTHERN IRELAND, U.K. 
8:04 p.m.



Following the Antrim Coast Road, the smell of sea salt in the chilly
night air from the North Channel coming in through the car window,
the young man drove slowly along the familiar road, moving away from
the lights of quiet village of Cushendun, the wide bay, the deserted
beach, toward the hilly country on the outskirts. It was dark as
pitch, hardly any lights on. Even when he did pass a house set far
off the road, or a farm, there were no lights, and he felt for a
moment as if he'd dropped off the edge of the world, into the cold
sea beyond. 

Across the Channel, only fourteen miles away, a lighthouse on the
coast of Scotland glinted at him, a beacon of light in the darkness.
He found his eye drawn to it and he wove onto a small side road, this
one more narrow, but wide enough for his tiny car, its engine small
and whining, a loner from a friend in Belfast. He hadn't gotten
around to getting his own car, though the money was there. He didn't
feel much need to leave the city, preferring the quiet of his rented
flat, the sound of music in the pubs, the company of his few friends. 

But tonight he'd left the city, travelling north and east, toward
the coast, up through Carrickfergus, through Larne, past the
lighthouse at Black Head, past Glenarm Castle and up further as the
night had fallen. 

It was not an errand he wanted to make, but make it he did. He
always came when called, and he was surprised the call had not come
sooner than this. 

Up into the nothingness of the night, the smell of the sea
retreating to the smell of green, down to a smaller road, which he
followed for some time. Finally the high stone archway came into view
and he passed beneath it, going up the long road that led to the
estate. 

The lights were on out front, though they did little to illuminate
the immensity of the mansion, the stone of its walls seeming to
absorb the light. 

A servant came down from the heavy, huge door, hurrying to the
driver's side and opening the door with a practiced, smooth hand.

"How was your drive, Mr. Collin?" the man asked politely, with a
smile that reminded the young Mr. Collin of wax. 

"Good enough," he replied, stepping out. 

"Very good, sir," the man said, closing the door behind him. "She's
waiting in the study for you. A late supper is waiting, as well." 

The young man said nothing, only entered the cavernous house,
leaving the man and the night chill behind. 

Through the huge foyer, the walls lined with paintings and hung with
tapestries of rich red and gold. There was a huge stone staircase
that wound its way up to the second floor, and then the third beyond
it, and he followed it up, into a corridor lined with a thick,
ancient rug. Lights that looked like lamps were set into the wall,
and they had once been lamps, hundreds of years ago. 

There was a closed door to his left, another to his right. He walked
past them toward an open door at the end of the corridor where he
could see a fire burning in a fireplace. A large fire at the end of
the large room. 

He stopped by the doorway, gave the massive wooden door a light
knock, steeling himself.

"Come in, Christie," came a faint voice. "Come in." 

He entered the dimly lit room, his eyes scanning the antique
furniture, the chairs by the fire. There was a large armchair there,
surrounded by couches and few small tables. He could smell food
coming from one of the tables, his eyes falling on the silver tray. 

And in front of it, a wheelchair. Facing the fire, though as he
entered the room, there was a whining of a motor and the chair turned
slowly around to face him. 

"Sit," the figure in the chair said, the face hidden by shadows.
"Eat. You must be hungry after such a long drive." 

The wheelchair's motor whined again, and the chair moved into the
dim circle of light thrown by a lamp, revealing the face. 

She was an ancient woman, her face as frail as her voice. Her hair
was white as snow and perfectly set around her lined face. To
Christie, she looked like a candle, thin and white and her skin lined
and dripping off of her like melted wax. She wore a prim black dress
made of velvet, and a great jeweled broach at her thin throat. Her
black shoes shone in the lamp light, never having touched the floor.

Her eyes shone in her alabaster face, bright and blue and more alive
than the rest of her combined. A small smile played on her nearly
lipless mouth, her false, too straight teeth showing and making her
head look like a skull capped with neat, neat white. 

Christie moved toward the chair next to the table with the food,
pushing up the sleeves of his black sweater, as the room was far too
hot, the walls bathed with the dance of shadows from the flames. 

"Don't you have a kiss for your grandmother first, Christie?" came
the slightly wheezing voice. "A little kiss?"

He stopped, turned and went toward the woman in the chair slowly.
His feet felt like lead as he did it, but he reached the chair,
leaned down and moved to touch his mouth to her dry cheek.

She turned her face as he did so, more quickly than she should have
been able to, and her mouth touched his for the briefest instant. 

He pulled back as if her mouth had given him an electric shock, but
her claw-like hand, usually on the armrest by the controls for the
chair and a small boxed remote, reached up and touched the back of
his close-cropped hair, stroking softly. 

"Such a good boy," she whispered. "A good, good boy." 

Christie smiled wanly and moved backwards toward the chair, sitting
down heavily. He lifted the silver lid from the silver tray, a half a
chicken greeting him, some potatoes. He dug into the meal as though
he'd never eaten before, his eyes down.

"I'm surprised you haven't come back to see me since you returned
from the States," her breathy voice said, and the wheelchair whined a
bit closer. "I'm surprised I had to call for you like I did."

"Just been busy," he said, tearing into the chicken with the sharp
knife. "I was going to come soon enough." 

He glanced up into her face, and she was smiling that same toothy
smile. 

"You did wonderful work there in Washington, Christie," she said.
"Wonderful work." 

He looked back down at the food, took a bite. "Thank you," he said
softly.

"And do you know what has come to me?" she said, her voice rising
slightly. "Wonderful news. I've been told that it was this Scully who
was the one who killed my John." 

Christie stopped with the fork moving to his mouth, meeting his
grandmother's gaze. "Is that so?" he said.

"Yes," she said, nodding, her head seeming too large for her thin,
bird-like neck. "And a news report in the States reported she was
pregnant, as well." She smiled again.

He swallowed, the news hitting him in the gut. "That's good news,
too, is it?" he said, chewing slowly. 

"Yes, it is," the old woman said. "More of a blow to her husband.
More for her to lose. Wonderful news." 

Christie reached for the goblet of water on the tray, took a drink.
"Well," he began carefully. "If that Scully was the one who killed
John, there's no need to go after the other, is there then?" 

But the old woman shook her head. 

"I want Curran dead, as well," she wisped. "Still. She betrayed her
brother. She betrayed John. She betrayed the Cause." 

He swallowed again, unable to meet his grandmother's gaze. 

"Don't you agree, Christie?" she asked faintly. 

"Aye, I suppose," he said quietly, putting down his knife and fork. 

"You 'suppose'?" she asked, and she tutted softly. "Christie, don't
tell me your father was right about you and that your heart wouldn't
be in this all the way." 

He felt heat rising up in his cheeks at the mention of his father. A
picture of a stern face entered his mind, the memory of shouting. A
hand across his face. 

"No," he said, his chin rising. "My heart is in it."

The old woman smiled. "Good," she said, the word coming out slow and
soft. 

The fire crackled in the fireplace, a log falling. The fireplace
bled even more heat into the room, a flash of light. 

"Mae Curran entered the U.S. on February 22nd," the old woman
continued. "She brought a baby with her and Owen Curran's son through
U.S. Customs in Los Angeles. She's travelling under the name 'Porter'
now. Her husband was killed by the bomb in Australia. We've checked
the wire reports from there. She apparently fled to the States." 

Christie nodded. "I see," he said noncommitedly, but his heart sank.
He didn't relish returning to the States. Not ever again.

And all the children involved now. The dead baby already...

"We're looking for her there. We think she might have tried to find
this Scully again, so we're trying to find this man Mulder, Scully's
partner, and see if he can lead us to her. Perhaps the FBI has gotten
involved. If so, it shouldn't be too hard to find her. Given
the...resources...we're using." 

Christie sniffed, rubbed his mouth with a napkin. "No," he said
softly. "I suppose not." 

The wheelchair whined as the chair slid closer across the thick
carpet, and Christie sat up a little straighter as she moved beside
him, reaching her hand out to touch his arm. 

"I know what you're thinking, Christie," she said softly, stroking
his arm. "All the time in the Army and now this. But it will be over
soon enough. We're moving quickly. We'll find her soon. So soon..."

Her hand was cold where it touched the skin of his arm. The chicken
suddenly smelled too heavy, too much like cooked meat. He swallowed
down a wave of nausea as she lifted his hand, rubbed it against her
cheek. 

Heat washed over him, the fire seeming to flare. He couldn't help
it. He closed his eyes as she brought his fingers to her cold, pale
lips for another arid kiss.



************* 


CONTINUED IN PART III. 

PART III


******


TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO 
MARCH 18 
11:30 a.m.


On Ghost's gray back, Albert Hosteen rode in the relative silence of
the high desert, the sun warm and climbing high overhead and hanging
in the crags of the Chaco Mountains far off in the distance. The
horse's hooves kicked up a slight cloud of dust that settled around
him like tan smoke, a faint wind on his face that still held some of
the cool of the early morning on its breath. 

He wore a dark green shirt, the sleeves rolled up in the warm
sunlight, his jeans so faded they were almost white. He held a rope
in one hand, his other one on the worn reins. The aging saddle
creaked with each of the horse's steps, the saddle as old as the
horse, the leather beginning to crack at the joinings. The leather
was the deep brown of Hosteen's weathered skin. 

The reins slack, the horse lowered his head and sneezed, a ruffling
sound. Hosteen reached down and stroked the animal's soft neck, his
fingers trailing in the white mane. He spoke softly to the creature
in Navajo, and the horse's ears cocked back, as if to listen, which
made Hosteen smile.

It was a faint smile, though. Much was on his mind. 

Agent Scully, looking pale and tired at the breakfast table that
morning, was the current focus of his thoughts. She'd said the baby
had kept her up -- the child's movements and a touch of nausea -- and
she'd smiled wanly as she said it. 

Of course, she had lied. 

He'd worried over her, standing beside the window with his pipe in
the corner of his mouth. She'd picked at the breakfast Sara had made,
eggs and bacon and fry bread. She hadn't even protested when
Whistler had put the terrible smelling tea in front of her. 
Hosteen's brows had risen with that. 

He found his mind drifting to Eda, his wife, dead for more than 20
years now from cancer, her body growing thin and her skin turning to
paper between the worn sheets of the hospital in Farmington, then
later, how she'd seemed to vanish in their bed at home, like watching
her turn to sand and dust. 

He thought of how he'd felt after she'd gone, how he'd sat for hours
on the porch out front, his sons there, but how he'd felt alone in a
way he had not yet experienced, like an essential part of him had
gone missing along with Eda, the children almost like reminders of a
life he had once had and would never have again. 

Of course, he had learned to deal with the space inside him, open as
the desert beyond the house, a barren patch in him. He'd learned to
live a different life, filled with children and grandchildren, and
with his faith and his place in the community. 

Thinking of Agent Scully, the lost look on her face, the look of
someone with something missing, he remembered all of this. He
thought of how she was when she'd come to him with Mulder before, so
much broken between them, how she'd looked the same then, though it
had been well hidden then with shame and rage and pain. He
remembered Mulder on the concrete porch at his brother's house, the
time he'd found him shirtless in the chilly morning, Bo creeping at
the edge of the property like a ghost, how Mulder had seemed almost
like Hosteen himself in the weeks after Eda had died, his arms
crossed over his bare chest.

Hosteen sighed, the horse angling around a small scrubby brush, the
mountains closer now, great crags of sand and stone. 

Mulder and Scully had found their way back to one another in this
place, coming together as something stronger than what they'd been
before. And Scully would find a way to be apart from him here, as
well. She had it in her to do that now, even if on this first
morning alone she did not know it yet.

It was good, he decided, that she learn this lesson now. When the
road between her and Mulder was clear, though filled with distance. 
Better to learn this way than how he had learned it. When there was
no way back at all.

A soft stumbling behind him, a tug on the rope in his hand, and his
mind came back to the present. He turned slightly on the horse's
back and looked behind.

The pony was shuffling along behind him, its neck outstretched
slightly, a peeved look on its face. On its back, the boy sat, a
baseball cap on his head, his eyes down until he saw Hosteen looking
at him. They rose to meet his gaze, and then darted back down
again, as though afraid. His hands were gripping not the reins but
the horn of the small western saddle, his knuckles white.

Sean's first time on a horse, his aunt had said when Hosteen had
gone to gather him at his brother's house, the boy silent in the back
room when Hosteen had entered. Sean had been drawing on the floor,
stretched out with markers and crayons, and Hosteen had stood over
him, looking down into his thin, still frightened face. 

"A good picture," he'd pronounced, looking down at the drawing, a
very close likeness of the pony -- its charcoal back, the round white
spot on its rump dotted with black. Beneath the pony was a single
word:

Cloud.

"And a good name," Hosteen had continued, smiling kindly. "Looks
like a storm cloud, the colors on his back." 

Not surprisingly, Sean had not replied.

"Time to go out," Hosteen said, and, reaching his hand down toward
Sean, the boy had risen and followed him out of the house, past his
aunt's worried face, past the baby in her arms, whose hands had
brushed Hosteen's shirt as he'd passed. 

Hosteen lifted Sean onto the pony's back once Victor had saddled it,
Ghost standing patiently beside them, and then they'd headed out into
the desert, leaving everything else behind.

Miles from the house now, the sun coming almost exactly overhead,
Hosteen turned his attention to the foot of the mountains, the land
around it, barren but beautiful in that way that desert was, things
greener than usual with the coming spring.

They reached a large clearing at the foot of the mountains hemmed in
with boulders, and Hosteen urged Ghost to halt with a touch of the
reins. The pony likewise stopped, tossing its head against the rope
Hosteen held in his hand, still looking irritated at being led for so
long from the stable. As he dismounted, Hosteen smiled at the pony,
and touched its small nose with his free hand.

"Are you ready to learn how to ride?" Hosteen said, standing close,
and Sean looked at him, uncertain. He wouldn't take his hands off
the horn, the reins against the pony's mane. 

"I will hold the rope while you are learning," he added, showing
Sean the rope in his hand. "But you will do the steering and the
stopping. You will do all the work. Before we leave here today, you
will be able to ride him back walking beside me with him, not behind
me with me leading you along. What do you think of that?"

Sean stared back, and then shook his head. Hosteen merely smiled.

"You can do it. Your pony is very tame. The man I got him from
said he would not hurt anything, that he would mind very well." He
paused, meeting Sean's gaze. 

"Trust," he said softly. "In me and in yourself. You can learn and
will do very well. I can feel it. And I have feelings about such
things."  

Sean merely looked at him, and shook his head again. 

"Hm," Hosteen hummed softly, and stood back. "Come down off of him
and we will start at the beginning. Something easy. All right?" 

He helped Sean slide off the pony's back, holding him around the
waist. Then he handed the rope to him, and stepped back, walking a
few paces away from Ghost, who watched him go. 

"The first thing you must do is call a horse by its name," Hosteen
said. "Let it hear you, so it can learn to mind. Watch."

And as Sean shook his head, Hosteen reached his hand up toward Ghost
and spoke in Navajo to him. First his name, then the word "come." 
He did not move otherwise. 

Ghost pricked up his ears toward him at the sound of his voice, then
obediently came forward until his nose touched Hosteen's outstretched
hand. 

"Good," he said softly. "Good." Then he looked at Sean. "Now you.
Go over there and say the pony's name, and the word 'come.' See if
he will hear your voice."

But Sean was shaking his head again, looking down, and dropped the
rope. 

"An easy thing to do," Hosteen said, ignoring him. "Two words. It
is how you start with an animal like this. He will not mind you
unless he hears your voice."

He watched Sean look at the pony, the ground, and back again. 

"You are only speaking to the pony, Sean," Hosteen said quietly. 
"Not to me or to anyone else. Only to him. Go on. Try." 

He nearly held his breath in the waiting that followed, doing his
best to appear nonchalant, talking softly to Ghost as though he were
paying Sean no mind at all. 

Then he watched, from the corner of his eye, Sean walk a few paces
away from the pony, close to a boulder on one side. The boy raised
his hand and looked at the animal, who watched him, gnawing absently
on its bit. 

Sean's mouth opened, but nothing came out, closed it again, then
opened. Then...

"C..Cloud." A high voice, almost as faint as a whisper. A long
pause, the boy's eyes going down as he heard his own voice. 

The pony's ears came up, but it did nothing. 

"Call him louder," Hosteen said gently. "He will mind. Tell him to
come to you." 

Sean swallowed, his hand still outstretched. He opened his mouth
again, hesitated. 

"Cloud," he said, a bit louder, though his voice was hoarse, papery.
Hosteen smiled at the clipped accent in the word. 

Sean drew in a breath, swallowed again. When he spoke, it was
almost a normal tone.

"Come." 

The pony hesitated, but Hosteen knew Victor had spent the better
part of yesterday and the day before teaching the pony the word. 

Then it pricked its ears forward, and, dragging the rope after it,
it went to Sean until its nose touched his palm.

And Sean did something Hosteen had yet to see him do.

He smiled.


******


THE HANGED MAN 
BELFAST, NORTHERN IRELAND, U.K. 
1:22 p.m.



TO: RosesRedHotMama 
FROM: SpookyPapa 
DATE: 18 March 2003 
SUBJECT: Trying this out

S,

Well, one thing's for certain -- no one is ever going to find a way
to trace these names. You sound like a porn site advertiser and I
sound like a truck driver's CB handle or a racehorse. Never let the
Gunmen configure your email accounts, I guess. And I don't think we
have to guess which one of them made the names, given yours. The
worst part is I don't think they can be changed at this point, so
we're going to have to live with them.

I'm here -- remind me not to come the day after St. Patrick's Day
again, will you? I don't think it brings out the best in these
people. But that could be because of places we're staying right now
-- mostly pubs, looking for the elusive Mr. R. He hasn't shown up
where he was supposed to be and there's been no word on him from
anyone here. I've got a room, though, and the food is just like I
remember it -- heavy and good. Sk's so jetlagged he can't see
straight. I can't believe after all this time he hasn't learned to
sleep on planes. He's been pissed off all day about R. not being
here when we showed up. I figure he'll turn up, though. The
bartender says he's basically been living here for several days,
belly up to the bar the whole time. I can't wait to meet him. 

Just a note about G. -- he's really not looking good lately, though
he's trying to hide it as best he can. That gunshot wound really has
him tied up. I wonder if there's anything you can do for him, if
he'll let you. He's too young to be hurt that bad. I'm wondering if
there's something else wrong that he's not letting on about. Maybe
he'll talk to you about it. 

I'm thinking about you. Too much, probably. Wondering how you are,
what you're doing with yourself. Thinking about the baby, and what
you're feeling. I didn't think it would hit me this hard, this soon,
but knowing you're so far away...it's just hard. I'm glad we have
this, though. We've never really written letters before, and who
knows? It might be sort of enjoyable if we get into the habit of it.
I'd give anything to be sitting in front of you, though, reading your
eyes. I forget sometimes how much I can tell just by watching them,
how much you give away with them, if only to me. 

Hey S, should we start using emoticons? Abbreviations? I'd love to
have you ROTFLYAO. ;) :) ;)

Write me when you get a chance. I'll check here for you as often as
I can.

I love you.

M.


Mulder moved the cursor over to the "send" button on the tiny
machine, tapped it softly, and sat back in the chair at the worn desk
in his room, looking at the message that the email had been sent for
a long moment, feeling somehow hollow inside as he did it. He could
hear someone moving down the hallway toward the common bath, the
creak of the door. Below him, a murmuring of the people in the pub,
the faint sound of a television playing, a sporting event from the
sound of an announcer and a crowd. 

They hadn't been in Belfast long, and the place felt enormously
strange to him, despite his college years in the U.K Going from the
desert and the desolation of the reservation to this, a city teeming
with people and noise and traffic, was quite a shock to his system. 

As was being away from Scully so suddenly. He couldn't believe he'd
just left her the morning before, there beneath the covers in his
sweatshirt in Albert Hosteen's house. Already it felt like years,
made worse by the strangeness of the place and the distance. 

He sat up straighter, ran a hand through his hair, pushing it off
his forehead and scrubbing it back. 

He couldn't think that way. He had to concentrate. There was a lot
to be done here, and he had to be ready for what was to come. Not
distracted. Not aching the way he was now. 

More footsteps outside the door, and a knock this time. 

"Come in," he called, and Skinner entered the room, glancing at the
computer, still on, on the desk. 

"I'm not interrupting you, am I?" Skinner grumbled, his ill-
temperedness from the morning clearly still gripping him. He looked
tired, pissed off. 

"No," Mulder said quickly, and reached out to shut the internet
connection off, then he turned the computer off. "I'm all done. Any
word?"

"Yeah," Skinner said. He wore jeans, a long-sleeved white T-shirt
with a black jacket over it to hide his gun at his hip. "Renahan
just got back from wherever the hell he's been. The bartender just
pointed him out to me. He's downstairs in the pub."

Mulder stood, reached for his own leather jacket, also long enough
to hide his Sig, pulled it on over the black turtleneck he wore. 

"Let's go," he said, and Skinner nodded, led the way into the hall,
Mulder closing the door behind him. 

They wove their way down the narrow staircase that led from the
rooms upstairs to the pub below, a dark, cave-like place with a long
bar and some tables, a few booths lining the walls. There were dim
lamps in the booths, and ceiling fans kept the persistent smell of
cigarette and pipe smoke milling around the room. 

Skinner stopped just at the bottom of the stairs, nodded toward one
of the booths where a man sat, alone, his back to them. Mulder could
make out a long stretch of uncombed hair, a curl of smoke. 

"That's him," Skinner said, and led the way toward the table. 

The man that gazed up them as they stopped beside the table seemed
more weary than Mulder had ever seen anyone look in his life. Dark
circles beneath his eyes, set into a pasty white face. A wild beard
and piercing eyes, which met Mulder's, then looked him up and down,
doing the same to Skinner, though he appeared to recognize Skinner at
least.

"Mr. Skinner," he said, and it was not friendly. 

"Yeah, that's me," Skinner said. "This is Agent Fox Mulder."

Renahan's lip curled. "Not hurt as bad as you looked, eh?" he said,
staring at Mulder. "Not hurt at all, in fact." 

"No," Mulder said carefully. "I'm fine."

Renahan nodded. "I'd venture a guess that your wife is fine, as
well. Am I right?" 

Mulder looked at Skinner, unsure of what to say, and Skinner looked
down at Renahan. 

"We can't discuss that," Skinner said, keeping his voice low. "Not
here." 

Renahan smiled a bit more. "No need to discuss," he said. "You've
answered my question already." He gestured to the other side of the
booth. "Please. Sit. I don't bite, you know. Just look like I do
these days."

Mulder glanced at Skinner again, and then slid into the booth,
Skinner following him. 

"Begging your pardon, Mr. Renahan," Skinner began without prelude. 
"But where the hell have you been? You were supposed to be here to
meet us this morning." 

"Out," Renahan replied, unruffled. Mulder noticed he had a
cigarette in one hand, a pint in the other. The hand holding the
cigarette shook slightly. "Been talking to some old acquaintances of
mine from years back, those that are still around, that is. Finding
lots of people dead." 

Mulder nodded. "Are you finding what you need?" he asked, pitching
his voice carefully neutral. He was trying to get a read on the man,
and it was hard. The eyes gave nothing away at all. Blank as slate,
though intelligent.

Renahan looked back at him, appraising him again. "A bit of what I
need, yes," he said. "It's not IRA doing this. I know that for
certain now. The IRA's up to nothing much these days, and killing
two women -- including one of their own -- isn't something they're
doing. I've been trying to get a finger on Fagan with a few people,
but haven't found anything out I didn't already know." 

Renahan took a drink from his pint in the silence that followed,
Mulder chewing his lip. Skinner was looking around the pub as though
trying to figure out if they were being watched. 

"What about a man named Eamon?" Mulder asked. "A custom's officer
who was arrested once a long time ago." 

Renahan's eyes narrowed. "Eamon Neill?" he replied, sounding
incredulous. 

"I don't know his last name," Mulder said. "Mae didn't know his
last name. She just said he might be someone who could help us find
out something about Fagan."

"Well, that's the only custom's officer named Eamon I know," the
grizzled man replied, puffing on his smoke. "The only one we
arrested. He went to jail for a few years for conspiracy. Couldn't
pin any actual murders on him, though I know he's as dirty as they
come. Hiding people, stealing cars and weapons, scoping out targets.
He got a lot of people killed, that one, even if he didn't do it
himself." 

"Mae said he was good friends with Owen Curran, and that he knew
John Fagan," Mulder pressed. "Do you think we could find him?"

Renahan looked at Mulder and gave that same quirky smile, as though
he found Mulder terribly amusing. "You just want to walk right up to
his house and knock on the door, Agent Mulder?" He laughed. 
"Doesn't work that way around here." 

"Why not?" Mulder said, leaning forward slightly. "These people
aren't the ones under investigation. And if this Neill has already
been arrested, he knows that we'd know he had IRA connections. It's
not like we'd be exposing someone with no known ties. He might be
willing to talk to us."

Renahan's eyes narrowed again on Mulder. "What makes you so certain
of that, Agent Mulder? Eamon Neill is about as close to Path as
you're going to find. He might not want to risk further exposing
himself." 

"We won't know unless we try," Mulder replied, looking to Skinner
for backup. Skinner nodded. 

"It might be worth our time to talk to him," Skinner said. "IF you
know where to find him." 

Renahan leaned back, stubbed out his cigarette. "I don't know where
Neill is anymore," he said. "But I know some people who might know."
He moved to stand, Mulder and Skinner looking up at him. 

"Well, come on," Renahan said, chiding and gesturing toward the
door. "If you're going to do this, then do it. Time to meet a few
people. Get your faces out there. They'll bloody well like your
faces better than they'll like mine." 

"Where are we going?" Skinner asked, standing, and allowing Mulder
to do the same. 

"Derry," Renahan said softly. "Right into the middle of things. 
That seems to be where Agent Mulder wants to be." 

He looked at Mulder, who stared back.

"You're right," he said. "I do." 

Renahan smiled, and Mulder thought it was the first smile of any
real emotion he'd seen the man give him yet.. 

"Then let's get at it," he said, and led the way out of the pub. 


**********


TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO 
3:13 p.m.


TO: SpookyPapa 
FROM: RosesRedHotMama 
DATE: 18 March 2003 
SUBJECT: Re: Trying this out


M,

First, the next time I see F., pray I don't I have my gun with me. 

Second, the first time you "LOL", I K-Y-A. 

I miss you. There's no other way to say that. I remember a line of
poetry I read years ago, when I was in college, I think. I can't
remember who wrote it, but the line has always stayed with me. It
goes: "Your absence has gone through me like thread through a
needle. All that I do is stitched with its color." I know that
sounds trite and romantic -- blame the hormones. But it already feels
like a long time since I've seen you, and things are lonely here
without you. 

I took a long walk out to the trailer again today, and it was almost
as though I was looking for you, expected to find you there sitting
on the edge of the bed with Bo again. Thinking of that helps me, in
a way. You looked so lost when I found you there. I hope you've
found what you're looking for where you are now, or at least are in a
place where you feel you can begin searching for what you need to
come back again.

I'm interested to hear what this man R is like. M. told me a little
about his reputation with the IRA this morning after breakfast,
before I went walking out behind the house. The IRA were
simultaneously afraid of him and admired him greatly. He got people
to talk without using force. M. still doesn't know how he did it,
and there's a strange tone when she talks about him. It's the kind
of tone she uses when she talks about what she calls "The Old Guard"
of the IRA, this group of men who seemed to run the entire IRA
underground when she was a child. She's been talking more lately,
though it seems to make her sad to do it. She doesn't name a lot of
names, but I think her starting to open up a little bit is a good
sign. It's all so entrenched with who she is, even after everything
she's been through with O. It's like a limb she has. She can't just
cut it off without losing something essential about herself. It's
going to take some time.

Mr. H. is out with Sean. They've been gone for hours. 

Bo misses you, too. He's sulking around the house.

The baby is moving a lot again today. Sometimes I worry that she
moves too much, that something is wrong. I know that's not rational,
and that I'd worry more if she didn't move much at all, but it's
strange to feel this all the time, this fluttering inside me. Did
you know she's about a pound now, about ten inches long? Sometimes I
swear when I put my hand on my belly I can feel her there, but I
think it's just my own pulse in my palm.

I think I hear a car coming up the driveway. It must be G. coming
back from taking his things to V.'s. He came by when he got in,
dropped off the computer and then went out right away to get settled
in. And yes, I know he hasn't been doing well since the surgery --
and I know he's been trying to hide it, too. I was against the idea
of him coming here at first, but now I think he can probably use the
time away from the office, maybe get some extra rest and heal a
little better. I'll do what I can with him, though you know he'll
chafe if I hover too much. 

I've got to go. Write me when you can. 

I love you, too.

S.


Scully didn't read the email over -- she just touched the "send"
button and powered down the computer, hearing the slam of a car door
out front, Bo looking up from where he sat next to her on the floor
beside the bed. The dog's ears pricked forward, and he whined.

"It's okay," she said, out of habit. She'd been saying it to the
dog all day, all the time he'd followed her out into the desert
behind the house to the trailer, all through the time they'd spent in
the minivan down to where Mae was staying in Hosteen's brother's
trailer. He missed Mulder almost as much as she did. Perhaps more. 

Placing the computer on the bed beside her, its power cord trailing
off the side of the bed, she stood, stretched her aching back, and
went out into the hallway, Bo trailing along beside her, to the
living room. Someone was knocking on the front door, and Scully went
to the door, opened it. 

Granger stood there, a slight smile on his face. 

"Hi," he said, and Scully gave a small smile to him in return and
opened the screen door to let him in. 

"How are you feeling?" he asked. "I didn't pester you before." He
smiled wider. 

"I'm okay," she replied. She noticed the Ruger at his hip, the
holster threaded through the black belt he wore with his jeans, his
gray T-shirt tucked into the waist.

"What do you think of your quarters?" she asked. 

"They're fine," Granger said, and his brow creased down. "But I
don't like to think of you up here by yourself." 

She smiled the same wan smile. "I'm okay. I've got Mr. Hosteen
here with me most of the time, and a woman named Sara Whistler is
here usually when he's not."

"I meant without someone with a gun," he said, shaking his head.

She edged her hand down to the waist of her maternity jeans at her
back, drew out her Sig, which was tucked in its holster there. 

"There is someone with a gun," she replied, and he shook his head
and laughed. 

"Come on," she said, nodding toward the door. "Drive me down to
Mae's." 

"All right," Granger said, and followed her out of the house, back
out to his rental car, one of the small SUVs that were so popular at
the moment. It gleamed, brand new, in the sunlight.

"I got a four-wheel drive at the airport," he said.. "I didn't know
if we might need it." 

She climbed into the passenger side, moving carefully. "You never
know." 

And he took the driver's seat and they made their way down the dirt
road toward the stables and Victor's place. 


**

Scully left Granger and went toward the house a few hundred feet
behind it, Albert's brother's house where Mae was staying with
Katherine and Sean.

Every time she approached it, she remembered that night all that
time ago, coming in from days in the desert, the porchlight on, and
Mulder waiting there. It had felt like a tomb when she'd entered it
that night, a place of grief. 

But so much more had been made there, that night and the nights that
followed. What she and Mulder were now had been forged there, the
open wound of them closed over in that quiet place.

Now, as she approached it again, it had the same feel to it. The
same quietness. The same grief. Not even Katherine's laughter,
sounding out of place in the silence around the house, seemed to
alleviate it. 

Scully stopped before the door, rapped gently on the screen door,
and was told by Mae's tired voice to come in. She did. 

Agent Music sat with Mae at the table off the kitchen, Katherine in
a playpen Mulder and Victor had bought in Farmington, her blonde head
and bright smile peeking over the side. 

"Dana," Mae called from the table. She was sitting stiff in her
chair, Music across from her, a legal pad in front of him scribbled
with notes. 

"I'm not interrupting, am I?" she asked, and Music smiled up at
her, though it looked a bit strained.

"No," he said. "We're all done for today, I think." He pushed the
chair back, looking very much like one of Victor's ranch hands -- blue
T-shirt and stiff, new-looking jeans. Only his 9mm in a shoulder
holster gave away who and what he was. 

"I can come back," Scully tried again.

"No," Music said, more firmly. "We've gotten as far as we're going
to get. And besides..." He winked at Scully, not rogueish but
playful. "Victor said he's going to teach me how to ride." 

Scully chuckled softly. "Be afraid, Frank," she said. "Be very
afraid." 

Music laughed, touched her upper arm with the pad, and turned to
Mae. 

"Tomorrow?" he asked, and Mae looked up at him, pinched and deeply
sad. 

"Yes," she said softly. "Tomorrow." 

And Music left the house. 

Katherine made a loud cry from the playpen, and Mae rose as if given
her cue, went to the baby, lifting her up and out.

"She's hungry," Mae said, and she seemed unable to meet Scully's
eyes, which bothered Scully. "She's been good while Agent Music and
I were talking. I don't blame her for being a bit restless now." 

Mae sat at the table again, began undoing the buttons of her blouse,
and Scully sat across from her, in the chair that Music had vacated. 

Once Mae had gotten Katherine to calm, the baby nursing quietly, her
tiny hands on Mae's chest, Mae finally looked up at Scully. 

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I'm just..." She trailed off.

"You feel guilty," Scully finished for her, and Mae's face fell as
she nodded. 

"A bit like Confession," she said, and laughed nervously. "Rattling
the family bones."

"It's going to help us," Scully offered, fingering the corner of the
ratty placemat on the cheap wood table. "It's going to help us both
get home faster if you can talk about the things you know. You know
that." 

"'Home'?" Mae said, something bitter in her voice. "Where the hell
is that for me then? You've got a home. A life to go back to. What
have I got? This trailer is as close to a home as I'm going to get,
before this whole bloody mess is over and they cart me and the
children off to God-only-knows where."

Scully looked down, her face falling. "I'm sorry," she said. "I
shouldn't have said that."

Mae blew out a frustrated breath, looking down into Katherine's
serene face, her face evening out from its angry mask. 

"No, I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I shouldn't be angry with you. 
You're doing all you can to help me in this. I don't mean to take it
out on you. I've got no one to blame for the mess I'm in but myself."

"You're doing what you can," Scully offered, though she knew it
sounded hollow. 

Mae didn't seem to hear her, her eyes on Katherine. She began to
rock slowly from side to side, stroking the baby's wispy hair. 

"She looks more like Joe every day," Mae said. "The look in her
eyes. The set of her face." 

Scully swallowed, looking at the baby. She had not known Porter for
long, but looking at the baby, she could tell Mae was right. 

"I'm sorry," she said again. "I can't imagine...what that must be
like." 

"You don't want to imagine," Mae replied, and looked up into
Scully's face, the women's eyes meeting. "I know it's hard enough on
you not having Mulder here. You don't want to think about it." 

Scully looked away, down at the baby in her arms. Her brows crooked
as she thought. 

"Where would you go?" she asked after a moment. 

"What?" Mae asked, shaking her head in confusion. 

"If you could go anywhere," Scully continued. "With the children. 
Where would you go? Where would 'home' be for you?" 

Mae looked out the screen door, past Scully, onto a land Scully knew
she would never see. The look of longing on the other woman's face
told her that. 

"I'd go back to Ireland," Mae said softly. "Take Sean and Katherine
and go back to Belfast or Ballycastle. Start again."

Scully nodded. "Do you think that you might do that? After your
sentence is served, after all of it's over?" 

Mae laughed bitterly. "I think the last place I'd be welcomed would
be Northern Ireland. By the IRA or the Brits. And I wouldn't do
that to Sean. I don't want the legacy of being Owen's son to follow
him there. I don't want that life for him. Any part of it."

"Mulder and A.D. Skinner have said that the IRA isn't after you. 
That they don't want you touched. You might be safe there."

Mae's gaze hardened. "What they say and what they mean are
different things," she said dismissively. "Too much history there. 
Too much time spent working against the way things work. And I don't
know what I'd do in the Peace. I don't know any other kind of life
than the one I lived there. Than...this." She nodded toward the room
around her, a hiding place on the run. 

Scully looked at her, picking at the edge of the placemat. "You
could change, Mae," she said softly. "You *have* changed already. 
You could make a life there."

Mae stood suddenly, jostling the baby, who squealed at the movement.
"I don't want to talk about it anymore," Mae snapped. "This is the
life I've got now and I've got to live with it. I can't go dreaming
about things I can't have." Her eyes welled. "It's like dreaming
Joe will come back. It's not going to happen. Not ever." 

And she stalked off into the living room, leaving Scully behind at
the table, Scully's eyes down, frustration piquing her. 

Then, a tickling in her head. 

Her hand went to her forehead as if to smooth it away...


(Sunlight through windows. The bedroom, her and Mulder's house. 
Bars of light on the bed, on Mulder's back where she looks over his
shoulder, her teeth on his skin...

"Yes..." he whispers into her hair. "Scully...yes..."

More tickling, a sense of movement. 

"Mulder," she says on a breath. "She's awake. She's coming down
the hall." 

Mulder shaking in her arms, a stifled cry against her throat. Then
he rolls off her quickly, ends up spooned behind her, his face still
buried in her hair, his breathing heavy. 

The bedroom door creaks open. 

"Mommy?" Light, like a bell. 

She looks at the door and sees...

Rose. Three or four. A nightgown to her ankles covered with
strawberries, red on white.

"What is it, Rose?" She hears her own voice say it.

The little girl, dark hair trailing down her back, long...

"Are you hugging?" Rose asks, rubbing at her eyes. Morning. Early. 

"Yes, honey," Mulder says from behind her. "We're hugging."

The little girl touches the doorframe, a finger against her chin. 
"Can I come, too?"

Scully feels her naked skin, dewed with sweat beneath the covers,
Mulder's bare body against her. 

"Where's Casey?" she hears herself ask.

"In my room," Rose answers, pointing behind her. 

"Go dress Casey in her daytime clothes and come back with her and
you can get in bed with us," Mulder says softly, his voice patient. 
Gentle.

"Okay." And then Rose is gone.

Mulder's lips on her throat, her cheek. Heavy breath.

"Five minutes," he whispers. "Get dressed...")


"Dana?" 

Scully snapped herself back, drawing in a sharp breath as her hands
shot out onto the table in front of her, steadying her. She looked
up, her eyes wide, into Mae's face, who was standing just beside her,
Katherine still clutched to her chest. 

"What?" she asked. "What is it?"

Mae looked as wide-eyed as she felt, her mouth agape. "You were
talking just then. Talking to Mulder. To your baby. You called her
by her name. And you asked me where someone named 'Casey' was." Mae
shifted Katherine slightly. "Are you all right?"

Scully felt heat rising in her face, looked around the room, trying
to ground herself. 

"Yes," she said, and rose a little too quickly, unsteady on her
feet. Mae put a hand out to steady her, clutching the baby with the
other hand. 

"Easy," Mae said. "Easy now. What's wrong?"

Scully shook her off, taking a step back. "I'm fine," she said
quickly. "Fine. I just need...I need to go back to the house."

"Dana, what's happening?" Mae called as Scully went for the door. 
"This is like what happened when Katherine the other day, isn't it? 
Tell me what's wrong." 

"It's nothing," Scully said quickly, firmly, opening the screen
door. 

Mae still calling after her, her head swimming, sweat beading her
forehead, she went out of the house and back out into the light. 


******

OUTSIDE OMAGH 
NORTHERN IRELAND, U.K. 
MARCH 28 (10 DAYS LATER) 
11:35 p.m.


"Turn! Turn!" 

Skinner's voice hissed into the darkness, Mulder hearing it from his
left side as Skinner gripped the dashboard, half-turned toward the
back as he watched the headlights raking the rough road behind them.
The car behind them was moving fast, and Mulder pressed down on his
own car's accelerator, taking the turnoff to his right too fast and
sending Renahan nearly tumbling sideways in the small back seat. 

Not surprisingly, Renahan, stinking of Scotch, laughed. 

"Mr. Mulder, you're not going to lose them," he said in his thick
cockney, slightly slurring. "They've got you now and they're not
going to let you go." 

"What the hell are you laughing at?" Mulder spat, flooring it into a
straightaway, no lights anywhere but his own lights and the streaks
behind him, a quarter of a mile back and gaining. His hands gripped
the steering wheel, his eyes wide open and fixed on Renahan's ragged
face in the rear view mirror.

"Don't you think it's even a BIT amusing?" Renahan replied. "I mean,
you two poking around like the bloody F.B. fucking I. in the middle
of a pub in the heart of the IRA, and then being surprised when
someone comes after you for it?" He laughed again, and Mulder
seethed. 

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Renahan," Skinner bit out, turning to face
the other man. "If you could quit acting like you're enjoying this so
goddamn much it would help immensely." 

But Renahan only laughed again. 

Mulder bit his lip, shaking his head slowly, feeling the comfortable
weight of his Sig at his side beneath his jacket. He pushed the car
forward, as if willing it with his eyes onto the road ahead of him.
Faster. Faster.

The car behind them gained, the high-pitched whine of a small engine
pushed too hard. Around them, nothing but countryside, no houses,
nothing. He knew from the drive in that there were low mountains off
in the distance, mountains he was heading toward as he drove the car
west, further away from Omagh and into the vastness around it.

Ten days. Ten days in this car with these two, going from town to
town, sleeping in rooms over pubs or in the houses of strangers who
let rooms by the night, people who frowned at their accents, handed
them towels and sent them into dark rooms that smelled of old smoke
and dust. He was worn to the bone, his nerves frayed. Too much time
with Renahan, and too much time in the back rooms of pubs talking to
people who did not want to talk to him, and who gave up little, if
anything at all.

Whatever you say, he remembered the poet once saying, say nothing. 

"Renahan, tell me what to do," he said finally, his voice just loud
enough to be heard over the engine sounds, both of their own car and
the one now almost on their tail.

Renahan was still looking at him, the older man's eyes glinting,
wide and wet, from the back seat. 

The car behind them caught up, and with a lurch bumped against their
tail. Mulder swung into the right lane, but the car followed, its
highbeams flashing.

"Tell me what to do!" Mulder shouted, every muscle in his body taut. 

"Pull over." The smile was gone from Renahan's face now, though his
eyes were still amused.

"Pull over??" Skinner replied, incredulous. 

"You're going to bloody well end up on the side of the road one way
or the other," Renahan said, sounding almost bored. "Best to pull
over on your own."

The car behind them tapped again, a sound of metal on metal, a dull
thud, and Mulder swung the car back into the left lane, the pursuing
vehicle staying and trying to draw the drivers' windows even. 

"Do it, Mr. Mulder," Renahan said. "Before we've got a right mess
here."

Mulder glanced at the car gaining beside him, at Renahan, then at
Skinner. 

Finally, he nodded, and his foot stomped on the brake as he pulled
the car hard to the left and onto the side of the road, green coming
into the headlights, the long grass of early spring. A sheep darted
out of sight in the headlights.

The car that had been chasing them had likewise braked and was
backing up down the road with great speed. Mulder reached down and
took out his gun, Skinner doing the same.

"Put them away!" Renahan sputtered, leaning forward and pushing
Skinner's gun out of sight. "You're going to get us all killed that
way! We're not in bloody Tombstone! Goddamn Yanks--"

"I'm not going to just sit here and let these people--" Mulder
jumped in.

"They're here to scare you, not to kill you," Renahan interrupted.
"But they see those guns and they'll think differently. Now do as I
say!"

The car had stopped on the other side of the road, the door swinging
open, and four figures piled out into the dark, moving across the
road.

"NOW!" Renahan hissed, and Mulder, seeing the men coming toward him,
glanced at Skinner and put his gun away. Skinner, obviously
reluctant, did the same.

Hands on the window, a fist rapping on the thin glass.

"Out of the fucking car!" the man said, and when Mulder looked up,
he saw the a ski mask, only eyes, the dot of a nose and lips pushed
too big by the fabric pushing through. 

There was another man behind him, a crowbar in his hand, and the
other two had gone to Skinner's side of the car. Mulder looked over
and saw the blunt end of a very old looking pistol pointed at
Skinner's side. 

"Come on, OUT! OUT!" the man said to Mulder's right. "And get those
fucking hands where we can see them!"

The door was yanked open, and rough hands reached in, grabbing
Mulder around the collar and hauling him out onto the road. He
reached up and gripped the fists around his jacket, pulling hard. 

"Get your goddamn hands off me--" he began as he broke away,
knocking the first man down.

Then a sharp pain against the side of this head, and he toppled down
next to the car onto his side holding his head, his breath hissing
out against the gravel, his eyes on the shoes of the man with the
crowbar. 

Black boots. Military issue. Blurring in and out of vision...

"Mulder!" he heard Skinner call from the other side of the car. The
other man's voice seemed to echo slightly.

The first man -- the one who had spoken and who was clearly the
leader -- picked himself up off the ground, brushing himself off. He
stood next to Mulder, his feet, also clad in black boots, coming into
Mulder's view. 

"Don't touch me again, fucker," he snarled, and kicked out, knocking
Mulder's shoulder and forcing Mulder back onto his back. Mulder
stared up at him, feeling the wetness of blood seeping into his hair
above his ear. 

He blinked, his head swimming, and tried to force his eyes to focus. 

"Gun!" 

The alarmed call came from one of the men searching Skinner, and
Mulder stared up into the surprised faces of the two above him, their
eyes in their masked faces wide. The leader's face shot down to
Mulder.

"Search him," he ordered, and took the crowbar from the other man,
who bent and began rifling through Mulder's jacket, his shirt. It
didn't take him long to find the Sig, which he held up, and the
leader took it. 

"See if that stinking fuck in the back seat has got something on
him, as well," the leader said, and Mulder could hear Renahan chuckle
mirthlessly as he was hauled out of the car with much commotion. 

"Easy, boys, easy now..." Renahan was saying, and Mulder heard the
sudden sound of Renahan's body striking the trunk of the car as he
was searched. 

The leader was still looking down at Mulder, Mulder's own gun
trained on him now. 

"Get up," he ordered. "Now."

When Mulder didn't move immediately, the bigger man who'd held the
crowbar reached down and hauled Mulder up, setting him on his feet
and smashing his back against the car. Skinner and Renahan were
hustled around to flank him on either side, the four masked men
standing in front of them, three guns trained on their three forms. 

"What do you want?" Skinner snapped, all A.D., his hand going out to
Mulder's shoulder as Mulder swayed slightly. "Just who the hell do
you think you are, trying to run us off the road and--"

"Shut the fuck up," the leader said, holding his gun up level with
Skinner's face, and Skinner did. "What I want to know is who the
bloody hell YOU are, asking questions that shouldn't be asked all
over half the fucking countryside, eh?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Mulder said, his hand on
his head, which he pulled down as he stood up straighter, though his
hand was stained with blood. "And if I did, it wouldn't be your
business anyway."

The leader's eyes pinned him, the gun staying on Skinner's face, who
he clearly saw as more of a threat than Mulder on his rubber knees.
"Anyone asking questions about Eamon Neill is my business," the man
said, a dangerous rumble in his voice. 

That was when Mulder saw it -- a thin scar, thin as a knife blade,
down the man's distended lower lip. 

It was the same scar the red-haired man at the bar had worn, the one
behind the table where Mulder had sat with Renahan and Skinner and a
man named Joey Flannan, who smoked a pipe and let almost nothing but
smoke come from between his chapped lips. 

"No, no Eamon around here," Flannan had said, his face weathered as
though he'd spent his life on the sea. The words leaked from his
lips, his mouth barely moving, and his eyes set on Mulder's face.

"I know you knew him, Joey," Renahan had said, taking a sip from his
highball glass of Glenfiddich. "You. Seamus Hanson. A few of the
boys. Tipped off by Eamon Neill about that bloke who got tea every
morning at The Exchange in Derry."

Flannan's eyes had gone to Renahan, though the rest of his body
didn't move. Smoke gathered around his face.

Renahan smiled a smile that looked like it had been drawn on with
crayon. "Killed that little ginger-haired bastard postman by mistake,
didn't you?" he said. "Only knew 'ginger hair' and 'uniform' and
opened fire on a man with a wife and a baby just come, didn't you?" 

Flannan still didn't move. "I've got nothing to say to you, Mr.
Renahan," he said softly, and then his lip did curl a bit, as though
pinched. 

Mulder had leaned forward then, nearly knocking over the pint of
Guinness he hadn't touched. "Mr. Flannan, we don't care about your
involvement with anything," he said, glaring at Renahan. "And we
don't mean Eamon Neill any harm. We just want to talk to him. That's
all. Just talk." 

That's when the man at the bar had caught his eye. A young man. Red
hair. Eyes like arctic ice and freckles, and a scar down his lip,
trailing down his chin. When the man had seen Mulder looking at him,
he'd turned away, back to the bartender, who'd been watching, as well.

"Mr. Flannan, please," Mulder had said then, and he felt something
rising in him, something akin to desperation. So many days. Too much
time with Renahan and his gruffness and his taunting. Too many dead-
ends, and towns and men who would not speak. "Please. This is about
my wife. That's all. It's about my wife."

But Flannan hadn't swayed. He'd stood, pushing the chair back,
holding onto his pipe in the corner of his mouth. He nodded to
Renahan. "I've got nothing to say to any of you," he said, and,
picking up his pint, he'd wandered away. 

The man at the bar had turned and looked at Mulder once again, met
Mulder's eye, then turned away.

Now, his breath puffing out in front of his face in the cool of the
night, Mulder looked at the scar on the chin, recognized the strange
blue of the eye in the dim, obtuse light of the headlights. 

"Now the two of you," the man said, pointed to Renahan and Skinner,
"are going to get in that car over there." He nodded to the car he
and the others had come in. "And you..." He stared at Mulder. "You're
going to get back into this one and drive with me."

"We're federal agents with the American government," Skinner rushed
in. "You can't--"

"I don't give a fuck who you are," the man snapped, and he pressed
the gun closer to Skinner's face. "Now go. Get in the car." 

"Where are we going?" Mulder said, his voice rising. "Where are you
taking us?"

Now the man's face changed, even beneath the mask. Hardened. 

"Those two miserable fucks are going back to Omagh," he said,
jerking a nod toward Renahan and Skinner. 

"But you," he said, and now he turned the gun to Mulder, and the
man's mouth bore a predatory smile. 

"You're coming with me."


*********

END OF CHAPTER 11a. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 11b. 



*****


TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO
MARCH 29
5:32 a.m.


The sun coming up over the ridge of mountains that wreathed the desert, the whole world a burnt amber, 
Paul Granger walked along the sandy road that split the wash out behind Victor Hosteen's property, a vast 
expanse of sagebrush and yucca and nothingness. He wore faded jeans dusted with sand like ash, a 
sweatshirt from Johns Hopkins, the waist of which was frayed, the lettering dotted away from 10 years' 
worth of washes. It was still cold from the night, the desert holding no heat, and the sun seemed almost wan 
in the way it was rising through a thin layer of cloud, the moon still a claw hooked in the deep blue of the 
night sky to west.

Granger looked up as he walked, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a long thin branch he was using 
both as a walking stick and also as a crook of sorts to tap the sheep in front of him into a jumble of woolen 
bodies that bleated plaintively as he touched their sides. Several wore bells, and the muffled sounds of their 
jangling rose into the brisk air.

They were coming up over a rise, one of the few on the property, a fairly sharp incline when compared to 
the flatness of the rest of the land. The sheep moved up it, zigging and zagging as Granger moved them 
back together with his stick, and he wished, as they rose, that he'd taken Victor's advice and ridden one of 
the horses from the stable to do this task of moving the sheep from the pens behind Victor's brother Keel's 
house back to their home base on Victor's ranch.

It hadn't seemed a long walk when Granger had gone the mile to get them, but now, coming back, it felt a 
great distance, a heavy burden of miles.

Robin was on his mind this morning, as she was most mornings since he'd arrived in New Mexico, the 
image of her lying in their bed beneath the heath-green sheets clear in his mind, a smile on his face. Then 
he was thinking of a night from last autumn, the weekend she'd cooked a recipe from the Gastronome 
Cookbook he'd given her for her birthday. The dish had a name he couldn't pronounce and in the end it 
didn't matter what it was, didn't matter a bit, because they'd stopped in the middle of her making it to make 
love instead on the broad cherry table off the kitchen.

He remembered the peals of her laughter as the room had filled with light grey smoke, the smoke detector 
screaming its shrill alarm as they kissed.

Granger was still thinking this as he reached the top of the incline, a nice view of light bleeding over the 
landscape, and that was when the pain struck him in the center of his chest, a squeezing inside him, a rush 
of burning that bloomed in him like a terrible flower, and it was only the staff that kept him from falling. 
Instead, he slid down it to one knee, then the other, his breath catching and a low moan coming up from his 
throat. He clenched his eyes closed against it, his teeth bearing down, his hand on his chest as though he 
meant to claw the pain out.

"Breathe..." he rasped. "Just breathe..."

His pulse roared in his ear, and his face felt full and hot, the pain coursing through him, a lightness in his 
head. His stomach roiled, bile rising in his throat, and he had to staunch the urge to vomit. He reached up 
and swiped at his forehead, knocking his glasses off in the process, and held his hand over his eyes, willing 
the pain away.

His pills were a mile away, hidden in his shaving bag at Victor's place. He kicked himself for not having 
them with him, at least one, tucked in the fifth pocket of his jeans.

Breathe, he told himself again, this time silently, and he concentrated on slowing his heart rate as best he 
could, as slowing it, being calm, would help the pain. That's what the doctor had said, at least. The doctor 
had said little about how to stave off his panic, though, the terror that gripped him when he wondered if this 
would be the last time he would feel this, if his world were going to fade to the sound of his heartbeat and a 
warm feeling in his chest that would spread until it blotted out the rest of his life.

The infection that had taken over his heart shortly after his surgery had come swiftly, his chest filled with 
blood from a severed artery and swelling as a fever had taken him over after the first couple of days in the 
ICU. Robin would never know how close he'd come to dying from the infection that had overrun him; he'd 
forbidden the doctors from telling her or his mother, the elder woman hanging onto the side of his bed like 
a tattered old bird, her dry hand on his cheek.

He'd forbidden the doctor from telling either woman of the prognosis afterwards, as well, the percentage of 
damage to the broad muscle of his heart, the lack of integrity in the vessels surrounding it from the tearing 
of the bullet through his chest. The time that he might have, and that he might not have, left.

He'd told them nothing. None of them. His doctor, a kindly, older man, had reluctantly cleared Granger for 
light duty, talked quietly about transplant options and possibilities and time, the things he knew and the 
things he didn't, and then he'd let Granger go when Granger had said he wanted nothing more than to get 
back to what was left of his life.

There on the road he thought of all this, the pain beginning to ebb slightly, sweat cold on his forehead. He 
thought of Robin, thousands of miles between them and her even further than that away in the land of the 
truths he would not speak. Everyone was there in that lost land -- his mother, his friends. Mulder and 
Scully. Rosen and Skinner. He felt like a man living on a ship that never saw a harbor, alone in a way he'd 
never felt before.

The sheep mingled around him, unsure, soft sounds coming from them, the hollow sounds of bells.

They were enough to pull him back to the present. Finally, he dropped his hand from in front of his face 
and looked at the animals, pulled in a less painful breath, leaned on the walking stick and managed to come 
up onto just one knee. Shaking his head to clear the pain away, to ground himself, he rubbed at his chest, 
sweat sticking his sweatshirt to his body, and then reached down and lifted his glasses carefully off the 
sand. He righted them on his face, mindful of the pain in his shoulder, as well, and stood slowly, brushed at 
his pants, and waited for the sudden fatigue to wan.

A couple of sheep were off to the right, meandering through the brush on the way to the desert to the side 
of the road. Willing his feet to move, Granger stumbled toward them, tapped them, called out, gathered 
them back with the others, and then moved back down the road, the sun full-on the sand now, bathing 
everything with warmth and light.


**********


11 SAMUEL STREET, #3
BELFAST, NORTHERN IRELAND, U.K.
6:35 a.m.


Rain pattering on the windows of the tiny rented flat, Christie Collin lay beneath the thin blankets of his 
bed, a woman whom he knew only as Bridget asleep beside him facing the wall. His eyes were on the thin 
line of a scar that traced down the back of her shoulder, each side of it dotted with stitch scars, though the 
scar itself was wide and fairly jagged.

A sloppy bit of work, he decided, and he inched a bit away from her, toward his own edge of the bed.

He didn't know why he'd picked her up at the pub the night before. There was something about her that had 
reminded him of someone, a face that seemed familiar but that he couldn't quite place. She'd been drunk 
when he'd met her, his friend John Finney introducing them. A few rounds of darts with her watching, a 
small predatory smile on her face as she swung back another pint, and he'd simply waited as the pub began 
to close, her against the bar on the far side. He'd gone to her and taken her by the arm and led her out and 
onto the dank streets, off to his place for the night.

The sex had been quick. Empty. Just after 2:00 a.m., she'd mumbled something about work and called him 
by the wrong name as she drifted off to sleep.

Now he only remembered her eyes -- blue. And the red of her hair, a plait of his drifting on the pillow 
toward him like tendrils. Looking at them, at the angry relief of the scar, he swung his legs over the side of 
the bed and rose, nude, into the light coming in from the street.

His military boxers were at the foot of the bed. Stepping into them, he walked into the adjoining room, a 
kitchen and a small den, the television still on and talking to no one. Going for it, he turned it off and the 
room fell into a silence broken only by the rain.

He stood in the midst of it, listening, still as stone.

He missed the life in Curragh Camp, his life with the Rangers, the Cciathan Fhiannoglaigh an Airm. He and 
Roy Killian would have been up hours ago, making tea on the hotplate in the barracks, waiting for Sergeant 
Malley to come in beating a metal trashcan to wake the others for the morning run. Or he'd be waking in a 
forest, his face painted tan and green and the world smelling of loam and the oil on his A196 rifle, his first 
sight the view of the valley from the ridge.

There in the rain, smelling the heavy scent of sausage cooking from the flat across the hall, he missed his 
life as it had been before with something tinged with anger that sunk into him and burned.

He'd learned not be easily startled, so when the phone began to ring he simply went for it, picking up the 
black handle from its cradle and placing it against his ear.

"Aye," he said, his voice low, graveled with fatigue.

"Christie?" The papery voice. The slight wheeze. His grandmother's voice. "Are you dressed?"

He looked down at himself, felt color rising in his face.

"Aye," he said again. "Just up and getting ready to make the tea. Is something wrong?"

A wispy breath, and his grandmother continued. "There are two men asking questions, I'm told. Two 
Americans. They've got Mr. Renahan with them and they're trying to find out who's responsible for the 
trouble."

She paused, out of breath, and he waited. He'd expected questions, but Renahan? The name was as old as 
he was. He didn't think the man could ever come back from the dead.

"What should I do?" he asked.

"I want you back in the south," came the reply. "Today. Take a car and go across the border. There's a man 
you're going to stay with. Outside Dublin. Riggs is his name. You'll meet him at the Cloniffe Bed & 
Breakfast and he'll tell you where to go from there."

"You're sure?" he said, the most vociferous a protest he could muster. He said it under his breath.

"Of course," his grandmother replied, her voice cracking, like a crow's. "I wouldn't send you away lightly, 
would I?"

"Aye, I reckon you wouldn't," he said, and forced a smile onto his face so it would touch his voice. "I'll be 
on my way then."

"And Christie?"

"Yes?"

A pause. "You shouldn't let strange women into your flat or into your bed."

He froze, looked behind at Bridget from the doorway, a chill running through him.

"Goodbye, Christie."

And then the line went dead.


**********


TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO
9:12 a.m.


The black dog wandered down the dirt road that connected Albert Hosteen's house to Victor's, his head 
down, his long black tail tucked tightly between his legs. He darted from one side of the road to the other, 
his nose busy on any scrap of anything he encountered, the road littered here and there with blowing scraps 
of paper and soda cans.

Scully watched Bo making his way down the road, her hand on the small of her back as she walked, the 
tails of the plaid shirt Albert Hosteen had purchased for her at the Target in town flapping in a wind that 
whipped sand into small clouds in front of her. She wore maternity jeans, a pair of boots, her hair pulled 
back into a loose ponytail at the base of her neck.

The baby jutted out in front of her, a perfect mound, making her feel a bit off balance. Rose was growing 
quickly, despite Scully's lack of appetite and fatigue. As Scully walked, she felt the baby roll over inside 
her, head-up to head-down, a lazy motion that made Scully smile. The tautness in her back as she leaned 
slightly stood in stark contrast to her daughter's ease inside her.

Bo made a beeline for lump of trash off to the right side, cluttering the base of a rough patch of sagebrush. 
He whined softly as he discovered nothing there of interest, looked back at her with his oil eyes. Scully 
might have wondered if he was hungry had she not just fed him. There was no consoling him the past few 
days. He'd been spending more and more time outside the house, disappearing for hours into the space 
Albert Hosteen's house, coming back looking tired and afraid. He was reminding Scully of the stories 
Mulder had told about how the dog was when Mulder had first found him -- a black ghost haunting the area 
around the ranch.

"Bo," she called, a bit singy, and patted her thigh. The dog stopped at the sound of his name and, still 
tucked in on himself, trotted up to her side, pressing the top of his head into the palm of her outstretched 
hand.

"It's okay," she murmured, rubbing his ears. If she could have comfortably knelt down she would have, just 
to get her face closer to the dog's. As it was, she simply bent and stroked his head, listening to his faint 
whining, until his tail came out and waved slightly in recognition, in something like ease.

She smiled down to him, though it made her sad to do it. The dog was like the part of herself that felt 
Mulder's absence so acutely. It was as if that part of her had crept out of her body during the night and 
drifted into the dog's dark body.

Pushing the thought aside, steeling herself, she straightened and began to walk again, Victor's house in 
sight now, the dingy buildings and the rising cloud of dust coming from the corral, the smell of the place 
drifting to her on the wind. She'd grown to like the heavy smell, to associate it with the cocoon of this 
place.

Albert Hosteen had left early in the morning, Sara cooking Scully's breakfast as she also did Hosteen's 
laundry in the battered Maytags off the back of the house. Sara had told her about a dream she'd had the 
night before, something about turning into a dove, and she'd finished the strange, unsolicited tale by turning 
to Scully, a knowing smile on her face, and saying:

"Tell me about your dreams, Agent Scully. Tell me."

Scully had looked at her, something in her rattled, that feeling one gets when another has somehow seen 
too much, and she'd withdrawn, mumbling something about a shower and a walk to Victor's place.

The walk had helped to ease her mind a bit, though her nagging worry about Mulder stayed with her as she 
and Bo entered the collection of structures that made up the ranch.

No e-mail from him in days, and the last only a brief note. Something about him and Skinner and this man 
Renahan staying at a Protestant man's house outside a town called Ballymena. He was on his way out to a 
meeting with someone, an informant of Renahan's, and couldn't write for long. She gathered he was getting 
little sleep, moving a lot, sometimes all night, criss-crossing and backtracking across the country. He'd told 
her he loved her, though even in the black on white of the computer screen the words had sounded sad. 
He'd promised to write as soon as he could.

But since then -- six days ago -- nothing.

She was trying to push the worry away, but it was pressing down on her. The what-ifs were beginning to 
circle her head like birds.

"Dana," came a voice from her right, Mae's voice, and the fussy sounds of Katherine in her mother's arms. 
Scully had been so deep in thought she hadn't seen Mae come around Victor's house.

Scully forced another smile onto her face, and Mae did the same. It was a common gesture they did for 
each other, this attempt to pretend that everything was all right. Scully thought that Mae was better at it 
than she was, and she didn't envy the woman her ability to wear such a mask.

"Just stretching your legs, or looking for someone?" Mae asked, bouncing Katherine slightly to try to hush 
her impending cries.

"Just walking," Scully replied, and Bo fell in right beside her, sitting up against her leg. "I thought I'd come 
down and see how you all were, what you were up to."

Mae nodded toward the stables. "Mr. Hosteen came early and go Sean. They're in the small corral with that 
pony and Mr. Hosteen's horse. I was watching them until Katherine needed a change."

Scully nodded, met Mae's eyes, her face growing serious. "Has he spoken to you?"

Mae's face fell, the mask slipping as though her expression were attached with string.
"No," she replied, her voice tinged with anger and her accent growing clipped. "And it's not right. I'm ready 
to put my foot down with him. It's been over a month. Enough is enough."

Scully put a hand out, brushing Mae's arm. "Mae, you heard what Granger said. Mr. Hosteen's methods 
may be unorthodox, but he's moving Sean in the right direction."

They'd eaten at Mae's house -- she and Granger -- while Albert Hosteen had had Sean out for the day, off 
somewhere in the desert. Mae had been fretting as the sun had started to fall low on the horizon, a simple 
dinner of beef stew and fry bread. Sara, who was staying with Victor at night now, had made the bread, and 
Mae had made the Irish stew. Granger, looking haggard, had tried to explain Sean's condition to Mae -- 
something he called Selective Mutism.

"Why the bloody hell does he feel it's all right to talk to a fucking pony and not to me?" Mae had burst out 
with after listening for a few minutes to Granger's psychospeak.

"Mae, he has to talk to who or what he trusts right now," Granger had soothed, Scully nearly dropping her 
spoon with the suddenness and volume of Mae's words.

"Why can't he trust me? I'm the only family he's got. Katherine and I are all he's got. Not Mr. Hosteen. And 
certainly not a horse."

Granger had put his spoon down then, touched the nosepiece of his glasses to push them up and cleared his 
throat. "Mae, I think he talks to the pony because he knows the pony won't talk back. I think that's what he 
needs right now. To just be *heard*. And by someone or something that isn't involved with any of the 
things in his life that he's finding to painful to speak about. He's lost so much. And everyone in his life is 
associated with that loss. Except Mr. Hosteen and the pony he gave him. You need to let this take its time."

"He blames me," Mae replied. "That's why he won't speak to me."

"Mae, after what he's been through, I think he blames everything," Scully offered softly. "Starting with 
Owen, and going right through us all."

Mae had stared at her, unconvinced and fighting back tears, and had finally risen and gone to the sink. They 
hadn't spoken of it again.

Now, bouncing Katherine on her hip, Mae relented again, though her expression was still pained. Every 
day that went by, Scully saw Mae's anger growing more and more intense. Her anger at the situation and at 
her own helplessness.

"How are *you*?" Mae asked, glancing down at her belly.

"I'm fine," Scully said automatically, rubbing the mound of the baby.

"You don't look like you've slept," Mae replied doubtfully.

"No, I'm fine," she said again. "She's keeping up some. Moving a lot. That's all."

"It's more than that," Mae said, her voice dropping. "You're having strange dreams."

Scully went still, searching Mae's eyes, feeling exposed.

Since that day ten days ago when she'd seen Rose as a child, her doll Casey in her arms outside she and 
Mulder's bedroom, she'd hadn't seen anything else of her daughter's life.

But there were other things she'd seen, asleep. She'd seen a man in her dreams. A young man in a white 
sweater on a phone in an airport. She'd seen another man. A man with a beard and shaggy hair. Wild eyes. 
Brown sweatshirt and brown pants.

And a gun. Pointed at her.

She'd heard the screaming. A child's. And her own.

Then the old man, sitting in his wheelchair, his hand outstretched.

(Come with me, Dana. Come with me....)

Scully composed herself, pushing all of that away, rubbing her belly like a charm.

"No, no dreams," she lied, and she could tell from the look on Mae's face that the other woman saw the lie 
for what it was, and was about to say so.

"Let's look in on Sean and Mr. Hosteen," Scully said, interrupting Mae before she could start.

The deflection worked. Mae's face hardened again, and she turned and started down the road toward the 
stables, Scully following, and Bo trailing behind them like the shadow of a child.


**********

CLEW BAY
OFF CLARE ISLAND
REPUBLIC OF IRELAND
10:03 a.m.


"Keep your fucking head down, I said!"

It was a hissed whisper, and was punctuated by the kick of a boot on the back of Mulder's neck. Mulder 
flattened himself onto the floor of the van he was riding in, his stomach swimming, the pressure of the foot 
on his neck growing stronger as a moan slipped up from his chest.

It wasn't the motion of the van moving over curving roads, the motion he'd had for most of the night, that 
was making him ill, but rather the current rocking of the vehicle. He'd felt the tell-tale bump of the van's 
tires as it has boarded a ferry, the blow of a boat whistle, and then nothing but the swell of waves.

Between the aching in his head and his tendency toward seasickness anyway, he didn't know how much 
more he could take without his stomach revolting, which he was sure wouldn't please his companions one 
bit.

Only one of his current "hosts" was familiar -- the man who'd led the group who had tried to run he and 
Skinner and that sonofabitch Renahan off the road outside Omagh. The others -- and the van -- were all 
new, picked up just before they'd crossed the border into Ireland, Mulder covered with a thick tarp and 
threatened into silence with a promise of a bullet as the border guards had questioned the driver.

Then hours on roads that felt like they'd been paved by the Roman Empire, struggling for breath and 
sweating beneath the tarp. Every time he'd spoken or tried to shift or rise, he'd paid for it. His body and face 
wore a collection of souvenirs from the attempts. His mouth tasted like blood.

So now, the van rocking and someone smoking a pipe that smelled like Christmas, the two men in the front 
laughing over some joke, Mulder put his head down all the way and tried to relax as much as he could. He 
was rewarded when the foot was removed from his neck.

"There's a good Yank," one of the men said softly, and one of the other men chuckled softly.

"Fucking git," came another voice, and Mulder had to hold his tongue or risk another hit.

The boat whistle blew again, and Mulder felt the ferry slow, bumping into the buoys that would guide it to 
the dock. The van's engine started, and after a moment the vehicle jostled off the ferry, revving up, and they 
were on their way again, onto another stretch of rough road.

After a few minutes, Mulder could tell by the noise of other cars, the starting and stopping, that they'd 
entered a town. It didn't take long to be through it, however, and then they were out again, bumping along, 
curving.

Then a turn. A gravel drive. Brakes squeaking as they stopped.

He heard the two doors open, then the side door slide open, sunlight flooding the darkened interior.

"Get him up," the leader said, and the canvas was pulled off Mulder's back, light hurting his eyes. The two 
men with him in the back grabbed him beneath the arms and dragged him up and out onto the drive.

Squinting, one of his eyes swelling, Mulder looked at his surroundings. A small house, perched on the edge 
of a cliffside, the ocean beyond. There were trees around the house, partially hiding it from view. Smoke 
curled up from it, grey.

"Move," the leader said, and Mulder turned to look at him, taking in his red hair, the set of his face. The 
thin scar over his full lower lip.

Seeing Mulder seeming to memorize his face, the man grabbed Mulder's shoulder and shoved him toward 
the house.

Three steps up, and the door opened without anyone knocking.

A man stood there -- fifty or sixty. It was hard to tell. His face still had a boyish look to it, despite the grey 
beard, the high forehead, and the creases around his eyes. He wore a black fisherman's sweater, wide 
corduroy pants and boots on his feet. He was looking at Mulder, taking in his face, the blood crusted 
around his nose and mouth.

"Bring him in," the man said softly, a gentle tone to his voice that surprised Mulder, given the treatment 
he'd received at the hands of the other men.

The red-haired man with the scar shoved Mulder again, pushing him down a narrow hallway into a living 
room warm with a fire. A window to the side showed the ocean view, and there was music playing. 
Something soothing. Low voice and a guitar.

"Let him be," the house's occupant said quietly as the others stuffed Mulder into a chair. Outnumbered and 
more than a little unnerved, Mulder held his tongue and held still.

Like dogs, the other men backed away from Mulder, retreating the room's sides.

The older man turned and retrieved a pipe from the mantle, stuffed it with tobacco and gave it a light with a 
thick wooden match. There was a grandfather clock against the far wall, and it ticked loudly, sounding 
tired. When the man had his pipe lit, he moved until he stood in front of Mulder, towering over him in the 
chair, the pipe in the corner of his mouth.

His eyes were bright, inquisitive, a small smile on his face.
"Why don't you tell me who I am," the man said, and he sound calm, almost amused.

Mulder looked at him. "You're Neill," he said. "Eamon Neill."

The man smiled wider, and Mulder swallowed, his hands clenching the arms of the chair. Though every 
inch of him hurt, he felt suddenly hopeful. Hopeful and still very much afraid.


**


The clock was still ticking, the same tired beat beneath the sound of
an Irish folk singer and a guitar, as the silence stretched between
Mulder and the man he had just fingered as Eamon Neill like a road.

The men who'd brought Mulder to this place  an island, he
guessed, from the ferry ride, the view out the large window facing
the cliff the cottage sat on nothing but sea  stood around,
still as
gargoyles and about as friendly, though the young man with the red
hair and the scar on his lip looked more nervous than Mulder had seen
him, gnawing on the scar as though the wound, long healed, still
pained him somehow. 

Neill, who'd been pacing slowly, his steps soft sounds on the
wood floor as he put one booted foot in front of the other before the
fireplace, had his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes down as if
thinking, considering what to do. He looked up at the red-haired
man, met his eyes, and then looked back down.

Mulder didn't move, didn't even shift in the chair
where'd they sunk him, though his body was sore from the long
ride,
face-down, in the van. It still seemed he could feel the boot on the
back of his neck, and his eye was swollen nearly closed, a puff that
his father had called a "mouse" forming on his lower lid. 

Instead, he listened to the clock. He watched the pendulum, old
brass, for a moment as it caught the light. He read the look on the
red-haired man's face.

(Whatever you say, say nothing...)

The song ended and Mulder could hear the strange whine of a CD
changing tracks. Neill seemed to find the sound his cue to stop and
turned to Mulder again, though he didn't uncross his arms or
change the curious expression on his face.

"Tell me what I want to know," he said, the same tone he used
when he'd asked Mulder to tell him who he himself was. Not
threatening. Curious as his face. Strange with something like
warmth.

Mulder met his gaze, licked a crack in his lip that was crusted with
blood. How much to tell, he wondered. How little.

"You want to know why I've been trying to find you,"
Mulder answered. "Why I've been asking about you."

Neill didn't move. The clock kept ticking. Another song began. 
Penny whistle. A woman's voice, talking about farming a tough
and beautiful land...

"Aye," Neill replied. It was little more than a whisper of
sound.

Mulder glanced at the red-haired man again, back. 

"Not in front of them," he said, a bit of his usual
confidence creeping back into his voice. 

He didn't know why he felt as though he had any power. Perhaps
it was the juxtaposition of the men around him and the quietness he
got off the man before him. Violence on the one hand and something
that seemed to move against it in the other, though everything he
knew of Neill told him this was not the case.

He did what he'd always done as he watched Neill consider. He
trusted his instincts. He told himself that 99% of the time, they
were right.

But that 1%...Jesus, could it be a bitch...

"How about you blokes go have a smoke?" Neill said at last,
and the red-haired man began to protest. He got out one bleat of
sound before Neill's hand came up and silenced him.

"Not now, Eagon," Neill said, firm but not unkind.
"You've done a good bit so far and I'm grateful. But
give me the
room."

The man, Eagon, looked at Mulder, at the others, who were watching
the exchange warily.

"Go on, boys," Neill said. "Go on." And, following
Eagon, they left. 

At least now it's a fair fight, Mulder thought gravely, watched
Neill reach for a pipe on the mantel, reach for tobacco in a worn
leather pouch. Neill filled the pipe, facing away from Mulder,
pressing the flakes down with his thumb.

"Tell me," Neill said as he put the pipe to his lips and
struck a white-tip on the brick. A puff of smoke came up that
smelled like sugar and wood.

Mulder swallowed. "I'm here about my wife," he said. It
wasn't what he'd intended to say. He'd meant to say
something else,
but he couldn't remember what it was. He only knew what he felt,
and
it was that that he spoke from.

"Your wife?" the other man repeated, still not turning,
looking into the fire.

"Yes," Mulder replied. "There was a bomb. In
Washington. My wife was..." He hesitated. 

Truth or lie? 

Lie.

"My wife was killed," he finished. 

"Whatever it is," Neill said quickly but with the same soft
tenor, "it's got nothing to do with me, I can tell you
that."

Mulder ran the tone through his mind, as though he were turning it
over for taste.

"You know," he said with conviction.

"Aye," Neill said, sounding tired. "I know. Scully.
The one who brought Curran and The Path down in the States." He
turned slowly. "That would make you Mulder. Fox Mulder." 

Mulder nodded. "Yes."

"F.B.I.," Neill added, looking hard at him.

"I'm not here as an agent," Mulder replied. "I'm
not after you. I don't care what you've done or why. I
don't care
about your politics or your past."

The last came out more bitterly than he'd intended  years of
living at the mercy of this thing, this intruder in his life
called "The Troubles" biting it out of him  and Neill
heard it,
chuffed.

He moved forward, pipe in hand, and stood directly over Mulder,
looking down, standing almost too close. Mulder was very much aware
that Neill was standing and he was not. He was aware of the men
outside the door.

"Your trouble is all about my politics, Mr. Mulder," he said.
"You'd better start caring about them. Now whether it's
about my
past...that I can't tell you. That I don't know."
Neill stepped
away, took a pull from the pipe. A log fell in the fire.

"This is about Owen Curran," Mulder pressed "Someone
associated with him. Are there any Path left?"

"No," Neill said, shaking his head. "Not here or up
north or in the States. Curran did quite a job on them himself in
that mess in Virginia. Quite a job. And to be frank, I can't
think
of anyone who would kill your wife for taking him out after that.
Lots of families here still wearing black over that. Lots of
families who think he deserved exactly what he got." 

He looked at Mulder. "The story here goes that your wife or you
were the one who did him in. I can't see how someone would come
after her  or you  because of that." 

"My wife didn't kill him," Mulder said grimly. "I
didn't kill him. Someone else did."

Neill raised an eyebrow. "Who?"

"I thought you would know," Mulder said quietly. "We
never found who it was. Curran was trying to kill my wife, his
sister Mae. Me."

Mulder reached down and raised the bottom of his shirt and sweater,
exposing his belly to Neill. The incision scar and the pucker of the
bullet hole stood out stark pink on his skin. 

"How did he die?" Neill said, his eyes flicking from the
scar to Mulder's face as Mulder dropped his shirt. 

"A single shot. From somewhere high."

"Clean hit?"

"Half his head was gone." 

Neill nodded, gnawing on the end of his pipe and paced toward the
fire slowly. "One of yours? Merc? Secret Agent Man?"

Mulder shook his head. "Neither. Another man was killed, too,
and an agent wouldn't do that."

"Nor a merc," Neill added, breathing smoke. "It's
one of ours, all right." He chuffed again mirthlessly.
"Glad about
that. Owen was a shame to his father and all the rest of us. 
Humiliating."

"Yeah, we were pretty...embarrassed by him, too," Mulder
quipped. 

A smile touched Neill's mouth, his eyes...apologetic? Mulder
couldn't quite tell. Neill took the pipe from his mouth and
pointed
it at Mulder's belly. "So I see." 

He went to the grate again, breathed deep from his pipe, billowed. 
The smoke hung around his face like a veil. He was silent for a long
moment. Then he spoke. 

"Your wife's not dead."

Mulder's eyes got wide and he started to protest, but again the
words he meant to say died in his throat. 

"No," he said simply.

"Quite a pony show on the tele, though. My hat's off."
He'd turned at this point and gave Mulder a slight smile that
crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Liked the white coffin. 
Innocence lost and all that." 

Mulder returned the smile and a laugh came up, though it pained his
side. "Thanks," he said. 

Why do I trust you? he wanted to ask. As his eyes hung with
Neill's, the other man's still hidden by the sheen of smoke
as he
continued that strange, warm smile, he thought of this. 

"I take it you've got her stowed away until you find
who's doing this," Neill said as the CD squeaked its way to
track
four. A fiddle and a man's voice in Gaelic. 

"Yes," Mulder said.

The clock struck an off-key note, then another, counting off the
hours. At the same time, from Neill's pocket, a chiming like an
infant music box. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a worn
but well-kept pocket watch attached to his belt with a small, gold-
linked chain. He snapped open and then closed again. The music
stopped, and Neill ran his hand over the surface.

"Was my father's," he said softly.

Mulder nodded. 

"Everything about me was my father's," Neill said, waving
a hand to take in everything. "The house. The land it's on.
Everything." He looked at Mulder meaningfully. "You
understand me,
Mr. Mulder?"

Mulder nodded. "Yes," he said. "I understand you." 

"Sometimes what you do..." Neill continued. "Sometimes
it's like your blood. Sometimes you can't stop it. It's
like your
heart in your chest."

Mulder had a sudden memory  Samantha, three or four, frightened
in a thunderstorm, crawling into bed beside him. Her small hands on
his chest, a face against his shoulder.

"You know about family," Neill said, and Mulder snapped back
to reality, surprised, as though fearing Neill had somehow read his
mind. 

"Your wife," Neill continued. "You know what you'll
do for family."

Mulder played the memory of Samantha over in his mind like a tape. 
He thought of Scully's face. Scully asleep in a car. The
stakeout on Modell. Then again, after making love, her hair 
longer
now  a wave on the white pillow. Their bedroom. Their house.

"Anything," Mulder said at last. 

Neill nodded, went to the fireplace and tapped out the pipe into the
embers there. They rained down and winked out. "Then you
understand more about my politics and my past than you think."

Mulder swallowed, treading lightly. "Some of it," he agreed.

Neill looked at him, placed the pipe on the mantel on its tiny
stand. "That's a start," he said. 

Again, silence between them, a man singing in a language Mulder
couldn't understand. He liked the music, though. He liked it a
lot.

"Will you help me?" Mulder said softly.

Neill looked down at the floor, toward the door where Eagon and the
others were waiting. Mulder held his breath.

"Aye," Neill said at last, and let out a long breath. "Aye." 


*******

THE SLAUGHTERED LAMB
OMAGH, NORTHERN IRELAND
UNITED KINGDOM
MARCH 31
9:36 P.M.


"Do you ever think about anything but drinking, Renahan?" 

Skinner looked across the worn wooden table that looked older than he was at Renahan's boozy half smile. 
The other man's lips wore a wet patina of saliva, the look one got when they were six or seven beers in and 
about two more away from the toilet.

"Fucking hell, man," Renahan said, too loud, though none of the men in the tavern even looked sideways at 
him. "You've met me  wouldn't you if you were me? Eh? Eh?" He broke into a fit of chuckles, each one 
snorty and swimming in dark beer.

Skinner scowled, stared down at the surface of his own beer, the liquid still touching the rim. He could see 
a vague reflection of his face in it, like a black mirror. He wanted to say that Renahan was right. He wanted 
to tell the man that if he didn't spend so much time acting like an asshole people might not keep mistaking 
him for one. But he decided to save his breath.

Breath was what you needed in the Slaughtered Lamb, a tavern so filled with pipe and cigarette smoke it 
looked like the deserted roads they'd driven back in from the roadway where they'd been forced off onto the 
shoulder, the entire drive robed in fog the headlights could barely break through. 

Skinner could still remember looking up at the sign over the tavern, blurred as he'd groped on the sidewalk 
for his glasses after being tossed out of the moving car with Renahan, the sign a wooden placard festooned 
with an old painting of a lamb with its throat slit. Its clarity as he righted his glasses and got to his feet 
wasn't much comfort as he'd listened to the Brit laughing on the ground next to him, laughing so hard he 
couldn't get up without Skinner's yank on his arm.

"In we go!" Renahan had said, brushing off his clothes as though the care mattered. He still looked like he'd 
just crawled out of a box underneath a highway overpass.

"Why here?" Skinner'd asked, pointing at the sign. It didn't seem a good omen.

Renahan smiled. "Because I'm thinking this being our stop-off isn't a coincidence, Mr. Skinner, for one," he 
said. "And two, we don't have a place to stay yet and they've got some rooms...and three..." He smiled the 
smile that seemed to challenge and apologize at the same time. "I've got a bit of a thirst." 

Skinner had no choice but to follow him in. 

The night before they'd been their captor's guests in a house outside of town, both of them locked in the 
back room of a house out away from town. No one had spoken to them, though they'd been giving a wedge 
of cheese and a loaf of bread at one point, and access to a toilet as needed off the back of the house. 

Renahan hadn't seemed bothered by the treatment, saying only once: "I've seen worse," and then quieting as 
the unmistakable sound of a gun butt on the door silenced them both until nightfall. Skinner's mind had 
turned the image of Mulder climbing into the other car with the young man with the slit lip over in his 
mind, and he'd gnawed a sore spot on his own lip at the thought.

"Fuck," he'd breathed at one point, forgetting Renahan was there, the other man dozing in the corner. 
Renahan had been awake enough to chuff at the word.

Then it was out into the car wearing blindfolds, a curving drive into town, and then the lights of the pub as 
they'd had their blindfolds removed, a shove and an obscenity for good measure and they rolled to a stop on 
the ground.

"I think this was a mistake," Skinner said over the din in the pub, clenching and unclenching his jaw like a 
fist as he spoke. 

"What part of it?" Renahan replied, taking another drink. Beer clung to his beard. 

"Sitting around here with our thumbs up our asses while Mulder's Christ knows where..."

Renahan smiled. "He's with Eamon Neill," he said. "You know that as well as I do. Neill's nephew, the 
ginger with the scar?" He made a swipe down his face. "Little Eagon knows exactly where we are. We'll sit 
tight. Wait it out." 

"We should be looking for both of them," Skinner spat, and now he did take a sip of his beer, frustrated. He 
wished he still smoked.

"No need," Renahan said. "They just walked in the fucking door." 

Skinner looked first at the other man's Guinness smile, then over his shoulder where Renahan's eyes were 
focused. Sure enough, there was Mulder and another man, shorter with reddish hair and a beard and tired, 
wise eyes. Mulder's hands were in his jacket pockets, and as he approached, Skinner saw the swollen eye, 
the split in his lip. He was looking at Skinner, a small smile on his face.

The man beside him was not smiling, and his eyes were not on Skinner but on the man across the table 
from him, who leaned back in the chair he was in, its back creaking like bones. Renahan reached for his 
pint and nearly missed.

Skinner stood, tucking in his shirt a bit more out of habit, straightening himself up to his full height. He felt 
his mouth curl into a wry half-smile as Mulder stood before him, his hair mussed, a couple of days growth 
of beard on his face making him look more worn.

Mulder's mouth quirked, the slit gaping a bit, that smartass smile that made Skinner want to belt him from 
across his desk. "Sorry," he quipped. "I got held up."

"We all did, as I recall," Skinner grumbled, and turned his attention to the other man, and Mulder did, as 
well. "I've been eating stinking cheese and pissing outdoors for a day and a half."

"It's good you can keep up your regular routine this far from home, sir," Mulder said dryly, and Skinner 
rolled his eyes, the relief at seeing each other in one piece released with the insults.

Mulder turned to the man beside him. 

"Mr. Neill," he said, nodding toward Skinner. "This is Assistant Director Walter Skinner with the F.B.I." 
Skinner and Neill shook hands, one short shake, and Neill angled his head in Skinner's direction.

"Mr. Skinner," he said, and his voice sounded like the man should sing bonnie Christmas carols, Skinner 
thought. Something warm in it, warm and quiet, almost as if the tone of his voice was pitched on purpose to 
keep people at ease. "I'm Eamon Neill. Glad to meet you," he added, and Skinner nodded, watching Neill 
turn his attention to Renahan.

"Mr. Renahan," Neill said softly. "Been a long time." His voice had lost some of its warmth now, his eyes 
looking tired and bit dim, as though a cloud of memory had passed before them.

Renahan chuckled. "Not fucking long enough," he said. "What was it? Eighty-four? Eighty-five? I can't 
recall."

"You know exactly when it was we last met," Neill said softly, though his voice seemed to carry. Skinner 
realized it was because the noise level in the room had dropped a touch. "I'd imagine you've still got the 
clipping up on your wall from the day you brought me into Derry. You still keep all those clippings, Mr. 
Renahan? Like you used to do?"

Renahan took a swig from the pint, the foam clinging to his moustache like a second moustache. "It was a 
memorable day, that one, aye," he said, ignoring the last part of the question.

"I know I'll never forget it," Neill said, and he reached to his right arm, pushed the sleeve of the thick 
sweater he wore up. There was a sunken-in place on the side of his forearm where muscle was missing, the 
area blotted with thick white scar. 

Mulder and Skinner looked at Renahan, who laughed. "I didn't do that to you now, Eamon," he said 
jovially. "That's not me."

Neill smiled mirthlessly. "You didn't have to do much of anything for yourself now did you?" he said 
softly. "Ran your own bloody Nutting Squad right there, didn't you?" His voice rose in volume, but not in 
ire. "Kept it looking clean for the Yanks on the outside, shiny and clean, while inside those walls you were 
doing worse than you blamed us for. Weren't you. Fucking Nutting Brits having their pictures taken for the 
papers and you in there chatting it up and then leaving the cell with your big smile while we were in there 
with those blokes and God only knows what."

The smile fell from Renahan's face, and other faces were turning all around from the tables surrounding 
them. A couple of men stood, pipes in their mouths. Skinner couldn't tell if they were rising to move 
forward or back, but their eyes showed they understood everything Neill had said, their eyes darting from 
Neill to Renahan and back again.

"I don't think this is the place for this discussion," Skinner ventured, putting his hands out, one toward each 
of the men. Renahan was still leaning back in the chair as though someone had poured him there, his hand 
tight on the glass. Neill still had his arm out, his left hand gripping his right elbow to hold up the sweater's 
thick sleeve. 

Mulder reached out, touched Neill's arm just above the scar's ruin, gently put his arm down as though he 
were lowering a hand that held a gun. 

"It's the past," Mulder said. "It's over now." 

Renahan's knowing smile returned, and even Neill's eyes creased with cynical amusement. 

"You're not that nave, I know, Mr. Mulder," Neill said. 

"No," Mulder said. "I know there's no such thing as 'over' in the whole goddamn country." He couldn't keep 
the bitter from his voice. Skinner lowered his hands as Neill's lips curled in an almost sad smile.

Then he rolled his sleeve down, pulled out a wooden chair and sat himself. "Not nave at all," he said, 
sounding tired but somehow pleased. He turned to a man at a table nearby, a younger man who wore a 
stocking cap that Skinner hadn't even noticed was there.

"Kevin, how about a pint?" he said to the young man, who nodded and stood, going to the bar. "We'll be 
needing two. And another for these two, as well."

Skinner looked at Mulder, and he could tell that Mulder was tamping down the urge to gape at the whole 
place, at every face, every set of eyes and every curl of smoke from every pipe.

"Have a sit, Mr. Mulder, Mr. Skinner," Renahan said, seeming pleased at the two Americans' discomfort, 
which Skinner would have labeled further as fear. Renahan's eyes didn't leave Neill's, the two of them 
looking like they were about to play a particularly intricate game of cards. Poker. With real clubs and 
spades. 

Mulder sat, Skinner following suit, both of them moving slowly, aware of all the eyes, the subtle lowering 
of the din of the room.

"Welcome to my Ireland," Renahan said to them both, his teeth showing in a bemused smile. Skinner 
looked at him, then at Mulder's dawning understanding as the younger man looked at Neill and nodded 
with some comprehension that Skinner couldn't yet reach himself.

"And to mine," Neill replied, his voice quiet and knowing again. He didn't even look up as the man he'd 
called Kevin returned with their black, warm pints and set them down in the center of the table for the men 
to take.


*****

CLONIFFE BED & BREAKFAST
DUBLIN, REPUBLIC OF IRELAND
APRIL 1
7:02 A.M.

Another bed, this one without the woman called Bridget, the woman he'd picked up and taken into his bed 
with her strange, scarred body. Without her and her smoky lips and her entreats for a couple of pounds, but 
also without the small amount of warmth she'd afforded. Christie Collin was dressing in the gray light 
coming through the overly fluffed curtains at the B&B and looking at the bed, thinking of the woman's red 
hair sprayed out on the pillow, how he'd looked down at her face as he'd fucked her  Bridget so drunk she 
was having a hard time keeping her blue eyes focused on his face  and how he'd tried to turn that face into 
another face.

Something more like desperation than desire. Regret rather than lust.

He wondered how long he'd be trying to bring the American woman back to life in his mind. How long it 
would be before he'd stop thinking of the baby inside her, both of them wearing suits of glittering glass and 
flame behind his eyes. 

As he dressed (simple jeans and the ubiquitous white fisherman's sweater he wore like his civilian 
uniform), he thought about two things his Sergeant had told him would happen to a soldier. 

"First," Finney'd said, cooking over a silver tin of Sterno in a mountain forest so green it had made Christie 
wonder if there were any other color on Earth, "you'll feel bad about some of the people you've killed. 
You'll think about them, turn their faces over in your mind like coins. Regret things. Wish you'd go back 
and do things different."

Christie  younger then, probably too young to think about such things but already in need of doing so  
had stirred the tea in the metal teapot and nodded. 

"And second," Finney'd continued, "you'll have to learn to get over the first and move past it or you'll crack 
up doing this job. There's no going back. Dead is dead and there's nothing to be done about it." 

Deaths had bothered him then, but at least then, he thought grimly, they had been carried out for reasons he 
could justify or even name. 

As he thought this, he could almost feel his grandmother's dry hand on his arm, hear that papery voice that 
sounded like how an ancient crow would talk if it could form his name. 

A tap at the door, and Christie called for whoever it was to come in. 

The man he'd met the night before in a steady rain, the man haloed by the gas light outside the cottage and 
holding a black umbrella over Christie as he'd ushered him into the house, stood in the doorway, his face 
grim, though Christie suspected his face always looked that way. Riggs was Old Guard, the I.R.A. his life. 
The Troubles seemed to have lodged themselves in the creases of the old men's faces. At least every one 
he'd seen, and he'd seen quite a few.

"Mr. Collin," Riggs said, formal and steady. "Wife's got eggs on for you like you asked. Lady Collin said to 
call this morning. I've got a phone downstairs where you can be a bit private."

"Ta," Christie said, running his hand over his crewcut out of habit, as though he were actually straightening 
the razored hair. He followed Riggs out, closing the door to his simple room with his duffle on the neatly 
made bed behind him. 

The room Riggs led him to was a comfortable office with dark wood, the desk clearly nearly as old as the 
cottage itself. The phone on the corner was even corded, the old handle feeling ridiculously large against 
his ear as he turned the dial to put in the number and it rang. The signal was as clear as water.

"Christie?" That ghostly raven voice. Early for her, the voice not yet much used for the day.

"Aye, I'm all set where you said." He knew to keep the calls short, and he liked them that way besides.

"He's in Omagh," his grandmother continued without any nicety or prelude. "Omagh. With Eamon Neill 
and Ed Renahan and that man he works with." 

A good distance away. He was safe where he was. Then why...?

"You sound worried about that," he ventured. 

"Neill knows too much to be involved," she said, which he could have guessed.

"He doesn't know me." It was why he'd been chosen for this. Few knew him at all, and his life had frankly 
felt just like that.

"No, but he does know me. Or...people...who know me. People not far from where he is." 

He thought of Omagh, drew a line to the coast on the map in his mind, settling on the dot of a town whose 
name he knew all too well, that everyone with anything to do with the Cause knew and had managed to 
keep secret.

Not far at all.

"We need to find out what Mr. Mulder knows," she continued. "I've got someone whose going to go 
through his things and see what they can find. But in any case...I think it's time for Mr. Mulder to join his 
wife."

Christie felt heat come up in his face. "You said it would only be the two. The ones responsible. You said 
there'd be no more to be done to pay for this."

"It's not about John in this case." Her voice was a faint wheeze now. He could hear the whine of her chair 
and knew the call would end. "It's about protecting us. What's left of us."

(You, he thought. It's about protecting you.)

"Mr. Mulder's curiosity has been unexpected. There's too much too lose. When I have something for you, 
I'll call. But I want you moving. Cross the border. Go to St. Sebastian's. Wait for me there." 

And the line went dead.

He walked past the smell of butter and eggs and bread, past the sound of Riggs and his wife and someone 
speaking French, a foreigner rattling a newspaper at the B&B's kitchen table and speaking to his child. Up 
the stairs and back onto the corner of the bed.

The sun was coming through the drapes, flowers on their fabric staining the ivory blankets faintly red. He 
touched a spot of it, calloused fingers, hard on soft.

Bridget sleeping there. He held onto the name, held her face in his hands in his mind and she roused and 
looked at him.

"What is it?" she asked, her voice tinged as if she knew him or cared.

He hesitated, looking into her invisible eyes, worrying the cotton beneath his fingers as though it were her 
hair.

"She says..." he began, swallowed. "She says she doesn't understand this Mulder and what he's doing."

"But it's what she's doing, isn't it then?" she said softly. 

Christie nodded to nothing. "Don't know how she can't say she doesn't understand...a man with a dead 
wife. Dead baby..." He looked into the mirage of her eyes. "She has to understand that sort of revenge, you 
know? She must."

Bridget looked at him gravely, her face seeming to vanish into white. "She understands the Cause, 
Christie," she said, her voice lost on a gust of wind pressing against the window.

He spoke to her as she faded from view, her eyes showing she heard the final thing he said: 

"Then she understands revenge."
 

********


TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO
10:15 a.m.


"Watch," Albert Hosteen said, his long legs, clad in faded jeans, squeezing on Ghost's sides, a thin stick 
tapping on the dapple gray of the horse's long neck. Just a touch, barely enough for Ghost to feel through 
his sleek coat. As he did so, he said the Navajo word for "left." Dutifully, the horse moved to the left and 
walked toward a battered barrel in the center of the corral, close to where Sean was standing with Cloud, 
the pony looking bored. 

"Now watch again," Hosteen said, and Sean squinted up at him, his face already growing a touch red from 
the sun beating down on the corral. He said the word again, did nothing with the stick this time, and Ghost 
turned to the left again and walked to the second barrel, the one with the dent in the side from one too many 
rolls and kicks.

Sean looked at him, at Cloud, then back again, his face still screwed up against the sun. He chanced a 
glance to the side of the corral, too, where Mae and Scully and Sara were, Mae standing up on the slats so 
that her head looked over the top and Scully seated on the bleachers beside Sara, who was bouncing 
Katherine like a toy. 

Hosteen glanced over, as well, met Scully's eyes, the woman's face a bit pinched with concern. Sean had 
been ignoring Hosteen for twenty minutes, watching him but not doing as he said, leaning over 
occasionally to whisper something in the pony's cocked ear.

"Hmm," Hosteen said, speaking softly to Ghost, who walked slowly to the fence near Mae and Scully. 
Scully stood slowly as he approached, her hand on the small of her back.

"Not much progress today, I see," Mae said, and Hosteen noted that she didn't even try to hide the 
bitterness in her voice. He only smiled faintly as Ghost pushed his charcoal nose over the fence and against 
Mae's hand. Mae pulled her hand away a few inches, her eyes still on Sean talking to Cloud. 

"There is progress," he replied, nodding toward Sean. "He's telling the pony a story. Stories are important 
things to tell, don't you think?" He smiled at Mae again, mostly with his eyes, as she looked up at him 
almost accusingly. 

"I suppose," she said, and glanced away. 

"Does he like stories?" Hosteen asked, Ghost swishing his tail in a sound like a brush. Scully crossed her 
arms and watched the exchange, her eyes going between Hosteen and the side of Mae's face.

"What do you mean?" Mae said. "Of course he likes stories. More so when he was younger, but he's liked 
them, yes."

"What sort?" Hosteen pressed. 

Mae seemed to consider this for a moment, shielding her eyes as the sun swelled behind a thin cloud cover 
and beat down on them, turning everything almost white. 

"It's almost funny, but you know what his favorites were?" Mae said, looking up at him from slits for eyes. 
At Hosteen's cocked head, she said: "Cowboys and Indians." 

A laugh bubbled up through Hosteen's chest. "Bad stories about Indians I would guess," he said. "From the 
way he looked at me when we first met. Like I was going to put him on a spit and turn him over a fire." He 
chuckled again.

"Not bad stories, really..." Mae said carefully. "More...just...you know. The kind of stories about Indians 
scalping people. Braves and squaws and battles with people in bloody wagons and that sort. People turning 
themselves into animals and dancing around like monkeys for rain and painting their faces up. Rubbish like 
that." 

Hosteen watched Scully cringe and look down, stifling a laugh, and she glanced at Hosteen to make sure he 
wasn't taking offense. Behind her, Sara Whistler set off in a fit of laughter that startled a flock of birds on 
the barn's sagging roof into chittering flight, a few stray feathers falling down in front of the open doors.

"Hmm," Hosteen said. "I see." He winked at Scully, who said nothing. "Agent Scully, you should rest. Go 
find Mr. Granger first, though. He has something to tell you." 

"Me?" Scully said, and turned, looking toward Victor's house, the paddock behind where they'd all seen 
Granger fussing with the sheep with Victor and a few of his men. 

"Yes," Hosteen said, and then he turned Ghost with a word and headed back into the center of the corral 
toward Sean. 

Sean looked up, seeming almost guilty as Hosteen stopped in front of him. 

"Get on the pony, Sean, and come with me," he said, and Sean, who had not listened to a thing Hosteen had 
said for some time, relented, climbing on Cloud's back and taking the reins in his small hands. Hosteen 
urged Ghost forward, and one of Hosteen's men  dealing with the other horses in a connecting corral  
opened the wide gate to let them out.

Hosteen smiled as they rode toward the entrance to the stable, something spinning out in his mind like a 
ribbon. The further it spun, the more he smiled. 

Finally, composing his face, he stopped Ghost in front of the entrance to the stable, reached in his back 
pocket and pulled out a red bandana. Sean had stopped Cloud behind him and sat, watching him warily. 

Bending to the ground, Hosteen picked up one of the plain feathers dropped by the cloud of doves that had 
risen off the roof. It was gray, the color of soot almost, and didn't even shine as he held it, its dull color 
seeming to absorb the light. The quill was hard and white and mottled with dirt. He put it in the pocket of 
his shirt.

He turned then to Sean, took the few steps that separated them. Sean looked at him strangely as Hosteen got 
very close, standing right beside him. He watched as the older man reached out, folding the bandana into a 
strip against the side of Sean's thigh. When he had a band, he reached up and, though Sean shied a bit, tied 
it around Sean's head, just above his eyebrows. After he'd made a firm knot, he reached into the pocket of 
his shirt and retrieved the feather, inserting it carefully between Sean's head and the knot. 

"Hm," Hosteen said, standing up almost comically straight. "Looks good."

Sean reached up, looking at him with a surprised and slightly distrustful expression. He touched the feather 
gently with his hand. 

"This is a dove's feather," Hosteen said. "The weakest of the feathers for a boy becoming a Brave. You 
have taken only the first step in your path to becoming a Brave." He said it lofty, just as he knew Sean 
would expect it all to be said. "If you wish it, you can continue on that path, but it is a hard path."

Sean continued to touch the feather, looking into Hosteen's face, searching.

"The next feather is a crow," Hosteen said. "To become a Crow, you will have to come with me into the 
desert and complete a trial. That is the way of my people. This is our way. Even though you are not one of 
us, I see you can do these things, and I am a Holy Man and know these things. Will you do them? Will you 
continue on this path?"

Sean stroked the feather again, his hand knotting the pony's mane in his hand. Cocking his head, he 
squinted at Hosteen against the light and finally nodded. 

"Hmm." Hosteen nodded. "Very good. We will begin tonight. Go and pack for a night of camping. I will 
bring you the things you will need for the trial." 

And with that, he turned, swung slowly but easily up onto Ghost's back and, with a word, walked away 
from Sean, leaving him there in his bandana and his feather as Hosteen headed back for the house.

*****

11:01 a.m.


Scully had walked the length of the ranch's compound to the area behind Victor's house, a dusty area that 
was swollen with sheep, all clotted together in the small space bumping against one another and mewing 
softly to one another. In the midst of them, Victor and Granger and two of the other men who worked on 
the ranch were pulling females out of the flock, females with wide strips of color on their rumps  yellows 
and reds and blues and greens. They were taking them out and putting them in a separate enclosure.

"Hello, Paul," she said softly as she neared his side of the fence. 

He looked up, his face a strangely ashen color for someone with such a dark complexion, his eyes wet and 
tired. He was sweating profusely, dark stains of it circling his armpits and the neck of his T-shirt. Her brow 
creased down immediately. It was hot, but it wasn't that hot...

"Are you okay?" she asked, and Granger seemed to balk a bit at the question, reached down instead for a 
ewe who was trying to run between his legs, her rump a brilliant shade of purple. 

"I'm fine, Dana," he said softly, wiped his brow on the arm of his short-sleeved shirt. "You okay?"

She nodded. "Yes," she said.

"The baby okay?"

She smiled faintly, bemused. "As far as I can tell, she seems to be. I think she'll be joining the circus, 
though, with the amount of turning she's doing." 

Granger smiled, though there was something pained in his face as he heaved a sheep over another and 
toward the small gap that separated the enclosures. 

"What are you doing?" she asked, though she kept her eyes on his face. 

"We're moving the ewes who've already mated," he said. Victor was across the pen, a ram dancing around 
the perimeter looking very put out.

"How can you tell that?"

"They were smoking cigarettes when we got down here," Granger quipped, and Scully chuckled. Granger 
grinned. "Actually, you can tell by the color on their rumps. See?" He gestured to the nearest one, a colored 
ewe in the midst of all the white. "You can tell from that one that she's mated with one of Keel's while she 
was up there, and only him. There's yellow but no other colors on her. The males have these wax sticks on 
their bellies so that they mark any ewes they've mated with and Victor can tell which lambs are from which 
males, so if there are any problems, he can castrate the males." 

"There's a few mental images I didn't need to have," Scully said, and noticed that the male prancing 
around Victor with its head down did indeed have a blue wax stick on its stomach, and there were many 
blue-stained sheep in the corral.

"Yeah," Granger said. "Sheep Sex. Who knew how exciting it could be?"

"Only the sheep," Scully said under her breath. 

"And," Granger added, "If the saying around Hopkins was true, some folks at Virginia Tech." He 
guffawed.

Scully groaned. A common joke at Maryland, too. 

Then, desperate for a change of subject and sorry she'd asked about the whole thing, she straightened a bit. 
"Mr. Hosteen said you had something you wanted to tell me?" 

Granger straightened, his hands on his hips, and wiped his brow again. "I what?" he asked.

"He said you had something to tell me," she repeated patiently. 

He shook his head. "Not that I'm aware of," he replied. 

One of Victor's dogs came galloping into the pen, its tail waving like a flag and peels of barking coming 
from it as it rounded up the sheep. 

"FANG!" Victor yelled. "Get out of here, you mangy-"

"I'll get him," Granger called, and took off at a lope between the sheep toward the dog, which was 
clustering the sheep into little knots and then nipping them so that they leapt over one another and fell. 

Granger made it about halfway across the paddock, Scully watching him and the sheep piling up around 
her, bleating, when something odd seemed to happen. Granger stopped in mid-stride, standing so still it was 
as if he were playing a child's game of Freeze. His fists balled, his face aimed down. The sheep bustled 
around him and the dog circled with even more frenzy, delighted at not being caught.

"Paul?" Scully called when he'd been motionless for what seemed like a long time.

He said nothing. He didn't move. It was as if he'd turned to stone right there in the dust and the sunlight, 
though even from where she was standing, there behind the low fence, she could see that he was trembling 
slightly and his chest was heaving. 

"Granger!" Victor called again. "Get that damn dog, will you?"

"Paul!" Scully called again, and now she did move, toward the rickety gate as fast as she could, moving 
through the sheep, the dog still rounding them up in gleeful chaos as Scully picked her way to Granger.

Victor had likewise moved, the other men going after Fang as Victor worked his way to Granger.

"Paul, what is it?" Scully said as she stood beside him, winded herself, panicking. Granger had gone even 
more ashen, his face looking almost waxy. He was biting his lower lip hard enough to make it bleed. 

"Nothing..." he choked out. "Nothing..."

She reached down and grabbed his wrist, her fingers finding the pulse there. The beats were irregular both 
in their rhythm and in their intensity, and she could tell from the way he held himself so stiff, his chest 
rising and falling with a strained cadence, that he was in terrible pain. 

"What going on?" Victor said, his hand going out to Granger's shoulder. Granger shook his head. 

"Paul, you're having some kind of cardiac event," Scully said, taking him by the elbow. "We've got to get 
you to a hospital-"

"NO!" The word burst from him. "No hospital no doctors nothing..." He trailed off from the stream of 
words. "Nothing..."

"Victor," Scully said. "Get in the truck and go up to your grandfather's house. I've got a bag there  you'll 
know it when you see it. It's beside the dresser in my room. Go get it for me, please." 

Victor looked stricken, but nodded and ran out of the corral. 

"Can you walk?" Scully asked gently, still holding his elbow. She could tell by the way his face was 
relaxing that he was not in as much pain. Beneath her fingers, his heart rate was slowing, becoming more 
normal. 

"Yeah," he breathed. "Yeah, I'm fine..." He tried to shake her off but she held on.

"You're not fine," she said, and she was angry now. She angled him toward the gate, a bench on the other 
side, which she sat him down on, pushing hard to get him to go down.

He wiped his forehead, still winded. 

"How long?" she said, and she could see something frightened pass over his face, which confirmed her 
worst suspicions as to his condition's seriousness. He'd reacted as if she'd asked him how long he had to 
live.

"It's nothing," he said softly. 

"Paul."

"It's nothing that anyone can do anything about," he amended, and his voice bristled. 

She settled onto the bench beside him. "The gunshot wound," she said. "Muscle damage from the bullet?"

"Some, but..." He shook his head.

She nodded, though she blanched. "Post-operative infection."

He hesitated, nodded. 

"Endocarditis?" She said it grimly. 

He nodded and she felt color rising her face as her temper flared.

"And what else?" she demanded. She felt her eyes flare. "What else?"

He didn't answer her, looked away.

"What in the HELL are you doing out here?" she snapped. "My God, Paul-"

"I'm out here doing what I want to do," he bit back, his eyes hardening. 

She swallowed. "Does Robin know?" Then she answered herself. "No, of course she doesn't know..." She 
ran a hand through her hair, smoothing it off her forehead where a few strands had fallen. 

"I don't want her to know," he said softly. 

"You don't think she has a right to?" Scully exclaimed. "Paul, if you don't get a transplant-"

"I'm on the list, but it's gone too far too fast," he said. "Getting some distance from me is probably the best 
thing that could happen for her."

Scully was standing before she even knew she had risen, glaring down at him. "How dare you make that 
decision for her," she said quietly, so quietly that Granger looked up as though she'd shouted.

"I'm protecting her, Dana," he said. "You'd do the same for Mulder." He looked up at her. "You ARE 
doing the same for Mulder." He stared. "Aren't you?"

The silence, broken only by the ewes, stretched between them as their gazes hung.

"Not like this," she said, low and dangerous. "Never like this."

And even as it left her mouth, she knew she was lying. She'd never told him when the cancer had spread. 
He'd found out the hard way. He'd found all of that out the hard way, more from what she didn't say than 
what she did, clues dropped like so much blood from her nostril, a morning in late...

And the dreams now. The man in her dreams with the brown pants, the brown shirt and ragged face. The 
man in the wheelchair beckoning her. Something just out of sight in every dream, and whatever it was 
drenched in a child's screaming and blood...

"I'll make a deal with you," she said, watching as Victor's truck came ambling back into sight from the 
road, kicking up a cloud of golden dust. 

He squinted up. "What deal?"

She pushed her hair back again, composing herself. "I'll tell him. If you tell her." 

Granger looked down, his hands closing on the edge of the bench. Victor's truck screeched to a halt and he 
came out, carrying a black doctor's bag as he jogged towards them.

"Deal?" Scully pressed.

Granger heaved in a deep sigh, looked at her, and nodded. 

"Deal." 


******

12:14 p.m.


Victor Hosteen's barn was older than his grandfather, the wood so parched by the desert sun that it had 
turned the color of ash. Inside was one of the few places on the ranch that actually stayed reasonably cool, 
even in the high months of July and August when the desert here baked at over 100 degrees. 

He didn't know if it was the quiet that came over the animals when they were inside it, the sweet smell of 
oats and hay, or the way the sunlight could only come in through the places in the roof where the wood had 
finally given way, one board at a time, bars of it falling to the floor like tiny spotlights for the lingering 
dust. 

He'd gotten the sheep into the pen to one side, the pen's low fence across from the stalls where some of the 
horses were sequestered. Two lazy mares, older than most of the herd, swaybacked. A black and white 
paint held the corner stall, coming to the bars with his eyes flashing at whomever walked through the 
doorway. 

As he'd come in with the sheep, the paint had tamped against the stall door, raising a high sound of 
warning. Victor only smiled. The horse had become too cantankerous to ride in the last six months or so, 
but Victor didn't have the heart to put him down. This one, the one he'd dubbed with a Navajo name that 
approximated "Killer," had been the first lesson in respect for the ranch that many of the men had learned. 

Many, including Mulder all that time ago. 

"Calm yourself down, old man," Victor said to the horse as he gave the last of the straggling sheep a touch 
with a long stick, urging them toward the pen and its shade and its dust. "We all know you're in charge in 
here, so let us be." A chicken scrabbled out of the way as he walked.

After he'd closed the pen with its rope lock, the sheep bumping against each other as they found their place, 
he leaned against one of the posts, his chin on his forearms, thinking.

"He's dying, you know," came a voice in Navajo from behind him. He was not surprised. He'd known she 
was there.

"Yeah," he replied in the same language, sounding tired. "I know." 

Sara Whistler came up beside him, carrying a chicken in her arms. It was black with white specks. Red 
comb and eye like beads. 

"What will you do, Victor?" she asked, bouncing the hen slightly as it began to make chucking sounds, as 
though it were a baby in need of a nap instead of the evening's meal. 

Victor chuffed softly, though he didn't smile as he did so. "What's there to do?" he said, and Whistler was 
silent. "It's about belief, isn't it? He doesn't have it."

"He has a lot," she replied, stroking the hen's neck. "More than even he knows."

"He's not one of us," Victor said, and this almost out of habit, though the words sounded hollow even to his 
ears.

"None of them are," she replied as he knew she would. "And your grandfather helps them. You can help 
them, too."

But Victor shook his head. "Not this way," he said. "Not with this."

Sara leaned against his arm gently. "You can't believe he came to us by chance," she said softly. "Any more 
than the others came to your grandfather to see the boxcar all those years ago."

"No, that was not chance," he agreed. "That was a secret that they were meant to find."

She nodded. "Meant to find for that truth and so that you and your grandfather would be here for them 
when they came again  Agent Scully and Agent Mulder. When they came again, so lost and so broken." 

"So you think it's come again?" he asked. "This time for Granger?"

"Not just for that," Whistler replied, "but yes."

He turned and looked into her eyes. The chicken was quiet, content in her arms. 

"Victor, if something is good," she said in a quiet voice, "should it not be for everyone's good?"

He met her eyes. "It's about belief," he said again. "And he will not believe. It's too far for him to walk. For 
any of them to walk." 

She shook her head. "Agent Mulder would believe," she said. "Agent Scully has had to learn to, as well." 
She paused, and he knew she was right on both those counts. 

"Try," she said, and held his eyes until he nodded. 

"The others won't like it," he tried one last time.

"They will do as you ask," she said. "As they've always done."

He looked at the sheep, heard Killer moving in his stall, a small wind coming in through the open door to 
the barn.

"All right," he said, relenting, and he let out a long breath. "I'll try."

She nodded, turned to walk away. Then, from behind:

"And Victor?"

He turned to face her again, his brow cocked in question. Her eyes were bottomless, her expression grave. 

"You must move quickly," she said. "There's not much time."

"For him?" he asked, confused by the gravity of what she said and how she'd said it.

Whistler shook her head. "For any of us." 

And she turned with the chicken and moved through the bars of light toward the house.


******

BALLYCASTLE
NORTHERN IRELAND, U.K.
APRIL 3
5:45 a.m.

If the man looked at the whirls in the grain on the bottom of the boat, they appeared to look up at him like 
eyes.

As the light shifted over the sea, climbing somewhere behind a shroud of clouds that burned the whole 
world crimson around him, he could see the dark eyes like holes in pale skin, the wood the color of a butter 
beneath his feet. The sea was so dark it appeared black, light caught on the waves around him as he pulled 
the long oars through it, sun on onyx and the whole thing shot with gold ribbons of light. 

He could still see the shoreline in the distance, the boat rocking on the waves, the water filled with chop. 
He dropped the anchor, a lard can filled with buckshot and its lid sealed down tight, the white rope running 
over the side for a dozen meters or more and then stopping, the boat drifting until it caught.

The man pulled the oars in, folded them out of the way like wings. 

Now the hard part. A hook in one hand, the head of a small fish in the other. He'd moved to larger bait 
since Christmas, not because he sought a larger catch but because his hands shook so badly now that he 
couldn't thread anything else on the barbed hooks. 

He rarely landed what he caught anymore. He'd lost so much line they'd started to rib him a bit in a town, at 
least until weight started dropping off of him too quickly to be anything else, when the shaking had become 
impossible to hide. 

The line and silver hooks and weights started showing up on his front step in a paper sack, a note saying 
"for your trouble." 

The man hooked the bait onto the three-pronged hook, the bait fish's eyes looking up at him like pearls. The 
pain was worse today, aggravated by the rowing, the night of little sleep soothed only by his wife's hands 
stroking his back.

"For your trouble," he said softly, his lip curling beneath his white moustache, and tossed the face over the 
side, where it disappeared into gold and black.


***** 

OUTSIDE MAGHERAFETT
NORTHERN IRELAND, U.K.
APRIL 3
6:03 a.m.


It was a story Scully had told him.

There was sunlight coming through the window of their house, washing the kitchen, glinting off a glass that 
stood beside the sink. In the story, he'd been leaning against the sink drinking a cup of coffee and Scully 
had been at the kitchen table, perched in a chair with her robe pulled off one shoulder, the baby's dark head 
turned toward her breast. 

As the baby had finished, Scully had put their daughter on her shoulder against a thick white cloth, and he'd 
turned at the sink, put the mug down, wet a soft cloth beneath a warm stream of water. Then he'd come 
forward with it, standing in front of her, pressed the cloth to the raw red of her nipple, his palm holding it in 
place. 

"It's how you kiss me just after that," she'd told him, her voice coming from beside him in the dark of their 
bedroom. It was the first night after they'd moved. "That's what stays with me from it." 

He'd reached down and cupped her breast, wanting to make it real right then, not wanting to wait. 

"Yes," he whispered. He knew just how he would do it. He'd done it then.

Awhile later, dawn giving way to a gray day that promised rain, it was a story he'd told himself.

The light that had come through the window, Samantha's body rising and going out the door that had shot 
open, wood on wood like the crack of gunfire. Game pieces rattling on a board, the house shaking itself 
apart. He remembered how small her body looked as the impossible brightness silhouetted it against the 
white of her nightgown, how her long hair hung down, her arms out in surprise and crucifixion. 

As vivid as it was, everything around that moment was fading. The face on the bridge  long, thick hair 
curled -- vanishing to Scully's bloodied face above the Bounty Hunter's forearm, her eyes aghast at his 
sacrifice. 

He concentrated, but it was going gauzy, a funeral shroud of Forget. Neill had started this when he'd talked 
about family at his house in the south, conjured Samantha out of the past's thin air.

But, he realized, he was forgetting his sister's face.

Awhile after that, it was a story Neill was telling him, Renahan snoring a bit too close to a dour looking 
Skinner in the backseat, his face framed in the rearview mirror. Neill was driving to Mulder's right. 

"I only saw him that once," Neill was saying. "And I know he was part of the Newry Squad. His name was 
a secret to nearly everyone except the most highly placed. I know James Curran knew him quite well. I'd 
wager Owen knew him, as well, though probably only when he was a boy."

"Why the secrecy still?" Mulder asked as the car took a particularly sharp curve slowly. Neill was a 
cautious man. "Did he retire?"

Neill smiled, his eyes crinkling at their edges in amusement. "No, I would doubt that he did," and Mulder 
immediately felt nave. 

"I guess a retirement party isn't really part of anyone's plan around here," he said, acknowledging his 
mistake. 

"Not unless it involves a casket and four cases of whiskey," Neill replied, and Skinner chuffed from the 
back. 

"He's alive, I should think," Neill continued. "It's just a question of finding him."

"What did he look like?" Skinner asked. "That time you saw him?"

Neill was quiet for a few beats, the car chugging along. The sun lost itself further behind the cloud and a 
few drops of rain dotted the windshield.

"It was '84 or '85, so it's not much help. He had a moustache, dark but going gray. The sharpest eyes I've 
ever seen. He was talking to this man called Seamus, but we all knew that wasn't his real name. I was in the 
pub in Newry dropping off some... information...and he was there. I saw Seamus slip him a piece of paper 
under a glass, like the thing was a bloody pub coaster. I knew what it was, though. I knew it had someone's 
name on it, and a time and a place."

"What makes you so sure he'd know who was responsible for what's going on with Scully?" Mulder asked. 
The thought of the man Neill was speaking of made him vaguely ill. 

"Because if he'd passed away we'd all know who he was," Neill said, taking a left onto a different road. 
"And if he's still alive, he's one of the last, and most of the last none of us know. And it's one of the last 
who's doing this." 

"But you don't think it's actually him doing it?" Mulder said after he'd let Neill's words sink in.

Neill shook his head. "No," he said. "It wasn't ever personal for him. He did what he was told. Perfectly. 
But nothing more." He looked at Mulder. "This whole mess...well, this is a private little war." 

A town was dotting the green ahead of them far off in the distance, a sign signaling a few kilometers to 
Cookstown. 

"Let's stop and get something to eat," Neill said as they passed the sign, the car doing the speed limit. "I 
could use a pot of tea. And there might be someone in Cookstown I need to see." 

Mulder nodded, pulled his jacket closer to him. 

His hand on Scully's breast and the taste of her mouth in the darkness. 

A slip of paper beneath a glass filled with liquid a shade lighter than blood.

Samantha's face vanishing in a haze of blue light, and the Irish sky opening with rain. 


*****


TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO
6:06 a.m.

There was a thin wind the size of a wrist moving across the front porch of Hosteen's house, pushing itself 
against a series of rusted steel spoons Sarah Whistler had strung up in a makeshift chime just beneath the 
aluminum awning. As the wind touched the utensils they clinked against each other with low, tinny notes, 
and that and the distant barking of a dog and the thunder coming in from a storm Scully could see in the 
distance were enough to conjure a sort of loneliness she found unbearable.

She'd thought telling him would make her feel better somehow, freer or more honest or more...something. 
It had not.

"I see new things now," the email had said. "They're still of you and of Rose, but there's something hanging 
in what I see now, like shadow. There's a man somewhere, and there's screaming, and something like a 
gunshot. Something terrible is going to happen, and not only that but I feel it as though it's happening now, 
my body feels it now, and I'm afraid."

Gone was the teasing from their earlier emails, even the last one he still hadn't answered, the one where she 
talked like a gossip about Mae and Frank Music and how she thought Frank might be interested in Mae but 
would rather die than show it, and Sean and his pony, and the baby kicking. 

Nothing like that in this one. "There's something I haven't told you..." and then she'd told him. Once she'd 
typed "I want you to come home," and then deleted it and changed the "want" to "need," and then she'd 
deleted the sentence all together, replaced it with "love" and signed her name.

The wind picked up a bit in a gust, the spoons plinking. Bo lifted his head from beside the rickety rocker 
she sat in, one of her hands trailing just above the dog's head and one on the protrusion of her navel, a 
bump beneath her shirt she worried with her finger. 

"Rain," Hosteen said from behind the screen door, and she craned her head to look at him. Only his face, 
closest to the screen, was visible in the growing darkness. 

"Yes," she agreed simply, returning her gaze to the gathering of clouds in the distance. A thread of 
lightning shot through them, the whole gray mass  the color of dirty wool  illuminating for an instant.

"Hope it doesn't bother the airplane," Hosteen ventured, worrying something in a napkin as though it was 
too hot to touch. "I do not know much about where they fly to come to here, but I would be afraid in one 
with angry clouds around."

She looked up, confused. "Airplane? What airplane?"

Hosteen kept his eye on the horizon. "Granger's woman is coming. She has been flying all night from what 
I understand." 

Scully swallowed. She could only imagine Robin's anguish. She knew the other woman well enough, 
though, to know that the red-eye flight meant she would be frantic and furious when she arrived. She was 
glad Robin would be here for Paul, though, and said so.

"Yes," Hosteen said. "He has much ahead of him, Granger. He will need her very soon in a way he doesn't 
know." 

She couldn't think about it. There'd been so much death. She couldn't even imagine it taking on that shape, 
so she said nothing.

"Heard you on your computer," he said. He put the corner of a neatly cut grilled cheese sandwich in his 
mouth and took a bite. 

She nodded, said nothing. Rain started to patter the metal roof, a dot at a time.

"I hope he replies to you this time," Hosteen ventured. Scully had long ago stopped wondering how he 
knew the things he did. She stroked Bo's soft head.

"He will," she said, with a conviction she couldn't get close to feeling.

"Hmm." His usual sound of commitment or non-commitment.

They were quiet for awhile, watching the rain come in. Hosteen came out the screen door with a creak and 
stood beside her. His long fingers curled around the post at the top of one side of the chair. 

"I thought you were going out camping last night with Sean," she said softly. "Mae said you were going 
out."

"Hmm," Hosteen said again. "The place we were going...too far with rain coming in this early. I do not 
mind rain, but lightning in the desert can be very dangerous. And it makes the horses afraid."

She looked up into his face, though he did not return her gaze. 

"This will be gone by noon," Hosteen said. "We will go tonight instead. It will be clear and cooler tonight. 
A bit of wind. Stars out." He smiled a faint smile.

"You can tell all that from looking at this storm?" she said, gesturing to the angry sky, thunder rolling.

"Yes," he said, nodding sagely. "The wind tells me. The thunder tells me. Every drop of rain speaks the 
name of a star..."

She looked down, shaking her head, a laugh gathering in her chest. 

"And you were watching The Weather Channel while you were making your sandwich," she said, and she 
looked back up into his face, finding his warm eyes on her and his smile wider.

"You spend too much time with me," he said, feigning a stern voice. "We will have to make you an Indian 
soon if you keep uncovering my magic."

She chuckled, resisted the urge to touch his hand, knowing the touch would be tolerated but not 
appropriate. "Mr. Hosteen, you have magic I will *never* uncover or understand."

"So do you," he said, and the smile melted off her face as she looked up at him. He held her gaze steadily. 
"You told Mulder what you have been seeing?"

She swallowed. "Yes."

"Hmm," Hosteen said. "All of it?" 

She looked away, her hand worrying Bo's ear. The dog whined. 

"Most."

She didn't have to look up at him to see him nod.

"There will be more," he said into the sound of the sheeting rain. "Things you cannot hide. Things too hard 
to see." 

She kept her eyes ahead, her voice quiet. "I hope you're wrong," she said.

"I am not."

She nodded. "How do you know?" She hoped for one of his jokes, the Medicine Man rattling his bones.

Instead, she felt his hand touch her shoulder, just touching her there with its warm weight. 

"Magic," he said quietly, serious.

She said nothing, tears welling, and reached up to touch his hand. The spoons spun on their lines like fish in 
stronger wind, and she and Hosteen watched the rain.


******

TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO
APRIL 3
10:04 a.m.


Robin had thought that the desert would somehow look different in the Spring, since 
she'd heard even Paul say that it bloomed sometimes there. She'd expected to see sand 
somehow miraculously covered with flowers and grasses, impossibly bright as the cherry 
blossoms that festooned much of D.C. this time of year. 

But the truth was, Robin Brock - a black woman growing up in Philadelphia, most of her 
time spent in the hallways of one school or another, one lab or another, sterile 
environments where her dark skin stood out against white lab coats and white teachers - 
had never seen the desert. Paul had only seen it the last time he was here, and though 
he'd traveled a bit to see some of the things he'd always wanted to see (Grand Canyon, 
Canyon de Chelly, Petrified Forest), he came back regaling her with quiet stories of 
desolation and heat and something that felt completely lonely that he couldn't completely 
describe in the stretches between place to place. 

Dead Man's Wash. Bloody Wash. Broken Back. Tombstone. 

But he'd also talked about a little town called "Why?", complete with its question mark in 
the town's name, and another town called "Hope," both outposts on the edge of larger 
spans of desert, both run by retirees whose dream it had been to have a place in the 
middle of Nothing that was their own.

What was out here, streaming by the window of Victor Hosteen's pickup truck, was 
blooming, yes. There was no denying from looking at the ground line that in the heat of 
summer it would be a barren and unforgiving place. But there was some green on the 
scrubby brush, and here and there small patches of purple and yellow flowers moved out 
among the flat places like footprints.

There was a storm well out over the desert, the expanse so uninterrupted and vast that she 
could actually see where it began and ended, and through the beams of sunlight washing 
around it, she could see the areas where it was raining and where it wasn't. 

"Been storming all morning off and on," Victor said from beside her, both his calloused 
hands on the steering wheel, which trembled slightly as they rode over the cracked 
highway. She hadn't seen another vehicle of any kind since they'd entered the 
reservation. 

"But it looks so far away," she said, nodding to the storm clouds. 

"Oh, things move fast here," he said, smiling a crooked smile that showed straight white 
teeth. "Things blow in and blow out before you know it." 

She forced a smile. He was a happy man in some way she couldn't understand, and he 
was hoping to move some of it into her, she could tell. At least something like hope.

Robin stretched in the seat, feeling her back creaking like a chair back. It had seemed an 
interminable flight from Dulles, flying all night in that strange otherworldly glow of an 
airplane's insides, lights going on and off all night. She had slept little, and eaten less.

"How much further?" she asked. They were coming to a crossroad that had no signs.

"Oh, just to the right and up a bit and we'll be at my grandfather's house," Victor replied. 
"Do you want to stop and say hello to Agent Scully first?" He sounded almost as though 
he wished she'd say "yes." 

She shook her head, and that same pit of heat began to bloom in her belly again. 

"No," she said softly, and her gaze went out the window again. "Take me to Paul." 

"All right," Victor said. "We should have something for breakfast still. You must be 
hungry." 

She didn't answer. In fact, she did say anything further, nursing the feeling in her belly, 
then in her chest, as though something choking her. 

Victor downshifted the truck as they slowed for the turn. He took the right without using 
his blinker, the truck picking up speed as it headed up over the rise toward the ranch.


****


ST. SEBASTIAN'S PUB
TIEVEMORE
NEAR ST PATRICK'S PURGATORY AND LOUGH DERG
NORTHERN IRELAND
UNITED KINGDOM
10:32 a.m.


Bridget had stayed with him all the way back into the North. Christie'd stared at her 
staring mutely at him in the back of the white lorry his grandmother had arranged for 
him, a paper delivery truck that had a compartment in the back for checkpoints going 
from South to North. She'd been sitting on a stack of papers and every time the light had 
shifted as another car had passed on the narrow roads, peeking through the back windows 
with their small red taillights, he'd seen her face change and change again, her blue eyes 
mute and filled with either love or reproach. He couldn't tell. His grandmother had 
taught him they were fairly well close enough to be confused. 

At St. Sebastian's, the sign shot with arrows in someone's irreverent play on the Blessed 
Saint himself, he'd sat at the edge of the pub and watched the television sputter snooker. 
It bored him, but then it always had. He didn't know what he was waiting for, there with 
his pint at ten in the morning and a plate of eggs and sausage and a mound of potatoes the 
pub owner's wife had made him in the back, not knowing who he was by name but 
knowing he was someone she should feed.

He didn't know what he was waiting for - or who - but he'd know when it happened. 
Christie didn't know where Bridget had wandered off to when he'd come in, either, but he 
felt quite sure he'd find her again when he went on his way. 

"A bit early for it, isn't it?" came a voice next to him. He'd heard the man sidle up, of 
course, but he hadn't even given him a glance. The man's arm was close enough to his 
own bare forearm, his sweater pushed up, that the smoke from the man's cigarette felt 
warm on his skin.

"The pint, or something else?" he replied mildly, keeping his eyes on the television. The 
whole screen was faintly blue as the tube lost its light. 

The man chuckled, and now Christie did look at him, just a glance, that way of 
pretending to know someone that he was accustomed to. Drew less attention for being a 
stranger. Drew less attention for meetings.

He was about 60 probably, as everyone his grandmother sent him to these days seemed to 
be. He actually missed the States in some way because the people "involved" there were 
much younger. He felt like a ginger bird among old crows up here, though he'd never say 
that to anyone. One of the men he'd met in New York - Rutherford - had made him 
think he could have made friends with the man if they'd had the time. If things were 
different...

"Both," the man said, and put the fag down long enough to reach for Christie's hand. His 
knuckle had a nicotine spot the size of a pence. "Though I'm never one to frown on a pint 
any hour, to be sure."

Christie gave his hand a cursory shake, picked up his fork and took a bite of his meat, 
chewing. 

"What's going then?" he asked.

"Not much at the moment," the man said. He didn't offer his name and Christie didn't 
need to ask it. "Should have hopefully something of interest for you by evening, though."

"That's so," he said, still chewing. The sausage was particularly good. Home-grown and 
handmade. He could tell.

"Aye," the man said, pulling on the cigarette. "Don't know what yet, but we'll have 
something for you. If Renahan's involved this time with the Yanks, well...something 
good must be lying around to have a look at."

Christie didn't say anything to that for a long moment. "Thought it was just the husband 
here," he said, though he didn't know how he'd settled on that in his mind. Maybe it was 
because the man Mulder seemed the only one to matter to him. The only one to whom it 
would be personal. 

"No, no," the man said. "Another one. Assistant Director of the Fibbies. Guess they're 
bored over there." 

Christie nodded. "Skinner?" 

"Aye." The man took another drag. "Good man, I hear. Neither of them - him or the 
one Mulder - much to be trifled with, though we can handle them, of course."

"More worried about Renahan are you then?" Christie said. He spoke around a mouthful 
of eggs.

The man's face grew shadowed and his arm stilled, smoke rising from his hand. "More 
worried about Neill. Fucker."

Christie swallowed the food, washed it down with a mouthful of beer. "Aye," he said 
simply. "Should I stay here or meet you then?" he asked. 

"Get a room here at the Derg Inn," the man said. "I'll bring you what I've got by this 
evening. I've got a good man doing work for me on this and he'll come up with 
something." He stood.

"I go by Seamus," he said, and Christie looked at him full-on now. He knew exactly who 
he was now. The "go by" gave it away, those two words conjuring other words. 

Names. 

James Curran. That man he'd heard of only as "Shea." 

"Pleasure," Christie said, and the man reached out and touched Christie's shoulder in an 
almost fatherly gesture. 

"I knew your uncle," he said. "Well. I've known your family for as long as I can tell." 

Christie nodded. "I've known you that long, as well."

Seamus smiled. "You've done good work. Good things for your family. For your 
country. You should be proud, Christie. We're proud to be sure."

A faint smile. He wanted to feel proud. The child kicking the dark ball around in Antrim 
with his uncle, John's face not so hard then. Not the shell it became. The day he left for 
Basic, his uncle sheering his hair as he'd shorn so many sheep, Christie on his way to the 
"glaigh na h-Eireann. Special Forces. Black Ops. John used to sing some song he 
didn't know when he talked to him. "Demolition Man." 

Bridget's face was in mind. The scar on her shoulder. Stifled cum-cry in Belfast and 
something about "strangers on your bed..."

"You all right, Christie?" Seamus's voice floated back to him on a heavy wave. The 
warm weight of his hand was there again. 

"Aye," he said quickly, and he literally did give his head a shake, as though he'd been 
cuffed on the back of his head and was throwing off the blow. "Just thinking about 
something." 

Seamus gave that same smile, gestured to the plate. "Finish up there and head to the 
Derg and get some rest. I'm thinking you'll be doing some traveling before too long to 
see what's what in Cookstown. We'll have everything you need for your journey when 
you go."

"Ta," Christie said, and Seamus drifted off like so much smoke through the pub and out 
into the street. 

He sat, still caught in memory as gossamer and inescapable as walking through a spider's 
web. He reached up and brushed at his face. He did what he was told. He ate.


*****

VICTOR HOSTEEN'S RANCH
TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO
10:48 a.m.


Mae Curran-Porter. 

She was trying the name on and trying to decide if it was something she could live with. 
Katherine sat in a high chair beside her at the end of a long wooden table constructed of 
an old door on sawhorses, the black knob up next to her. She worried it with her left 
hand as she wrote the name with the right, scribbling her signature like a 12-year-old girl 
with a crush on someone she barely knew in school. 

She turned the knob on the door, listened to the creak. She crossed out the "Curran." She 
put it back in. She'd dropped the name when she'd married Joe without a second thought 
because of the safety his name provided and the distance it granted from the past and its 
troubles. Troubles...

She looked at the baby's bright face, who was smiling and wearing a moustache of red 
stew. It was in her hair, and she seemed to know it and like the fact very much.

"Katherine Curran-Porter," she said to the baby, trying it on like her mother might have, a 
tone of reproach that sounded ridiculous to her own ears. The baby looked at her and 
smiled some more.

Behind her, she could see Frank Music coming up the path toward the house, a shy smile 
on his face as he raised a hand. He'd taken to wearing a cowboy hat, which she would 
have found funny except that for one thing, the sun was a bit unforgiving and she couldn't 
blame him, and for another, it looked sort of...attractive?... on him. 

Attractive...

She turned the word over, felt a flush on her face and pictured Joe's face and hated 
herself.

"Katherine Porter Whoever the Fuck We Both Are Now," she amended under her breath 
to the baby, and reached for a napkin to swipe roughly at the girl's face, taking the smile 
away with it. The baby's face screwed up like a fist.

"Hey," Music said as he indicated the bench seat on the other side of the table. Mae 
nodded, and he sat, taking off his hat and settling it down across from the knob. 

"Hello, Frank." She wadded the paper she'd been writing on up and tossed it in an oil 
drum that was being used as a trashcan outside the house she stayed in. 

"I'm not interrupting anything, I hope," Music said hesitantly, and she could sense his 
sensing her unease. 

"No, of course not," she said bitterly. "What the bloody hell would I be doing that you 
could interrupt?" 

She'd hoped to drive him off with her tone. She was good at that. She could be bitter as 
acid when she wanted. And she'd wanted to a lot lately, even to Dana, who'd been 
walking around like she'd been haunting the place since the Stone Age.

"You're just pissed at the world today, aren't you?" Music said, and he was smiling, 
which pissed her off at the world even more. 

"Aye, I am," she said, swiping at Katherine's hands, which made the baby even more 
perturbed. "What's it to you? You come needling me for something else? You need my 
father's fucking hat size now? Boxers or bloody briefs? My mum's recipe for potato and 
lamb stew?"

"I'll take that last one, yeah," Music said. "I bet that would be good." 

She stopped fussing with Katherine and looked at him, at that look in his eye. 

He liked her. He'd started to like her. Despite everything she'd try to do and everything 
she was. He liked her. 

Damn...

"I'm done interrogating you for Anti-Terrorism, Mae," he said softly. "I've given them 
everything you've given me, and if you have more you think will help as the case in 
Ireland continues to unfold, I'll pass that along. But you've told me a lot. You've 
probably told me a hell of a lot more than you wanted. So I'm done with that with you."

"Then be done with me," she said, but her voice couldn't even muster enough power 
behind the words to make it just above audible. 

"You don't mean that," he said softly, his finger worrying a whorl in the door's surface. 

Joe's face swam again before her eyes. Joe's kind face. Another man who had stepped 
onto the spinning disc of her world and gotten carried away into nothing. Swirl and 
vortex. That was her life. Heavy and uneven. 

Joe's face on fire behind the ruined windshield of the Jeep in Australia. It pushed tears 
from her eyes, her hand grasping the knob with a creak. 

"Hey," Music said gently. "I'm sorry." He reached out and touched her hand. Just a 
touch of his fingers on hers. "I didn't mean--"

"It's all right," she said quietly. She didn't move her hand. She didn't move at all. 

"I don't want anything," he added into the quiet. "I mean that. I don't want a thing. I just 
want...to be your friend. You know. I think you could use a friend. Somebody with no 
history with all this, you know? That's all." 

She looked at him, his eyes on the desert behind the house. "This place can be very 
lonely," he said.

"Every place is lonely," she said. She remained still. "Nothing changes that."

He nodded. "If that's what you want to believe, you can. But I really just want to try to 
be your friend."

Victor's pickup was coming up the dirt road toward his house, two small streams of dust 
going out behind it. Mae turned her attention to it.

"Men and women can never just be friends," she said quietly. "Too much gets involved."

He scoffed. "Oh come off it, Mae," he said, "You're being a little dramatic, don't you 
think? I mean, I'm talking about..." and he turned his attention to where she was looking 
as the sound of a loud slam reached them. 

The truck had stopped and a woman was getting out of the passenger side. She had 
lovely braids, a face darker than chocolate. Even from where she was sitting, Mae could 
see her eyes as she threw the truck door closed hard enough to break the old door's glass.

"Who's that?" Music asked, and he sounded vaguely worried.

"Granger's...friend," she replied, and watched the woman stalk inside.

 *

Granger had heard the door slam, as well, and heard the truck's tired engine moving down 
the road toward the house. More than that, though, something in him could feel it was 
her the minute the screen door squeaked open. There was no heavy sound of a suitcase 
being hustled in. The niceties at the door with Sarah Whistler were quiet and brief and 
the younger woman's voice wasn't feather-light amusement as it tended to be. 

She'd pointed that way, too, because there were footsteps coming down the hall to the 
room where he stayed in the back of the house. Double bed, dresser, black and red rug 
and a lamp with a shade made out of hide. 

He stood as the door opened, feeling suddenly cold in his Hopkins sweatshirt he'd put on 
like armor. He pushed his hands in his pockets and faced her where she'd stopped in the 
doorway. 

One braid was hanging between her eyes and she smoothed it behind her ear.

"Hey." It was all he could think to say. He fought the urge to tuck his lip between his 
teeth the way he'd done with his mother and grandmother. Time to sit in The Mercy Seat 
once again...

"'Hey'?" she parroted back. She had one hand on the doorway and one on her slim waist 
where a thick white T-shirt snugged against her, tucked into black jeans. "How about 
you try again, Paul." 

Now his lip did go in, his eyes down behind their glasses. His heart - the damned thing - 
was racing a bit, starting that familiar ache, swimming upstream against the meds. 

"Try again." Her voice was quiet, like thunder of a storm far off but moving in.

"I'm sorry." He nearly whispered it. 

"Not good enough." She matched his tone, but now with the thunder was coming rain.

"I won't keep things from you again." 

"You mean 'lie.'"

Someone turned on a television in the outer room and country music starting playing. 
Rodeo. Again.

"Yeah," he replied, nodded. 

"Then say what you mean," she snapped. The tears were on her face now as he glanced 
up in the morning light, a thin sheen of it forcing through the drapes that looked like 
tablecloths.

"I won't lie to you again."

She moved fast. Two steps and her hands on his cheeks were enough to bruise his face. 
Given the amount of blood thinners Scully had prescribed him, she probably had actually 
done it. 

"You're goddamned right you won't," she said. The tears looked like lamp oil on her 
face, her eyes bright enough to set her alight. "You're goddamned right..." 

"Jesus Christ..." She said it slow, prayer instead of curse. 

The storm moved in, broke. 

Her arms were around his neck, crushing him against her. He returned the embrace, 
feeling her ribs against his forearms, the great gales of air she pulled in and pushed out, 
the space above his sweatshirt wet. He laid his palms on her back, holding her against 
him and felt his jaw go tight. 

He had not cried before that moment about any of it. 

He turned his face into the nest of her hair, breathed deep as a first breath. A sound 
moved up his throat. In the house the television went off, making that strange, almost 
otherworldly sound coming from him seem louder, roaring in his ears. 

Over Robin's trembling shoulder he saw Whistler as she came in, took the knob in her 
hand, and pulled the door closed, her eyes down in a clear gesture of respect and her 
movements quiet as a ghost. 


*****

COOKSTOWN
NEAR LOUGH NEAGH
NORTHERN IRELAND, UNITED KINGDOM
2:13 p.m.


"I ain't telling you a fucking thing." 

Mulder slammed his hands flat down on the table, swore to the Savior, his palms slapping 
like pistol cracks, and he pushed himself up and stalked away towards the door, saying 
something about "you fucking people" as he kicked the door open, letting in a bar of 
sunlight sharp enough to cut through the pub's dark. Renahan found it funny that 
Mulder's wife had been Irish, too, and wondered what she'd say to the remark. 

He said so, bubbling a chuckle. Skinner told him to "shut the fuck up" in that stark and 
wonderful way that Yanks could say that word. It sounded so much more like a true 
insult when an American spit the "u" out.

Eamon Neill merely smiled. Manny Brennan was scowling across the table from him 
like he'd just eaten the Christmas goose, and all he'd done was said exactly what Neill 
knew he would. 

"Manny," he said in most even voice, the one he used for crazy men and small children. 
"How many times do I have to tell you--"

"Aye, I know what you said that this fucking Brit nutter isn't going to run anyone in don't 
care, you say, don't care nothing about the past and what people's done and all that shite!" 

It was a long fast run-on rant punctuated with spit. Brennan was a bit too old to drink 
that much before four, but then he'd always held it bad. Neill remembered that well.

"Mr. Skinner?" Neill said in the same quiet tone, giving Brennan time to catch his breath 
and take another drink. The more the better. "Could you go see to Mr. Mulder and 
make sure he stays close by?"

He could see Skinner's back straighten. "Why?" he asked, clearly getting Neill's 
insinuation of something amiss. Something *was* amiss. 

Brennan had known they were coming.

"You know how hotheaded he is," Neill said, looking at Skinner with an extra dollop of 
Afters on his sympathetic expression. "His pregnant wife just in the grave and all. No 
telling what a man in that sort of state could get into." 

Skinner's brow quirked. Message received and understood. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, 
you're right." He pushed back from the table and stood. 

"Come on, Renahan," he said to the man beside him. "Come help me look for Mulder. 
You can apologize for being a dickhead about his dead wife."

Renahan put on a faux expression of regret. "Yea, bad that. Sorry for the trouble..." And 
Skinner helped him out.

Neill took the opportunity to look around the pub, filling as the day got later. Snooker 
was on the television and people were pretending to watch it as they watched Skinner and 
Renahan leave. 

Something wrong. Very wrong here in Cookstown, near the strand at Lough Beg...

"You leave that man ALONE," Brennan said under his breath on wheeze. He said it as 
though he didn't like people around him even referring to a gender. An individual. 
Anything at all.

"I don't want anything from him but to know who did this to this man's wife," Neill said. 
"That man's wife did us a service. We can do her husband one in return and then call it 
finished, can't we then. The whole thing done."

Brennan's face was blotched stone. "You with that man after what he did to us." The 
reproach fell, leaden, between them.

"I want it over." He said it slowly. "I want to be done with it. I want this man Mulder to 
be done with it. I want to whole damn thing over."

Brennan blew out a breath, his lips wet. "Jesus, we all do, Eamon. Jesus, we all do..." 
He took another drink. 

"Then tell me where to find him," Neill pressed. He was trying to work quickly as the 
pub door continued to open and close, new faces coming in, as Mulder and Skinner and 
Renahan were out in the town with people who knew who they were, why they were 
here...

Not too fast, he reminded himself. Brennan always gave a little squeal if you gave him 
enough time - and Guinness - to do it in. 

"I don't need a name. I met him myself. I'll know him from sight." 

Brennan looked down into his beer, studying it, looked up in Eamon's face. 

"You've never turned your back on us," he said, seeming to come to some conclusion 
despite the uncertainty in his voice. 

"And I'm not doing it now either," Neill said. And he wasn't. He knew that for a fact.

Brennan didn't nod or move anything but his wet, wet lips. 

"The boat shop in Ballycastle," he said. "He comes in and gets bait and line. You'll 
know him because they don't never let him pay." 

Neill nodded. "Bless you, Manny," he said quietly, so only Brennan could hear him. 
"Bless you." He stood, left enough money on the table to cover all the tabs and a bit 
more for Brennan's trouble.

Brennan picked up the pound coins and threw them hard on the ground, seeming to enjoy 
both their loud clatter and the looks they received. 

"Fuck you," he spat. It wasn't in his eyes, though, but Neill did not smile. He acted the 
part Brennan'd written for him and left, looking small, as if in shame.

****

The man saw the American moving through the streets, pushing his dark hair back in 
frustration, his strides long enough that the man would himself have to run to get to him 
if he so desired. 

Luckily, he did not. The car had been right where the note at the butcher's shop had said 
it would be, parked among some motorcycles down an alleyway. They'd tried to make it 
inconspicuous, and, in fact, if everyone in the town hadn't known it was coming and the 
number on the plate, they might have succeeded in keeping it safe.

The American, then the other, then the Brit. All down the main road in town, the 
younger Yank heading toward the Ardoe Cross as though he meant to hang himself on it. 

The right tool for the right job held in this case, as well, as the man jammed the pick into 
the lock and gave it a hard pull, coring it through. The boot lid popped open and the man 
was confronted with a stack of suitcases. He checked tags. Anything with "U.S.A." or a 
Union Jack he took, transferring into the back of his tiny pickup, a painters tarp heavy on 
top. 

He closed the lid - useless now - but it wouldn't pop until they hit a bump in the road. 
He'd have time to get back to Tievemore before they'd even figured out it was all gone.

As he hefted the bags he felt an unmistakable weight in one of the Americans' bags, a 
heavy rectangular and particularly electronic shape. 

Laptop, he thought, climbing into the driver's seat and starting the engine. 

Maybe when they were done cleaning it off, having a look, they'd let him have it. He 
might ask for that as part of his pay. 

The alley gave way to the main street, and he could see the Americans on the corner with 
the Brit, the young man with the dark hair - the one who's wife was dead, they said - 
raging in the Brit's red, amused face. 

Sorry for your trouble, he thought to himself, turning and heading out of town toward 
Omagh, traffic light and moving fast to the west. 


*******

CONTINUED IN PART IV.






PART IV


*******

THE TRAILER
ALBERT HOSTEEN'S PROPERTY
TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO
APRIL 3
6:32 p.m.


If she thought about it hard enough, she could remember exactly the
way the sky looked  the first night Hosteen had shown up, looking for
all the world like an apparition coming  through the near-dark, his
horse named after an apparition walking almost silent in the 
space between the trailer and the house. If she tried to remember, she
could feel the  depth of the emptiness that had been in her then as
she'd watched him come toward her,  the bag of freshly cooked lasagna
in an aluminum pan swinging from the horn of the  saddle, the light in
his eyes. 

That emptiness she'd felt in her then, as cold and complete as a
cave's, was so different  from the fullness she felt now, and it
helped her not pursue the memories too hard this  night. 

The sky was burning at the horizon, but it was turning that cobalt
blue specked with stars  she'd always associated with this place. That
familiarity, Bo's warm chin and the feeling  of Rose's foot pushing
against her hand through the soft material of her shirt gave her a 
measure of comfort, something she'd been in short supply of as of
late. 

As though knowing she would seek solace here, someone - probably
Hosteen himself -  had left a full stack of small logs and the fire
pit full of kindling soaked in oil. She'd been  able to build the pit
up to a lovely, warm fire in a matter of a few minutes, the metal
chair  creaking as she leaned back in the chair, her hands folded
between the mound of her belly  and her fuller breasts for added
warmth. Tiny dots of sparks climbed up toward the sky, 
and she followed them with her eyes. 

There it was again. The quiet pressure in her mind. Something
pressing, a familiar and  warm sensation. She closed her eyes and felt
for a moment as though she could hear a  voice in her mind. She could
smell something, the scent of a hairline. She would know 
the smell anywhere. 

Something uncomfortable for a beat, a burst of distress--

She drew in a breath, her hand tightening on the bump of the foot
beneath it.

The baby rolled inside her, and instantly the feeling ebbed, as though
she'd been hearing a  soft noise in the distance and it had drifted
away.

She knew what she had felt, but she wouldn't even put it into order in
her mind. She  couldn't. She wouldn't. Not yet.

Bo looked up, sensing movement. A log fell in the fire pit, sending up
the flurry of  sparks, but it wasn't that he had heard. Somewhere she
could hear footsteps. 

"Dana?" 

She relaxed immediately. She felt safe here at the Hosteen's, safer
than she'd felt  anywhere. She felt safer here with her back against
this trailer, its hulking quiet shape,  than she did anywhere on the
property. But too much had happened not to be too careful. 

"I'm here, Mae," she called back, and then Mae emerged from the
shadows that were  gathering around the fire as the sun began to
finally give way to the night. She was  tucked into a barn jacket,
brown, and jeans. Her long hair fell in its wild dark curls down 
over her shoulders and back, and looked as if the wind had been
tussling with it as she'd  walked. She was smoothing it down with her
fingers as she came around the fire pit to  the other chair on
Scully's left. 

"I'm not intruding?" she asked, and Scully gave her a faint smile,
appreciating the  gesture. 

"No, of course not," she said, and nodded to the chair. Mae sat in it,
leaned forward and  held her hands out toward the fire, her palms
reflecting the light.

"Cold," she said. "I still can't get over the fact that it's so bloody
cold here." 

"It won't be soon," Scully said, knowing the fact well. She could
still remember the heat  of the Bronco for those months, the swelter
of sleeping in the back, hidden off some  highway. She wondered what
Mae and Joe had done with it...

She remembered cleaning Mulder's blood from the backseat with Granger.
Grim  scrubbing in the hospital lot.

"Let's hope we're not here when it gets that hot either," Mae said
sourly. "No place for an  Irish girl to be in summer, I can tell that
already." 

Scully laughed. "You don't have to tell me," she said, bemused. 

"Yea, we're the two sides of it, aren't we? The redhead and the curly
black with the blue  blue eyes and skin like paper..." Mae said,
rubbing her hands together. She reached  down and rubbed at Bo's neck,
though Scully couldn't tell if she was doing to comfort the 
dog or further warm her hands. Scully didn't answer. 

"Where's Katherine?" she asked after a beat of silence had fallen. 

"Sarah's staying in the house with her," Mae replied. "I needed a
break. A walk to clear  my head. And since Mr. Hosteen's got Sean I
thought I'd take advantage."

"She doesn't mind," Scully replied, her ear picking up the
self-reproach in the final word.  "Sarah. She'd say if she did." 

"She'd bloody well say anything, I'd venture," Mae said, sounding
baffled. "I mean, no  offense if you're fond of her, but that woman's
a bit...off."

"No offense taken," Scully said. "And no argument either. But I guess
I'm just used to it  by now."

"Used to which part of it?"

The edge in her friend's tone brought her out of the sleepy, easy
tenor they'd been  speaking in and took her gaze from the fire to
Mae's face. 

Which part of it, indeed. 

"Just...the way the people here talk sometimes," she stumbled. 

"Uh huh," Mae said doubtfully. 

"What?" Scully said, feeling her hackles rise. She didn't want to be
venturing into this  territory at all, and to do it with the
near-tease or near-challenge that Mae was using...no. 

"Come on, Dana," Mae said. "You don't have to hide it from me. You can
stop trying. I  know." 

"No, you don't," she said, her voice hardening even further, a patina
of defense. 

"That drug has never stopped, has it?" Mae said, her tone quieting,
most likely from guilt  or regret. "It's changing you. Still. Doing
things to you. Making you see things." 

It was more blunt than Mulder would have said it. But then, Scully
realized, Mae  probably understood more, having been part of the whole
thing. She'd tried to forget that  part, as well. 

She thought about denying it. She even tried to form the words. But
what came out was  the single quiet syllable of "yes." 

Mae nodded. "About fucking time," she said under her breath, and gave
Scully a wry  smile. 

Scully looked at her, the sky seeming suddenly very dark and the fire
very bright. She  smiled a faint smile, something in her opening and
glad to be doing it. 

"What was it you saw the other day?" Mae asked. "When you were with me
down and  Victor's and you left in such a hurry?" 

(The little girl in her mind, standing in the doorway. Pajamas. The
smell of her and  Mulder in the bed.)

"I saw...Rose. My daughter."

Mae nodded. "So when you see these things, what are they like? I
figure you can tell  things that are going to happen. Because you knew
Katherine was going to tip the frying  pan that time. The day we got
here."

Scully returned her gaze to the fire. "Yes. They're things that will
happen, I think." She  paused, a log dropping and the fire hissing for
an instant. "It's hard to explain. It's like  I'm watching myself but
I'm also there while it's happening. It's like a memory but it's 
also like it's happening that moment because I don't know how what I'm
seeing will end."

"Like it's happened already but is happening?" Mae tried, her brow
creased. 

Scully nodded. "Yes," she said. 

"Which is why they're so upsetting to see," Mae continued,
understanding. "Because you  can't tell where you are in them -
remembering or seeing what's to come. Like Katherine  and the pan."

Scully nodded again. "Yes. To some part of me...she was already
burned. I could see it.  Smell it." 

"Christ Almighty," Mae said. "I don't think I could handle seeing any
of that."

Scully shook her head. "That's not the part that bothers me the most,"
she said. "The  worst part for me is that when I come out of whatever
I've seen, I realize that what I've  seen *will* happen. When it's its
time to. And I know."

"But it doesn't always," Mae said. "You knew that Katherine would tip
the pan and you  stopped it. You knew that bomb was outside the hotel
in Washington. Doesn't that mean  you can change what you see?"

Scully shrugged. "I don't know," she said. "I think only if I can
stop...the dream, if that  makes sense?...before it's allowed to
finish itself. They're like dreams. Very real  dreams. But if they get
to their end...I lose the control to do anything about what 
happens within them. They become real or true...inevitable."

"So it's like waking yourself up before you hit the ground when you're
falling in a  nightmare." Mae picked up another log from beside her
and tossed it into the fire in a  hail of sparks that made Bo jump. 

"I suppose," Scully said, her mind turning it over. "I don't know. I
don't really  understand it." She quirked a smile. "And to think I had
the audacity to rewrite  Einstein's theories when I was 21. To take
issue with his idea that things weren't linear or  absolute in their
place in time. I'm the proof that ruins the entire theory I designed.
I just  didn't know it at the time."

"You rewrote Einstein?" Mae laughed. "What a rebel," she said. 

Bo laid his head down on Scully's foot again, breathed out, and went
to sleep.  
"I had my moments," Scully parried mildly, a smile she hoped appeared
Sphinxian on her  lips. 

"Oh yes, yes," Mae said, laughing. "Let's hear of the wildness of Dana
Scully. What'd  you do? Change your saddle shoes before the bell rang?
Break fast before Communion?  Come in at 12:01 for the midnight
curfew?" 

Scully blushed. "I *did* smoke a cigarette once," she said, choosing
the most innocuous  of her sins on purpose to play along. 

"Ohhhh..." 

"Yes, I did," Scully said, mock-somber. "I snuck downstairs and smoked
a cigarette  outside in the dark." 

"How old were you?" Mae said. "Twenty-two?" She laughed.

Scully looked at her, and realized that buried beneath her amusement
at the whole thing,  she was a bit...hurt? 

"Is that what you really think of me?" she asked. 

Mae grew more serious, considering. Scully realized that Mae knew
she'd trodden a bit  hard on her ground. 

"The person you are now? No. Not at all. You've risked too much and
you've done too  much and you've taken too many knocks along the way.
That's clear to me about you." 

Scully regarded her, her eyes grateful for the words, the
understanding. 

"But you at 15 or 16? I imagine smoking a cigarette was the worst
thing you could  manage." 

Scully closed her eyes, the fire dancing on her lids. She saw her
mother. Melissa.  Charlie. Bill. 

Her father's stern and kind face she would rather die than have look
on her with anything  but pride.

"Yes," she said, opening her eyes to the firelight. "It was."

Mae was quiet, and they sat in a companionable and comfortable silence
for a long  moment that Scully drank in like water. 

Mae was her friend. A friend as worn and old as a favorite book, and
growing as familiar  now, too. She couldn't remember another woman
ever having that place with her, and  she was grateful to have it,
even at its price. 

"The worst thing I ever did...well, you might find other things
worse..." Mae hesitated,  and Scully could hear the regret. She could
only imagine of what. 

"Tell me," she said gently. 

Mae must have heard the lack of judgment. "Well," she said, and she
looked past the fire,  as though someone might be listening. "I...I
was friends with a Protestant."

She couldn't help it. A choked laugh burst from Scully's throat. "Oh
my..." she said. 

"Well, bloody well think of it!" Mae exclaimed. "James Curran's
daughter? Sitting  behind the old farmhouse on the Greaves property
with Bridget and learning a *hymn*?" 

"I imagine your father wouldn't have approved, no." She'd stopped
laughing now that  she thought about it. For a man who symbolized the
Cause, it would not have looked  good at all. 

"He'd have beaten me half to death," Mae said grimly. "Or to death.
Singing 'Be Thou  My Vision' with a Protestant girl. But I couldn't
help it. I liked the song. Bloody  Protestants. Everyone knew they got
to really *sing*!"

Scully burst out again, and Mae joined her. 

"Do you still know it? The song?" Scully asked as they grew serious,
the stars brighter  now, the sky less dark. 

"Do you still remember the taste of that cigarette?" Mae asked. "Of
course I do."

"Sing it for me," Scully said. 

"I can't carry a tune in a pail, Dana."

"I don't care," Scully said. "Sing it for me." 

Mae looked around again, and then, only slightly more on-pitch as
Scully could have  managed herself, she began:

"Be Thou my vision, O Lord of my heart;
Naught be all else to me, save that Thou art
Thou my best Thought, by day or by night,
Waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light..."

The words hung in the air, in the firelight. Scully smiled. "It's
really beautiful. Not just  the words but the tune."

"It's from the 7th century," Mae said. "An Irish folk tune."

Scully thought about it, turning the words over in her mind. The tune
seemed to hang in  the air like the smoke trickling up from the fire,
disappearing into the sky and its starlight.

"I know why you think that was the worst thing you did as a child now
that I hear it," she  said, and looked at Mae. 

"You do, eh?" Mae asked. "Why's that then?"

Scully nodded. "Because you realized you and Bridget believed the same
thing."

Mae looked down, an exposed expression on her face. Scully reached
across and laid a  hand on her friend's arm, her fingers resting there
as Mae's eyes brimmed with tears.


*******

THE DESERT
NAVAJO RESERVATION
9:03 p.m.


Albert Hosteen couldn't see the fire in front of the trailer from
where he was, but when he  looked east toward where he knew his house
sat, its television on and talking to no one,  he knew that the fire
was burning nonetheless. He'd moved around Agent Scully all day, 
sensing something growing in her like a fire, something set and
building, and knew she  would seek solace in the desert. 

The desert's quiet was its greatest gift. That and its ability to take
on whatever was inside  a person. Sometimes barren landscapes were
what people needed to see most around  them because it was what was
within them. Barren spaces and wide skies. 

Hosteen smiled at the thought, firelight dancing on his own face. He
hoped Agent Scully  saw sky this night, the sky and its stars. Just as
Sean Curran was seeing before him, his  eyes wide as stars as he gazed
upward, his small mouth open.

"They're looking at you," Hosteen said in a quiet voice. "Watching
you." 

Sean was across the campfire from him, the bandana around his forehead
and the dingy  feather sticking up from its back like a gray finger
pointing upward. Since they'd settled  in around the fire, Cloud and
Ghost tethered to a small tree off to the side and nearly out 
of the fire's corona, Sean had reached up to touch the feather, as
though worried it would  disappear. 

At Hosteen's words, Sean looked from the stars to Hosteen's face,
seeming vaguely  afraid. 

"Nothing to worry about," Hosteen replied. "Stars are the best ones to
watch us. Some of  my people believe they are our ancestors looking
down on us, guiding us, making sure  we stay out of harm's way." 

Sean's eyes returned to the sky, and this time when he looked up, he
didn't look quite as  pleased. Albert saw him swallow, and realized
what the young boy saw. 

His father's face in the dots of light. His father's eyes.

"Hmm," he said. He picked up the pipe he'd left beside him, already
stuffed with  tobacco. There was a dry stick beside him from the pile
of kindling and he touched it  into the fire and lit the pipe with it,
breathing out sweet smoke. 

"Sometimes we surprise them with what we do," he said as Sean
continued to look up, as  though trying to decide which of the stars
he should hide his face from, which one was  glinting at him.
"Sometimes we do not turn out the way they wish we would have, and 
often that is the best thing for us. Even if it is not for them." 

Sean looked at him again, the boy's eyes large and wet. His mouth was
a line, thin as a  cut. He said nothing, but he nodded. 

Hosteen nodded back, his eyes squinting a bit as he drew his long legs
up so that he could  wrap his arms around his knees, the pipe held
lightly in his hand. A breeze fanned the  fire gently for a few
seconds, the light growing brighter and the stream of smoke and tiny 
sparks turning east for a beat. 

Sean reached up and touched the feather again. It made Hosteen smile
faintly. The boy  thought the feather contained some magic. 

And perhaps it would.

"Are you ready for your Trial?" he said, and Sean looked at him again,
his hand still on  the feather. He looked both terribly young and
terribly old at the same time. He also  looked both determined and
afraid. 

Hosteen gave a nod, reached beside him and picked up a large black
feather, the flight  wing from a raven that drove Victor crazy at the
ranch. The thing hung around picking at  pieces of tinfoil from the
fire pits, feathering its nest with the stuff and making a racket. 
Victor had been trying to drive it off for months. 

Hosteen was glad he hadn't now. The feather glinted with its faint,
oily sheen in the  firelight. 

"To become a Crow, you will have to go to a place I tell you to go,"
Hosteen said in his  best somber voice. 

Sean nodded, and started to rise from the Indian-style position he sat
in, his Arizona  Cardinals jacket gathered around him.

"Wait," Hosteen said, putting up a hand, and Sean froze, settled back
down again,  looking contrite. 

"This is not an easy task I give you to do," he said. "That is why it
is a Trial. And you  must also remember that the place I send you to
is a special place. It is a secret place. It  is a place that only the
Navajo know of, so my sending you there is a special privilege for 
you. A special honor. Because of that you must keep the place and the
task I give you to  do there a secret, as well. Do you understand?"

Sean looked at him, his head turning slightly. Hosteen smiled at the
curious and excited  look the boy wore. He looked, for once, like a
little boy. Sean nodded.

"I have your word?" Hosteen asked, speaking around his pipe. The mock
Chief voice  was gone, because he did, indeed, need Sean's word.

Sean nodded again. 

"Then give it to me." Hosteen said. "I will not let you go until I
have your word. Your  promise." He held the feather before him, his
long fingers on its thick quill. 

Sean looked at it, nodded. His mouth opened from its line. 

"Promise," he said, and Hosteen was surprised again by the lightness
of his voice. 

"Hmm," Hosteen grunted, and set the pipe down at the edge of the fire
pit. "Then come  with me," he said, and he rose, Sean coming up with
him. 

There was a hill behind them, behind the horse and pony, out beyond
the light of the  campfire. The moon was out, big and white as an
opal, and it turned everything a vague  shade of blue, just enough
light to find the way. 

Not that he needed it - he could find his way on this trail by memory
- but behind him,  Sean's fast breathing told him the light was good
to have. 

Even with it, Sean stumbled on the occasional rock. Hosteen didn't
help him or turn.  They walked, up the long incline heading toward the
top.

Finally, Hosteen felt the ground give way to a flat place, and he
looked in front of him,  felt Sean pull up short, his breath drawing
in awe.

Before them, a few hundred feet away, the pueblo stood, silent and
gray, set into the side  the mountain. Its neat windows were like
eyes. Ladders led up to them, hewn in the  traditional way with rope
and branches, as the building had been made, with attention to 
every detail. His grandfather and his contemporaries had begun it
here, in the cleft of a  rock face, at the mouth of a cave, with
bricks made of sand and straw. They'd molded  them, stacked them. Made
room on room, each connected. No separate houses. No  separate rooms.

They'd made it, brick by brick, by hand, in the Old Way. 

And they'd kept it secret, in the Old Way, as well, adding to all the
other Secrets. 

Sean was standing, agape. Albert looked down at him, and there was
enough light to see  Sean's eyes.

"You will go into the doorway on the left," he said to the boy. "The
large main door  between the ladders going to the second floor.
Inside, there is a flashlight and a bowl I  placed there for you. The
bowl is filled with red paint. Put your hand in the bowl and 
make a print of your palm on the inside wall. You will see many other
marks, but do not  touch anyone else's mark."

Sean swallowed, looking at the dark expanse between him and the
pueblo. He looked  back up at Hosteen. 

"Put your hand among the marks and come back to me here and I will
make you a Crow."  He showed Sean the feather again, held it before
the boy's face so that when he looked  down it was bisecting Sean's
face with a long black stroke.

Sean looked out again, and for an instant Hosteen didn't think he
would do it. 

But then he nodded, and started, clumsy, down the trail.

Hosteen could hear his small feet slipping, the overturning of small
rocks. As Sean's  form moved through the darkness, he squatted down,
the feather light between his  fingers, and settled down to wait. 

Ten minutes. Fifteen. He could no longer hear the sound of the boy's
feet. 

Twenty. 

He rubbed the feather's blade, rough one way, smooth the other. He
worried it between  his fingers. 

Then he saw the tiny light come on in the doorway, a penlight, like a
candle being lit in  pueblo's vast insides. 

Five minutes more. The light went out. 

Hosteen smiled. 

Ten more minutes and Sean was stumbling up to him, winded. Hosteen
looked down at  him as Sean stopped in front of him, drawing in huge
lungfuls of air.

"Hmm," Hosteen said, stern and self-important. "Show me your hand."

Sean did as he was told, and even in the cornflower moonlight, his
hand looked like it  wore a glove of blood. 

"Good," Hosteen said, and laid the black feather down on the red,
watching Sean's face  transform from tired fear to something else.
Something new behind his smile that looked  like pride.


*******

DERG INN
TIEVEMORE
NEAR ST. PATRICK'S PURGATORY AND LOUGH DERG
NORTHERN IRELAND, UNITED KINGDOM
9:38 p.m. 


"Let's have a look at this pretty little thing then," the man Christie
knew only as "Pierce"  said almost fondly, taking the silver-white
iBook into his hands from Seamus. Christie's  room at the Inn was
small, but the desk in the corner was old and large, big enough for 
Pierce to have spread his tool kit and a second laptop, already
humming fully booted, on  it with enough room for the Apple to spare.

Two tools and he had the casing off, the sleek laptop looking exposed
and vulnerable  beneath the lights. 

"Jesus will you look at what's gone into this little hummer?" Pierce
said, pointing to a  piece of equipment that Christie didn't
recognize. 

"What's that then?" Christie asked.

"Bloody satellite modem. Lord only knows where it's sending signals
to, but that looks  like some sort of Chinese thing. No one's supposed
to have that." He put a magnifying  glass over it, breathing out so
that he steamed the lens a touch. "Aye, Chinese all right. 
Somebody's got a secret about how they got that thing, that's for
sure."

"You can keep it once we get anything we need off the thing," Seamus
said sourly, and  Christie appreciated his hurrying Pierce along. The
man stunk of cigars and too many  days in the same clothes and
Christie'd just as soon have not had him around.

"All right, all right, Jesus..." Pierce said, and uncoiled a long
black cord that plugged  from his own laptop into a port on the back
of the naked iBook. "Give me a minute..."

He turned on the Apple without opening it, which hummed to life, not
on its own screen   - which Pierce hadn't opened up at all - but on
Pierce's. It immediately asked for a  password before it would allow
the desktop to come up. 

"Pain the bloody arse..." Pierce hit a few buttons, his computer
launching a program that  immediately began scrolling numbers in a
column, too fast for Christie to watch them. It  narrowed the password
down to eight digits then began to fill them in one at a time. 

Pierce had clearly brought the right tools, just as Seamus said he
would. 

28131002. A numeric code that meant nothing to him at all. The desktop
appeared and  Seamus and Pierce leaned close.

"Almost nothing on it," Pierce pronounced. "Microsoft Word. An ISP and
an email  program. That's it."

"Damn," Seamus said softly. "Get whatever's in the Word program to
open," he said.  "Maybe they're keeping notes or they brought some
things along."

Christie sipped his tea from the white pot on the bedside table. The
television, its sound  turned down, kept showing an American western.
Clint Eastwood...

"There we go," Pierce said, though Christie ignored him, intent on the
film, Clint at a  cemetery. "The Good, The Bad and The Ugly..."

"Christie."

Seamus' voice brought him back and he took the two steps back to the
table, leaned in.

The screen was lit up with text:

"I'm thinking about you. Too much, probably. Wondering how you are,
what you're  doing with yourself. Thinking about the baby, and what
you're feeling. I didn't think it  would hit me this hard, this soon,
but knowing you're so far away...it's just hard. I'm glad 
we have this, though. We've never really written letters before, and
who knows?..." 

"Look at the date on the file," Seamus snapped. Christie gaped, his
hand squeezing on  the handle of his teacup to the point that he could
have snapped it off.

"The eighteenth of March," Pierce said, not understanding the two
men's reaction. 

"She's not fucking dead," Seamus spat, and turned away, his hand on
his hips. "Son of a  fucking *bitch.*"

Christie said nothing. He simply put the cup down and went to the
wardrobe, drawing  out his duffel. Again. 

Scully alive...

Something in him lived. Another part of him, however, started to die.
Again.

"Get into that bloody email program," Seamus said to Pierce, though he
was reaching into  his pocket for his cell phone. "I want to know
where she is. NOW." 

"Satellite modem will take a bit of time. More if it's scrambled,
which I'm guessing it is."  Pierce looked apologetic and bit afraid at
Seamus' anger. Christie watched his face as he  packed up his shaving
kit, just opened, on the foot of the bed.

"Then get going!" Seamus roared, dialing. "As soon as Mulder figures
out we've got that,  it's not going to work anymore now is it?! So
hurry the fuck up!"

"All right, all right...an hour..." Pierce started hitting keys, his
hands flying.

Behind him, Seamus lowered his voice immediately, growing still as his
cell phone line  picked up. 

"Sorry to trouble you," he said, quiet. Respectful. 

Afraid. 

"I've got a bit of bad news..."


*******

OUTSIDE BALLYCASTLE
NORTHERN COAST OF NORTHERN IRELAND
UNITED KINGDOM
APRIL 3
9:37 p.m.


Mulder as almost relieved to see the lights of Ballycastle dotting the
distance, despite the  fact that every town they'd visited had not
been what any of them, even, apparently, Neill,  had seemed to expect.
The kidnapping in Omagh. The strange reception in Cookstown 
where it was clear everyone knew they were coming and who they were.
Even Belfast  had not been what he'd expected, coming in after St.
Patrick's Day, the festivities of  America replaced with people filing
in and out of Catholic masses. 

Neill hadn't been what he'd thought, and he was both sorry and glad
for that. What he'd  expected would have somehow been easier to deal
with. And harder.

The only constant in the universe right now seemed to be Renahan,
snoring against the  back window, uncaring. Or seeming not to care. So
perhaps he was wrong about him, as  well. 

What *had* he expected? His arm against the door frame on the left,
sleep gathering  beneath his eyes in dark pockets, he asked himself
this. What had sent him out of the bar  in Cookstown, furious
at...what? A man's unwillingness to speak? Silence seemed to be 
the indigenous language in this place. 

Perhaps, he mused bitterly, he should learn to speak it himself. 

It would be better than the ranting he'd done at Renahan and Skinner
on the street, trucks  and small dull cars milling by them on the
street, the drivers' faces turned toward him in  some variety of bored
interest. He hadn't stopped until a man and a woman in what 
looked like a battered Mini had literally stopped to listen to him,
the crazed American  ranting at a Brit - ready to punch him in his
laughing face, in fact - and using language  that would make a sailor
ashamed. 

He wiped at his face, his eyes, as though he meant to wipe the memory
away, to smooth  it off his mind with his rough palm. His hair was
hanging a bit over his forehead and he  smoothed it back.

"You need a haircut," he heard in his mind, Scully's face swimming
before the lens of his  memory. 

She was naked, on her side, propped on an elbow, her longer red hair
touching the white  cotton sheets. Their house. He was on his back,
replete after making love for what felt  like hours and could have
been since its slow beginnings as they'd done dishes after 
dinner. 

Her side where the light from the night table was washing over it was
specked with  sweat, the dip of her waist, the small, just-burgeoning
round of their child. December or  January. A fire in the fireplace in
the bedroom. 

"I was thinking of going all 'A Farewell to Arms' on you and growing a
beard while  you're pregnant," he'd replied, a wry smile on his face.
He'd reached out and traced her  breast with his finger, touching the
pink of her nipple, which was going darker as the  baby grew. "You
know, let the hair go. Maybe grow a ponytail." 

He loved how she looked when she laughed, especially that laugh that
was startled out of  her like finches lifting off, the one that made
her sound so young, despite everything that  had happened to them. 

"I think that's a great idea," she replied. "I'll be sure and bring
the baby by for her  weekend visitations after she's born, too."

"At the music store where I'll be working," he laughed, warming to the
image. "The one  in Dupont Circle that still sells vinyl. I'll be
behind the counter wearing a Dead Kennedy's  T-shirt and smoking a
Camel Unfiltered."

"Right," she said, giggling so that she shook. "Langley will walk in
and pretend he  doesn't know you." 

They both roared at that, a burst of lovely sound. 

Then he'd leaned up and drank in her laughter from her lips until the
sound died down to  a small, pleasured moan in her throat. He
remembered the feel of his own weight on his  hands as he'd held his
body over her, his mouth on hers, then her throat, her shoulder, the 
pale soft plain between full breasts. 

He'd shaved every day but he hadn't cut the unruly curve of hair over
his forehead. In  everything that had happened, he'd simply
forgotten.

Neill turned the car right at a crossroads, a sign pointing them to
Ballycastle. From the  crack in the window, he could smell sea salt
and he found it vaguely comforting. This  road wasn't as well
maintained as the larger road they'd been traveling on, the pavement 
taking on the pale speckled gray of something worn. The tires ground
on it a bit more  loudly, and the car rattled faintly.

The lights of the town were growing closer, farms on the outskirts.
They passed a place  that advertised Fresh Catch, the sign older than
Mulder was. He imagined what was sold  there was quite good, though.
Hooked fish and things drawn from the sea's dark floor.

"Just up a ways now," Neill said, his voice having to rise above the
car's dull noises. 

Mulder nodded. Skinner was behind him, and Mulder heard him shift,
anxious.

"Do you think we're going to get the same reception here as we did in
Cookstown?"  Skinner asked.

"What sort of reception are you referring to?" Neill said blandly,
arcing the car to avoid a  pothole the size of a tire. 

"The fact that everyone in the whole goddamn town knew who we were and
why we  were there," Skinner replied, biting it out, a touch of
sarcasm peppering it.

Mulder looked to his right and saw Neill's lip curl. 

"Mr. Skinner, everyone in this area knows who you are and pretty close
to why you're  here. If you were looking to travel anonymously, you
should have picked either different  company or a different country.
And it's not you they know, exactly. It's Renahan. And 
it's me." He smiled a bit more. "Sorry to spoil that American
expectation you've got there,  but it's not all about you this time."

He looked at Mulder and winked. Mulder chuffed. So true.

"And the fact that Mr. Renahan and I are seen sitting together
anywhere without gunfire  is getting a lot of attention." 

The smile melted off Mulder's face, and he regarded Neill seriously
now. He looked at  him for a long beat, the road's noise all the he
heard. He could tell Skinner was thinking  the same thing.

"What will happen?" he asked finally, a half thought.

"To what?" Neill said, his eyes forward.

"To you," Mulder said, finishing the thought. "After we've gone."

Neill shrugged. "Don't know," he said blandly. "Figure I'll manage
that when it comes." 

"They'll kill you," Skinner said from the back. His voice had lost its
sarcasm. It was the  quiet tone Mulder knew from Skinner, one he
rarely used but when he did, it spoke much  more than his words. 

Neill said nothing, but he was clearly considering it, and not for the
first time. The car  bumped hard on its lousy shocks on a hole in the
pavement, the first of two loud noises.  The second was the trunk
swinging up and hitting the back window hard enough to crack 
the glass.

"What the fuck--" Renahan startled awake. He turned in unison with
Skinner and  Mulder, wiping sleep from his face. "Boot's open." 

*

Five minutes later, beneath a dim, buzzing streetlight outside the
town, Mulder stared  mutely at the single bag in the trunk - Neill's,
unopened and pressed against the back.

"Son of a BITCH..." he breathed, turning away, his hands on his hips.

"Looks like we'll be washing knickers in the sink," Renahan said.
"Hope they enjoy the  dirty ones when they get to where they're
going." 

Mulder felt his heart turn painfully in his chest as he looked at the
space where his bag  had been.

"My laptop," he said, spinning to face Skinner. "They've got the
laptop." 

Skinner's eyes widened, but Neill cut into his reply. 

"Who's 'they,' Mr. Mulder?" he said. "The IRA wouldn't steal your
suitcases. They're not  petty thieves, for starters, and besides,
Cookstown's famous for having things nicked  from cars."

Mulder shook his head, not believing. Too convenient...

"And you can be damn sure if it was IRA," Neill continued. "they
wouldn't have done  such a messy job on the lock. They'd have picked
it and closed it up tight as a tomb again  to make sure it took a
longer while to find the things gone." He pointed to the cored lock. 
"That's a teenager looking for something to peddle." 

"Then why's your suitcase still there??" Mulder asked, his voice
rising. He pointed to  Neill's suitcase like it held some sort of
proof. 

Like Neill was suspect in some way. In collusion. 

He could tell Neill saw that in the question, and it brought a smile
to his face.

"First," he said in that calm voice of his. "because it doesn't have
any airline tags on it  like yours. Nothing to show it's from out of
the country, especially not the *rich* United  States." 

A twinge of anger flared in his eyes, like sparks from a fire. Mulder
saw it, and then it  was gone. Neill's gaze flicked to Renahan.

"And a Brit's suitcase they would take on principle, to be frank,
especially one stupid  enough to put a Union Jack on its side."

Renahan laughed. "Right!" he said. "Stupid fucking Brit! I hope they
threw it in the  lake!" 

Neill smiled at that. Then he leaned over and grabbed the handle of
his bag, pulled it  forward. He unzipped it and showed Mulder the
contents. 

"And there's nothing in mine to take. Certainly not a shiny laptop
like you've got, Mr.  Mulder. Or interesting bits like Mr. Skinner.
Cell phones. Extra clips for that Sig he's got  at his belt." 

 He pulled a belt from the bottom of the suitcase, brown leather.
Mulder looked at him,  caught somewhere between believing and wanting
to believe.

"Come on," Neill said, pulling him back from where he was going. "Help
me rig a way to  close this so we can settle in and get some sleep.
It's been a hard day."

Mulder took the belt, saw Neill's face grow dark in the light as he
turned.

"I'd like," he mumbled. "for it to end."


******

ALBERT HOSTEEN'S HOUSE
TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO
APRIL 4
5:55 a.m.

White feet on a cold floor. Legs looking small in sweatpants, too long
and gathered at her  ankles, faded red. A nightgown's skirt draped
around her knees. The baby seemed to be  sitting on her lap now,
Mulder's sweatshirt pulled over the nightgown and over their 
daughter. A pale hand curling into the fabric.

Scully turned her face to the strange light of morning pushing its way
through the  windows. Her breathing was returning to normal, but her
face was slicked with sweat.

A dream, she told herself. 

(Blood on a linoleum floor. A little girl screaming. Her hand pressed
against a child's  face, covering her eyes...)

Mulder...

She shook it off, the baby turning inside her as she turned the
thoughts away. 

A dream, she repeated. Nothing more. 

She stood, pushing herself slowly up to her feet, her hand on her
lower back, which had  begun to ache dully. She decided to forego a
shower and began to undress. 

Nude, she stood in the center of the floor where a square of light had
pushed through the  glass, the sun coming up the colors of a peach.
She let it settle on her skin, warming her  and turning her skin
bright amber and white. She held a white shirt in one hand like 
shroud, looking down at herself, saw blue veins beneath her skin woven
around the baby  like a net.

If the baby could cry, she would cry. She didn't know how she knew
this, but she did. She  put her hand on her belly's side, frustrated -
not for the first time - by the distance  between the baby and her
hand.

Frustrated, there in the bar of light, with all kinds of distance. 

She shouldered and stepped into her clothes, taking time as she closed
the white buttons  of the shirt around her belly. 

She would spend this day alone. She would go where no one could find
her, taking Bo  with her like some shadow of Mulder he had always
been.

She would hide from what she saw behind her eyes.
 

******

OVER THE ATLANTIC
BRITISH AIRWAYS, FLIGHT 318
(BELFAST INTERNATIONAL TO LA GUARDIA)
APRIL 4
9:30 p.m.

I see new things now. They're still of you and of Rose, but there's
something  hanging in what I see now, like shadow. There's a man
somewhere, and there's  screaming, and something like a gunshot.
Something terrible is going to happen,  and not only that but I feel
it as though it's happening now, my body feels it  now, and I'm
afraid.

"What do you think it means?" Bridget asked from the seat beside him.

First Class was quiet, the lights dimmed. It was almost all men, ice
cubes tapping in high- ball glasses as laptops scrolled spreadsheets
and a movie played with no sound from  video screens on each seat. 

Christie looked to the seat beside him, the stuffed leather, the night
sky outside. The  plane sounded like air. 

He looked at her, her blue eyes. They were changing again, the pupils
gone now. Nothing  but blue like water. The scar on her face seemed to
be moving down her face.

He shrugged. He didn't want to speak. The few words he'd said to her
in the cab on the  way to the airport in Belfast had gotten the
driver's eye on him the rear-view mirror in a  way he didn't like. 

He adjusted the laptop on the tray in front of him, reached for his
Coke and took a sip  from the glass. The silver and white of the iBook
gleamed and he considered the email  again, looking for any clue of
where Agent Scully might be from the words. 

Nothing there. Nothing at all. She was careful about what she said,
never even calling her  husband by name.

Seamus and Pierce were trying to trace it, track down the IP and hone
down his search,  but had found nothing yet. The computer used a
satellite modem, they knew, and it was  making things hard. 

He was to go to New York and wait with Conail Rutherford for further
word. His  grandmother had had someone else deliver the plane ticket
and instructions. She hadn't  spoken to him at all. 

Bridget curled up against the window and went to sleep, disappearing
as she did so, as  Christie turned the text over in his mind. Someone
turned off their overhead light, the  light from the monitor seeming
to grow too bright.

Christie ran his finger over the touchpad, reconnected the modem to
whatever spot in  space it was linked to, tilting the monitor down a
bit as a flight attendant drifted by. He  doubted the pilot or anyone
else would pick up the strange signal reaching out, but he 
didn't want them to know it was him if they did.

He touched "reply" on the window of the email, typed four simple
words:

"I'm on my way." 

He hit "send," disconnected the modem again and shut the computer
down, then leaned  his head back and closed his eyes to the sudden
wash of dark. 

******


ALBERT HOSTEEN'S HOUSE
TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO
APRIL 5
5:13 a.m.


It was the time of morning when the sun was coming over the sparse,
silent expanse of  Two Grey Hills, the strange hours when both the sun
and the moon could be seen in the  sky, the moon a faint outline of
creamy white surrounded by the specks of stars, their  lights fading
as the yellow globe rose between the crags of the mountains. Light
lodged in  the juts of the peaks, bled its dry and sodium gold across
the floor of Scully's bedroom,  dust dancing in the still, still-cool
air. 

The patchwork quilt - frayed, faded - had half-slid onto the floor
beside the bed, Scully's  hand alongside it, almost touching the
floor. Were she awake, she might have been  reminded of the first
corpse brought in for her, its arm trailing from beneath the too-white
sheet. Though that hand had been a man's.

In her dream, she could hear the rolling of the wheels against the
linoleum floor, the  squeak of the stretcher caused by the body's
weight. She could see the light, harsh, a  corona of silver around a
too-bright bulb of fluorescence. Glint of instruments lined on a 
tray beside her. Scalpel and probe and saw and knife. Tubing. The
scale hanging next to  her, numbers blurred to zero as she looked at
them through the vague distortion of her  protective glasses.

(Subject: Male, Caucasian...)

(...Rose beside her, long dark hair in a braid, thick as rope but
soft, soft as Scully ran her  hand down her daughter's back, smoothing
down the red wool of the slight yarn sweater.  Rose in front of clear
glass. Scully watched her reflection in its surface, her and her 
daughter frozen there like ghosts. 

"Can we?" Rose said, pointing. 

Scully studied her, the upturned face. The blue of her own eyes in a
nine-year old face,  her own small nose, and all the rest of her
daughter's face Mulder. Pure Mulder.  Including the half smile that
made her wonder if Rose were laughing at some joke only 
her father might possibly understand. Mulder with a slide projector
remote in his hand.  Years ago.

 "Can we what?" she heard herself ask. The sound of blues coming
through a cheap  speaker. A lottery machine biting out tickets. The
vague smell of cold but spoiled milk. It  all worked its way into her
awareness and she looked around.

"Hey Scully," she heard Mulder's voice from behind her, and she
swiveled. Mulder stood  a few aisles over, a blue bag in one hand and
a red in the other, high enough to be seen  over the convenience
store's aisles. 

"Cool ranch or Taco?" he called. He wore a suit, FBI standard, his tie
slightly askew.  Black and white. The strap of a shoulder holster
showed as he raised an arm.

"Mom, please?" Rose insisted again. "Can we?"

"Can we what, sweetie?" she heard herself say again, but she was
looking into the glass,  into her own face, the reflection of her
body. Her eyes widened. Her hand smoothed over  the small round of her
belly, tight mound beneath a loose white shirt.

(Four months. Four or five months...)

"Ice cream, Mom," Rose said, opening the glass door to the case,
pushing their  reflections away. Blast of cold air. Pints frosted with
ice.

"C'mon, Scully," Mulder called again. "Ranch or Taco? Taco...Ranch...T
aco...Ranch."  His arms moved up and down with each word like the two
sides of a scale, eyes  mischievous. 

She looked back at him. Frost of gray beginning at his temples. It
made her smile. 

"Ranch," she said to him, and he returned her smile. She turned to
Rose. "Chocolate." 

Rose slapped her hands together and scrambled onto the edge of the
freezer case,  reaching for the mottled bodies of Haagen-Das. 

Slapped her hands together. The door jingled open, electric chime.
Scully turned, sensing  something. A bitter taste in her mouth as
though she'd bitten her tongue. 

A man stood there, blues coming through the speaker. The woman behind
the counter  asked him if he'd bought gas. 

Her eyes scanned the store. Dark outside. Two cars in the parking lot.
Theirs and a dark  pickup, a man behind the wheel, his eyes on the
inside of the store, on the man going to  the counter in brown pants
and a ratty brown sweatshirt. Shaggy hair, dirty. A beard...)

Even in her sleep she knew what would come next. She had heard it
already, the vague  echo of it the first time she'd seen this man's
face. 

The child's screaming. Her child's screaming...

("FBI!" she shouted, reaching to the waist of her black pants, the
small of her back,  where her Sig was snug in its holster beneath the
loose shirt. 

"DON'T MOVE!" 

The words seemed to echo around her, everything slowed. A movement at
a time, like  film a frame at a time, slides of a shutter. 

She saw Mulder's eyes go wide, the clerk's go wide. She took a step to
the side and  blocked Rose - (red sweater, pants covered with flowers)
-- who was still standing on the  bottom edge of the freezer case,
reaching, though her face had spun toward Scully at the 
sound of her mother's voice. 

The man turned, a gun coming up from beneath his shirt. .357 Magnum,
black metal  shining. His arm came up, the black eye of the muzzle
trained on her.

Mulder was moving, a display going down as he rounded the corner. She
could hear him  screaming as though he were trapped beneath meters of
water, his gun already out. The  man was turning at the motion, the
sound.

She held her breath. She could hear the breath draw in with a sound
like wings. Rose  called for her father, high and shrill as a sparrow.
The little girl moved -

Scully lurched forward, grabbed, touched her daughter's arm, brush of
fingers on soft  hair, soft as yarn -

Mulder fired and the man staggered, a bloom of blood on his shoulder -

Rose was moving toward her father, Scully scrambling after her. A wild
shot, a spider  web opening on the front door to the store -

The ragged man's gun lit up at the end, bright as a flashbulb, the
sound tearing around the  room as the gun kicked the man's arm back -

And Mulder tumbling back as though he'd reached the end of a tether,
jerked back from a  cloud, a mist of red appearing like a clot of
flies.

She screamed, got hold of Rose, who had stopped, her mouth an O, no
sound. 

No sound --

Scully shoved her down, falling on her daughter's body, feeling the
smallness of her  daughter, the small weight of what she carried as
she hit the floor, her breath knocked out  but her arm up, the gun
pointed. She saw skin wreathed with hair framed in the line of the 
sight and fired.

The man fell, the gun clattering. The clerk screamed from behind the
counter into a  phone, something about Cumberland and Broad. Something
about blood. Something  about *fuck* and something about *fast.* 

Too late, she knew, feeling Rose lurch beneath her, a sob. Blood was
trailing already  toward her, running. She had a bizarre memory of
playing with mercury, the way it ran...

"Mulder..." she called into her daughter's hair. Her hand crept around
Rose's face and  covered the girl's eyes, holding on so tight Scully
felt as though she were branding her. 

She cocked her head to the side, red hair falling in front of her
eyes. Through the curve of  the sides she saw him, legs akimbo. Arms
thrown back. A hole the size of a saucer just  below his throat. 

Rose moved, or tried to. Scully held. Scully stared. 

Mulder's eyes caught the light, held it in their stillness. His mouth
was closed. No  surprise. Nothing. The gun was still in his hand, his
finger through the ring of the trigger  guard.

She felt the air pull in so hard it burned her throat and felt
something move inside her,  beneath her. 

Rose began to scream.)


She heard nothing, not the sound of the chair beside the bed tipping
as she struggled to  stand, not the door as it hit the wall as she
swung it open. Not the slap of her bare feet on  the floor as she
moved along the narrow hallway into the Hosteen's living room, the 
white nightgown she wore brushing her knees and then pressing against
them as she burst  out the front door, the screen door slamming
against the house. 

A road, sand. The sun a yellow eye just over the hills, half asleep
and half awake. She felt  the tears on her face, color in her cheeks
like fire. She looked one way, then the other,  down the road and
turned right, staggering. A sharp rock sliced into her arch. Off-
balance, she fell onto her hands and knees.

She couldn't breathe. Air was hissing between her teeth. Her hand
cupped her daughter,  her hand pressing down. 

(Move. Movemovemove...)

She skinned her knees as she crawled a few feet and then pushed
herself up and rose. Her  white gown was now covered with dust the
consistency of ash. 

Way off in the distance, a spiral of white smoke. Someone cooking. The
far off sound of  a horse like a cry. Over the hill would be the barn,
the house. Mae. Granger...

(Movemovemovemovemove

RUN.)


*******

5:33 a.m.


Albert Hosteen sat up in his twin bed, the cold seeping in beneath his
woolen blankets,  through the cotton shirt he wore, its sleeves
snapped at the wrists. He turned his face  toward the window, a
sound...

A sparrow on the windowsill, its body brown and shot with black
stripes. Around its  throat, a slice of white. He watched it for a
long moment, sensing...something. He'd  heard a sound, he knew. 

The bird sang. Six notes. Sadness at its center. Two notes like the
syllables of a name.  Then, with a flick of its wings, it was gone.

Something was wrong. He could feel it. 

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he let his feet hit the
floor, cool still from the  night. He reached for his jeans, his heavy
boots, dressed in the morning light. Far off, he  could hear the
sparrow, the six notes. 

Out in the hallway, he saw Bo standing at the screen door, the wooden
door open against  the wall. The dog's ears were against his head, his
eyes uncertain as he turned to Hosteen,  who touched his soft black
back, murmured to the dog that it was all right. Whish-te. All 
right.

He opened the door and the dog trotted out, headed off the patio and
turned to the right,  toward Victor's house, down the long dirt road
that stretched the mile and some between  Albert's house and Victor's
ranch. 

"Hmm," he said to himself, reached for a battered cowboy hat, his long
hair around his  shoulders. The lines of his face cragged as he
squinted against the light and headed out  into the morning, his
footsteps leaving puffs of dust. He followed Bo, knowing that to 
follow Bo was to follow Agent Scully.

At the center of the road, nothing but sky and sand around him, he
kept his eye on the dot  of the dog as it crested the first rise and
disappeared down the other side. 

******


5:44 a.m.


Scully staggered past the quiet of Victor's house, her hair wet and
stuck to her face with  sweat, a strand of it trailing from the corner
of her lip. She was freezing, her teeth  chattering, despite the
coming heat of the desert. Blood crept down from the cuts in her 
knees, occasionally catching the hem of the nightgown, sticking the
fine cotton cloth to  her legs. She could tell from her breathing, the
cold, that she was in the early stages of  shock. The baby knew, as
well. She could sense her daughter's distress, the baby rolling 
within her. She kept her hand on her abdomen, her eyes wild, looking
for anywhere to  hide, any shelter. 

The barn. The barn door was open and the dark looked inviting. She
could smell the hay  and oat and hear the plaintive bleating of sheep.
It was dark there. Safe...

Was there such a thing? some dim part of her mind thought. How could
she ever be safe  from things that hadn't happened yet, things that
were to come? 

Don't think, she told herself. Go. Go.

She pushed open the gate to the corral, her arms shaking with the
effort, light just  beginning to bleed into the area around the worn
barn, the color of old leather. The desert  around her was turning
red, light stabbing through a thin line of cloud. 

The door was cracked open and she went in, almost overpowered by the
smells and the  thick layer of dust, bits of it dancing in front of
her as she moved. Horses arched their  necks over their stall doors on
her left to look at her, their eyes oily and wide. To her 
right, a clutter of sheep in a low pen, fat with their unshorn and
dirty wool, lambs stitched  in among them standing on pink, uncertain
hooves. Chickens dotted the floor, pecking  absently at the hay and
scurrying to get out of her way.

There was a cleared area past them, a few meters from the back wall,
on which were  arranged Victor's hand-held farming tools - old rakes
with cracked wooden handles,  shovels, pitchforks. A table saw sat in
the corner and its array of blades were hanging on  nails on the wall,
bright silver circles with teeth. Shearing tools, rolling carts made
of  canvas for transporting wool. 

There were small breaks in the roof and sunlight came through in bars
of various sizes.  Scully, more aware of the cold in the darkness
surrounding the doorway, sought out the  light, a circle of it on the
floor just past the sheep's pen. Feeling the warmth on her face, 
she fell to her knees, then to her hands and knees, pulling in huge
lungfuls of the musty  air. 

A cramp in her belly, Rose rolling again. The feeling hitched her
breathing, her hand  clamping down on the curve of the baby. She had
to calm down. She knew this. For both  her sake and for the sake of
her daughter, who could sense her terror and grief. She tried 
to push the images from her mind - the man's face behind the huge
muzzle of the gun,  Rose's body as she broke away, running towards
Mulder as if her daughter could sense  what was going to happen, knew
her father was moving around the corner and turning to 
face not just the man but Eternity...

"No..." she said, squeezing her eyes shut and tears raced down her
cheeks. She rocked  back on her knees, hay clutched in each of her
hands. "NO!" 

At the sound of the cry, shrill and high and filled with tears, the
horses threw their heads  back, their eyes wide with fright, hoarse
cries coming from their throats. She could hear  the sounds of their
hoofs against the stall doors, loud thumps. One of them, a white and 
black paint, turned in the stall and kicked with his back legs,
sending the rickety door  flying. It shot toward the sheep pen, over
the low rail and smashed onto the hapless  animals inside it. 

(Mulder pulled back as if connected to a string, Mulder's blood
bursting in a cloud, the  ragged hole opening...)

The paint came out of the stall, its ears back, huge and angry. It ran
at her there in the  center of the stable, there in the light. 

She scrabbled a foot or so on her knees, her eyes now in new terror,
the animal towering  over, rising on its hind legs, front hooves
fluttering the air in front of her, its eyes trained  on her, its
mouth open on a hoarse and furious cry. 

Scully opened her mouth and screamed, something inside her seeming to
rend open, as  though her chest had split open and something had shot
out. She felt suddenly too hot, as  though she were on fire, the fire
rising in her with the sound of her voice, her hands, still 
clenching the straw, going to cover her eyes as though she meant to
hold them in her  face. 

She did not know what happened next. She heard and saw nothing. For an
instant, she  could do nothing but feel, and it was these feelings
that broke out of her and became, for  a moment...

Real. 


****

Albert Hosteen heard the sound of the scream as he approached the
turnoff to the barn,  Bo trotting along beside him, whining with his
ears down. From Victor's house, Granger  emerged, tucking his shirt
into his jeans with one hand while he held his gun in the other, 
moving fast toward the barn, looking alarmed. Victor was behind him, a
shotgun clutched  in his hand. 

"Grandfather!" Victor called in Navajo. "What is it? What's wrong?" 

From the barn, Scully's scream, the sound of 20 horses trying to break
down their stalls  and their high, terrified cries. And underneath it
all, the racket of sheep. Chickens were  spilling out of the crack in
the barn door, their wings flapping as they tumbled over each 
other. 

"Fire!" Granger shouted. "It must be on fire!" Robin and Sarah were
coming out from the  house behind them, both looking bleary and
bewildered.

But Hosteen knew better. He quickened his pace. 

Pushing open the barn door enough to get through, stepping over the
terrified hens, he  stepped in...

And immediately dropped to the ground as a saw blade flew toward the
door, whizzing in  the air and embedding itself into the barn door,
its teeth glinting. 

"Jesus Christ!" Granger cried behind him, following Hosteen's lead and
dropping to a  crouch, his eyes huge in his face as he took in the
scene in the barn. 

Scully in the center, bloody nightgown, her back arched, bow-like, and
a scream coming  out of her mouth so long and so loud it seemed to be
coming from the walls around her,  not from her slight body itself. 

In front of her, the body of a horse, handles of tools protruding from
its still form, blood  everywhere. To the right, the pen of sheep
bounding over one another, crushing each  other, the heavy door of one
of the stalls in the center, cocked, bodies of animals beneath 
it. A lamb was standing on its hind legs trying to climb the railing
of the pen. 

"Oh my God!" Victor cried and ran forward, ducking as a shovel sailed
through the air  and clattered against the far wall. He knelt,
fumbling with the latch to the pen and opened  it, herding them, the
white and gray bodies of the sheep now tumbling out as they tore for 
the door, past Albert and Granger and out. Victor followed them out,
yelling to his hired  hands for help. 

"Scully!" Granger called, loud enough to be heard over the unearthly
sound coming from  the center of the room, coming from everywhere.
"Scully, stop!" 

Hosteen put a hand on Granger's arm. "Stay," he said simply. 

"No--"

"STAY," he said, more firmly, and Granger relented, reluctantly, but
nodded. Robin and  Sarah had crawled up beside him in the doorway,
though neither woman said a word,  their eyes on Scully. Robin was
crying.

And Hosteen moved. 

Hunched over, as low to the ground as his over-six-foot frame could
manage without  crawling, Hosteen moved across the darkness of the
narrow space between the stalls and  the pen, now empty of everything
but bodies, ruined sheep scattered on the floor as if  they'd been
dropped from some great height.

Which, Hosteen realized, they may have been. 

"Whish-te..." he murmured to the horses as he passed. "Whish-te..."
Then he turned his  attention to Scully as he edged closer. The
screaming had stopped now, replaced by  heaving sobs. Scully was
shaking all over, her fists still covering her eyes. 

"Agent Scully," he called, his voice pitched low, creeping forward. 

Her hands dropped, the straw feathering down. She opened her eyes,
grime caked around  them and down her face. She drew in a breath, a
deep breath as though she had forgotten  to breathe at all for some
time. Then her eyes fell on the horse in front of her, its head 
closest to Hosteen, the round of its belly in front of her. 

"Oh God..." she murmured, her voice scraped raw, choking. "Oh my
God..." She  crawled forward, ignoring Hosteen, and her hand, still
shaking, reached out and touched  the horse's still, soft neck, traced
up to its ear, over its face to its still-open eye. 

"I'm sorry," she whispered, to it and to Hosteen and to the air. "I'm
so sorry." 

She hunched in pain, curling in on herself, her hand on her abdomen. A
low moan came  from her throat, her hand clenching the dead horse's
mane. 

"Scully!" Granger called from the doorway, and despite Hosteen's
directive, he started to  come forward. 

"Paul!" Robin called, grabbing at his pants leg, but he got away. She
started forward, but  Sarah grabbed her.

The horses were calmer now, just the sound of uneasy shuffling in the
stalls. Bo, low to  the ground, ears flat in fear, followed Granger
in. 

Hosteen reached Scully, curved himself over her, moving slowly, his
hand on her back,  then her waist. 

"Lie down," he instructed softly. "Just rest." 

He pulled gently and she came over, going limp. She looked and felt
small, her  nightgown pressed to her body with sweat. 

"Get me a blanket," Hosteen said to Granger as Granger knelt next to
Scully, his hand on  her forehead, her shoulder, her side. Bo stopped
a foot away, advanced a step, retreated,  advanced and retreated
again. Finally he sat, whined. 

Victor came back in, panting, blood smeared across his pants. Robin
and Sarah had come  forward, Robin fetching a blanket draped near the
saddles. Red and black and covered  with dust. She handed it to
Granger, still beside Scully. He laid it across her body. 
Hosteen noticed she was trembling so hard now her teeth were
chattering. 

Her only movement was her chest rising and falling, her eyes closed
now, her fists  against her face. 

"Whish-te..." Hosteen murmured to her. "Over. It is over now."

Scully said nothing. Her face looked white in the sunlight. 

Granger stroked her forehead, his hand finally cupping the wet hair at
the crown of her  skull.

Albert turned to Victor and Sarah, Victor drenched in blood. 

"Call for help," he said softly in Navajo. "And hurry." 


*****

(Something warm against her face, warm as a hand. 

Trickle of something salt and the taste of iron over her lips. Light
was pressing in through  two slits at her feet and she was moving, a
sound like screaming. Electric voices speaking  and everything hollow
and distant as noises underwater.

The air she breathed was cold, too rich. She drank it in like water.

Mulder ...

The name came out on a puff of mist, everything going dark and
silent.

A strobe of lights, square on square of brightness, hands moving her.
The stark silver of  an overhead lamp looking down on her like an eye.
She felt cold air on her belly, a prick  in her arm.

Then:

"Dana."

She could see him. He looked ancient, wrapped in a black overcoat, a
bowtie at his throat.  His elbows were propped on the arms of his
silver wheelchair, a blanket across his legs.

"Dana. Come with me."

She stared up into the light's eye. Something was pressing into her
belly, pressing into  her ...

"Where?" she breathed, unblinking. "Tell me ..."

calm down dana calm down now breathe

"Heliwell," the man said, and his mouth formed a warm smile. "The
cliffs at Heliwell. A  dark house with stained glass windows. Do you
see?"

She saw it, though she didn't know how. She felt bile in her mouth,
bitter and burning.  She wanted to be there. Now.

"Help me ..." she said, her eyes lolling.

we're helping you just calm down try to stay calm

"I'm waiting, Dana," the man said, still smiling. 

She pulled in a frozen breath. Everything changed to black.)

**

ST. FRANCIS REGIONAL MEDICAL CENTER
FARMINGTON, NEW MEXICO
APRIL 5
8:02 a.m.

"You must tell him."

Albert Hosteen's face was grim as he said the four words he and the
three others in the  room had been dancing around since they'd
arrived. Despite the things they'd said -  Mae's insistence that
Mulder would be closely watched, and his abrupt departure would 
arouse suspicion, Granger's quiet compromise that they wait to find
out what the doctors  said - he knew they were the right words to
say.

"Mr. Hosteen," Mae snapped, crossing her arms across her chest, her
face looking pale  over the black turtleneck tucked against her chin.
"With all due respect, you have no idea  where Mulder is or the people
he's dealing with."

"Hmm," Hosteen agreed, and disagreed. "That is not my worry. And it
would not be  Mulder's either, if he knew what was happening here."

"We don't know if Scully or the baby is in danger," Granger offered,
but Hosteen could  tell the rebuttal was half-hearted. His eyes still
had shock in them. It was as stark as the  small dots of sheep's blood
on this dark face.

"That's not what he's talking about," Robin said, turning and going
toward a window,  looking out on dark clouds that had brought more
light rain. "And you know it, Paul. You  were there. You saw what she
did. What she can do."

Hosteen looked at Robin's back, the trail of braids she'd tucked into
a ponytail against her  back by tying one of them around the rest. She
wore silver earrings set with a blood red  stone, and her gaze looked
bewildered and tired and more than a little afraid. 

Hosteen admired the straight set of her back, though, the determined
set of her face. He  admired that she had clearly never seen anything
like what she had seen in the barn but  accepted it just the same.

"He's right," she said to the rain. "You have to contact him. He would
want you to tell  him." 

Hosteen looked at Mae, who had gone silent. Her eyes flicked onto him,
her mouth a thin  line. But he knew she couldn't argue with Robin's
words about Mulder. 

"Then use the computer," she said quietly to Granger. "Don't have
anyone in Washington  call him. Every place he's going will be tapped.
And Mr. Skinner's, too. The computer is  the only way to be sure he's
the only one listening."

Hosteen considered this, remembering Scully on the porch after she'd
last written Mulder,  the look on her face. Something lost. 

He remembered the pictures of the aftermath of the explosion outside
the hotel in  Washington he'd first seen, watching her make-believe
funeral. The same look on  Mulder's face.

"All right," Granger said, nodding, his hands going into his pockets.
"I'll write him."

"How do you know where to send it to?" Mae said.

"I'll find a way," Granger replied softly.

A doctor came out of the ER's double doors, a man in his early 30s
from the looks of him  that Hosteen recognized. Ena Kitman's eldest
son, Thomas. He had cut his hair since he'd  gone away to medical
school in Arizona and finally grown into his glasses.

"Mr. Hosteen," he said, and angled his head in a sign of respect. 

"Thomas," Hosteen replied, and returned the gesture. "You have been
working with my  friend?"

They had told the admitting staff there were to be no names on the
records. Granger had  shown his badge to ensure both that and the
presence of two vigilant if soft looking  guards at the doors to the
back. 

"Yes," Thomas replied as the other three gathered around them. He
lowered his voice.  "She was very shocky when you brought her in, but
she's out of danger now. We've  stabilized her."

"Is the baby all right?" Mae asked, jumping in the moment he took a
breath.

"The baby was showing signs of distress when she got here, but she's
showing signs of  improvement. We are seeing some spotting, though,
which concerns us. The OB on call  is looking at her now. She just got
in." 

"She's had spotting before," Robin said. "Do they know that? Has she
told you?"

Thomas shook his head. "No, she hasn't. I've had to give her a good
bit of sedation to  calm her down. She was pretty ...upset ...when she
got here and was getting herself more  and more agitated. I thought it
best to sedate her once the baby had stabilized a bit." He 
shook his head, looking hard at Hosteen. 

"The blood on her -- where did that come from? Was someone trying to
hurt her? What  caused all this? "

Hosteen looked at Thomas and their gazes hung for a long moment. None
of the others  spoke. 

"Nothing I can say," Hosteen said in Navajo. He said with finality,
and Thomas heard it.

The young doctor nodded. "Well," he said, looking at the others'
concerned faces. "As I  say, we've stabilized her, but we'd like to
keep her for a day or so. Just to be sure  everything's all right. You
all might as well go on back the Hills - I've made sure she 
sleeps for a long while. Probably until tomorrow morning. I'll stay
here all day today to  be sure she's out of any danger." 

Granger and Robin began gathering their jackets, Mae following suit.
Hosteen watched  them. 

"Thank you, Thomas," Hosteen said softly, and he allowed a small
smile.

Thomas angled his head, wished Hosteen his respect in quiet Navajo as
a white nurse  passed them by.

"If you would ..." Thomas said quietly, continuing in their private
language, "please tell  Victor I will be there." 

Hosteen glanced at Granger, who was slowly shouldering into his denim
jacket, his face  gone more pale. 

"You have my thanks," he said in English, now angling his head at the
young man, as  well. 

 
*****

BALLYCASTLE
NORTHERN COAST OF NORTHERN IRELAND
UNITED KINGDOM
APRIL 5
7:39 a.m.


The rain persisted, Mulder on his back in one of Neill's sweaters, the
blue heavy cotton  pushed up to his chest and his belly exposed in an
attempt to cool himself off. The inn  they were staying in - a small
B&B with only five rooms - was heated with radiators,  their metal
bodies grumbling like empty stomachs and hissing as the rain had moved
in  off the sea, chilling everything. The sweater had felt fine until
then. Now he was boiling  hot. 

He and Skinner were sharing a room since two of the inn's rooms were
taken up with a  family of Swiss tourists, necessitating a double-up.
Mulder had, in fact, spent much of the  previous day in the inn, as
Neill had said he wanted to go out into the town alone for the 
day to find this mysterious man they sought. Renahan drew too much
attention for his  manners and his accent and his face, and he and
Skinner could hardly blend in as  residents themselves. The town was
small enough that everyone would know every new  face. 

Skinner, seeming impatient with the day's delay in their work toward
God Only Knew  What, had hired a boat for fishing for the day, needing
something to do with his hands,  he'd said.

"You fish?" Mulder had quipped over the breakfast table, the Swiss
family long-gone on  a ferryboat to one of the lighthouses. They'd
been polite and a bit too happy about  everything. 

"Of course I fish," Skinner growled in response, dipping into the clod
of oatmeal that  weighed more than the bowl it was in. Mulder had the
same in front of him, and it was  warm and rich and delicious. The way
he said it made Mulder chuff.

"It's just hard to picture," he said. 

"All right, goddamnit, I don't fish," Skinner relented, his voice more
sour. Their usual  banter. "But I've hunted and it's got to be less
boring than that."

"Don't count on it," Renahan said as he'd settled into the chair at
the end of the table,  waving at the innkeeper's wife as though she
were a maid. "And I hope you've still got  some sea legs there, Mr.
Semper Fucking Fi or you'll be feeding more fish than you 
catch." 

Skinner ignored him. "You want to join me?" he asked, flicking his
eyes on Renahan, as  though reminding him of the alternative. 

"No," Mulder said, finishing off his tea. Real cream. Sugar lumps. He
started to say  something else, what he'd be doing, but he had no
idea. "No," he said again. "Thanks."  And he'd retreated upstairs.

He'd found a book on the shelves in the room and spent the day reading
it, some history  book on the Second World War. He'd lingered on a
chapter on the Battle of Bulge,  listening to the rolling of a storm
brewing and staring at the same page for an hour before 
ending up sleeping much of the afternoon away. He'd been thinking
about Scully while  looking at the pictures of bar-like trees and
snow, and he dreamed a troubling dream  where he'd been reaching
through them toward her in the clearing, her hair red as blood 
or fire. 

He'd stayed in the room so long, and been so silent, the innkeeper's
wife had come to see  if he was feeling all right. 

A shared dinner with Skinner and Neill - Renahan had stayed in to
watch soccer on his  room's small TV - and he'd returned to bed,
listening to Skinner toss in the narrow twin  bed across the room and
bitch about the rainstorm buffeting the inn's sides and it being 
too cold to sleep.

Not too cold now, Mulder said, pushing the sweater up a bit more so
that his chest was  bare now. He'd kicked the heavy quilt off, too,
his sweatpants feeling woolen on him.  Sighing, he exhaled and stood,
going to the window that overlooked the bay. He'd spent a 
good deal of time at it the day before, looking out at the waves. 

A couple of bangs on the old frame and the window shifted open
halfway. It was large  window, and the gust into the opening was cool
and salt. He heard the wind as he felt it. 

He heard ...

Singing?

"Farewell and adieu to you fair Spanish ladies ..." 

Renahan's voice, seeming to come from the air. They were a full story
up but Renahan  was close.

Mulder had noticed a railing before but thought it decoration. Now,
leaning out the  window, his face touched with cold rain, he realized
it guarded a small wooden ledge  around the inn's second story, only
wide enough for one person to walk along, if that.

And outside his window, his back against the inn's white, was Renahan,
wearing black  cords and the vaguely dirty thermal long-sleeved shirt
he'd had on beneath his sweater  and jacket. He'd been out for awhile,
because he was soaking wet. His hair hung around  his face, his beard
for once tamed against his face.

"Farewell and adieu you ladies of Spain ..." His voice rose
dramatically on the last word.  "For we've received word to sail out
from ...somewhere ...yeah, Boston! ...and never more  will we see you
again ..."

He turned, noticing Mulder's head sticking out of the window now, a
wry smile on his  face. "You know that movie, Mr. Mulder?" 

Mulder looked at him, wondering if he had a bottle tucked against his
hip, unseen, on his  other side. He almost always did, and his
behavior seemed to indicate being slightly out  of his mind. The rain
was freezing. 

"'Jaws'?" he asked. Someone was walking by with a dog, a man wearing a
fishing cap and  an overcoat, along the small lawn behind the house.
He looked up at them, shook his  head, mumbled something and was on
his way again.

Renahan barked a laugh. "I knew if anyone would know the thing it
would be you," he  said, sounding satisfied, as though he's won a bet
with himself. "Yeah, that's the one.  Fucking Quint and his quest for
his very own white whale."

Mulder couldn't help but smile, though it pained him a bit. He and
Scully and Big Blue,  five feet from the shore in the darkness and him
talking about hell being an undigested  apple dumpling ...

"Everyone's got their own giant white whale, eh, Mr. Mulder?" Renahan
said softly. 

"This isn't a white whale we're looking for, Renahan," Mulder said. He
wished the man  would come inside. He was shivering, and he was
getting wet. 

"Aye, that's the truth," Renahan said, looking out over the sea. "It's
a big fucking shark  with great giant teeth." He looked at Mulder, his
face deadly serious. 

"'You're gonna need a bigger boat,'" he said.

Mulder didn't know if he should laugh or not. It was funny, the
movie's famous quote, but  in a way it wasn't. Not how he said it. Not
one bit. 

Their gazes hung for a long beat, and something passed between them,
lodging in  Mulder's throat.

Seeing this, Renahan grinned. "Don't be a poof, Mulder!" he exclaimed,
his eyes losing  their grim tinge. "Come out and enjoy the weather and
the view!" 

Mulder looked at him, unable to shake the look Renahan had worn
before. A bigger  boat ...

It was enough to get him out the window and onto the ledge in his bare
feet. He wedged  them against the bottom of the rail as he settled in
next to Renahan, rain dotting his face.

"Look us out here now, Captain Ahab and Mr. Quint out on the bridge,"
Renahan said,  that same grin on this face. 

Mulder wiped his face with the back of his hand. "My wife once called
me that," he said.  "Ahab, not Quint."

"Smart woman," Renahan smiled. "Up to the moment she married you
knowing that." 

Mulder laughed. "Well, by then it wasn't true anymore." 

"Gave up on that sister of yours, did you now?" 

Mulder's head snapped over to face the other man, but Renahan was
looking straight  ahead, a small smile on his face.

"What do you know about that?" Mulder said. He managed to keep any
inflection out of  his voice, though it was an effort to sound as
neutral as he did. Something in him had  startled, though, as though
caught in some act.

Renahan gave a mirthless laugh. "I was one of the top investigators at
Scotland Yard, Mr.  Mulder," he said. "And I've been watching you for
a long time. Back when your wife got  mixed up with the Currans,
though she was ...*just* ...your partner then." He waggled an 
eyebrow for effect. "I wanted to see what Owen had coming his way."

Something about it made Mulder angry, like he'd come home to find
Renahan sitting on  the couch. He could feel the muscles in his jaw
tighten.

"Aye, I know all about you, Fox William Mulder, son of William Mulder
who was mixed  up in shite no one understands or gives a fuck about
anymore, even you. I know all about  a little girl carried off by
flying monkeys or that little gray peanut-butter-eating bastard 
who walked on his dick." 

Mulder wiped the now-wet hair from his forehead. "You don't know what
you're talking  about," he said. 

"All right," Renahan relented. "Maybe he didn't walk on his dick." He
bumped his elbow  into Mulder's upper arm, too hard, giggling.

"Laugh it up," he said, and he was angry now. Defensive and angry. 

Renahan's laughter subsided as he squeezed rain from his ragged beard.
"Eh, maybe ou're  right ...you're right ...maybe you're not Ahab
anymore. Maybe you gave up on your whale  for a place in the country
and changing nappies ..."

"Maybe I did," Mulder said, looking out onto the ocean. The rain was
picking up, the  wind pushing against his sweater so that it touched
his skin like ice. 

He pushed himself to his feet, squared his shoulders. Then he looked
at Renahan, his  expression grim. 

"Maybe you should give yours up, too, Mr. Quint."

Renahan looked up at him, his face pale in the morning light. "Some
things are worth  giving your life for, Mr. Mulder," he said.

Mulder nodded. "Yes," he said. "And some things aren't."

Renahan looked out over the ocean. He said nothing.

"I'm going down for breakfast," Mulder said finally. "Come join me
when you've finished  with your ...view." 

He turned and walked inside.


*****

VICTOR HOSTEEN'S RANCH
TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO
APRIL 5 
10:01 a.m.


The Hotmail account hadn't been opened so long Granger'd discovered it
was about to be  deleted. Tucked in among the Viagra and Oxycontin,
right near the bottom above  Ukranian women with unnaturally close
relationships with livestock or their fathers, and  above two emails
promising to make his penis larger overnight was the email he'd been 
looking for, its return email address blank as he opened it, the small
window glimmering  in the Farmington Community Library's main room.
Four ancient computers. No waiting. 

The email had consisted of one line: an email address. Robin over his
shoulder to  surreptitiously shield the screen from the four other
people in there as the library had  opened, Granger wasted no time
copying the address into a new window and tapping out  the message he
and Robin had decided on in the car on the way:

M.,

You've got a sick friend. I know you're busy, but if you can, find
your way home.

G.

He hit "send" without even re-reading it and closed the account down
once again, this  time for good. The Gunmen had sent the address to
him the day he'd left for New  Mexico.

"In case something happens," Byers had said hesitantly, unwilling to
be more detailed  than that. 

And something, Granger thought, lying on his back with Robin curled
against his good  shoulder, had definitely happened.

Though he would be hard pressed to say what. 

As though reading his thoughts, Robin spoke quietly against his shirt.
"What's happening  to her, Paul?" 

He was quiet for a long moment, stroking the braids trailing on his
shoulder. She smelled  like spice and he breathed her in, a deep
breath that gave him pain.

"I don't know," he said. "But it's been coming for a long time
whatever it is." 

She shook her head, burying her face against his chest. "What I saw
..." she whispered,  trailed off. He knew she had something more to
say but wouldn't say it. 

He looked up at the ceiling, hearing vehicles coming down the road.
The men were late  this morning. The ranch had been quiet, no calls to
horses, no dust of men and animals  working. Only the lingering smoke
of the sheep's carcasses, the horse, that Victor's  brother Keel had
burned in the desert behind the house.

"You don't believe it," he finished for her. He was cold, as he often
was when he was  lying down. He was glad to have left his boots on in
the bed. 

She shook her head again. "No," she replied. "You can't see that and
not believe. You  can't deny what you see right in front of your
eyes." 

Someone was coming in the house, cars still coming in to park around
the house.  Footsteps coming down the hallway.

She leaned up enough to look into his face, something in her eyes
afraid. 

"But I don't want to," she whispered. "I don't want to believe." 

There was small tap on the door, and Granger nodded to Robin, soothing
her with a hand  on her back, and called for whomever it was to come
in. 

Victor stood there, Sarah with him. She was wearing a broad-brimmed
ranch hand's  cowboy hat that looked like a horse had been dragging it
around. She did not smile, and  Victor didn't either.

"No work today, Victor," Granger said softly. He'd said it the morning
before, too, and  Victor had left him alone. 

"No, none today," Victor agreed. "But I want you to come outside." 

Robin looked up, and Granger took in the gravity of Victor's
expression. The man was  usually amiable and light in a way that
Granger frankly envied. But not today. Likewise,  Whistler looked grim
herself. Not quite grim, but ...serious in a way he hadn't seen. As 
though someone had died or was about to.

"Is it Scully?" he asked immediately, he and Robin sitting up. 

Victor shook his head. "Outside," he said again, and for an instant he
looked and sounded  like his grandfather when things were dire. 

Robin looked at him uncertainly, but Granger put a hand on her arm. 

"It's okay," he said softly. He trusted Victor implicitly, though he'd
never seen him act  this way. Maybe the events of the morning had
taken some toll on him Granger didn't  know. Maybe Victor had had
enough of these people in his ranch and the trouble they 
brought him. Maybe the death of the livestock at Scully's hands had
been enough.

He swallowed at the prospect of being put off the ranch. He didn't
know where he would  take Scully if this were the case, where she
would be safe. 

The Hosteen's had done enough, he thought, and nodded to Victor, and
followed him out.  Robin went behind him and said nothing. 

Down the narrow hallway to the living room, he could see through the
windows to the  front that the area around the house was crowded with
pickups. The men hadn't parked in  front of the barn as they usually
did, but in front of the house. He could see a few of them 
standing in a semicircle, their hands in their pockets, none of them
speaking. The sun beat  down on them making everything too bright. 

Granger opened the door, pushed open the screen, and stepped out into
the light.

They were all there, every man he'd seen on the ranch and many he
hadn't. Thirty or forty  total, all Navajo. They were all silent,
their faces as heavy as Victor's had been in the  bedroom. 

Robin stood behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. He could hear
her breathing in  the quiet as Victor came out with Sarah and took up
a place in front of him. He raised his  chin and looked Granger hard
in the face.

Granger stood his ground, looking from face to face. He didn't know
what this all meant.  He was afraid of their silence, these men who
had been so jovial, who loved to laugh and  had let him join in what
they had with each other. He hadn't understood how they could 
be so welcoming to an outsider, but he understood this change in them
even less. 

"What is it you want from me?" he asked finally, no challenge in his
voice. Whatever  they asked, he would give it if he could. Victor
would surely know that by now.

"Your trust," Victor said. He ventured a glimpse of a smile that the
men couldn't see. 

Granger nodded, looking around. "All right," he said. 

Victor's smile vanished. "And your belief." 

Granger met his gaze, the word hanging in the air between them.
"They're the same  thing," he said finally, and Victor nodded. 

"We'll see," he said, and called out something in Navajo, the men
returning to their  trucks, engines firing to life. 

Victor gestured to his pickup and Granger started forward, Robin
following. 

"Stay," Sarah barked to Robin, clearly an order, and Robin stopped,
pinned by Whistler's  outstretched finger. 

"Paul--" she began, grabbing his arm. He stopped, as well. 

"Robin," Granger said, turning to her and taking her hand. "It's all
right. Stay here in case  Scully needs you, in case Mulder contacts
us. I'll be all right." 

She looked doubtful, tears welling in her dark eyes. Granger cupped
her cheek in his  hand and she embraced him, her fingers curling into
his back as though she were afraid  he'd be torn away. 

"I'll be all right," he whispered into her neck, then pulled back
enough to kiss her, his  mouth memorizing the feel and taste of hers.

He could still feel her arms around him as he climbed into the truck.
He could still taste  the tears he'd kissed from her face as the truck
pulled away.


*****


19 CATHERINE STREET
HIGHBRIDGE, THE BRONX 
NEW YORK, NEW YORK
APRIL 5
11:40 a.m.

Conail Rutherford's mother was still wearing black, and like a good
son, Rutherford wore  a black armband, as well, a picture of his
father, Samuel, looking stern from a silver  frame where his supper
plate would be. 

Rutherford, his mother Gracie and Christie ate their Friday lunch of
tuna fish on Wonder  in near-silence among them, a radio broadcast of
Big Band love songs lilting from the  kitchen, which smelled like
something had been frying in it since 1945. 

Christie had long ago finished his sandwich and was staring at
Bridget, who was sitting in  Samuel's chair, her finger tracing over
the top of the silver frame. Conail and his mother  didn't seem to
mind, and he was glad for that. Her eyes were still the strange blue
from  the plane, her pupils gone. She seemed very pale beneath her red
hair and her mouth  looked like a slash.

He preferred the closed mouth to the smile she'd had when he'd logged
onto Mulder's  computer before lunch and found the email from this
person called "G." Christie had  hurriedly forwarded the mail to
Pierce for tracking, and shut down the machine, hiding it 
from Bridget in his suitcase before she began her jarring, eerie
laugh. 

It was only a matter of time now. And not much of it. Find "G" and
Christie would have a  way to find Scully, even if the person wasn't
with her. Things were urgent enough now  that Christie would find what
he wanted from the sender of the mail. 

"You ready to go then?" Conail asked, interrupting Christie's
thoughts. Conail spoke  barely loud enough to hear, the manners of an
old-fashioned table. Gracie didn't look up,  her eyes on her plate and
her mouth barely moving as it chewed.

"Aye," Christie said, putting his napkin on his empty plate. He had
that strange slow  feeling of jetlag, his eyes feeling sandbagged. He
wiped his face with his hand and Conail  turned to his mother.

"Leaving the table, Mum," he said, and his chair raked against the old
wood floor as he  stood. Christie followed suit.

"All right then," she replied. "Where you two off to?" She still
didn't look up, and  Christie wondered for a moment if she even knew
her son wasn't 14 and going off to play  in the streets.

"We've got a bit of work," Conail said. "Won't be long. An hour or
so."

"All right then," she said again, lifting up her sandwich for another
bite, her eyes on her  plate.

"Come on," Rutherford said to him, and they headed for the front door,
their jackets  hanging on a rack beside it. 

"Taking Dad being gone a bit hard," Rutherford said, almost as
apology, and Christie  nodded. "She'll come around in a bit, I
think."

"Aye," Christie said, not believing it. He turned to see Bridget
standing there and wanted  to tell her to go back and talk to Gracie
Rutherford, though he didn't know what she  might say. 

"Let's go. They'll be waiting." And Rutherford headed out the door,
Christie and Bridget  following him out into the New York City
street.

Though the sun was out in the too-bright clear of early spring, it was
still cold, colder  than Ireland had been, in fact. This disappointed
Christie, since he'd been hoping for  some warmth. For some reason,
when he thought of the States he always imagined it  warm, but that
was likely from watching films of the American West. He pushed his
chin  a bit lower into his jacket, his still-short crewcut making him
wish for a hat.

"Aye, it's still bloody cold," Rutherford said as they wove down the
street, yellow cabs  streaming by as they passed a schoolyard,
children in Catholic uniforms at play on the  blacktop inside the
fence. "You'd think this close to Easter we'd get a bit of relief.
It's not  far, though. St. Matthew's. A few blocks up."

"No trouble," Christie said, glancing over his shoulder and noting
that Bridget was still  there, a few steps behind them. She was
smiling a strange smile that unnerved him, and  he realized, for the
first time, that he wished they'd lost her on the street.

"Something wrong?" Rutherford asked, his voice fast and a little
urgent. He stopped and  Christie stopped with him, Conail shooting a
look over his shoulder, as well.

"No, no," Christie said quickly. "Nothing at all. Just looking around
a bit." 

Rutherford seemed unconvinced, and Christie forced a smile. "I don't
get out country  much and like to look at what I can see," he added,
though it sounded weak, even to his  ears. The children's voices
sounded vaguely like screams. He wanted to move on. He 
nodded down the direction they'd been going to let Conail know that.

"Ah," the other man said, a puzzled expression on his face, and they
walked on. 

"I hear you just got out of the Army," Conail said after a few steps.

Christie nodded. "Been awhile back, but aye."

"Special Forces and all that?"

Christie nodded again. "Aye. Since I was of age." He was glad to have
the school out of  earshot. A car backfired as it started on the
street, and he welcomed the sound.

"Do you miss it?" Rutherford asked. His voice sounded strange,
something hesitant and  quieter in it.

"Army?" he replied, just to be sure that's what he meant.

"Yea," Conail said, sinking his hands into his pockets. "That
whole...life."

Christie heard the question beneath the question. He knew the tired
look on Conail's face.  He'd been seeing it in the mirror since he'd
returned from the Rangers, though he'd tried  to keep it away.

"Aye," he said, speaking softly now. 

"I would miss it," Rutherford said. "Something that...clear, if you
take my meaning. Out  in the open and...in the right."

It was a huge risk to say it and Christie knew it. He wondered with
some part of his mind  if he should answer, if his grandmother had
told Rutherford to say it to see what Christie  would say in response.
His botching of the job so far might drive her to it in a search for 
an explanation for his mistakes.

The tears welling in Rutherford's eyes told him otherwise.

"We're in the right," he offered, more to make Rutherford feel better
than because he  believed it was so. Behind him, he could hear Bridget
laugh.

Rutherford shook his head. "I used to believe that," he said. "When my
Dad was alive, I  tried to believe it because he did, you know. I
believed it when Shea got here from  Antrim to go after Owen Curran
even. Every time I'd pick up a package from Belfast with 
a piece of that rifle of his I believed it. When I handed it to him
before he left to go after  Curran, I believed it. I never stopped."

His pale face was going red, as though his cheeks had been smeared
with rouge. He  wiped at the tears on his face. 

"But this sickens me," he said. "I'm sorry. I know you're doing it and
I mean nothing  against you for the job you've picked, but it makes me
sick." 

Christie looked down at the sidewalk, sniffed. "Didn't pick it," he
said, still nearly  whispering. "It's not mine."

"None of us picked this, did we?" Rutherford said, frustration seeping
from his voice.  "Not the ones our age. When they signed in '98, I
didn't know they didn't sign for you and  me." 

"They signed for the country's peace," Christie said. "And you can
make a country  change the way they do things, I reckon. Heal some
things. But you can't change the  what's in people's hearts."

"Aye," Conail replied. "That's so." 

Christie saw a church before them, gothic and dark. "Some things can't
be healed like  that."

Conail stopped. "Would you walk away from it?" he asked, pinning
Christie with his  eyes. "Would you ever just throw it off and take
back your life and walk away?" His eyes  were bright, touched with
something. Desperation, or hope.

Christie looked at him, his gaze settling on Conail's arm, a smile
curling on his face.  "Would you take that band off your arm before
the proper time to put it up?" he asked.  "Or move your father's
picture from his dinner plate?"

Conail looked down at his arm, his expression falling. "No," he said,
touching the band's  soft black. "I suppose not. My family...Ireland..
.it's all I am."

Christie reached out and touched the band. "The Ireland we live in -
the one our families  live in that has nothing to with the earth our
houses are built on or the grass or the sea  around it -- is lost,
Conail," he said quietly. "And because we're there with them in that 
place, you and I...we're lost, as well. Two lost men from a lost
land."

Conail looked at him and a beat of silence passed between them.
Bridget stood behind  Christie. He could feel her icy hand on his
shoulder.

"Come on," Christie said finally. "They're waiting on me. We need to
get me my things." 


****

VICTOR HOSTEEN'S RANCH
TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO
12:08 p.m.


Albert Hosteen took the dirt road from his house to Victor's on
Ghost's back, riding  without a saddle and with only a bridle and two
thin ropes attached to steer the gray horse  as he rode. Ghost hadn't
needed a bridle for years, especially not with Hosteen, who had 
been able to tell the horse what needed it to do since the horse was a
yearling. 

As Hosteen went down the road, he tried not to look at the evidence of
Agent Scully's  desperate walk to the barn. He tried not to think
about the body of the horse, Scully in her  blood-stained gown in the
middle of the circle of light. 

Still, when he happened on an upset area in the tire tracks where he
could see the print of  one of her hands, a small bare footprint
beside it, he couldn't help but see it all again  behind his eyes.

Something in his face went a bit harder. He could feel his eyes, the
corners of his mouth,  fall a bit. So many things had risen in Scully,
taking over her and moving out, flocking  out of her on their black,
frightening wings.

Time for other things to rise, as well, he thought, looking up at the
noon sky, traces of  clouds moving high above.

He rode past Victor's house, as empty as he expected it to be, past
the barn and its quiet,  even the animals silent. Only a few chickens
were milling around the outside, and they  fussed away from him back
toward the doorway as he passed. 

He heard a sound, laughter, from far off to his left, and followed it
until he saw Mae  Porter and Frank Music sitting at a makeshift table
way off behind her house. Their backs  were to him, but he could see
Katherine standing on the tabletop, her hands in her  mother's as she
swayed. The baby was the one laughing, Music and Porter sitting so
close  together their shoulders were nearly touching. 

To his right he heard the screen door to Mae's back door open and
shut. He turned his  gaze to Sean, who'd come out in his too-big jeans
and a white T-shirt, his hair catching on  the breeze. 

The boy's eyes were on Mae and Music, his arms crossed over his chest.
As Hosteen  watched him, Sean didn't move or even blink.

"Hm," he said to himself, looking from the two adults and the baby to
the boy and back  again.

Yes, he decided. Tonight he would see things rise. Up and out. He
would see them for  what - and who -- they were.

He guided Ghost toward the house.

Sean didn't take his eyes off Mae and Frank as Hosteen stopped Ghost a
few feet from  him. Hosteen could see that Sean's face was growing
red.

"We go into the desert tonight for your final trial," Hosteen said
with requisite gravity.  "Tonight, you will become an Eagle. Tonight
you meet the one who will take your  suffering away."

At that, Sean's face snapped toward him, his eyes showing the question
that he would not  allow himself to ask.

"Yes," Hosteen said with gravity. "He has been waiting for you in the
desert since you  came here. He knows all that you have been through
and..." He glanced at Mae and  Frank as Katherine laughed, "...and
what troubles you now. It is time for you to meet."

Sean dropped his arms to his sides, his fists clenching and
unclenching.

"Gather your things for a night in the desert, " Hosteen said. "I will
prepare war paint and  magical things. We will ride out from my house
to the place where this man lives and  waits for you."

Sean nodded, Mae and Frank and Katherine forgotten. Hosteen could see
the excitement  - and the desperation - on the boy's face. 

"Tell no one where you are going," Hosteen said. "We leave at dusk." 

And with that, he tapped Ghost with his right heel to turn him back
toward the barn and  the road to the house. 


*****

THE RUE INN
BALLYCASTLE
NORTHERN IRELAND
UNITED KINGDOM
6:03 p.m.



Walter Skinner had never been one for the cold, or for the ocean for
that matter. Thus, the  combination of the North Sea, the cloudless
night and the wind coming off the water as  night began to fall were
not exactly to his liking. 

Something about the night, the cold and the sky so clear it seemed
unreal made Skinner  think of Cambodia, up around Song Tra Bong,
though he would be loathe to admit that to  anyone. The stars were
different here, out of place for him, and he thought of the nights 
he'd spent in Vietnam lying outside beneath clear skies, how he'd
learn to grow wary of  starlight. Something about being able to open
his eyes and look at the stars, close them  again and then look again
and him have not moved a muscle but the stars having changed 
their positions bothered him immensely. 

He didn't like to be reminded that his world was in constant motion,
no matter how true  the fact.

He jammed his hands into the pockets of the fisherman's coat he'd
borrowed from the  innkeeper, the collar flap catching a gust of wind.

Off to his left, the town of Ballycastle proper, not far in the
distance, a few lights on as  night eased in over the ocean. Somewhere
past it, he knew, was this man Neill had said  would have their
answers, ones that he wanted. 

But before him, there on the side of the cliff, were other answers he
wanted, as well.

He could see Mulder's outline in the moonlight, as though he were not
the man Skinner  had known all this time but rather the shadow of him,
left there overlooking the sea. He'd  seen Mulder from the window of
the room they shared, waited for him to come in as  night came, and
when Mulder didn't, Skinner went out to him instead.

He pushed his collar up against his throat and started toward Mulder,
who was standing  stone-still out there on the edge.

Given the sound of waves crashing against the jagged coastline down
below, he figured  Mulder didn't hear him there, since the younger man
didn't move as he approached him.  
He was wrong.

"What is it." 

It didn't even sound like Mulder's voice. Even though what he'd said
was a question, it  didn't sound like one. It was flat as a field, and
it made Skinner slightly uncomfortable  and more concerned.

"Nothing," he said, trying his best for his usual gruff. "Just
wondered what you were  doing out here, freezing your ass off. You
should come in."

Mulder didn't turn, didn't move. The moon was rising, and it and the
lingering dusk were  enough so that Skinner could see Mulder's outline
a bit more clearly. Like him, he'd  turned the collar of his borrowed
peacoat up against his chin.

"Mulder?" He spoke into the silence. "What is it?"

"Nothing," he said. "I guess I was just thinking about something." He
was trying to come  back from wherever he'd been, and his voice was
forced and only vaguely normal. He  tried to laugh.

Skinner only nodded, and they dissolved into a silence, both of them
listening to the  waves.

"We're close now," Skinner said finally, nodding toward the few lights
of the town, miles  away. 

Mulder nodded. "I know," he said. "I just hope...I hope Neill is right
about this man."

"He is," Skinner said, and he actually was sure. "I don't know a lot
these days, Mulder,"  he continued, "But I do know that I believe
Neill and what he's said he knows."

Mulder nodded. "Yeah," he said noncommittedly. 

"I mean, hell, even Renahan seems to believe him, and Renahan doesn't
believe much of  anything anymore." He grunted, an attempt at a
sardonic laugh. Mulder's lip quirked as he  seemed to appreciate
Skinner's effort.

A ship's horn sounded far off in the distance, and both men's eyes
were drawn to the  lights on the ship far off shore. It was moving
slowly, moving away, and the sight of it  made Skinner somehow sad. He
returned his gaze to Mulder, though Mulder was still  looking away. 

Finally, he came up to stand beside him, their shoulders close.

"What really got you out here anyway?" he asked. "Scully?"

Mulder shook his head, the wind catching the collar of his coat again.
"No," he said.  "Samantha."

Skinner looked at him in surprise. "There's a name I haven't heard in
awhile," he replied.  "What the hell got you thinking about her all
the way out here in the middle of all this?"

"Because I hadn't heard the name in a long time myself until today,"
Mulder replied. He  nodded toward Ballycastle. "And in the middle of
this, I realized that I haven't really  thought about Sam a whole lot
in the past couple of years. And I was trying to decide 
why." 

Skinner shivered, nodded, considering himself.

"Things change," he said, as if to placate Mulder, who sounded a
bit...guilty?...at the  admission. "You've got a wife now. Baby on the
way."

"Do you remember me when you met me?" Mulder asked quietly, a hint of
incredulousness.

"I try not to think about that, Mulder," Skinner deadpanned, though he
was only half- joking. Mulder chuffed.

"Yeah, I know. Single-minded nearly to a fault. A little selfish."

"'A little'?" 

"All right, a lot," Mulder amended. "Or I guess it appeared that
way."

Skinner nodded. "I know a lot of it was because nobody took you
seriously. That tends to  make people bite other people on the ass." 

"That was a lot of it, yeah," Mulder agreed. "But I look back at
myself now and I think  that a lot of that was also that I was trying
to keep from facing what I was starting to  realize about Samantha,
what happened to her."

"Which was what?" Skinner asked quietly. He didn't want to say it
himself.

Mulder heaved in a breath. "That she's dead," he said. 

The word hung in the air for a long moment. Skinner said nothing, but
something in him  and his friendship with Mulder, an old knot,
loosened. 

"It was easier to give my whole life to looking for her than to admit
to myself that she  was gone," Mulder said.

Skinner felt a smile tug at his lips and looked up at the stars.
"Jesus," he said softly. "Do  you know how many years I've been
waiting for you to say that?" 

"About as long as I have," Mulder replied, chuffing. "It took coming
here for me to be  able to do it." 

"Why?"

Mulder drew in a breath, let it out. The ship was moving far off now
and they both  followed it with their eyes. 

"What these people do for their families and this Cause..." He paused.
"There's  something about their loyalty to it, their willingness to do
anything to stay loyal to it, that  feels familiar. They'll do
anything for that, for that and a sense that they belong to 
something bigger than themselves. Anything. Including destroying
themselves." 

Skinner nodded. "Like you. When I met you." 

He nodded. "Yes," he replied simply. 

Skinner considered this in the space of quiet that followed the word.
They stood still,  huddled together like two men on the deck of a
ship, the waves moving below them.

"Are you saying that belonging to something larger than yourself
stopped mattering?"  Skinner asked, breaking the silence. "And that's
what changed?  
Mulder shook his head. "No, it's not that. It's that I realized along
the way that what I was  looking for *was* that sense of belonging to
something, and I thought Sam was the  answer to that. And she
wasn't."

Skinner nodded. "But Scully was."

He caught a bittersweet smile on the other man's face. 

"Yes," Mulder said softly. "And when I realized I'd found what I was
looking for - not  Sam but what Sam represented for me - it was easier
to accept what I knew was true. I'd  never find her. The best I could
do was find the truth of what happened, and though that 
gives me closure, it doesn't give me what was missing."

Skinner nodded. "Makes sense," he said. He looked at Mulder now,
facing him. "So you  stop looking?" he asked. "Stop looking for the
conspiracy and little green men?"

Mulder laughed. "No," he said. "I *start* looking for those things and
not for a person  who's not there. I start looking for what happened
to her, but not at the expense of  everything I have and everything I
am." 

He paused. 

"The people here taught me that laying yourself on an altar for
someone doesn't bring  them back from the dead. It just puts you in
the grave next to them, and while some might  think that's noble...it
simply compounds the grief and the waste." 

Skinner smiled, looked down. The knot unwound in him, straightened
out. He cleared his  throat. 

"It's cold as shit out here," he said.

"Yeah," Mulder said. "It is." He was smiling faintly. 

"Come on," Skinner said, turning his back on the ocean. "I'll buy you
a drink."


***

"THE OLD BAKEHOUSE"
4 MILLER ROAD
BALLYCASTLE
NORTHERN IRELAND
UNITED KINGDOM
8:32 p.m.


Ruby Belle had always been a beautiful woman, from the moment James
had set eyes on  her outside St. Jude's in Derry. It was Easter, 1947,
and she wore flowers in her hair like  a crown, and her eyes had been
like jewels set into the porcelain of her face, jewels just 
like her name.

Her face, lit by the light over the stove as she washed up the heavy
dishes, was lined now,  but her eyes were just as bright. Jimmy smiled
as he watched her, smiled through the pain  the medicine couldn't hold
away.

"Time for another dose, Jimmy?" she asked, not looking up. Her voice
was quiet over the  warm sound of water running into the sink. 

He was at the table, his medication gathered in a small group at the
center of the table  beneath the dim light above them.

"No," he said, keeping the pain from his voice. "Don't need one." 

He saw her smile. "Don't you lie to me, Jimmy Shea," she replied
softly. "Take one, and  I'll make you sorry you ever taught me to play
backgammon."

"You're going to beat me again are you then, woman?" he asked. His
white moustache  framed the fond smile he gave her. 

"Of course," she said, putting a plate into the drainer and reaching
for a dish towel to dry  her worn, lovely hands.

A knock on the heavy, 200-year old door. 

"At this hour?" Ruby asked, looking at the clock on the wall. "Who
would that be?"

Jimmy Shea looked at the clock, as well. 

Only one thing would bring people out this time of night. He'd had
knocks like this  hundreds of times, and he knew the meaning of the
quiet sound.

"Don't know," he said, pushing himself to his feet slowly. "But you
set up the board and  I'll be back. And this time let me be white." 

He walked through the house and its darkness, only one light on in
every room throwing  its light up onto the dark-beamed ceiling. The
house had been around so long it was  known only by what it was when
it was first built among this outpost of Ballycastle - 
"The Old Bakehouse." It would never change its name.

Before he opened the door, he took in a breath. He was tired. In more
ways than he could  name.

The man he knew as Seamus - still - stood in the porchlight. He
removed his fishing cap  before he spoke.

"Mr. Shea, you'll forgive the hour," he said softly. "But I wanted to
let you know some  news that might concern you, sir."

Shea nodded. "No trouble," he said. He did not invite Seamus in.

"The Americans you had some dealings with before...that man Fox
Mulder, the Fibbie  whose wife was mixed up in the Curran
business...he's here in Ballycastle."

"Oh?" Shea said, his voice flat.

"Aye," Seamus continued. "He's got Neill with him. And Renahan.
They're looking for  the Collin's, I should think."

Shea nodded. "I should think." The same neutral tone.

Seamus nodded. "Just wanted you to know to stay away from town for a
bit."

Shea nodded again. "Aye, I'll mind who's about." 

Seamus nodded again, Shea's flatness doing its work and stiff-arming
him away. "I'll be  on my way then," he said quietly, and replaced his
hat, turning to leave.

"No trouble," Shea said again. "Thank you, Seamus." 

The other man nodded, then turned to face him again. "Oh, and Jimmy?"

Shea met his gaze. "Yes?"

"The wife - that woman Scully? She's alive. We found her today from an
email someone  sent to Mulder about her."

Shea felt his eyes open wider. He grew very still. "Alive?" 

"Aye," Seamus said. "She's in the States. Hiding out somewhere. Some
place in New  Mexico. Some little town called Farmington. Christie's
on his way. So stay low for a bit  longer and it'll be done with at
last." 

Shea met his gaze. "Good," he said softly. "That's good. Thank you for
the news." 

"No trouble," Seamus said, smiled, and disappeared into the darkness.


*****


ST. FRANCIS REGIONAL MEDICAL CENTER
FARMINGTON, NEW MEXICO
APRIL 5
6:01 p.m.


Heliwell.

Scully kept running the word over and over in her mind as she lay in
the hospital bed,  holding onto the word like a rope, seeing the man
in the wheelchair as though she were  remembering a particularly fond
and vivid dream. 

He'd told her where to find him, a dark house with stained glass
windows at a place  called Heliwell. She could still see the house
when she closed her eyes, her lids lit from  the overhead reading
light in the small, private room, its window facing the lot filled
with  lamplight in the dusk and pickups from the Ford administration.

Looking at the house, at the trees surrounding it that looked like
pines, the windows with  some design she couldn't name or place, made
the sound of her own heartbeat on the  monitor easier to take, the
sound of Rose's skitting along on its separate machine. She 
was wearing a nasal canula, as well, and the machine hissing when she
breathed. 

Something had happened, though she couldn't remember what. She only
remembered the  nightmare and leaving the house. Everything else was
washed in darkness, her memories  packed in with cotton and grief.

She sighed, giving up again on remembering, turned her face back
toward the window  and watched cars milling. A woman got out with her
child.

Heliwell... 

When Granger returned from the Hosteen's, she would ask him to find
out how to find  this house, this old man, and his promise of
something that felt to her like peace. 

A soft tap on the heavy wooden door, and she turned, expecting to see
Granger come  through the doorway. 

Mae entered instead.

"Hey," she said softly. Her mouth felt dry, the holdover from some
medication. Mae  heard the dryness of her throat, her voice like
paper, and reached for a pitcher of ice  water on the bedside table,
pouring it into a plastic cup.

"Hey," Mae replied, smiling faintly as she poured. "How are you? You
all right?" 

Scully nodded, taking the cup. She was cold, the hospital gown gaping
around her neck.  "Yeah," she said, just above a whisper. "I'm all
right." 

She took a sip, the water making her even colder. Mae pressed a button
and lowered the  railing on that side of the bed and sat on the edge,
her hip touching Scully's leg. 

"The bleeding's stopped?" Mae sounded nervous, though Scully could not
name why.  Something more than her concern for her and baby. Something
almost afraid.

Scully nodded. "It seems so," she replied. She handed Mae the cup, and
the other woman  placed it on the bedside table.

"You don't remember," Mae asked, not looking at her. "Do you?"

The words confirmed that something lay behind the Forget, that the
gauzy haze that  followed the memory of the morning air on her face
after leaving the house occluded  something she didn't want to
remember. 

Looking at Mae's face, she was uncertain if she wanted to.

"I left the house," she replied, deflecting Mae, her gaze darting
away. She put her hand on  her belly, stroking the woven blanket with
the palm of her hand. "I do remember that."

"What sent you out?" Mae asked. Her voice was gentle, but her face was
still creased  with concern.

The blood along the floor, mercurial, flashed in her mind, the feel of
her daughter's face,  her eyes clenching shut, beneath her palm. 

"Nothing," Scully said, pushing the memory away. "I had a bad dream.
That's all it was."

Mae reached out and put a hand on hers, stilling its worrying of the
fabric. Her fingers  squeezed lightly. She shook her head.

"I know what you saw," Mae whispered, as though someone might hear
them. "And it  wasn't a dream. You knew it then, and you know it
now."

Scully looked away, toward the window again, the moon high and far off
in the distance  and looking like a shred of nail. 

"It was a dream," she said again. She hated the tone of her voice,
petulant and verging on  desperation. She hated the tears welling in
her eyes that said she knew she lied.

"Granger's contacted him," Mae said. "Told him to come." 

"No," Scully said, shaking her head. "I don't want him here. I don't
want him to see this."  A sob caught in her throat, the tears going
down her face. "I don't want him to know--"

"Dana," Mae interrupted, squeezing her hand and leaning forward, her
voice urgent. "You  *need* him right now. No matter what you know or
what you've seen."

"No," Scully said, turning away. She tried to pull her hand away but
Mae held it tight. 

"For pity's sake, he's your husband," Mae said softly. "He's the
father of your child.  You're allowed to want him with you. You're
allowed to need him." 

Her quiet tone allayed the accusation, softened it. 

"I want..." Scully trailed off. There was something she wanted to say
but she lost it, the  vision's images rising in her, too clear to be a
dream, the sound of the gunshot too loud  and too final, like a gavel
falling or a door slammed shut. 

Mae leaned forward, her temple against Scully's, her hand gripping
down. She made a  long soft shushing noise, rocking against Scully's
hip to rock her, soothing.

"I know," Mae whispered. "God help me, I do." 

The grief crested, and Scully closed her eyes against it, against
Rose's screaming, against  the image of Mulder's eyes catching the
light as bright and as lifeless as glass. 


******


THE PUEBLO
NAVAJO RESERVATION
OUTSIDE TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO
6:15 p.m.


They'd blindfolded him when they left the Hosteen's property, and for
the first time since  he'd come to Two Grey Hills, Paul Granger was
afraid. 

"Cover your eyes with this," Victor had said from beside him. He held
out a bandana, a  worn blue one that Victor often kept in his back
pocket. It was large enough to drape  around the horses' faces as they
moved them from corral to trailer for sale, and Granger 
took it, trying as best he could to shake the image of himself as one
of the dark horses  being tussled off down the dirt road of the
reservation. 

Granger looked hard at Victor's face, his heart aching in his chest as
it sped up a notch,  faltering a bit. He could feel sweat beginning to
glaze his face. 

"Victor?" he ventured, holding the bandana in one hand. 

Victor looked over at him, and he didn't smile. 

"You can't know where we're going, Granger," he said softly. "I need
you to do as I say." 

Granger swallowed. They hadn't even passed Albert Hosteen's house and
he already  knew that "trust" and "belief" were not the same thing. 

He tied the bandana around his head, pulled a tight knot in the back,
leaned against the  seat, pushing out a breath.

"Just lean back and relax," Victor's voice floated to him. "We've got
a bit of a trip. And  it's going to get bumpy, so don't bother falling
asleep."  
It was hours ago now that they'd arrived wherever they were. Granger
could tell there was  a fire where he was because even through the
bandana's thick cloth he could see  flickering light, and he could
smell the wood as it burned, wood and something else that 
was vaguely like too-heavy incense mixed with grease. 

They'd helped him remove his shirt and shoes before he'd gone through
a doorway, which  he recognized as one by bumping into its frame. Bits
of it had powdered off as he'd done  so, two people gently righting
him and guiding him through. The room he'd entered, his 
eyes growing darker, was cool and smelled of smoke mixed with dust and
earth.

He'd seen just enough cowboy movies to expect drumming or the sound of
dancing feet.  He'd seen "Dances With Wolves" more times than he
wanted to admit, and as he sat on  the ground in his jeans, he was
starting to get embarrassed at how he thought these people 
should act. 

Truth be known, he realized, he really understood their tribal ways
very little. To think  otherwise was prejudicial and arrogant,
especially given that he's always been tacitly  aware of himself as an
Outsider among them, aware that their tribal identity was 
something he, even as a black man, could only partly understand.

They'd propped him up against what felt like a flat stone which acted
like a chairback,  and he'd listened to the sounds of men moving in
and out for a long time, none of them  speaking, no rattles or drums
or high-pitched sounds. Just the sound of wood being  stacked, that
strange greasy, sweet smell.  He'd dozed off, his chest aching, after
an hour of their silence, lulled by the quiet and  darkness before his
eyes.

He was awake now, though, roused with a hand on his bare shoulder and
a feeling that  was a circle of men around him. He didn't know how he
knew they were there, but he did.

"Granger," someone said to him. It was Keel, Victor's brother, a man
as squat and thickly  built as his father was tall and thin. He rarely
spoke.

"Keel?" Granger said, feeling heavy, as though he'd been filled with
sand. He felt like  he'd been breathing smoke for too long.

"Yeah," Keel said, and someone else put a hand on his shoulder, then
someone else.  "Let's get you up. Things are prepared now. It's time
to begin."

As he nodded, the men were lifting him up, his bare feet touching
something that felt like  cloth beneath them, but hard stones beneath.
As he got his feet under him, he felt his legs  go rubbery, his knees
beginning to cave. Were in not for the men around him - who 
seemed to be expecting this development - he would have fallen to the
ground.

"I'm all right," he said out of habit, but the hands stayed where they
were. They began to  guide him along the cloth path. He was moving
away from the fire toward fresher air and  what he knew to be cold
night air. 

"Where are you taking me?" Granger said as they stepped outside. 

"Quiet." Victor's voice. "Everything will be clear to you in a few
minutes." Victor took  him now from two other men, Keel's hands still
on him, as well. They hustled him  forward.

His chest's ache was growing with his fear, feeling like he'd
swallowed a fist. Sweat was  cold on him, made colder by the night air
on his bare chest. As they drew him forward he  could feel an updraft,
more wind, and sensed he was nearing some edge, wind free to 
move below him. 

They stopped. "Can you stand?" Victor asked. "Nod your head if you
can." 

Granger felt his heartbeat falter again, his head growing light. He
shook his head "no."

"All right," Victor said, then spoke quickly in Navajo. The other
men's hands vanished  and he heard them withdraw, their feet sound
soft on the cloth-covered path. 

He and Victor stood alone. For a long moment he could hear only his
breathing, the  sound of his heart roaring in his ears, and the night
wind.

Then, from beneath those noises, a strange sound. Something pitched
high and animal- like, something beating the air. 

He wanted to ask what it was that was coming. He wanted to ask what
would happen to  him when it got there.

Victor's hands closed around him, the sound growing. A foul smell
drifted in on the wind  now, sharp and not unlike ammonia. Granger
turned his face away.

"No," Victor said, grabbing him by the back of the neck and turning
his face forward,  toward the growing sound and the terrible smell. 

The high-pitched screaming grew louder, a racket of it, too loud and
coming too fast.

"Trust," Victor said above the sound. 

Granger's heart was racing too fast, the pain intensifying. He began
to buckle, but Victor  held him.

Whatever was before him engulfed him, sharp things tearing at his
skin. He heard Victor  grunt as something hit him, a thousand
somethings crashing into them, all around them.  Granger felt
something soft like hair, something like leather slapping his face.

He cried out, his hands going up to protect his face. His glasses were
knocked off. 

Inside his chest, his heart seemed to roll over inside him, the pain
too much now, breath  leaving him. It rolled inside him as though it
had been sleeping and was waking again. 

The last thing he heard was his own scream - terror and pain. The last
thing he felt was  the ground as his knees gave way, Victor's hands
gone, and the earth striking his lifeless  face.


*****THE DESERT, FURTHER NORTH
NAVAJO RESERVATION
OUTSIDE TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO
6:35 p.m.


Though Albert Hosteen hadn't been there when Dana Scully had reached
the end of the  trail that overlooked the expanse of the desert around
Two Grey Hills, his horse Ghost  seemed to recall the incident well. 

Hosteen smiled as the reins slipped through his hands, Ghost pushing
his long neck, the  color of ash, down to the ground. The horse's
nostrils ruffled the sand as he touched his  nose to the ground, as if
he were searching for some familiar scent at the edge of the 
clearing. Beside him, Sean's pony Cloud merely looked bored, as though
the dead-end at  this end of this, a different trail, were something
the animal expected. Sean looked as  confused as Hosteen had known
Scully had when confronted with the drop way off in the 
desert, also guarded by a scraggled tree poised on the edge of
Nothing. 

Hosteen waited. The anger wouldn't be long behind, and he knew it. It
began to bloom on  the boy's face, the sun just there enough on the
horizon to illuminate the two of them, up  high over the riverbed. The
rage hung there as Sean looked at him, caught in the boy's 
pupils like golden dots of light. 

He let the smile vanish from his face, his lips drawing down. His back
straightened, and  as he shifted Ghost's neck came up, the horse
cocking an ear. 

"You want to say something to me," he said, not breaking Sean's gaze.

The boy didn't blink, but his lips thinned. His reddish hair, too long
now for a boy his  age, was shot across his forehead like slashes
above his eyes. The crow's feather that  Hosteen had banded in his
hair stood at an angle, glistening black, cocked like a banner 
or a sail. 

"You want to know where the Medicine Man is," Hosteen continued, and
he looked out  over the expanse of the land before him, though he
could still feel Sean's eyes on him.  "Where the one is who will take
away your suffering. As I've promised you."

From the desert, and from Sean, only silence. 

If Hosteen looked hard enough out over the white band of the riverbed,
out toward the  mountains wearing their cloaks of shadows, he could
see himself out on the desolate  landscape, one as stark as the
terrain within when, just back from the war, he'd fled the 
reservation from this spot and headed out into the wilderness. What
he'd seen in Poland,  Russia, was burned behind his eyes and he'd gone
from this place, from the clearing with  its one tree standing like a
ghost, its limbs thin as arms, its bark white as bone. What he'd 
heard, speaking into a cone-shaped mouthpiece, muttering of CodeTalk
about the end of  the world...

He'd thought to find the end of his own out here among the mountains.
That's what he  came out here to do that day in the winter of 1945.
Just as the water had appeared and  disappeared from the riverbed,
just as the men he'd worked for and appeared and  disappeared as
quickly as smoke, he'd planned to vanish himself.

But what he'd found out here among the brush, the trails for wild
things moving up and  down the mountains, and within the fire, had
stopped him from doing so. Out here, he'd  decided to live in a
different way. Instead of Vanishing, he had returned instead. 

The dot of him out in the desert that he saw in his mind as he looked
at the landscape,  which never seemed to change here and never would,
was replaced by the sight of Sean  beside him as he turned his face.
The boy was seething, heat seeming to rise off him as  Hosteen looked
at him and did not smile. 

"The one who will take away your suffering is here," he said, and his
voice seemed to  echo in the stillness. "We will wait."

With that, he swung his leg over the worn saddle and stepped down hard
onto the packed,  dry earth. 

 
****

9:13 p.m.


One thing that Sean could never become accustomed to was how cold the
desert was at  night, or how much the stars out here, away from any
light, looked so much like eyes. 

He was a thin small boy, small even for his age. His arms were too
pale, his skin too  white, even after all this time in the desert. He
hated the way he looked, catching a  glimpse of his milky skin in the
orange of the firelight. He thought, looking at the  shadows across
his bare chest, light catching in the ridges of his ribcage, that he
was the  most pathetic creature on earth. 

As if to prove him right, his jeans - bought for a dollar at the
Salvation Army Thrift in  town - slipped on his hips as he shifted,
the tattered band of his briefs peeking out. Even  Cloud seemed to be
rolling his eyes as the pony glanced over at him, tucked into Ghost's
side in the shadows on the fire's right. 

He was freezing, and the lines Hosteen had drawn on his chest looked
maudlin, lines of  red and black. He could feel the stinking paint
crusting on his cheeks, across his forehead.  He wore a scratchy band
of what felt like sackcloth, and the crow's feather was pricking 
at the back of his head and tugging his hair.

Little baby, he heard John Fagan's voice say, as it had a thousand
times before. Little  baby go and cry some more...

He'd hated Fagan. Looking into the fire he wanted to say it aloud. 

He hated him almost as much as he hated Hosteen across from him, the
old man sitting  there with paint on his face and his hands on his
knees. The Indian was even sitting  Indian-Style. It was like a giant
joke, all of this, and Sean was the punch line or the butt 
of it. 

Liar, he wanted to say, looking at Hosteen through the flames. Above
him even the pale  moon, looking too small and too far away, seemed to
laugh. 

You're just another bloody liar.

"Say it," Hosteen said over the angry sound of the burning wood.
Hosteen had sprinkled  some hocus-pocus powder on the wood before he'd
lit it and the wood was burning blue- green flame. It crackled in the
fire as though it was arguing with itself.

It's just a bunch of shite, he thought. His mouth was a thin line and
the words wouldn't  come out. 

You're just a bunch of shite, you stupid, lying old man. 

"Say it," Hosteen said again. Only his mouth moved when he spoke. His
eyes, black as  oil, were as dark as space.

The paint had begun to itch on Sean's face. He wanted to wipe it away,
but his hands,  cupping the balls of his kneecaps, wouldn't move. His
nails were digging into the soft  white skin there, and he could feel
the crescent shapes of them pressing in.

The feather in his hair, the hours spent in the desert. The journey he
was on to meet the  mysterious Medicine Man who would take away his
pain...lies. Everything had been a -

"Lie," he said aloud, meaning to shout it. It came out as a puff of
air.

"Hmm," Hosteen said, his face the same mask. Sean thought he might be
made of wood,  he sat so still across from him, his darker skin thin
against the old rigging of his ribs. 

"Fucking cigar store. Fucking Indian piece of shite."

Not his voice. His father's voice.

Hosteen smiled, then a laugh bubbled up from deep within his chest. 

Sean heard it, the moon above him laughing, as well, and hated even
more. It felt like  electricity was running through his veins, hot and
fast and almost painful beneath his  bread-colored skin.

"I wondered when you would let me meet your father," Hosteen said, his
hands sliding  from his knees to the too-thin waist above his pants. 

He reached in front of him to the small wooden bowls of paint. The
black, the red, were  dripping at the edges, almost dried. A bowl of
yellow in the center was untouched.  Hosteen touched the surface, and
his finger seemed to glow with the brightness of it.

"No one's coming." Sean's voice, soft, as though tinged with
feathers.

Hosteen's mouth quirked. "Might be surprised," he said.

"There's no one out here at all, is there?" Owen's voice.

Hosteen chuffed. "Only who we bring with us," he replied, looking
bemused. He touched  the yellow paint to the crags beneath his eyes.
Two swipes and his eyes glowed. 

Sean felt himself rise, as though a hand had reached down and hauled
him up, dragging  him.

"There's no such thing as magic!" His father's voice roared from his
throat. "A bunch of  silly powder made of horse shite and you and your
fucking face paint, you bloody stupid  old FUCK!"

Hosteen threw back his head and laughed full out now. His teeth looked
like headstones  and his eyes glowed. He looked at Sean and said
something in Navajo. Sean heard the  word for "close." Or "closer."
Then his father's name.

"THERE'S NO SUCH THING!" 

The words filled the air, over the bluish flames, the blue stars
shining. 

Hosteen laughed again, and the sound surrounded Sean there, a cold
wind coming up off  the cliff.

"No," Hosteen said, shaking his head slowly, still smiling
cryptically. "Not the kind of  magic you have been thinking of. No
Medicine Man to take away your pain. Or your  rage."

"Then you lied," Sean spat, his own voice gaining. He sounded like a
boy to his ears. A  little boy.

Little baby cry some more...

Hosteen shook his head again. 

"No," he said. "I did not." 

Sean felt the current rising in him, his arms rising, his hands - as
though not his hands -  reaching for the band around his head, the
black feather. His chest felt like it was  swelling, as though he were
growing right before Hosteen's eyes. In a few seconds, he 
thought, he'd be able touch the sky. 

He opened his mouth and raged.

He heard the sound of something beating the air, a high-pitched
chitter, a cry. He felt  something nick his cheek as it blurred by in
a cloud of sound and motion, the smell of  ammonia hovering with the
scream around his face.


*****
 

Hosteen had smelled the animals coming, heard the sound of their
wings. He'd seen the  light rising from the flames, the fire's fingers
reaching higher as the wind rushing ahead  of the mass of bodies
pushed across the clearing. 

Across the firelight, Sean Curran's neck was taut, tendons standing
out stark through his  thin skin, the boy's hands crumpled into tight
fists and his arms over his head, his legs  spread out so that the
child's body formed an X against the blanket of sky behind him.

And all around his body, black shapes were moving, slapping the air
with their leathery  wings. Hosteen saw, glinting with the light of
the fire, eyes on eyes, mouths open, tiny  teeth. The bats were
thumping against Sean's back, glancing off his arms, battering him 
with their wings. They tumbled around his feet, slapping the sand. One
glanced off the  boy's shoulder and spun into the fire, knocking a
small piece of wood off in a hail of  sparks as it fled with a
screech.

Seeing the sparks, the wood rolling in its sleeve of fire, Sean ran to
it, the bats still  streaming, and picked up the end of the wood, a
burned-out place, swung the piece up,  brandishing it. Hosteen watched
the boy turn to him, his mouth still open, his teeth bared, 
a tumble of obscenities filling the air. 

Hosteen didn't move as Sean stood, the fire over him. The red paint on
his face caught  the light, a smear like blood beneath his eyes. 

"WHY???" 

It was long, the single syllable seeming to stretch forever, over the
blue fire, past Hosteen  as though it were following the bats away
into the darkness, the last of the creatures  righting themselves on
the ground and taking flight. 

Sean moved, fast. 

He went to the campfire, its flames high, his small legs kicking out.
Hosteen watched him  disappear into a cloud of sparks, the single word
repeating, Sean swinging with his arms  at the ash, dots of fire
dancing around him. The neat pile of wood scattered, flames 
snuffing out, sand and smoke and cinders flying. Hosteen watched tiny
specks of heat  cling to Sean's bare skin - his face, his chest. 

When the boy hit the ground on his knees, the sword of wood falling,
Hosteen rose at  last. 

"Wish-te..." he murmured softly, coming slowly to his feet. 

Sean was sobbing, an arm holding his belly, his hand crawling up his
throat to cover his  mouth. His small fingers were trembling and he
retched. 

"God..." Sean choked. "Oh God..."

"Wish-te," Hosteen said, going to stand behind him, the moon shining
down on them,  tiny bits of fire on bits of wood the only other light.
He knelt down and touched the boy's  shoulder. He felt muscle there.

"I'm burned," Sean gasped out, coughing as the heaving passed. "Mr.
Hosteen, I'm  burned." He wiped his face with a dirty hand. 

Sean's voice, Hosteen noted, was his own. Hoarse, strained. But his
own.

"You are all right now," Hosteen said softly, his fingers pressing
into Sean's shoulder. 

As he did so, Sean straightened his back, heaving in breath. 

"I'm sorry," Sean said softly. "I'm--"

"Hmm," Hosteen interrupted, the last of the fire winking out. "It is
the past."

After a moment, Sean drew in a deep breath, his hand going to
Hosteen's on his shoulder.  He nodded. 

"Yes."

The moon and stars looked down on at the clearing, Hosteen and Sean
still and warm and  quiet. 

Hosteen smiled as Sean's face came up to look above them, the young
man safe - at last - - in the cool blue light.


******


THE HOGAN
NAVAJO RESERVATION
TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO
APRIL 6


"Hey boy."

Granger heard the voice close by, but the darkness around him was so
complete he didn't  know where to find its source. There was something
light to his left, though; he could see  it behind his lids, a
swimming of light as though Christmas lights were dancing in front 
of the drapes of his eyes. 

He pulled himself up from the darkness, one rung at a time. He felt
impossibly heavy as  he turned his face toward the light. 

"Who's there?" he said, though it came out as barely a whisper, his
mouth too dry and his  throat feeling parched. 

"You open your eyes and look at me when I'm talking to you," the voice
said again.  There was some unmistakable tenor of authority to the
voice, and something familiar  about it, as well, though Granger had
never heard the voice before.

He did as he was told, his eyes opening to slits, and took in his
surroundings, his eyes  widening as he looked around. 

A wooded area, a canopy of trees so dense that the sunlight barely
came through to where  he lay on the ground, covered in fallen leaves.
He was naked, but was covered from the  waist down by the orange and
rust-brown leaves. More were falling around him, making 
lazy circles down toward the forest's floor. He could hear birds
singing off in the  distance, and the air smelled loamy, cool like the
days of fall just before it would turn to  winter. 

And beside him, in a Baltimore City Police uniform, his blue hat in
his hand, was the man  he'd seen in the photos on his mother's mantle
his whole life. 

His father.

Thomas Granger was worrying the brim of his hat between his meaty
fingers, turning the  hat around in a slow circle in his hands. He was
a huge man, taller than Granger and  heavily muscled, a paunch
beginning to show above his belt. His dress uniform's breast 
was dotted with citations. His hair was beginning to gray.

"Sweet Jesus, boy, you look like a dog came by and buried you right
there in them  leaves," Thomas said, gesturing to the leaves with his
hat. 

Granger smiled faintly. "I'd imagine so," he said, his voice finding a
bit of strength. 

"You know where you're at?" his father asked him, and Granger glanced
around, barely  moving his head as his eyes took in the canopy, the
leaves, the thin bars of sunlight that  were pushing their ways
through the trees.

"Heaven?" Granger asked, and Thomas Granger started laughing, deep
chuckles that  seemed to come from the bottom of his belly.

"No, this ain't heaven," he said, still laughing. "You see any wings
on me?"

Granger smiled again, feeling foolish in front of his father, a man
who had died when he  was a baby, a man whose face he knew only from
grim photographs and the vague, gauzy  memories of infancy.

"No, sir," he said. He'd always imagined he'd call his father "sir,"
and he tried it on for  size. It felt right. 

"Then where...?" he trailed off. He wanted to lift his hand to reach
toward his father, to  see if the other man was real, but he couldn't
move. 

"You're in a bad way, son," Thomas said. "I reckon you know that,
though. You've  known for a long time." 

Granger nodded. 

Thomas looked up at the trees. "There's some folks down there helping
you, you know,"  he said. "Good folks. Not the kind of folks I would
have paid much mind to back in my  day, but I've learned a few things
in my time. Quite a few things. I come to believe some 
things I wouldn't have believed before. I come to know you in a way I
don't think I could  have known you if I'd been with you when you was
growing up."

He paused, looked down at Granger, and Granger wondered, in a moment
like the ones  he'd had his whole life if his father was proud of the
man he'd become. How many nights  had he lain awake - especially as a
young man - and thought that? It had haunted him as  surely as any
ghost. 

"Of course I'm proud of you," Thomas said. "How couldn't I be?" He
smiled, and Granger  met his eyes, surprised. His father's eyes were
shining. 

"You ain't got no secrets here, son," Thomas said softly, looking down
at the brim of his  hat. There was something shy about the gesture and
the older man's smile.

Granger simultaneously liked and disliked the sound of that. He only
wished it went both  ways. He would have liked to know his father that
way, what he felt and what he thought.

"Remember when you was a boy and you used to stand outside the Senator
at night?"  Thomas said, returning his gaze to Granger's face.

Granger smiled. He remembered the small boy he was, too-big jeans and
striped shirts  and glasses already on his face, his eyes on the
running electric bulbs of the old theatre,  the thing lit up
impossibly bright, and posters of beautiful people in the frames, a
cashier  lazing in the single glass ticket sale box.

"Yes," he said. "I remember." 

"That theatre is like me, I reckon," the elder Granger said, sounding
tired. "You have to  stand on that sidewalk, son, and you ain't old
enough to come in. I guess that was our  agreement when you were born,
though I didn't know that when I first looked at you. I 
figure it's that way with all fathers and sons, though, now that I
think on it more." 

Granger studied his father's hands, the glint on the dark barrel of
his service revolver, a  six-shooter Granger remembered finding in a
drawer when he was a boy. 

"What I do remember, though," Thomas continued, "was looking at you
right after you  were born and thinking: 'that's my boy.' I remember
putting my hand in the middle of  your chest and thinking: 'that's my
heart beating inside there,' and looking at your face  and thinking
that those were my eyes looking back at me." 

"I'm sorry," Granger said softly to his father. 

"For what?" Thomas asked, seeming almost amused by Granger's words.
"For getting  shot? You can't do nothing about that, boy. You can't do
no more good for that than I  could for what happened to me."

"I've failed you, sir," Granger replied, his eyes filling. He hated
that he couldn't move his  hand to wipe them away.

"By doing what?" 

"Dying," Granger said flatly. 

Thomas Granger smiled again at that. "You ain't dying, son," he said.
He set his hat on  the ground in front of him with care, then reached
up to the silver badge on his chest. It  was that, Granger realized,
that had been giving off the shine he'd seen before waking, the 
twinkle like Christmas tree lights. 

"What's in you might have give out, boy," Thomas said, freeing the
badge at last. He held  it in his hand, and it glowed there from some
otherworldly light. "But I'm your father now  as much as I was that
first time I held you, and what I got inside me...well, I'm reckon
I'll  give that to you again." 

Granger watched the badge as his father leaned forward, the silver
shining like starlight.  He watched as his father laid the badge in
the center of his bare chest, the metal feeling  either impossibly
cold or impossibly hot. 

Granger felt his head going light, his eyes lolling.

"I've got to get on my way," Thomas said, picking up his hat. He
brushed at it, cleaning  off the already-immaculate insignia on the
front with his thumb. Granger watched him,  his father's image going
hazy, the canopy seeming to give way to a onslaught of light that 
spread out behind his father like wings. 

"You take care of yourself, Paul," he heard his father say, the first
time he'd heard his  father call him by his name. 

Granger nodded. "You, too, Dad," he whispered, his lids closing, his
face going slack. 

Things began to dim around him, as though a candle had faltered and
was about to wink  out.

"Oh, and son?"

Granger couldn't open his eyes, the birdsong gone, the cool autumn
replaced with the  smell of wood burning, and something sweet. He
could hear people talking around him,  their voices far away and in
some language that was familiar but which he didn't  understand. 

"Sir?" he whispered to the darkness.

"Marry that girl, will you? It's giving your momma a fit..."

Granger could sense light in front of him, getting brighter. He went
toward it, a laugh  rising in his chest.


*****

UNITED AIRLINES FLIGHT 759
OVER THE WESTERN WEST VIRGINIA BORDER
4:32 a.m.


Christie Collin liked the look of West Virginia as the sun began to
rise, the land below  him the first true mountains he'd seen in a long
time. He knew that by the standards of  most mountains the
Appalachians weren't the most impressive one could find, with their 
soft-topped mountains covered in trees, all just getting their darker
green, but he found  them beautiful to look at, there in seat 16A, his
window just missing the silver and white  wing.

There was something comforting about old mountains, he thought. Their
lack of dramatic  peaks showed an area that had stopped changing so
long ago there were barely words to  describe their age, a place
devoid of upset or change. A million years of wearing down 
below him, but mountains just the same.

"How much longer do we have to sit on this bloody plane?" Bridget
snapped from beside  him. Her voice was changed again, a slight hiss
beneath the words. 

Christie turned his face toward her. He'd grown used to the way she
looked now, her face  like a drowned thing, her eyes gone from icy
blue to fish-belly white. Her red hair was as  wild as a mass of
snakes. 

"We haven't been flying that long," he said softly, trying to placate
her, though he knew  she'd have none of that. 

"How much longer?" she snapped. Her breath was as fetid as old
cheese.

"About four hours," Christie replied, glancing at his watch. "We'll
get a car once we're  there and be on our way." 

She said something under her breath he didn't hear, turning to face a
man across the aisle  who was looking at them strangely. Christie
followed her gaze to the man's bewildered  and accusing face.

"Son?" the man asked. He was wearing boots made out of hide with
business slacks, an  open white shirt of expensive brand.

"Sir?" he replied.

"You all right?" the man asked, pure Texas drawl. "Who the hell you
talking to over  there?"

Christie smiled. "Did I say that out loud?" he asked, aw-shucksing
himself into his best  Southern American accent. "Sorry, mister. I
think I'm still half asleep." He laughed.

The man smiled a congenial smile, looking a little relieved. "You
should get you some  coffee when they come by," he replied. "Shake
yourself awake. Keep talking like that and  somebody might think your
cheese had slipped off your cracker." He winked a fatherly 
wink.

Christie laughed nervously. "Heaven forbid," he drawled, reaching for
the in-flight  magazine. "Sorry to bother you." 

The man smiled, went back to his laptop, tapping away. 

Christie was looking at a picture of Monaco when he heard Bridget's
derisive laugh, and  he looked back toward the window, the ground
tilting as they banked.

"Wanker," she hissed, settling down to rest beside him, the word
carried on a rancid puff  of breath.


******

THE RUE INN
BALLYCASTLE
NORTHERN IRELAND
UNITED KINGDOM
7:15 a.m.


Ever since the time in the rain he'd spent out on the ledge with
Renahan, Mulder had  found he liked the privacy of the space outside
the window. He liked the smell of the  ocean and the view, the way the
waves came up on the shore below the inn as though  there were a
perpetual storm somewhere off the shore that he couldn't see but that
was  always raging.

The waves were hitting the shoreline like fists. Mulder watched them
in the morning  light, one that had not seemed to come with a sunrise
but rather with a bleeding of light.  He shivered in his blue
sweatshirt, his jeans feeling too thin against his legs as the breeze
pressed against the cloth. 

Inside, he heard Skinner return from the shower down the hall, the
tumble of his kitbag as  it hit the mattress of his narrow twin bed. 

"What's it today?" Mulder called from the balcony. "Leprechaun
hunting?" 

He heard Skinner give a derisive chuff. "No, I thought I'd just go all
out and kiss the  fucking Blarney Stone today." 

"Leave me out of your personal life, sir," Mulder quipped, leaning up
from where he'd  been pressed against the railing. 

"You wish," Skinner growled back. 

"Where *are* you going?" Mulder said as he re-entered the room,
grateful for the  creaking radiator's heat. Skinner was there in his
jeans, no shirt, sniffing the shirt he'd  worn the day before. 

"I'm going with Neill to the dock today," he said sourly. "He said
something about you  and Renahan taking the car and going to some pub
in town, seeing if anyone would talk  to you."

"Great," Mulder replied. "I'll sit there and get to enjoy that special
thrill of being stared at  while Renahan goes eight sheets to the
wind. It'll be great." He tossed Skinner the shirt  he'd worn the day
before, another of Neill's. "Try this one."

Skinner caught it in mid-air, gave it a sniff, and started shouldering
into it. "Bitch to him  when he gets out of the shower if you want,"
he said.

There was a soft knock at the door. 

"All the good that'll do," Mulder said, matching Skinner's previous
sour tone as he went  for the door. "I just bet--"

He stopped speaking at the sight of a strange man in the now-open
doorway, an elderly  man with the bluest eyes Mulder had ever seen,
light, the color sky. He was holding an  Irish Poor Boy cap in his
hands, his white hair pressed against his head in its shape. He 
wore a dark green coat, too heavy for the chill outside, and black
cords that had gone  slightly gray. 

He was glancing down the hallway, not quite nervously, but clearly
concerned that he  might be seen. 

"Can I help you?" Mulder asked. Part of him wondered where his gun
was, and part of  him wondered why he was wondering. The man didn't
look threatening at all, certainly  not with his face turned slightly
down and his lips turned slightly up. 

Skinner had taken up a place behind him. Mulder could feel his quiet
presence just over  his right shoulder.

"I wondered if I might come in and have a word," the man said softly.
He glanced at  Skinner. "With you both, that is." 

Mulder gnawed his lower lip, turned and looked at Skinner, who, though
he didn't move,  seemed to give his assent as he flicked his eyes from
Mulder to the man and back again. 

"Sure," Mulder said, pushing the door further open and standing aside
to let the man  enter. Though the man moved from the hallway with some
haste, he was stiff, as though  he were in a great deal of pain.
Mulder closed the door behind him with a soft snitch of 
sound. 

Mulder gestured to the chair in the corner, a gold tweed chair with
arms that ended in  scrolls. "Have a seat, Mister...?"

"Shea," the man said quietly, settling into the chair. "James Shea."
He lay his cap on his  knee, anchoring it there. 

Mulder and Skinner stood before him, Mulder crossing his arms over his
chest. He felt  uncertain as the man looked up at him, over him. He
heaved out a sigh, a pained look on  his face as he touched his side.

"Can we get you something, Mr. Shea?" Skinner said from Mulder's
right.   
"No, nothing," Shea said, peering up at Mulder again. "There's not a
thing to do about it  at this point, I'm afraid." 

Mulder waited, and Skinner grew silent. 

"I'm sorry," Mulder offered. It seemed the polite thing to say. 

Shea simply looked down, seeming to be searching for something in the
woven rug with  his eyes.

"What can we do for you, sir?" Mulder asked as the silence grew. 

"Not a thing," Shea said again. "But I think I can do a bit for you,
Mr. Mulder."

Mulder stood very still, but Skinner took a step forward, so that he
was standing next to  Mulder now, peering down at the old man.

Mulder, for his part, was studying the man's face. What was it Neill
had said? About the  man they were looking for? 

His eyes. That his eyes were the sharpest Neill had ever seen. 

Like the eyes of the man in front of him, their clear almost eerie
blue gaze settled on  Mulder's face. 

"You're the man we've been looking for," Mulder said. The room seemed
terrible quiet,  and Mulder wished he'd not only closed the door but
locked it, as well. 

"Aye," Shea said. "That's me. And I know why you're looking for me, as
well. You think  I've got a name for you. The name of the person who's
been after your wife." 

"Do you?" Skinner snapped. Mulder could almost feel Skinner coiling
for a strike, the  weeks of inaction wearing on Skinner in a single
instant as he prepared to act. 

Shea looked up at Skinner, but it was Mulder's face he settled on as
he spoke. "Aye. Anna  Simms Collin is the name you want." 

Mulder didn't know what name he was expecting, but that wasn't it. A
man, for starters. A  man with a name he knew already, like Curran or
Fagan.

"Why?" Among the maelstrom of emotions that began to whirl in him,
that word was the  only one he could get out. "What did my wife ever
do to her?" The anger was in his voice  now.

Shea looked up. "Your wife killed her son," he said simply. 


Mulder felt his jaw working. "John Fagan?" he bit out. "He was Anna
Simms Collin's  son?"

The old man nodded. "Aye. That's the name he went by. To protect the
family. His real  name's Samuel John Collin, though only a few people
ever knew him by that name. And  even fewer ever knew hers. One of the
oldest families in Northern Ireland, and probably  the most wealthy,
most well-connected. She's got access to people everywhere - militias,
government at every stage. Sinn Fein. IRA. Even dirty Brits, I've
heard said. She's the  one who's been after your wife." 

As he saw Mulder begin to speak, he amended: "Well, not her, per se,
but Christie. John's  brother Aidan's son." 

"My wife didn't kill John Fagan," Mulder said. "Though I wish to
Christ she had. Mae  Curran killed him."

Shea looked up, surprised. "...Mae?" His voice was faint. 

"Yes, MAE," Mulder said, furious. He could feel fire behind his eyes.

"I can't believe she'd do that," Shea said, shaking his head. "I can't
think of anything that  would make her. Leaving her brother when he
went 'round is one thing, but killing  someone she'd known since she
was a girl? No. I can't think of a thing that would make 
her do such a thing."

That was it. Mulder felt something in him draw thinner and thinner and
then snap.

"How about walking into an apartment and finding Fagan about to rape
my wife?"  Mulder roared. "Rape her AGAIN, I should say!"

He felt like he'd just breathed flame into Shea's face. He saw Shea
blanche, and Mulder  felt, vaguely, Skinner's hand close around his
forearm.

Too late. The fury was already rushing out of him in a seething wave.

"Scully could barely fucking STAND when he was done with her, Mr.
Shea, and I thank  GOD Mae Curran found it in herself to break your
goddamn 'code of honor' and send that son-of-a-bitch straight to
Hell." 

"Mulder," Skinner said through grit teeth. "Lower your voice, for
Christ's sake." 

Shea had paled visibly under the onslaught of Mulder's words, and as
Skinner silenced  them, Shea's fingers worried his hat. They were
shaking faintly.

"You have my apologies," Shea said. "I misspoke and I regret it."

Mulder jerked his arm away from Skinner, composing himself. 

Don't drive him away, he said to himself. This is it. There won't be
any more chances for  this.

"No, I'm sorry," he said, breathing out a calming breath. "What Fagan
did...it's not your  fault. I have no right to take that out on you."

Mulder watched Shea's face as his eyes returned their gaze to the rug,
the window,  anywhere but Mulder's face. 

"Things got out of hand," he said, as though to himself. "Everyone
knew they were out of  hand. We didn't know how much until Washington,
though. Until the Embassy. And the  deaths in Richmond. Even then I
couldn't believe it. Until I saw what Owen was willing 
to do to Mae in that canyon. Then I knew he was too far gone to
save."

Mulder gaped, understanding flooding him. 

"It was you," he said quietly. 

Shea looked up as though caught. 

"Aye," he said just as softly. He nodded toward Mulder's torso. "And
I'm frankly  surprised you survived that shot to the belly, Mr.
Mulder. You're sturdier than me." 

Mulder touched his stomach, the crescent of scar there beneath his
shirt. He looked at  Shea with a new, and grateful, respect.
 
"Where?" Skinner snapped before Mulder could reply. "Where are they?
The Collinses."

Shea met Skinner's eyes, hesitating. Then he seemed to come to his
final decision, his  voice tired as he spoke. 

"I know exactly where Anna Simms is," he said. "In Antrim. I'll draw
you a map to show  you the way."

"I'll go get Neill and Renahan," Skinner said, grabbing his pistol and
its holster from the  foot of the bed.

"Don't go alone," Shea said, pinning Skinner with his eyes. "Trust me
on that. Take a  bloody crowd with you if you're going that way." 

Skinner nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Shea," he said. "We owe you a great
debt. This must be  dangerous for you, being here and telling us these
things." 

Shea shrugged. "They'll let me be," he said, his voice unreadable. 

"I hope you're right," Skinner said, and he went out the door, closing
it hard behind him. 

Mulder turned to gather his gun from the dressing table by the wall,
but Shea's voice  behind him stopped him.

"Mr. Mulder."

Mulder turned to look at him, not liking the sound of his name.

"Christie Collin," Shea said, looking grim, "is, from what I
understand, on his way to  New Mexico. Someplace called Farmington."

Mulder's heart went into free-fall in his chest. 

"Nearly there by now, I'd guess," Shea continued into Mulder's shocked
silence. "And  this time, he'll be sure not to make any mistakes." 


*****


ST. FRANCIS REGIONAL MEDICAL CENTER
FARMINGTON, NEW MEXICO
10:05 a.m.


She'd dreamed of horses.

Black horses, white horses, the horses the color of buckskin. She'd
dreamed of them  running across an open field of flowers, then dreamed
of herself standing in the middle of  a tightly gathered herd on a
wide expanse of snow, all of them white except a lone, ink-
black mare on which she'd sat, the white horses with their backs
facing a stiff wind while  she and the black mare faced it. She
remembered the tickle of the horse's long mane  against her hands. 

She'd dreamed of riding a paint horse through a river of what looked
like blood. She  remembered drowning in it. 

Scully sat on the edge of her hospital bed, dressed now in the clothes
that Mae had  brought the night before for her discharge this morning.
She wore her clothes like armor:  Mulder's sweatshirt, maternity jeans
that were growing a bit too small around her belly,  her brown boots
with heavy socks so that the boots felt almost too tight. 

She'd come in with nothing, and she would be leaving with only a small
plastic bag of the  hospital's toiletries, a smaller bag inside with
sedatives and vitamins, the phone number  of Dr. Kitman and the
medical center's emergency line. 

Inside herself she carried a larger load - terrible memories that were
too clear of Mulder's  body sprawled out on a scuffed convenience
store floor and her daughter's anguish, and  beyond that some
recollection of the Hosteen's barn and blood on her face and on her 
hands.

She clutched the bag closer to her, pushed a long strand of hair
behind her ear, forcing  herself into some semblance of composure.
Hosteen was on his way to take her back to  the reservation, and she
would not let him see her unraveled or as heavily burdened as 
she felt inside. 

Mulder was on his way, she imagined, and she wanted him to see even
less of it. At least  until she figured out the best way to tell him
about the things she'd seen, and what she  thought they could mean.

 
"Dr. Scully?" a voice called from the crack in the doorway, knuckles
rapping softly on  the door's thick wood. 

"Yes?" she called, and a head popped through the door, a friendly
smile on the young  man's face. He wore scrubs and a stethoscope and a
lab coat sewn with his name and the  words "Internal Medicine." He
wore the exhausted pallor and carriage of a resident that 
she could recognize from a mile away. She smiled at that.

"Hi, Dr. Scully," he said, coming forward with a chart and his hand
outstretched. She  took it and he squeezed. "I'm Dr. Ames. Dr. Kitman
asked me to check and make sure  you were clear on your discharge
instructions before you left us." He gave a shy smile. 
His face, beneath his short-cropped hair, was flushed. "I know for a
physician such as  yourself that probably sounds silly, but...procedur
es, you know." 

Scully smiled. "I understand, Doctor," she said, bemused. "I
understand everything he left  in the discharge instructions."

Dr. Ames looked down at the bag beside her on the bed. "And you've got
everything you  need from us?"

She nodded. "Yes. Medications...a few things..." She trailed off. 

He nodded, crossing his arms over the chart and pressing it against
his chest. "How do  you feel?" His voice was pitched low and gentle,
and it renewed the vulnerable feeling  she'd been fighting with all
morning. Kindness had a way of doing that.

She looked down, away from his knit brows, his concerned face. 

"I'm all right," she said. "Much better than last night."

"You sure you're ready to leave us?" he asked. He reached out and
touched her hand. "Dr.  Kitman told me where you're staying and I
worry about that, to be honest."

Scully smiled. "The Hosteens are more than attentive," she replied.
"Trust me. From what  I understand I made record time getting here
from the reservation. I'm just glad I was  unconscious for the ride."

Ames laughed. "I can imagine," he said, amused. He looked at his
watch, a huge, battered  piece on his thin wrist. "I've got to
continue on with my rounds. But I did want to make  sure you had
everything you need before you left us." 

He reached out his hand and she took it, the smile still on his face.

"Be well, and good luck to you, Doctor," he said softly, his eyes
going over her face. 

"Thank you, Doctor," she said softly, quirking a smile at their shared
title.

"To you both, that is," he added, and his hand left hers and touched
her belly lightly  before he turned and left.

Scully sat there as the intercom called for a doctor to pick up a
line, as the staff moved  the cart down the hall that would take her
untouched breakfast away. She smoothed her  hand over her belly, her
eyes down as the baby turned beneath her palm.

"Agent Scully?" 

It was a tiny, faintly familiar voice. A child's voice. She jerked her
head up in surprise.

Sean Curran stood there in the doorway, his hair still damp from a
shower. He wore a  Cardinals sweatshirt and a pair of jeans that
actually seemed to fit. 

"Sean?" she said, staring at him. Had he actually spoken? Part of her
wondered if she'd  imagined hearing her name.

"Aye," Sean replied. "Mr. Hosteen told me to come up and tell you he's
got the truck out  front and someone was on the way to fetch you. He's
keeping it running so that it won't  be so cold when you get in."

Scully looked at Sean, at the redness of his eyes, the tiny pocks of
what looked like burns  dotting his face. 

Thank God, she thought as a smile spread on her face. 

"Thank you, Sean," she replied. "And it's good to see you again." 

Sean gave her a shy smile, his eyes going down. "Thanks," he said in
his small, lovely  voice, and he turned and walked away.

**

Outside, the back lot, Christie Collin was out the glass doors and
moving through the  parking lot, the white lab coat he'd stolen
flapping behind him, his shoes - encased in  surgical covers - making
no sound as he walked. 

The scrubs fit him nicely. He would keep them when he stopped to
change his clothes,  when he tossed everything else away.

He reached his rental, picked up at Four Corners Regional not an hour
before, his bags  tucked safely in the back. 

The Yellow Pages were open on the seat, a map of Farmington he got
from Avis beside  it. The page was open to "Home Repair and Lawn," an
address circled in a large red loop.

A stop at Home Depot. 

At the library for Internet White Page access. 

A drive into the desert.

He was almost there. 


*****


OVER THE ATLANTIC OCEAN 
BOUND FOR ANDREWS AIR FORCE BASE
11:09 a.m.


It was something like flying in a packing crate, though the cargo
transport plane had been  fitted with some seats against the walls
that approximated the skeletons of airline seats,  their seats
retracting into the walls, and the seatbelts fitted over the shoulder
as well as  the waist. It was the noise that was the most striking
difference, the plane's huge engines  coming through the steel walls
much more clearly than they did through a passenger jet's 
and making Mulder feel like his brain was vibrating in a pan.

He was far from complaining, though. Rosen had given the Royal Air
Force a call after  he'd received Skinner's update on the information
from James Shea, and the R.A.F. had  been good enough to oblige with a
seat on the first plane leaving Belfast for the States. 

The plane's innards were filled with crates, pieces of airplanes. A
few soldiers lounged or  slept, all wearing headphones, in the seats
around him. For his part, Mulder sat in the  clothes he'd been wearing
plus a flight jacket loaned from the military on the ground, 
Belfast soaked with rain as the helicopter that had fetched him from
Ballycastle had  touched down on the tarmac, wind from the chopper
sending Mulder into a crouch as he  scrambled with the M-1 Liaison
who'd met him on the ground.

"Agent Mulder," the man had shouted as they moved through the rain.
"Director Rosen  said he's waiting on the other end for you and doing
what he can." 

"'Doing what he can'?" Mulder yelled back as the plane's pilot draped
the leather and  wool jacket across his back. "What the hell does that
mean?"

The M-1 man shrugged. "Something about tribal jurisdictions or some
lot. I didn't get it  all, to be frank. He had to get off to handle
some rot with M-1 and the blokes heading to  Antrim. Sounded a bit
upset about the whole thing, I'd say."

Mulder shook his head remembering it, blew out a breath, leaned his
head against the  chair's uncomfortable rest. This was the part he was
worst at - things requiring a level  head, patience, and acceptance of
things outside of anyone's control, things like time and 
distances.

He'd like to meet a person who could handle them, he thought, turning
his head to peer  out the tiny window by the cargo bay door and seeing
nothing but water beneath. He'd  punch that person right in the
teeth.

He saw a man coming down the narrow corridor between him and the
crates, stepping  over the sleeping soldiers' outstretched legs. He
was wearing his flight gear, a pair of  sunglasses in his hand.

"Agent Mulder," he said, his voice sounding too quiet to Mulder's
noise-acclimated ears.  The man leaned toward Mulder's face as he
spoke again. "If you'll come to the cockpit,  we've got a line for
you. Director Rosen is waiting to speak to you."

Mulder nodded, unbuckled, and followed the man toward the front. As
they reached an  area where they could stand side-by-side, the plane
hit a patch of turbulence that nearly  knocked both men off their
feet. Mulder ended up catching himself against a crate.

"All right?" the pilot called.

Mulder nodded, pushing himself off the crate. "What is all this
stuff?" Mulder called,  indicating the crate. "I didn't know Great
Britain had a base in the U.S." 

The man laughed. "Not since 1775, if I recall," he replied. "Jet
parts. Some yours and  some ours. The RAF does a lot of cargo flights
for the Yanks."

"I'm sure glad of that," Mulder continued as they kept moving toward
the plane's front. 

The plane bucked again and the man steadied Mulder again. "That's one
of us," he said as  the plane narrowed into a small corridor, the
cockpit's entrance open and a few feet from  where they stopped.

"Here," the airman said, reaching for a set of fat headphones on a
hook. They had a mike  attached with a bulbous foam end. "You should
be able to hear him fine, but you'll have  to shout for him to hear
you, all right?"

Mulder's voice was getting hoarse as it was, so he simply nodded and
took the  headphones, setting them tightly on his head. The airman
threw a switch and the earpads  stuttered to life.

"Director Rosen?" Mulder asked.

"I can hear you, Agent Mulder," Rosen's jowly voice came back. They
didn't call him  "The Godfather" for nothing. "But just barely." 

"I'm sorry, sir, but this was the best they could do. I appreciate you
contacting me." At  another pocket of turbulence, Mulder braced
himself against the wall again. "Are agents  on the reservation yet?"

A puff of static, then: "No, not yet."

"Why not?" Mulder called back. He could feel anger pricking in his
chest. 

"Let me start by telling you we've been trying to contact both Albert
Hosteen and Victor  Hosteen, but we've gotten a voicemail at one and
nothing but ringing at the other. We're  continuing to try to get
through to either of them and to Agent Music, though we're 
hampered by a cell phone dead-zone on the reservation, which I think
Mr. Granger told  you about."

"Yeah," Mulder said. "He told me. What about the F.B.I. there in New
Mexico?" The  plane rumbled around him.

"There are only seven agents in Albuquerque, Agent Mulder, and five of
them are in  Phoenix at the moment helping on a serial murder and
immigration case. The two left I've  told to stay put there while I
scramble agents from Arizona. They're on their way, but I 
can't let them or any other federal or state authorities enter the
reservation without tribal  consent."

"What?!" Mulder shouted. He was glad he had to shout to be heard
because he would  have been doing it anyway. "That's ridiculous! Don't
they know--"

"We've contacted the tribal council but they won't do anything until
they speak to Albert  Hosteen, whom, as I've said, we've been unable
to reach. We've put in a request for the  tribal police to go out to
the ranch themselves and try to contact him, but they're still 
considering the proper course of action to take."

"'The proper course of action'?" Mulder shouted. His fury, for the
second time that day,  reached his boiling point. "For Christ's sake,
do you think someone could climb in a  covered fucking wagon and head
over there--"

"Agent Mulder," Rosen interrupted, his tone dangerous. "I don't know
if you were  sleeping that day in school, but you *do* know that the
Federal Government was  *generous* enough to give the Navajos that
land."

Mulder rolled his eyes. "Yes, sir, I'm aware--"

"And maybe you were also sleeping when they were teaching you about
the Federal gaffe  at Wounded Knee at the Academy."

"No, sir, I know all about that," he said sourly. "But I would think
under the  circumstances--"

"Agent Mulder," Rosen interrupted again. "I know this is hard for you,
but there are a few  things to remember here. The first is that the
Navajo Tribal authorities don't have the  slightest idea what 'the
circumstances' are at the Hosteen ranch. This was not done with 
their approval, if you'll recall, in order to keep Agent Scully's
whereabouts as confidential  as possible, and they're frankly a little
suspicious, which I can't blame them for."

"Sir, I--" Mulder tried, but Rosen was rolling.

"The second is that though you've spent much of your career with the
F.B.I. trying your  best to circumvent proper procedure, I didn't get
to be the Director of it by doing that.  And some of the procedure I'm
dealing with right now is completely new ground, for the 
Bureau and for the various outside organizations involved. I've been
on the phone this  morning with Scotland Yard, M-1, the Navajo Tribal
Council, the New Mexico State  Patrol and Counter-Terrorism in
Northern Ireland. So you'll forgive me if this isn't going 
at your preferred pace." 

"And while you go forth and part the Red Tape," Mulder spat, "Christie
Collin is going to  waltz right onto the Hosteen ranch and get a clear
shot at Scully. And begging your  pardon, but considering how much he
escalated the second time, I think their luck is  about to run out." 

"Two officers from the Navajo Tribal Police are on their way out there
to take Agent  Scully and Mrs. Porter into custody," Rosen said. "Does
that satisfy you?"

"No, it doesn't," Mulder said. "This man's killed how many people? And
you're sending  two officers with no experience in terrorist--"

"I'm not sending anyone except the agents from Phoenix and the State
Police, all of  whom I *do* have jurisdiction over," Rosen jumped in
again. "The two-man team was  the decision of the Tribal Council. They
want both Agent Scully and Mae Porter off the  reservation at this
juncture. They don't want a Federal presence of any kind on their
land.  They don't want to be involved in this."

"Well that's fucking *great,*" Mulder replied, his cap finally popped.
"What the fuck--"

"This conversation's over, Agent Mulder," Rosen said, and the tone was
enough to cut  short Mulder's tirade. "I don't have time for your
emotionalism or your inability to  maintain professional distance from
this. And I'm warning you that when you land at  Andrews and you see
me standing there that you'd better have gotten more control of 
your temper and your tone."

"Or what?" Mulder shot back. "I'll wake up one morning with a fucking
horse head in my  bed?"

The line snicked off, static filling his ears.

Mulder took the headphones off and hung them hard on their hook, his
jaw working as  the plastic set swung back and forth.

"Fuck..." he said again, closing his eyes and drawing in what he hoped
was a calming  breath.

Rosen was right. His emotions were nothing but in the way, in his and
Rosen's and  Scully's. 

He knew Rosen was right about all of it. And that's what pissed him
off the most.


*****

THE HOME OF ANNA SIMMS COLLIN
ANTRIM, NORTHERN IRELAND
UNITED KINGDOM
11:12 a.m.


"You're bringing new meaning to the saying 'the wearing o' the green,'
Mr. Skinner,"  Renahan said softly, a fit of chuckles taking him.

Skinner looked down at his knees and thighs, his soaking wet jeans
smeared with enough  chlorophyll for him to be able to make his own
food for a month. He'd just scrabbled,  crab-like, down from where the
head of the Irish Counter-Terrorism Unit called in by  Rosen was busy
talking on a walkie-talkie, Skinner finally having procured one of the
devices after much teeth-baring and beating of his chest. 

Now he was leaning up against a stone wall that was older than any
structure in the  United States, a symbolic barrier between the
Collin's property and the neighbor's land.  As near as Skinner could
figure, the Collin property took up most of this half of the town. 
The round, white stones had tumbled in a few places, leaving ragged
openings in the  view toward the house. 

"Very funny, Ed," he replied, looking through one of the gaps to look
at the stately Collin  mansion, a slight wisp of smoke coming from one
of the house's five chimneys. 

Neill was next to him in a windbreaker whose waterproof qualities had
long since given  in to the rain. The small Scotland Yard group had
seen fit to give Renahan one of their  jackets, one very much like the
one Skinner would typically wear, with the Scotland Yard 
insignia hidden in a rip-away back flap. As it was, his suitcase
floating in some Lough  across the countryside, Skinner was left with
the long-sleeved green shirt Mulder had  worn the day before and a
shitty light jacket of Neill's, his F.B.I. badge hanging from a 
dog-tag chain around his neck. 

The rain continued, pattering on Renahan's jacket, on the wall,
dotting his glasses. He  kept his eyes on the house.

From his right, Neill was moving along behind the wall, crouched down
so that his  movements were hidden from anyone who might be looking
from the house. He'd been  looking at the structure from a dozen yards
down, looking to see if there were any  entrances in the back. 

Skinner had said he was a townsman who'd been helping him on the case.
He hadn't told  Manny Greaves, the head of the Scotland Yard
contingent, Neill's name. Renahan hadn't  breathed a word about it,
either.

"What did you see?" Skinner asked. He kept his voice low, though they
were far enough  from the house that it would take a gunshot for
anyone to know there anyone - much less  40 Anyones - there.

"There's a back door all right, and a stable set far off the back.
Some gardens on the  grounds, it looks like." Neill licked his lips.
He looked as nervous as Skinner felt. 

Skinner nodded and relayed the information into the walkie-talkie,
Greaves giving a  bored "affirmative" to the news. 

"What are you planning?" Neill asked. 

Skinner scowled. "Well, Greaves wants to be a fucking hero and get
people up on the  roof. I think he's been watching too many movies
where the SWAT team heads into  everyone's bedrooms with their nuts
tied up with rope and glass breaking everywhere."

Renahan snickered. "Too right."

Skinner continued. "But I told him I don't see any sign of weapons or
anything overtly  threatening. From what they could find on her at
M-1, Anna Simms Collin is nothing but  an 89-year-old widow who has a
shitload of money and enough property to start her own 
country. The medical information they found on her from NHS says she's
wheelchair- bound. I don't see any reason to go swinging in there like
a bunch of apes." 

"Is that all she is?" Neill said, his eyebrows climbing into his short
bangs. "A little old  lady who's driven to Mass on Sundays? Let's not
lose our heads, Mr. Skinner." 

"And let's not turn into a bunch of fucking paranoids either," Skinner
shot back, talking  through his teeth. "The one who's been doing all
this in the States flying the Friendly  Skies over South Buttfuck,
Arkansas as we speak. I'm thinking this is the person signing 
the checks. I'm not going in there with my gun blazing like we're in
an Arnold  Schwarzenegger movie."

"I have to agree with Mr. Neill," Renahan said, leaning up. "This
isn't any time for  looking like we're prancing around like a bunch of
poofs. We don't know who or what  could be in that house, Mr. Skinner.
But I wager that Mrs. Collins isn't as innocent or  unprotected as
that old house makes her look. I'd wager everything I've got." 

Skinner watched Neill look over at Renahan with a cross between
gratitude and surprise,  this being, in Skinner's memory, the first
time the two had agreed on anything yet. 

"What do you two recommend then?" he asked. "Whatever it is, I want to
do it, and  quick. Between the way the underground rumor mill runs
around here and this  goddamned rain, I'd rather go soon than late." 

Renahan looked at Neill. "The three of us up front. The armed force
behind."

Neill nodded, the two seeming to come to some understanding.

"The front of what?" Skinner asked. His trigger finger was itching.
"The front of the  house?"

"Aye," Neill said, looking from Renahan to Skinner's face.

"You mean go up and ring the fucking doorbell?" Skinner asked. 

"Yep," Renahan said, smiling. He seemed pleased.

"And say what exactly?" Skinner asked. 

Renahan chuffed. "We don't say much of anything. We tell her she's
under arrest and we  get her out of there. As fast and as gently as we
can manage it. The way we do this is  going to determine how many of
us live long enough to take afternoon tea." 

"Now you *are* being paranoid," Skinner scoffed.

"I don't think so, Mr. Skinner," Neill said, looking toward the house.
"The majority of the  worst things I saw in the IRA, the Path...Curran
and Fagan and that whole lot...it all  started in this house from what
Shea said. The worst of it, the personal things...it all 
came from here. If it were John Fagan in that house, how would you
proceed?" 

Skinner thought about that, relented. "With armor plating on my ass,"
he admitted. 

Neill nodded, and Renahan pushed himself up a bit from the wall, his
feet under him. 

"Let's do it, Mr. Skinner," he said, looking at Skinner. "I've been
waiting my whole  bloody life for this." He turned to Neill. 

"Let's get it done."

**

11:35 a.m.


Skinner wondered what the three of them must look, Renahan looking for
all the world  like he'd been sleeping under a bridge, his face up
toward the rain; Neill walking a couple  of steps behind them like a
ghost who'd rather be haunting anywhere else; and Skinner 
himself leading them up the circular drive to the house with his gun
drawn, his badge out,  and enough mud and grass on him to make it look
like he'd tumbled end-over-end  through the archway at the road and
right up the place. 

He was watching the windows, their gauzy white curtains still and
closed as eyelids. He'd  seen no movement from the house, no sound, as
they approached, no sound around them,  in fact, but the rain. 

Even the Scotland Yard tactical officers, the Irish C-T, didn't make a
sound as they  pressed against the gates and trees behind them, moving
up a bit as the three of them  neared the stone steps. Skinner heard
the occasional tussle of feet on the gravel, the sound 
of Kevlar pressing quick against something being used for cover, and
that was it.

"Spooky," he said under his breath. 

"Aye," Neill agreed. Renahan said nothing, and Skinner quickened his
pace, going up the  steps two at a time. 

The door was immense, a Celtic cross carved into its face. The
doorbell was a ornate gold  button as large as a fist. 

Skinner looked at the other two, who nodded, and reached out, pressing
the bell with his  thumb. 

They heard the heavy sound of the chime inside, and waited. 

And waited some more.

"She knows we've come," Neill said softly.

"How do you know?" Skinner said. His heart had started playing Zepplin
in his chest.  "There might just not be anyone home."

"No, he's right," Renahan said, his voice just above a whisper.
"There'd be a butler or  maid, even if Collin wasn't home. A house
like this never has nobody at home." 

Skinner looked at the door. "So you think she's on the run?"

He watched the two look at each other, and Neill shook his head. 

"Try the door."

Skinner did as Neill said, reaching for the enormous knob, and as he
touched it the door  pushed open with an ancient creak. 

The door wasn't closed at all, Skinner realized. 

"Come on in and take off your skin and rattle around in your bones,"
Renahan said under  his breath, and Skinner shushed him, his gun
raised. He fumbled in his jacket pocket for  the small walkie-talkie,
pressed the button on the side.

"It looks like we were expected," he said into the mouthpiece, barely
audible, addressing  all the men in their headsets. "We're going in."

As he released the button, and a tiny voice leaked from the speaker.
"Right behind,"  Greaves said, and an "aye" followed the sound -- it
was Sheen, the commander of the  Irish C-T.

Skinner nodded toward the door and stepped inside, Renahan and Neill
following. 

They stepped into a giant entrance foyer of stone as old as the
barrier walls, a huge stone  staircase in front of him going up to a
landing for a second floor, and a third above that.  The walls were
hung with what looked like medieval tapestries, red and gold, and 
paintings that were big as picture windows themselves. 

He wanted to make some snide comment about it all, but frankly he was
impressed. The  people who lived in this house knew something about
history. The family had clearly  lived through most of it inside the
walls of this house.

"Lovely," Neill whispered beside him, echoing his thoughts. It was
hard not to be both  intimidated and impressed. 

The house was silent, except...

Music. There was music playing from one of the upper floors. Skinner
could hear the  sound of a fiddle in it, a guitar beneath. 

He pointed toward the staircase with the barrel of his gun, nodding,
and started up the  steps. 

On the second floor landing he noticed that the places where oil lamps
had set in the wall  in some previous age were still there, now set in
with dim electric lights. On the third  floor landing, on which
started a thick, beautiful rug, he saw more of them, the lights' 
wires running along the stone just above his feet. 

He could hear the teams' boots squeaking far below them now, the
clamor of equipment.  He hesitated a moment with Neill and Renahan
until he heard his walkie-talkie hiss that  the first floor was
secure, no one there.

The music was coming from the end of the hallway, a large door cracked
open, a fire -  the source of the smoke they'd seen outside -
crackling in the fireplace in the room  beyond. 

"Fucking "Danny Boy," Renahan whispered from beside him, and Skinner
listened for a  beat. 

Renahan was right, and Skinner's lip quirked. It had to be a joke. 

"Careful," Neill breathed. "Careful now." 

The walkie-talkie buzzed again. Second floor secure. No one home.

The three of them started down the hall, the rug making the approach
soundless, the  whole place - save the music - quiet as a grave. 

They'd reached the door when a woman's voice reached through the
door:

"Come in, gentlemen." 

Skinner's heart was somewhere in the region of his Adam's apple at the
sound. The  woman's voice sounded like a parrot's, cracked and somehow
inhuman and too frail.  Neill's face looked like Skinner imagined his
own did, and even Renahan's eyes were  wide as moons. 

He pushed the door and the three of them stepped inside the too-hot
room. 

Antique furniture gathered around a fireplace six feet high. Chairs
hunkered around the  room with no one in them. A silver tea service on
a cart.

And beside the cart, a woman in a black dress, her hair a shock of
white, in an electric  wheelchair. It whined as she turned to face
them at the opening of the door.

She looked at them, her face a pleasant, almost welcoming smile. Were
it not for the fact  that she looked like she'd been in a tomb for 10
years, Skinner might have been tempted  to smile back.

"Mrs. Collin?" he said. He didn't lower his gun as he stopped a few
feet from the woman,  Neill and Renahan taking up places on either
side of him. 

"Yes," the woman said, nodding. She had a teacup in one hand, and the
other had moved  from the control stick for the chair to a black box
covered with buttons beside it. She was  stroking the buttons like
cat.

"Anna Simms Collin?" 

The woman nodded again patiently. 

"Yes," she said more slowly, as though Skinner wouldn't understand. 

Skinner looked around the room. "Are you alone here, Mrs. Collin?" he
asked, and the  woman nodded again.

"Yes."

The entire bleacher section of Skinner's head that was assigned to
wave red flags started  up en masse now, the hair coming up on the
back of his neck. 

"Mrs. Collin, my name is--"

"Walter Skinner," she interrupted, putting the teacup down on the cart
beside the sugar  dish. "Federal Bureau of Investigation. And Mr.
Renahan, formerly of Scotland Yard." 

Her smile vanished as she looked to Skinner's right. 

"And you have no idea how it disappoints me to see you here, Eamon
Neill." 

Neill had grown very still. 

The music was coming from a record player twirling a '45. As it
reached the paper of its  label the arm rose and jerked itself
backward, settled down on the edge of the vinyl with a 
scrape again. 

"Mr. Neill can tell you, Mr. Skinner," Collin wheezed, "that it's not
our way to go into  custody. Especially not a woman of my stature and
advanced age." 

The music was whirring out of the four-inch speaker, the song
maddeningly scratched  and sentimental. 

"We're not going to make it out of here," Neill said. 

Skinner turned to look at him, at the look on his face. His arm came
up and he was  pointing, and Skinner followed his finger to Anna Simms
Collin's hand, the row of  buttons, her finger choosing one as Skinner
looked.

Skinner's eyes bulged. Everything he'd eaten for a week was suddenly
surrounded with  water and rushing South.

He fumbled for his walkie-talkie. 

"Get everyone out of the house!" he called into it. "Get everyone
out!" He was moving  back as he said it, following Neill, who had
already started toward the door, tripping over  a chair as he ran. 

"Too late," Collin said, and her finger pressed down with a "snick."

The electric lights all buzzed, growing too bright. The bulb in the
lamp by the door blew  apart with a crash. 

Something like thunder started rolling from below them, and Skinner
grabbed Neill by  the collar, hauled him up.

"Get out!" he screamed above the growing noise. "Go on! Get out!"

But Neill had stopped, looking back the way they'd come.

At Renahan. Standing not five feet from Anna Simms Collin, the two of
them looking at  each other like statues, frozen in their place.

"Renahan!" Skinner shouted. "What the fuck--?"

The house shook around them, another sound rocking from the lower
floors. He could  hear glass breaking, men shouting beneath him.
Someone was yelling "fire," and  someone else screamed. The floor
bucked and Skinner was knocked off his feet, plaster  and stone coming
from the ceiling in a cloud of dust.

"RENAHAN!" 

It was Neill who'd shouted it, Neill who moved through the debris as
it fell, Neill who  grabbed Renahan by the arm and jerked him out of
the way as the chimney above the  fireplace gave way, an explosion
rocking them all again and the floor falling away, flame 
shooting from the fireplace, flame reaching out like a hand and
pulling Anna Simms  Collin down into the chasm the explosion left. 

Then Neill and Renahan were moving, hauling Skinner up. He felt their
hands on his  shoulders, though he couldn't take his eyes off the
woman - her dress and hair on fire - as  she tumbled away. 

"MOVE MOVE!" Skinner shouted.

The floor was disappearing as the three of them sped down the hallway,
rounding the  corner to the steps, giant segments of the ceiling
crashing down around them. Skinner  pushed Neill in front of him,
Neill's hand on Renahan, all three of them falling onto the 
second landing. 

The next explosion was so loud that if he'd hadn't been gasping for
breath the shock  would have cracked out his clenched teeth. The
ceiling began to fall.

Skinner felt himself falling down the second flight, sliding down. He
heard a scream and  looked up just in time to see a stone the size of
a chair hit Neill, pinning his leg.

Renahan had just managed to roll out of the way beside him, though he
was rolling, his  jacket on fire. He was peeling out of it with
inhuman speed. 

Seeing this, Skinner halted his slide and tried to climb, though fire
was coming from the  hallways beside the two men now, surging out.

"I'm coming!" he shouted, coughing as the landing choked with heat and
smoke.

"No, go!" Renahan yelled back. "Go!" And he reached over, grabbed
Neill and dragged  him from beneath the stone. He pushed Neill down
the landing toward Skinner, who  caught him enough to halt his slide.
Then Renahan was beside him, the two of them  hauling Neill up.
Skinner was vaguely aware of blood on his own face.

"Move move move..."

Skinner chanted it, the door in sight, men running toward it, men on
fire, men dragging  other men. The three of them hit the stone
landing, the tapestries aflame, and Skinner  threw himself toward the
doorway, hearing the house coming down all around him. He 
threw himself toward the light...

Someone grabbed him, a man in black and Kevlar. He heard the word
"fuck." 

Then he felt rain on his face. He felt the ground hard on his face,
heard a sound like the  heavens coming down. 

He heard Renahan laughing, and after a moment, Neill joining in.

Then he heard nothing. Nothing at all. 

******

ON APPROACH TO ANDREWS AIR FORCE BASE
MARYLAND
2:30 p.m.


The skies had been clear since the cargo plane had broken below the
cloud cover, and as  he craned his neck to look through the
portal-shaped window next to the cargo door,  Mulder looked, for the
first time in what felt like too long, down on the Capitol Beltway's 
Inner and Outer Loops teaming with traffic, at the plane's shadow
moving below on the  ground, and at the beginning of Spring beginning
to touch the city's fringes with green.

By the time he felt the landing gear groan down, his heart had picked
up speed and his  heel was bouncing off the floor in a staccato rhythm
indicative of stress. He needed to  move and move quickly, the flight
having seemed interminable. His ears were ringing  from the engine
sound.

By the time the plane touched down without a jolt onto the runway, he
was taking off the  shoulder strap, his hands squeezing his kneecaps.

As the cargo door opened, he was taking the steps before the gangway
had touched the  blacktop.

Rosen was waiting with a couple of agents in a dress shirt and black
pants and a tie blown  back. His usually impeccably neat hair was a
wind disaster. 

"Agent Mulder," he called, and he did not extend his hand toward
Mulder but rather  toward a ragtop Jeep with extra seats. Mulder met
his eyes and then looked away, tucking  his tall frame into the
vehicle as Rosen set himself in the passenger seat with his usual 
efficient ease. The other agents folded in next to Mulder, their faces
shielded from the  mid-day light with glasses the color of oil.

"Go," Mulder heard him call over the cargo plane's engines powering
down, the Jeep  bolting across the tarmac. Mulder could see where they
were headed - a fairly small jet  with the words "United States of
America" on the side in a bold, all-cap Serif font.

"We're getting no word from the Hosteen property," Rosen called.
Somehow the man  could still sound official and formal when he was
yelling over jet engine noise. "We think  the lines have been cut."

"Jesus H. Christ," Mulder spat, shaking his head.

Rosen continued as though he didn't hear. "The agents from Phoenix are
holding at the  airport in Farmington while we await tribal consent to
enter the grounds."

Mulder clenched his jaw, looking away. 

"It's a delicate situation, Agent Mulder, as I've said." 

Mulder didn't say what came into his head, but the look he gave Rosen
swore for him just  as effectively. He saw a vein come up in Rosen's
temple. 

"The two Tribal Police?" he snapped as the Jeep stopped with a jolt,
the agents piling out  and Mulder and Rosen bending at the waist as
the jet's engines started their shrill prep. 

"Nothing from them yet. They're coming up from Tohatchi, a town to the
south..."

Mulder stopped listening. He pulled a few steps ahead and went up the
gangway, taking  the steps two at a time, ducking to clear the doorway
into the cool cabin lined with  agents. He moved away from Rosen, who
was still speaking, toward an empty seat in the  back. 

Another space to cross, he thought, looking out the window. More hours
to pass.

"Agent Mulder," Rosen said, standing in the aisle next to his seat.
Mulder turned his eyes  from where they'd been burning a hole in the
tarmac and up toward Rosen's angry face.

"Sir?" he said. He'd said "fuck" with less venom in his time.

"I just told you Walter Skinner's been taken to a hospital in
Belfast," he said. "Or does  that not matter to you at all?" 

Mulder blanched. "What...?"

"He and Eamon Neill and Ed Renahan took a contingent of agents to
Antrim to the Collin  Estate. They found Anna Simms Collin there -
alone, it would seem - and the place  wired up through its electrical
system with enough TNT to blow the place to the Pearly 
Gates. Five agents - Irish and British - were killed when the house
went up. And Anna  Simms Collin is dead."

Mulder closed his eyes. Five more. Five more families with someone
ripped away.

"Skinner and the others?" he said, opening them again. The plane was
taxiing, Rosen  holding onto the bulkhead above Mulder's seat. 

"Neill lost a leg below the knee. Renahan, his spleen. Skinner's
banged up pretty badly  but he'll be all right in a couple of days." 

Mulder nodded as the plane stopped, angled its nose toward the
quickening and started to  move. 

Rosen moved slowly toward a seat, his voice carrying over the engines
as they built and  built. 

"A great many of us are putting ourselves on the line here as we think
of Agent Scully  and your baby, Agent Mulder," he said. "I don't think
it's too much to ask that you think  of us, as well."

Mulder looked out the window, avoiding the glances from the agents
around him.  Something in him relented, though it was hard to swallow
the ire. 

"I will," Mulder said, the agents looking away. 

Rosen nodded, sat down beside Gil Jackson from ATF, and the plane left
the ground. 


*****

NEAR THE CROSSROADS TO THE HOSTEEN PROPERTY
TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO
2:50 p.m.


Kyle Jenks looked at Toya Millston from the passenger seat of their
patrol car, the bladed  fan whirring on the dash, the radio buzzing
with a private conversation between the  dispatcher in Shiprock, a
woman named Bess, and Ella, the one in Sanostee, they'd been 
listening to since lunch.

"I like her voice," Toya said, smiling beneath his mirrored glasses,
the ones their  lieutenant made fun of for looking too stereotypical
and white.

"You like every woman's voice," Jenks replied, but he smiled as he
said it so that Toya  smiled back. 

"What do you know, eh?" the big man replied. "Toya" meant "Bull" and
Millston more  than earned the name. "Twenty-two years old and you
don't nothin' about women, do you  then? You can tell a lot by a
voice." 

"Oh yeah?" Jenks said. "What's this one like? This Bess?"

Toya pursed his lips, turning the final turn at the sign toward Two
Grey Hills. "Hmm..."  he said. "I'm thinking she's tall and has dark
hair and eyes, and skin the color of  pecans..."

Jenks laughed. "Man, you should go on television. Start your own show.
The Psychic  Indian Network. Next thing you know you'll tell me it
might rain." He pointed to the  gathering clouds on the horizon, and
Toya roared his big laugh. 

They drove a bit more, and finally reached a crossroads. "Looks like
we're coming up on  the place," Toya said, indicating the dead-end off
in the distance, a choice to turn left or  right.

"What do you reckon these women have done?" Jenks asked. 

"Hell if I know," Millston replied, slowing the patrol car as they
approached. "Though  what two white women are doing staying in an
Elder's place..."

Lieutenant Hopps hadn't said much when he'd sent them on the milk run
north, up to Two  Grey Hills where, as near as they could figure,
nothing had ever happened to anyone and  no cops hung out. Go pick up
two white women staying at the Hosteen place. 

"What for?" Toya had asked. His gut was getting a little big for his
chocolate-brown  uniform shirt, and his arms looked like tree trunks.

"I don't know," Hopps replied sourly. "It's come from the Tribal
Leadership, but they  won't tell me what it's all about. Watch
yourself just in case. Whole thing's strange."

Toya, the ranking officer of the two of them, made a show of looking
wide-eyed and  going for the buck knife he carried in front of his
service revolver at his belt. 

"Oh yeah. Two Grey Hills...we'll watch ourselves, right Jenk?"

Now they were stopping at the turning place, looking at a billboard
off to the right for  Smiley's Gas, "Three miles to the left" and
never closed. 

Beneath the billboard's chintzy supports, Jenks could see the black
half-circles of a small  car's tires.

"Someone's hid their car back behind there," he said, pointing, and
Toya leaned forward  to look. 

"Yea," he said. "Looks like that." He seemed to consider, leaning
back. 

"Let's have a look," he said, and pulled the car across the T of the
adjoining road, over  onto the scrubby brush and sand beyond. 

He stopped the car behind the American mid-size from Ugly Duck Rentals
in  Farmington, and the two of them got out. 

"Nobody home," Jenks said, looking at the car's driver's seat. 

Toya was moving slowly toward the car, and Jenks reached down and
unsnapped the  strap from the butt of his revolver, even though Toya
wasn't moving slow like he did  when he thought something felt out of
sorts. He walked all the way up the car's back  window, peered inside,
moved around the driver's side, looking in the windows.

Jenks came up to the trunk, looking around. 

"Smells like ammonia," he said, leaning close to the trunk. "You smell
it?" 

Toya was looking down at his feet at something brown at his feet.

"Cow shit," he said, sniffing. 

Now Toya was unsnapping the strap on his gun, looking around at the
desert. 

"Odd," he said, and Jenks nodded, looking around, as well. He caught
sight of a shape  moving off in the distance, coming from the
direction they had been heading when they  stopped. From where the
Hosteen place was supposed to be, a mile or so away. 

"Maybe he can tell us what's what," Toya said, and they waited as the
figure approached. 

He was a smiling young man with a colored backpack, yellow and green,
and big enough  to have him out for a week. His face was red and he
waved as he got closer, jeans and  black boots like jumpboots, a
T-shirt stained with sweat. 

"Hi, officers," he said as he came close to the car. "I'm sorry. Was I
not supposed to park  there?"

His accent was bumpkinish, Jenks thought, the guy's smile open and
vaguely dense. He  guessed the guy wasn't the sharpest stick in the
fire from the look on his face.

"No, not really," Toya said. He usually did all the talking and Jenks
let him at this.  " You know you're on private land?"

The man came up to the car, shouldering out of the huge backpack. It
was crushed in in  some places, clearly nearly empty. Jenks could tell
by the way he swung it with such ease  that it hardly weighed a thing.
The man went to fumbling with his keys in the pack's top 
flap, pulled out the rental key.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'll just go ahead and be on my way then. I
didn't mean any harm.  It's just really pretty out here."

Jenks looked around, and Toya did, as well. Nothing for miles but
scrub-brush and tan  sand. Flat. Nothing to see.

 
"Most people like Chaco or Shiprock," Toya said, glancing at Jenks.
"But yeah, this is...  nice." 

Something was screwy, Jenks thought. Screwy on screwy, and Toya knew
it, too. He let  Millston take the lead on what to do next.

The man had the door open and he was putting the backpack inside. Toya
was coming  around the hood slowly, casually, and Jenks stayed near
the back. 

"Can I see some ID from you, sir?" Toya said, a few feet away now, and
the man finished  settling his things and stood, looking perplexed. 

"What for?" he said, and he did look genuinely confused now, like he
didn't know what  an ID was.

"Well, I'm just wondering what you're doing out here with nothing but
private houses  around, going around on foot carrying an empty frame
pack." Toya took a couple more  steps, and Jenks closed in, his hand
on his belt. 

"And your car smells like fertilizer and chemicals," Jenks added to
get the man to look  his way. "What can you tell us about that?" 

The man did look his way now, and Jenks felt his mouth go dry.

Gone was the vacant look in the blue eyes, gone the gaping mouth and
blank face. The  man looking back at him now was someone else
entirely, someone he didn't want to face.

In an instant the man had turned and had the buck knife out of its
sheath, the blade  flashing as it whipped up toward Toya's throat.
Jenks saw the slash like a huge, obscene  smile open up at his
friend's neck. 

As Toya fell, Jenks drew his weapon, but he knew it was too late. 

He only saw the man's arm move in an arc, impossibly hard and just as
fast. He heard  something whistling in air as he aimed his weapon,
then something cold and final thump  into his chest. 

**

VICTOR HOSTEEN'S RANCH
TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO
3:16 p.m.


Though Paul Granger loved the feeling of the sun coming through the
windows, slanting  in that way light only seemed to be able to in the
desert and falling on his bare back, and  though he loved the quiet of
the ranch - Victor and Sarah asleep and all the men gone, 
resting from their night - right now he could really only concentrate
on Robin beneath  him, on the pleasure of their lovemaking that was
ebbing inside him and ebbing across  her face. 

He could only concentrate on the way his heart was surging against the
cage of his chest,  how the pain was gone, how he somehow felt more
alive than he'd felt in so long he  could barely remember what it felt
like to feel alive, and to not be in grief or afraid.

"Oh God," Robin breathed against the side of his face, sweat slicking
both of them. He  was balancing on his arms on either side of her
head, her braids splayed out on the worn  pillowcase, and she was
crying. 

She breathed something that sounded like "I love you," and something
like "praise be."

When he'd returned with Victor, both of them covered with sore
scratches and stinking of  the bat's black bodies that reeked of
ammonia, he'd told Robin what he could recall of  what had happened,
what Victor had told him, the name.

"The Blessing Way," he said, and Robin looked at him as though he was
insane. 

"What I want to know," she said, dabbing at a cut across his face, a
series of claws' grazes  that stung as she touched. "Is why the hell I
couldn't come with you? If it's because I'm a  woman, I--"

Granger shook his head. "You wouldn't have believed it if they'd
brought you," he  interrupted.

"What is this? Indian Tinkerbell?" Robin snapped, and he shied away as
her hand slipped.  "I have to believe or--"

"No," he said, looking at her seriously. "You didn't. But I did." 

She stopped, meeting his dark eyes with hers. "And do you, Paul? Do
you believe?" Her  bravado had vanished like smoke. There was
something desperate in her face.

He nodded. "Yes. I can't begin to explain it, but I know that it's
right." 

And he'd moved to show her how he knew. 

Now, he rolled off of her, taking up his place beside her on the bed.
She curled into the  crook of his arm, her hand pillowed on his
shoulder, the shoulder where the scars - like a  map showing high
relief - had been, and where they weren't anymore. 

"Sleep," he said, kissing her forehead. "You can sleep..."

She nodded, drowsing already. His chest heaved an even, deep breath,
his eyes beginning  to close.

"Paul," she whispered. 

"Yes?" he replied, just as soft.

"I do believe," she breathed, and he smiled and fell asleep.

**

3:35 p.m.


In Mae's house, Frank Music was looking domestic as Scully entered the
house, standing  at the stove warming up something that smelled like
apples while Katherine banged on  her high chair tray at his back.

Albert Hosteen had driven her and Bo down after coming to her bedroom
where she'd  been laying since they'd returned from the hospital. He'd
been sitting in the den watching  Animal Planet, some show on osprey
on the Chesapeake Bay, and she'd lain there  listening to it,
pretending, as he drifted down the hall and back to look in on her,
that she  was asleep.

Finally, she heard his recliner creak again and his footsteps, closed
her eyes against the  light that was forcing its way through the
closed curtains, and his gaze. 

"I know you are not asleep," he said quietly.

"No," she whispered, hoarse. She had a blanket up to her chin and she
turned her head so  that it covered her lips. She felt impossibly
small beneath the blanket, as though she were  vanishing into the
blanket's folds. 

"You should talk to your friend," he said. "To Mae down at Victor's.
That makes me feel  better sometimes. Makes both of you feel better."
He paused. "Did Agent Mulder write  you back?" 

She nodded, but she didn't want to talk about the email she'd
received. Something about it  had troubled her, the curtness of it,
its tone.

(I'm on my way.)

She opened her eyes and blinked. 

"He's on his way," she parroted to Hosteen, and he seemed to sense
something bothering  her. 

"Hmm." He pushed the door open a bit more and came in, kneeling down
beside her  mattress to find her boots beneath the bed's swaybacked
frame. Bo, curled into a comma  on the rope rug by the window, raised
his head and whined. 

"My telephone is out," Hosteen said. "It happens often in the spring
after too much rain. I  need to speak to Victor. Come. You and Bo
should ride along."

There was no arguing with him. She pushed the cover back and put her
legs over the side  as though the movement caused her pain. 

Now Mr. Hosteen had taken Bo and gone to see Victor, and Scully was
smiling at Agent  Music, holding Katherine's warm, soft hand, glad
that she'd come.

"You look at home, Agent Music," she said, and her voice cracked from
fatigue. 

He turned his head and smiled, pointed to the pot with the wooden
spoon. "Home on the  range," he replied, and winked. She rolled her
eyes.

"Where's Mae?" she asked. "And tell me quickly before you feel the
urge to pun again." 

He laughed, and she welcomed the sound. 

"She's in the back with Sean," he said, and he sounded pleased. "Go
back and see." 

Scully looked toward the back and she could hear soft noises coming
from the second  bedroom, the small one Mulder had slept in alone for
all those weeks. A few steps down  the bare hallway and she peeked
around the doorway. 

Mae was on the floor, sitting leaned against Sean's bed, and Sean was
sitting between her  legs, using her body as a chair back, a book in
his hands. He was reading, and as Mae  looked up at Scully, she
smiled. Her eyes were rimmed with red. 

Happy tears, Scully realized. Finally someone had something good to
cry about...

"'Suddenly, one day, they came upon a stranger,'" Sean read, the words
stilted, as though  he were trying on a new voice. "'At first Crow and
Weasel didn't know who it was,  though they thought it might be
Mouse...'"

Scully smiled as she listened to him, as she looked at the shine of
cream on the burns on  his face. His voice was familiar and so lovely
to listen to. Something about it gave her  hope and respite and
something like relief. She closed her eyes and listened to him speak.

"'We come in peace,' said Weasel. 'Good!' said Mouse. 'I'm a peaceful
man.' 'We are  traveling north through these woods,' said Crow. 'I am
going west,' said Mouse. 'I am on a  vision quest...'" 

Listened...listened...

Then it began.

(A man...a young man in a backpack moving behind the barn...)

(Mae and Frank running...Mae and Frank and Katherine running...Mae on
fire...everything behind them on fire...the horses were screaming...)

She gasped and opened her eyes. Bile rose in her throat.

"Dana?" she heard Mae say. "What is it?"

(Albert Hosteen pushing her from the house..."Go!" he was shouting.
She looked at him  and everything behind him on fire...)

"Dana?!"

She staggered down the hallway toward the bedroom, choking in air. She
was going to  throw up. The smell of burning hair...

She felt hands close around her upper arms like vises, and a huge,
too-hard shake. 

"STOP IT!" Mae was shouting. "You have to stop it before it's too
late. Come on, Dana,  stop what you're seeing--"

Scully's eyes snapped from the flames, from the vision and its
screaming, its smell and its  pain.

"What?" Mae was saying, her face inches from Scully's. She was holding
Scully up with  her arms. "Tell me. What? What?"

Scully's chest was heaving. "Everything was on fire," she whispered.
She could see Sean  in the doorway. He didn't look afraid, but she
lowered her voice just the same. "The  ranch...the barn..." She looked
at Mae. "You. Mr. Hosteen." 

Mae's eyes widened. "Here? Was it here that was on fire?"

Scully nodded. "There was a man," she said. She had lost her voice. "I
saw him moving  around the barn in my mind. Then everything was on
fire... Mae, he's here. He's here."

Mae kept a hand on Scully as she went into the bedroom, pulling her
along. She reached  for the phone on the nightstand, put it to her
ear. 

Her face turned white. 

"It's dead," she said, and Scully looked to the window, the hall. 

"Mae--" 

But Mae was dragging her back to the hallway where Sean was standing,
his small fists  balled.

"Sean," she said. "Go get Victor and Mr. Granger," she said, and Sean
took off like a  shot. "Frank!" she yelled down the hallway toward the
kitchen. 

Scully could hear Music drop the spoon and his footsteps coming near.

"We've got to get out of here," Scully rasped, and Mae was nodding. 

"Yes," she said.

"Now, Mae," Scully said, tears coming. "We've got to run."


**

THE DESERT
4:12 p.m.


Albert Hosteen had stopped the caravan of the two pickups about a mile
from the ranch,  up over a rise where the road had taken them to a
place overlooking the ranch. He was  standing there with Victor, their
shoulders nearly touching, their hands in their pockets, a 
dozen feet from the pickups, both looking out over their land. 

Scully looked at them from the passenger window of Hosteen's pickup.
Granger had  gotten out of the truck's bed, half-shielding Scully from
the edge, holding tight to her  hand. Her face trailed tears, but she
didn't make a sound.

In the truckbed, Robin sat, her face a mask of anger, Sara Whistler at
her side. They were  both looking at the tiny shapes of the buildings
of Victor Hosteen's ranch, Sara worrying  Bo's black ear as the dog
began to pant.

Beside them, in Victor's truck, Mae held onto Sean. Frank Music was
holding Katherine,  the baby squalling faintly at the bumpy, fast
ride. He bounced her absently, his eyes on  the edge. 

"Forgive me," Scully whispered.

Far below them, all of the horses were free, run off by the men.
They'd driven them and  the sheep and the rest of the animals away as
quickly as they could manage, the Hosteen's  entire life and
livelihood scattered on the open desert like seeds.

They waited. Two minutes, then three. 

Scully pulled in a breath, her eyes seeing something down below the
others could not yet  see, and Granger gripped down on her hand.

Far below them, the deafening sound. 

The ranch lit up in plumes of orange and yellow with a tearing that
flew off the  mountains' craggy faces, the echo carried all around.
The flames and debris went up  toward the sky in columns of black
smoke that billowed like storm clouds in the air. 

A few seconds behind, another explosion rocked through the mountains,
Albert Hosteen's  house disappearing into ruin and flame.

Victor turned away from it, his face toward the ground. 

"Son of a bitch..." he breathed. "Son of a *bitch*..."

Albert Hosteen turned to face them all. No one, save Katherine, had
made a sound. 

"Now," he said, determination - and anger - in his voice. "Follow
me."


*****

OVER TULSA, OKLAHOMA
4:45 p.m.


He'd fought it all the way across the pond from Belfast, his body
jangled and wired and  his worry laying on him like a too-heavy cloak
for a hot season. But somewhere over  Arkansas, Fox Mulder had finally
fallen asleep, his forehead against the window where  the cold air of
altitude had painted the window on the plane's side with delicate
shapes of  ice. 

He didn't hear the three cell phones begin ringing simultaneously -
Rosen's, Jackson's  and Agent Fulstein from the Anti-Terrorism Special
Task. 

He didn't hear Jackson talking to Washington about reports on CNN
about a massive  explosion in New Mexico, with every regional agent on
the way. He didn't hear Fulstein  telling the folks at D.C. to go
ahead and fax - the plane - the information on Christopher 
Collin they'd just received from the Irish Special Forces. 

He didn't hear the conversation between Rosen and Ashkii Hok'ee, the
head of the Navajo  Tribal Council giving blanket permission for
agents to enter the reservation and go to the  site of the blasts as
fast as they could manage, or the apology and acceptance of 
responsibility the old man offered at the "regrettable delay." 

He didn't see Rosen come down the aisle toward him with his face ashen
and gray, the  usually unflappable Director gnawing on his lip, his
hands gripping the seat at the end of  Mulder's row with enough force
to rip. 

He didn't see Rosen turn and head back to his seat, having decided to
let the man have a  couple more hours of sleep before he exploded with
anguish and grief there in the plane  where he could do nothing. 

 A few more hours of a life where his wife and baby were still alive.


*******

THE KNIGHT'S INN
FARMINGTON, NEW MEXICO
APRIL 7
4:45 a.m.

Christie Collin sat on the edge of the bed smoking a Marlboro Red, the
cheap mattress  sagging under his slight weight, the corners of the
flat sheet tucked under the mattress'  corners pulling up. The
mattress was covered in plastic. He'd listened to it crumple all 
night.

He was naked, his legs splayed and his elbows on his thin knees. Smoke
curled up from  the cigarette in a gray line that spread into the air,
caught the window unit's fan and  disappeared like a ghost. 

"Fuck me," Bridget said from behind him. She'd made no sound on the
bed since the light  had started to seer the thick drapes, the room
taking on a bluish light. 

"No," he said, not looking at her. He was looking at the huge suitcase
he'd brought from  New York, the compounds inside packed with coffee
grounds that he could smell from  the bed. 

"Why not?" she asked. Her voice had taken on its hiss. "You don't
think I'm pretty  enough anymore, do you now?" He could hear her lips
slide across teeth as she grinned.

"Just not in the mood," he offered, and listened to her laugh. 

The box from Radio Shack was at his feet, the receipt with yesterday
afternoon's time and  date taped to its side. "In case you need to
return it," the clerk had said, and smiled. 

On the night table, the small police scanner's lights ran from one
edge to the other, a row  of fast-moving light. The small speaker had
been crackling all night, local police talking  to State Police, State
Police talking to ATF. Helicopters were buzzing all over 
Farmington, and he'd listened the entire night to the sounds of sirens
echoing down the  empty streets, heading southwest to Two Grey Hills.

It had been quieter since around 2:00 a.m. on the scanner, mostly
troopers talking back  and forth about personal things. One trooper
who'd been in the Gulf had talked for a bit  about what he imagined
was used on the ranch. 

The man had a good nose and a good eye, Christie'd thought, lying
there. He'd been right. 

Christie knew Mulder was there. A trooper had talked about "some Fed
storming around  screaming at everyone," "some man there looking for
his wife." 

"Ain't gonna find her in that mess," crackled out a trooper going off
duty in response.  "Not unless he's got a pair of tweezers. He'd have
to bury her in a matchbox." 

"But I want it," Bridget said from behind him, and he reached up and
touched the signal  dial, something to do with his hands. He didn't
reply.

"Don't you want me, Christie?" 

His cigarette had gone to ash, the cinder burning into the filter and
giving off a stink. He  stubbed it out in the ashtray, and finally
turned to look at Bridget's face.

Her white eyes started back at him, her skin gone rotted and flaking
off. Her head showed  through her hair, most it fallen out. He could
see the greenish skin around her breasts, her  nipples black as tar.
She pushed the blanket down and he could see the fetid rot of her 
sex. 

"No," he said softly, shaking his head. "No, I don't." 

The phone rang its shrill, chintzy ring. Two rings. Outside call. 

"Yeah," he said, holding up a finger to Bridget, who'd begun to speak.

"Christie, we're in a bad way." 

Seamus. Not her. 

Why not? Why not a call that things were finally finished? Why not a
promise of a plane  ticket to come back home? 

"Yeah?" was all he could think to say. 

"Aye," Seamus said. "The Feds found the house in Antrim, lad." He
paused. "I'm afraid  your grandmother's dead." 

He didn't move, didn't breathe. He looked around the room and nothing
seemed quite  right. 

Bridget began to laugh behind him, sounding nothing like a woman.
Nothing like  anything on earth. 

"You there, Christie?" Seamus asked. "We're doing what we can to get
you out, but they  know who you--" 

Christie heard the voice faintly as his arm, seeming independent of
the rest of him,  reached out to hang up the phone with a click. 

The scanner puffed out static and an excited man's voice came
through.

"Jessie?" it called. 

"Here, Ray," the dispatcher replied.

"You're not going to believe this, but there was no one home when the
Hosteen place  went up. The cadaver dogs, the Feds, Forensics...a few
livestock but that's it. No bodies.  Repeat, no bodies. They're
getting choppers and planes out in the desert looking. They 
think they're hiding somewhere east..."

They couldn't have known, he thought. His chest began to heave in
faster breaths. He'd  seen Scully asleep through the window, the old
man watching some show on TV. He'd  seen Mae Curran and some agent
with a gun on his belt laughing with a baby and a boy  he'd tried not
to see. He'd seen the darkie agent and his girl fucking through a
crack in the  curtains, and the younger Indian and his girl asleep. 

"They were there," he insisted. "I saw them. They were there." 

"Time to get you dressed," Bridget said from behind him, her reeking
hand on his bare  back. "Let's get you dressed in something special,
my love."

She cooed it, sounding sweet. He turned to look at her, quirked a
smile at the one on her  face. 

All I have left...he thought. All I have...

"Come on, love," Bridget whispered. "I know just what you should wear
for going out  again." And she leaned forward to give him a deep and
frozen kiss.


*****

THE DESERT
NAVAJO RESERVATION
TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO
5:55 a.m.


Like Hosteen, Ghost had always moved slowly and like an old man when
Mulder had  seen him. The horse never seemed in a particular hurry to
get anywhere, as though he  were deep in some sort of moving
meditation as he put one hoof in front of the other with 
Hosteen on his back. Mulder had always imagined him too old to move
quickly, an  elderly horse that the elderly Hosteen kept out of
fondness and habit.

But as he'd long suspected about Albert Hosteen, Ghost was proving to
not quite be as he  seemed. 

The sun was rising as one giant eye, deep orange, the color of fire,
the light bleeding  across the horizon and finally lighting up the
deep tracks Mulder'd been following with a  flashlight and desperate
instinct. The walkie-talkie he'd clipped to the waist of his jeans 
was crackling with voices, barely audible as he kept his eyes on the
tracks.

Beneath him, Ghost was running, his hard gallup so smooth he barely
seemed to touch  the ground. They were skimming along one side of the
deep ruts of pickup tires that dug  into the sand, the ranch far
behind them, and only Rosen's voice at his waist to remind 
him of it, that and the persistent smell of charred wood and ruin
clinging to him like  hands. 

Mulder pressed his feet more firmly in the stirrups, squeezed the
horse's gray sides as  Ghost angled around a small cluster of
sagebrush, darting left then returning right.  Mulder could hear the
animal's breath moving in and out like an engine, his hooves 
tapping out a sure, steady beat. 

"Come on," Mulder said to him. "Good boy...keep going...come on..."

The horse's ears flicked back to listen, and though Mulder figured it
his imagination, the  horse's pace seemed to quickened just the same.

The tracks led off in a direction he'd never been in, and he'd already
gone much deeper  into the desert than he'd ever been, into the
foothills of the mountains, up inclines more  steep than he felt
entirely comfortable climbing on a horse going at such a speed. The 
tracks had angled down again and they were heading for a flatter
section, and Mulder was  happy for the change. 

"Goddamnit, Agent Mulder, I want you to answer me..." 

Rosen's voice broke through the sounds of Ghost's running, and Mulder
ignored Rosen  again.

He'd ignored him first when Rosen had told him about a "cataclysmic"
explosion at the  Hosteen property but said it was "no guarantee"
Scully and the others had been caught in  the blast. Rosen had waited
to tell him until he'd woken up as they touched the ground at 
Four Corners Regional Airport in Farmington. As the plane taxied to a
stop, Rosen had  said this to him, only a few seconds before they
could deplane and get on their way. 

"cataclysmic...no guarantee..."

Mulder had gotten off the plane without saying a word, grief riding
the too-large back of  rage as he began to shake. He stood off to the
side as the other agents disappeared behind  doorslams into Government
cars, their engines already running, the tears burning, his 
heart feeling as though his chest had been hollowed out.

He closed his eyes. "Scully, please..." he whispered. He turned his
back on all of them,  his trembling hand covering his mouth. 

"Agent Mulder," Rosen had said from behind him on the tarmac. "Let's
try not to  overreact. We don't know anything yet, and whether you
believe it or not, the way this  has been handled is perfectly
correct. It would help everyone if you wouldn't follow your 
usual M.O. here and do or say something you'll later regret." 

Mulder dropped his hand to his side, it and its pair forming a fist. 

"Fuck you," he said, and before Rosen knew what was happening, Mulder
had swung and  punched him in the face. 

"Come on..." Mulder said, leaning up over the saddle's horn, his chest
nearly touching  Ghost's muscular neck. They'd hit the flat between
two foothills and it was bright enough  to see everything now in a
dim, reddish light. 

"Come on," he said to Ghost. It was time for speed. 
 
When he'd seen Albert Hosteen's house - what was left of it - still
burning in a  chemically spurred rage, he could only think of he and
Scully's lovemaking the morning  he'd left, how the baby's shape
curved beneath the blankets as though Scully were hiding 
a gift. He'd ignored Rosen the second time when Rosen had told
everyone to keep back,  the firemen from Farmington working with
chemical foam to put the fire out, and Mulder  had taken off toward
something at the center of the rubble that looked like a burning 
human shape.

The firemen had stopped him, not Rosen, who knew enough now to keep
away. 

He'd ignored him again as, after they'd worked through the night at
Victor's ranch, when,  standing at the edge of the crime scene teeming
with agents, he'd shone a light and seen  Ghost standing there in the
circle of his Maglite's beam, a pony pressed against his side.

Ghost was wearing a saddle, a multicolored wool blanket beneath, the
reins of his bitless  bridle tied to the horn. The pony's back was
bare, only a halter on its face. 

Mulder, covered in soot and ash, looked from Ghost and his saddle and
bridle to the  crime scene flooded with lights behind him. 

Everything was gone. Everything that had been on the ranch.

Mulder studied the horse again. Albert Hosteen rarely put a saddle on
Ghost, and when  he did, Mulder knew he never left it on him for long.
The horse didn't care for it, and  Hosteen said he didn't need it when
he rode the horse, the same way he didn't need a bit.

Mulder looked from the ruin, his eyes narrowing, to Ghost again.

The horse stood very still, looking back. 

"Ghost," he called to the horse, and the horse came forward, stepping
over rubble. The  pony following like a child.

Mulder glanced at Rosen, who was in a knot of agents giving him the
report of what  they'd found at Mae's place. He looked over with his
fat lip and his scowl.

Ghost stopped in front of Mulder and put his charcoal nose under
Mulder's outstretched  hand. Then Mulder looked at the saddle, at the
saddlebags on its back. He opened a flap  and reached inside.

There was a canteen full of water that he felt first. He pushed it
aside, digging.

And drew out a long strip of leather, its tag glinting in the
searchlights there in the dark  like a star. 

"Bo. Fox Mulder/Dana Scully, 7912 Laurel Street, Arlington..."

He squeezed it, turned the Maglite toward where Ghost had been
standing, the open  desert beyond. 

Tracks. Going east. 

He grinned.

A foot in the stirrup and he swung his long leg over the saddle's
cracked letter, the collar  still in his hand. 

"Agent Mulder!" Rosen yelled as Mulder angled the horse toward the
tracks and jammed  his heels home. "Don't you dare--"

Ghost shot off into the darkness, picking up surprising speed. 

For a long time the pony tried to keep pace with them. He could hear
the staccato tapping  of its hooves close, then further, then further
until the sound disappeared.

"Agent Mulder," Rosen's voice crackled from the speaker. "I know you
can hear me."

"Right again," Mulder said, Ghost's mane windblown and brushing his
face. 

"There were no bodies at the Hosteen place. Repeat. No human
remains..."

Mulder smiled again. 

"We've got an surveillance plane up with heat-sensing equipment to see
if we can find  where they're hiding, but I wanted to warn you -
they've seen a vehicle 12 miles east of  the ranch. Ragtop Jeep.
Driver only. And moving out. They've spotted you, too, and 
you're running parallel to him. Turn north...we're scrambling
four-wheel-drive and  choppers--"

Mulder's vision turned to flame.

He leaned back enough on the saddle to fumble with the walkie-talkie
on his waist and  press it to his face.

"He's mine," Mulder said into the mouthpiece. "Stay the fuck away." 

 
******


THE PUEBLO
NAVAJO RESERVATION
OUTSIDE TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO
6:15 a.m.


Scully had not believed the sight of the pueblo when they'd reached it
just before dark the previous night,  the entire structure looking
like something that had risen from a dream. She imagined, as they'd
pulled the  trucks off to the side where the vehicles would get a bit
of camouflage from some squat, stubborn pines,  that by the time the
sun came up to show the place with its stark light, the place would
vanish back into the  rock, a temporary projection of Hosteen's memory
or a desert mirage.

It had seemed even more surreal when she'd walked  bookended by
Granger and Victor  into an open  doorway on the ground level at the
structure's left hand side and entered a room with its walls covered
in  names in red and black paint.

Kai.

Mansi.

Nantan.

Keel.

Victor.

Ata'halae.

Sean.

Scully looked at the names again. They were all written in children's
handwriting, many of the letters  inverted, others written with that
care and awkwardness of kindergarteners with fat pencils in tiny
hands. 

The place smelled of a firepit, and indeed, there was one in the
middle of the floor that looked recently  used. Logs cluttered around
it in a circle for people to sit. 

"What is this place?" she asked, slowing even more than her
already-unsteady, exhausted gait. 

"It's holy ground," Victor said. "A sacred place. We'll be safe here."
 He and Granger were exchanging  glances, and Granger nodded. 

"Yes," Granger replied softly. "We will." 

Frank came in carrying a sleeping Sean, Mae a sleeping Katherine, the
baby's crying finally spent. Sara  Whistler came in behind with Robin,
whose eyes were wide and her mouth open as she looked at the place. 
Albert Hosteen came in last with Bo, and Hosteen pulled down a blanket
that had been caught on a nail  above the doorway so that the red and
black cloth covered the doorway. 

Scully was feeling the strain of the time in the truck, the bumping
and twisting through the desert choking  on dust. She felt as
exhausted as she had when she'd first woken in the hospital, her back
aching and her  head too light. 

"I need to sit," she said quietly to Granger. Her head was swimming.
"Let me sit..." 

"Okay," he said, and he tightened his grip on her arm, Victor moving
with them as they moved toward the  logs around the firepit. 

"No," Albert Hosteen said from behind them, and the three of them
stopped, looked back.  Hosteen was  gesturing toward the far wall and
speaking in Navajo to Sara and Victor, who nodded.  

"Just a little bit more, Dana," Victor said, nodding toward the back.
"Grandfather wants us to go further,  just to be safe." 

Scully nodded, but her legs weren't quite up for a lot more steps. She
leaned heavily on Granger and Victor  as they walked to the wall,
lined with blankets the buckskin color of the sandstone wall. Scully
could feel  cool air  much cooler than even the room she was in 
pushing through the blankets' sides. Sara came  forward and lifted up
the corner, pulled it back. 

There was an opening there and seemed to extend infinitely, back into
a dark, cool space. There were steps  cut into the ground going down
from where Scully stood looking wide-eyed at the place. 

"Where...?" she said, and trailed off as the word echoed in open air.
She looked up to see the cave's roof,  but only darkness lay above. 

Victor had picked up a rag torch dipped in something that smelled
faintly of grease and was lighting it with  a Zippo from his jeans. As
the flame flared to life, Scully could see the stairs going down into
a cavernous  space. There were benches below them, fire pits. What
looked like wooden barrels and chests. 

Bo worked his way between their legs, looked up at Scully and whined.
He padded down the stairs ahead of  them as though he knew what lay
behind them was something that he should be afraid of.

Granger and Victor were nearly carrying Scully by the time they
reached the bottom, the two of them and  Robin and Sara settling her
down onto a pile of blankets where she'd almost instantly fallen
asleep in the  cave's perpetual night. 

She did not know if it was morning as she roused, the flames from a
well-tended fire dancing in front of her  eyes. She was on her side, a
blanket between her knees, facing the firepit, Bo on the edge of the
blanket at  her feet. She could see the lumps of the others sleeping
-- Robin was tucked in against Granger's chest.  Frank Music was
closest to the stairs with his gun beside him, just a few feet from
Victor, who had Sara  beneath his arm. Only the top of Sean's head was
visible from beneath the blanket over Mae's shoulder, his 
face tucked against her chest. She couldn't see Katherine, but figured
her behind Mae, further from the fire. 

The only person she didn't see clustered around the fire was Albert
Hosteen, and she leaned up slowly to  look for him in the circle of
the fire's light. 

There. She could make out his silhouette far on the cave's other side.
He was sitting in front of a small fire  of his own, his shirt off,
his legs tucked beneath him. In the quiet she could hear a small sound
like a low  hum coming from his throat. 

She thought to rise and go to him, since the sound seemed vaguely
distressed. She began to move, her hand  on the baby's heel that was
pressing above her navel. 

"Roll over, little girl," she whispered. "Roll--"

("Roll it with your hands," Mulder was saying. "See? That way you
don't have to put so much flour on the  roller. You can just get it
all over your hands..."  
"Dad," a woman's voice said from Scully's left. "Don't encourage him.
He's already a master at making a  mess."

Scully was at the counter across from them and turned her attention to
the turkey, its insides stuffed with  walnuts and bread crumbs,
cranberries and chives. Something was burning in the oven. 

"I told you he reminded me of your father," Scully said mischievously,
reaching into the bowl again.

"Hey," Mulder said, mock wounded, and she turned to look at him. "Me
and the little man are making  masterpieces here! A mess? Scully, help
me out here..."

Mulder's hair neatly cut but gone mostly grey. Mulder's face lined,
glasses on his face. 

He looked distinguished, and the lines around his eyes showed much
more laughter than age. 

The little dark-haired boy  four or five -- beside Mulder with his
back to Scully, laughed and planted a  flour handprint on his
grandfather's thigh. 

She gaped.

"Mom? You all right?")

The heel disappeared from beneath her hand, Rose moving inside. Scully
swallowed, sweat slicking her  face. She felt sick. Too hot... 

What she'd seen wasn't possible, she thought. Not possible...

Across the cave she looked at Hosteen's still form, the fire dancing
before him, the fire going white as it  grew even more hot. 

The noise grew in his throat, a sound that seemed to surround her,
make her even more dizzy, her head  more light.

Was it...? 

She lay her head back down on the blankets, closing her eyes against
the tunnel forming in front of them,  the only thing she could see.

Not possible...she thought again, shaking her head as tears crested.

Or could it be?  


*****


THE DESERT NEAR THE PUEBLO
NAVAJO RESERVATION
6:40 a.m.


Christie had seen the spotter plane moving low overhead, the
unmistakable look of a government plane in  any country. He'd heard
the plane's engines above him even over the sound of the stolen Jeep's
engine, and  when he'd hung his head out the side to look over the rag
top, the plane had banked sharply and veered  away. 

In the seat beside him, Bridget hung onto the metal handles welded
onto the Jeep's roll cage, her eyes  staring forward, her hair
stringing out in the breeze coming around the windscreen. 

"That's it then," he said to himself, biting his lip. He listened to
the words, how they came out in that same  polite way his father had
taught him, how they betrayed what was in him the same as most of his
life in this  had  the fear, the anger. Something that, like his
grandmother's kisses, filled with revulsion and shame.

"Such a good boy," Bridget cooed, and then laughed her phlegmy laugh. 

They were out in open desert, heading toward an incline that would
switchback up over a small mountain's  rise. He checked the compass he
carried from the time in the Rangers, the one inscribed in Gaelic from
his  sergeant with the words "Always True." 

"Shut the fuck up," he said. 

"What?" 

"You heard me," he said, taking the first of the rise, the Jeep going
hard over something that would have  unseated him if he hadn't been
strapped in. The suspension groaned as they climbed. 

"You can't talk to me like that," Bridget said, something dangerous in
her voice. 

"I can," Christie said, looking over at her again. Her jaw had dropped
off, her upper teeth a horseshoe at the  bottom of her face. 

He sensed she was looking past him, though, off the edge of a cliff
side. Christie turned and followed her  white eyes. 

A cloud of dust coming up behind a lone rider, coming fast on a horse
the color of pale smoke. He could  see the dark hair, the way the
horse was angled toward the makeshift road the Jeep had taken up to
cliff. 

"Mulder," he said.

"Kill him," Bridget replied, her voice coming without half her face.
"There are tracks up here, fresh tracks.  You'll find them. Find them
and let him follow. Kill them all and we can go." 

But Christie took his foot off the gas, the Jeep slowing. 

"What the fuck are you doing?!" Bridget shrieked. 

He reached over and unclicked her seatbelt. 

"What I want to do," he said. "At last." 

He cut the wheel a hard left, going toward the cliff, and slammed down
hard on the brakes, his right arm  shoving her as hard as the Jeep
nearly flipped. He wrenched the wheel and got it to a stop.  

One instant she was there and the next she wasn't. He heard her
screaming all the way over the ledge. 

He unbuckled his seatbelt as the dust settled around the Jeep, stepped
out into the bright morning light,  stood for a long time looking up
at it, his eyes closed, loving the warmth on his face. 

Warm enough to unzip the windbreaker he'd been wearing, the thin
fabric pulled tight, though he did not  wear a shirt beneath.

All around his torso, attached with duct tape, cylinders of explosives
in two-inch plumbing pipe. They  covered him in a vertical line in a
ring from back to front. 

Christie reached into his pocket for the detonator  a modified
doorbell  that was attached to the center  canister with black and
white wire. 

He could hear the horse coming closer now, the drumbeat of its gait. 

Slipping the doorbell into his hand, its button glowing from a huge
detonation battery taped to his back, he  stood looking at the desert
below the cliff to wait. 


**


In the cave's darkness, Albert Hosteen sat, his eyes on the flames. 

He hummed a low sound in his throat, his eyes unblinking. 

Wait...

Wait...


**


By the time Mulder reached the steep road up to the cliff, Ghost's
sides were covered with lather, white  foam coming from the corners of
the horse's mouth. 

"Just a little more, old man," he urged. "Come on..." 

Ghost stumbled a bit as he made it to the top of the rise, sharp rocks
and brush cutting into his legs. Mulder  winced as he was nearly
toppled off the horse's back on one particularly bad stumble, not
because he  worried about the hitting the ground but because the horse
seemed like he could be hurt. 

He'd lost sight of the Jeep and its dust trail, and he was worried the
horse might not have enough left in him  to catch up again. 

As he topped the rise to a cliff he'd seen from far in the distance,
he pulled Ghost's frenetic gait up short, his  eyes widening, his hand
going for the Sig tucked in the back of his pants. 

The Jeep was there, stopped near the edge. And there was Christopher
Collin, as his military records had  called him, with his back to
Mulder, though he had to have heard his approach. 

"Whoa," Mulder said, gave the reins a tug. Ghost threw back his head,
skidding to a stop a few feet from  the Jeep. 

Mulder sat for a moment in uncertainty, staring at Collin's still
back. The younger man didn't turn, didn't  speak, didn't acknowledge
his presence at all.

Something was wrong. 

A trap?

Christopher Collins was a decorated veteran with the Irish Rangers, an
explosives specialist of the highest  degree. Black Ops, the
equivalent of SEAL training, the whole nine yards. He'd been quiet and
well liked,  if a bit of a loner on his off-duty nights. The "perfect
soldier," his records said. Mulder remembered staring  at his picture
 the firm set of the young man's face -- military haircut trimmed to
an inch. Serious eyes that  looked sharp and clear and sane. 

"Christie," he called, and received no response.  He climbed down off
Ghost's back, his gun in front of him,  pointing at Christie's back. 

**

The hum in Hosteen's throat grew louder, and he'd begun to sweat. 

Wait...

Wait...
**


"Mr. Mulder," Christie said, still not turning from the view on the
cliff. He said it as greeting, though his  voice was flat.

Mulder took a step toward him, then two, and stopped. 

The picture of the young, intelligent face from the fax was replaced
with other pictures now, other sounds. 

Scully's birthday, the Thai restaurant exploding around them. The
open, smiling face of the young valet  who'd taken his key. 

The picture of Joe Porter Mae had shown him in their house in
Arlington, a man holding his daughter in her  sunflower hat.

The woman he'd watched run from the Willard Hotel, her body in flame.

Scully in the hospital. Again and again and again...

"Turn around and face me, you pathetic, cowardly son-of-a-bitch." He
held the gun up, the sight on the  back of Christie's hand, and pulled
back the hammer with a click. 

Christie didn't move. 

"COME ON!" Mulder roared, his voice tearing around the mountain like a
clap of thunder.  "What's the  matter? Too much to face someone?
Better to sneak around in the fucking shadows and wire up your toys 
than to look someone in the FACE? Do you know what you've done to
Scully? What you've done to her  LIFE?" 

The words that he heard in response were the last he'd ever thought he
would hear. 

"I'm sorry." 

It threw him for a beat. 

"You sure as fuck are," Mulder spat, tightening his grip on the
pistol.  

"What do you want to do with me?" Christie asked. He still had that
same strange, flat voice. 

Mulder was thrown again for a beat. He'd expected Christie to resist.
He'd expected to kill him in the midst  of him fleeing or in
self-defense. 

"Mr. Mulder, are you going to shoot me in the back?" 

Mulder hesitated, his eyes going from Collin to his gun and back. 

After a moment, he lowered the gun a bit. 

"No," Mulder said. "No, I'm not like you. I can't do something like
that." 


**

Albert Hosteen's brow squinted down, his hand going to a clay bowl in
front of him full of mustard-colored  powder. He reached in and took a
pinch of it and tossed it into the fire.

"Now..." he said in Navajo, the fire flaring red. 

"DOWN." 

**

Mulder reached into the pocket of his jacket, the FBI windbreaker he'd
been given when he entered the  Hosteen ranch. There were zip-ties in
the pocket, large enough to cuff a man. 

"Turn around," he said, his fury waning though it hadn't been
quenched. 

Christie put up his hands, the windbreaker he was wearing spreading
out like wings. He put his hands on  the back of his head, and said
nothing. 

Something was wrong...wrong...

Now...

His head snapped around for the source of the sound. He could have
heard it in his mind, but it seemed too  real and too loud. 

"What the f-"

DOWN.

Something hit him from behind, like a giant hand pressing him to the
ground. His mouth filled with sand.

He looked up just in time to see Christie Collin's hand move, a subtle
movement of his finger and thumb,  the rest of him still.

Still until he dissolved into a blossom of fire and smoke, blood and
flesh and bone and sound.

Mulder covered his head with his arms as the heat wave washed over
him, bits of things raining down. 

It grew eerily quiet after the last had settled, smoke blowing over
Mulder with a strange, high note. 

Behind him he heard Ghost make a low sound in his throat and toe at
the ground with his hoof. Mulder  looked back him, the horse's body
dotted with blood and debris, then back at the ground again, spitting
out  grit. 

"Christ Almighty..." he breathed to no one, looking at the spot where
Christie Collin had stood, seeing only  a black hole in the ground and
the desert off the cliff instead.   
**

7:22 a.m.

"Hey." 

Scully roused herself again from the darkness, trying to place the
voice.

The man in the wheelchair? 

Hosteen...

She opened her eyes. 

And looked straight into Mulder's eyes, his hand on her face. 

Her eyes widened, blinked, looking for evidence this was vision or
dream, some nightmare of what would  or would not be. 
 
It wasn't until she saw, over his shoulder, Albert Hosteen, Granger
and Robin and Mae that she began to  trust in what she saw. She looked
further and saw the covering over the cave's mouth pulled back, and
faint  light coming through, the sound of chopper blades beating air
not far away.

His hand went to her belly, cupping the baby, his thumb stroking her
skin where his sweatshirt had slipped  up in her sleep.

"I'm taking you home, Scully," he whispered, smiling, her name from
him as real as a caress.

As sure as the hand moving through her hair as his tears brimmed.

As gentle as his hand on their daughter, his thumb circling the baby's
fist. 

As warm and welcoming as his mouth as she leaned up, sobbing, for a
desperate, grateful kiss. 


****

CONTINUED IN PART V.









PART FIVE


*****


ST. BRIDGET'S HOSPITAL
BELFAST
NORTHERN IRELAND
UNITED KINGDOM
APRIL 9
9:30 a.m.


Ed Renahan couldn't remember the last time he'd gone this long without
a drink.

"Just slip some Glenfiddich into the bottle there," he said to the
night nurse, a wide- hipped woman named Penny who looked like she
should work at a fish & chip stand. 

"Right, Mr. Renahan," she said, rolling her eyes as she checked the
flow on the drip.  "You should be taking this as a time to appreciate
the drying out we're giving you. You  lost your spleen in this mess
and the doctor said your liver was trying to hitch a ride on 
the way out." 

He smiled. "The rest of me's fit," he tried, and that only made her
laugh.

"Go to sleep, Mr. Renahan," she replied, switching off the room light,
leaving him in the  overhead light of the bed that made him feel like
he was under the gaze of the Lord. 

Now, morning, and he was wishing not just for a drink but for a fag,
as well. He reckoned  he could manage to get up and find one, too...if
no one was looking...

A tap on the door interrupted his scheming. 

"Blessed Redeemer, whoever it is, tell me you've got a fag!" he
called.

"I beg your pardon?" Walter Skinner replied, poking his head through
the crack in the  door, his face perplexed. 

Renahan laughed, even with the strange feeling that his belly was
about to open like a  mouth.

"A cigarette, Yank," he said. "A 'puff,' not a 'poof.'"

"Well, that's a relief," Skinner said, and entered the room. 

"You look like someone just rolled back the bloody stone on you,"
Renahan noted, taking  in Skinner's bandaged head, one eye covered
with a patch. One hand and wrist was in a  cast. 

"About how I feel, too," Skinner said, standing close to the bed. "How
the hell are you?"

Renahan leaned his head back on the pillow, feeling the cool of the
mattress against his  shaven head. They'd had to stitch up a gash on
one side, and he'd told them just to take all  of it off  and the
beard  instead of shaving a patch.

"Ready to get the fuck out of here," he said, though he only halfway
meant what he said. 

No, he thought, his face falling. He didn't mean it at all. 

"What is it?" Skinner asked. 

Renahan shook his head. "It's nothing. Nothing at all." 

Skinner nodded. He took another step closer to the bed, his casted
hand resting on the  railing. His other he used to loot through his
jacket pocket, a green jacket from the Irish  Counterterrorism he
seemed to have acquired along the way. He pulled out a handful of 
clippings from the newspaper  several of them, from the looks of the
stack. 

"I thought you'd want these for your collection," he said, and laid
them in the space  between Renahan's hip and the rail.

Renahan looked at them, the pictures of himself, of Skinner, of Neill.
An old  distinguished photo of the Collin family  Christie and John
and Anna Simms. A perfect  portrait of death. 

"What will you do now?" Skinner asked, though Renahan couldn't get his
eyes off the  faces there in black and white. 

"Dunno," he said. His voice sounded tired and strange and far away.
"My shark appears  to be dead." 

"Your what?" 

Now Renahan did look up at him. "It's nothing," he said again.
"Something Mr. Mulder  said is all." 

Skinner nodded. "Well," he said, cleared his throat. "I'm on my way
back to the States.  There's about 4000 pieces of paperwork to fill
out on this sitting on my desk, I'm sure. No  use putting it off."

Renahan nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Skinner," he said softly. 

"For what?" Skinner said, chuckling. "Nearly getting your ass blown
off?" 

Renahan shook his head. "For giving me a chance. No one's done that in
a long while,  you know. I appreciate you thinking I could be of some
help."

"You were a great help," he said. "People know that now. Why don't you
give *them* a  chance?" 

Renahan said nothing, his eyes going to the clippings at his waist,
and Skinner turned to  walk away. 

"Mr. Skinner?" he called, and Skinner turned again, his eyebrows
raised in question.

"You take these," Renahan said, picking up the pile with a bandaged
hand and offering  them to the other man. "Something to mark the
time."

Skinner stepped back toward the bed and took the strips. "I don't
think I'll ever forget  what I've seen here," he said. "But I'll take
them off your hands." 

He stuffed them in his pocket again, and offered his hand.

"Good luck to you, Renahan," he said.

"And you," Renahan replied, and they shook, then Skinner turned and
walked away. 

He lay there for awhile, his mind on the dark walls of his flat, on
the view of the ocean  from the ledge in Ballycastle, the sea-salt air
on his face. Though his body was battered,  his mind was more alive
than it had been in longer ago than he could recall. He was 
grateful for that. To Skinner. 

And to someone else he wanted to thank.

He fumbled for the phone and dialed the switchboard, an old woman's
voice buzzing  through the earpiece.

"Help you, sir." It was meant as a question but it came out flat from
sheer rote. 

"Eamon Neill's room," he said. 

"I'll ring you through." 

A ring, then two. He realized on the third that might be being rude
calling so soon. The  man had lost a leg after all. Might need some
time...

"Neill," a voice said as the line went through. 

Renahan opened his mouth, then realized he hadn't the slightest idea
what he should say. 

"Renahan?" Neill called. 

"Yea," he replied. "Yea, it's me." He cleared his throat and shifted a
bit on the mattress.  "I...wanted to tell you that I'm sorry about your
leg and all. Sorry for the trouble." 

Neill laughed. "I'd be laying downstairs waiting to have whiskey
poured on my grave if  you hadn't pulled me out from under that bit of
roof," he said. 

Renahan chuffed. "Well you had to drag me out of the lair yourself, so
I reckon we're  square on that." 

Silence from Neill, then: "I'd say we are," Neill said quietly. "And
even if we're not, let's  say we are and be done with it."

Renahan looked up at the light above his head, the light shining
bright. 

"All right," he said. 

"All right," Neill replied. "Get some rest." 

"You, too, Neill," Renahan said, and he hung up the phone.


*****


THE RUINS OF VICTOR HOSTEEN'S RANCH
TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO
APRIL 11
11:15 a.m.


Inside the military tent loaned by the Feds, Albert Hosteen and Sean
Curran were hidden  among the horses they'd managed thus far to fetch,
the light from the open side flaps  showing dust dancing in the warm
mid-day air.

"Hold his leg up," Hosteen said softly to Sean, steadying Ghost's
cannon so that the boy  could grasp it between his hands. "Gently now.
Gently..."

Sean did as he was told, Ghost's leg swollen and gashed, the fetlock
puffed out above his  hoof. Hosteen smeared the area with salve,
working it through the dapple-gray coat with  his hands. 

"Will he be all right, Mr. Hosteen?" Sean asked. 

"Hm," Hosteen replied, reaching for the wrapping cloth he'd bought in
Farmington when  Sean and Mae and he had gone into town for breakfast
and supplies for the day. "He did a  hard thing. A very important
thing. In time, yes, I believe he will be fine." 

He looked at Sean, at the boy's sunburned face and the clear blue of
his eyes as Sean  studied Ghost's leg, running his hand over the
swollen places. 

"Time is good that way," he said, and Sean nodded. 

"Aye," he said, his voice sounding like his mind was far away. 

Hosteen took the blue wrap, held the end in place, began to wind it
around and around  Ghost's mottled leg. 

"There is something you wish to say to me," Hosteen said as he worked,
Sean bent at the  waist. "Something you want to ask."  

He stopped wrapping long enough to push the cooler on the other side
of him over so that  Sean could sit with Ghost's leg on his lap.  

"Yes," Sean said softly. He sounded very afraid. "I..." And he shook his
head and bit his  lip. 

Hosteen smiled faintly as he finished the first layer of wrap. "You
wish to stay here.  When your aunt leaves." 

Sean nodded, smoothing down a crimped edge. "Aye." 

Hosteen stopped what he was doing, put a hand near Sean's on the
horse's leg. "Look at  me," he said softly, and Sean did as he asked.
Hosteen watched his face. 

"You would be an outsider here," he said softly. "A white among us.
Some  especially  the young boys like yourself  might not treat you
with kindness or respect." 

Sean looked at him and swallowed. "How would it be different?" he
asked, almost too  softly to hear. "I...haven't belonged anywhere," and
his eyes brimmed with tears. 

"Hm." Hosteen nodded. "It is a very hard life you are choosing." 

Sean shook his head. "Not when I think about where I've been." 

Hosteen looked at the boy's face, and nodded again.

"You may stay here as long as you wish." 
*

11:45 a.m.


"Mae..." 

Frank "Tunes" Music followed Mae Curran-Porter to the edge of the
property, both of  them covered in black tarry soot and ash. The baby
was asleep with Sara Whistler  minding her in one of the furnished
trailers Rosen had scrambled from Farmington to  shelter the Hosteen's
while the contractors came in to rebuild.

The trailers were large and posh by the old house's standards
("Dishwasher!" Whistler'd  exclaimed on entering the place), but Mae
wanted none of it. She wanted nothing of this  place. 

"Try to look at it from Sean's point of view," Frank said, catching up
to her again.  "You're going to prison, for Christ's sake, and he
knows that-"

"Six fucking months!" she said, spinning on him. "It's SIX FUCKING
MONTHS and he  wants to stay here forever from the sounds of it."

Frank stood in front of her, and she watched his face flush red. "I
don't blame him for  wanting someplace he knows he can count on some
stability, Mae. Wouldn't you take  that if it were offered to you?
Especially at his age?"

"I'm his FAMILY!" she roared into his face, and she grew even more
enraged as Frank  laughed, shaking his head, his hands going to
bracket his hips. "You do anything for your  family where I come from!
You don't leave them-"

"Yes, by all means let's run our lives by THAT, Mae! Look where that's
gotten all of you  up to this point." He started ticking off on his
fingers. "Your brother James, Owen, your  father--"

"It's not the same," she pleaded, the rage and hurt turning to tears.
"I'm not like them,  Frank, and you know that. You know..."

He stepped forward now, but didn't touch her. She was glad he knew
better. Still. 

"I know. And on some level he knows, too. But I think, actually, some
time away from  you and you away from him would be good for you both.
Let him come back to you  when he wants to, you know? When he's ready
to accept what you're offering him. What  you've always offered. But
for now, let him choose his place." 

Let him choose his place...

She thought about that word "choice" for a moment, the ranch where the
others were  working stinking with a chemical smell and burned things.

"You won't be able to return to Ireland," Director Rosen told her
before he'd left the day  before, after he told her where she'd been
serving out her plea-bargained sentence, there  at the table in Albert
Hosteen's new but temporary house. "Both the Irish government and 
the British have barred you from returning again."

There was a smudge on the table from Katherine's breakfast, a smudge
on the brand new  wooded table's surface. She couldn't meet Rosen or
Dana or Mulder's gazes, and worried  it with her finger instead. 

"The children can go if you have someone to care for them," Rosen
offered into her  silence. 

"No," Mae said softly, "there's no one." 

No one...

She was tired of those words, tired of the grief that two words could
hold, the empty  white room of their single beats that she'd lived in
for too long. 

She pushed the thought away, reached up, looking to the side and
avoiding Frank's gaze.  She wiped at her face. "I know you're right..."
she said quietly. "He'd have nowhere to  be...no place to stay.
Katherine can stay with me, they said, but even that makes me ill, 
to think of her there in jail..." 

Frank chuffed softly. "The Federal minimum security facility at
Quantico  with a section  for inmates with infants and toddlers -- is
hardly Cell Block H," he said.

"A posh cage with a playpen is still a cage," she said glumly, and
wiped her eyes again.  

She knew she shouldn't be even remotely upset at the bargain Rosen had
struck on her  behalf. It was far less than she deserved, and she felt
suddenly ungrateful, especially to  Frank, whom she knew had helped
negotiate the length of the sentence and the place...

She narrowed her eyes. "Where do you live, Frank?" she asked.

He smiled shyly. "Nowhere special. Virginia. Outside Potomac Mills." 

She looked at him, at the smile on his face. She was annoyed by his
attraction and his  kindness. She resented the things that he'd done
because they were things that she could  not have done for herself. 

She detested the teenager in her who was smitten with the gold flecks
in his eyes, his  mischievous grin. 

She hated she knew, looking at him, she might love again.

"I imagine that's a long way from Quantico," she ventured, and she
couldn't help but  smile a bit through her anger, her sorrow, her
relief.

"Oh yeah," he said, taking another step toward her, and grinned. "Four
whole miles."

"All that way?" she asked. He smelled like soap and ash and rain.

"Oh yeah," he said. "It'll be a real hardship to come visit, you know,
bring something  good for you and the baby. New clothes. Toys. Maybe
something sweet and good to eat."


** 

12:10 p.m.

"Can you hold onto it?" Victor Hosteen called, looking over at Robin a
few feet on his  right. She was holding up a split rail that he'd
placed in the "X" of a support post, but the  support was giving him a
fit. 

"Yeah, I've got it," she said, though her voice was strained and
clipped. It was getting  hotter as April wore on, spring heading to
summer and the desert starting to turn bright  and more barren and
hot, the greens soon to fade to buckskin and brown. 

Sweat was slicking her face, and she had a dark stain between her
breasts. Victor smiled  as he looked at her. She was strong, secure,
and stubborn as a raven. Granger's perfect fit. 

He picked up a sledgehammer, a black railroad spike, and as Robin held
the post with her  long, dark arms. He hammered the spike through the
place where the two supports joined,  the echo going across the vast
emptiness of his land, this place quieter than where the 
main house had been, where the earthmovers were taking what was left
of his house away  in the backs of Army dumptrucks to clear the land
again. 

Robin would not look him in the face. 

"You're still angry with me for not taking you with us that day," he
said, his words  punctuated with the hammerfalls, her body jerking
with each hit where the post jerked the  rail nearly out of place. 

Robin said nothing, keeping her eyes where the hammer's head met the
spike. Her mouth,  though, had turned to a thin line. 

"Granger said he told you why," Victor continued. "But you're still
angry."

"Yes," she said finally. 

The spike's head flush against the wood, Victor stood back, gestured
to her to release the  rail. It held. 

"Why?" he asked, taking off his cap for Oslo's Feed & Seed and wiping
his brow. He was  winded, and Robin was, too. 

Inside the sheep they'd managed to round up  him and Keel and the
rest of the men   were bleating in their new pen, bumping against
each other, gathering in clumps of dirty  white and looking up at the
two people, their eyes wide. 

"It's hard to explain," Robin said. 

"Try."

Robin looked out over the desert, blew out a breath. "Paul...Paul's not
like you all,  Victor. He's not a shaman or a sage or a magician. He
comes from a simple woman and a  hard-working, ordinary father. He's
just an ordinary man."

Victor couldn't help but smile at that. "Sounds like that's what *you*
need him to be."

"What do you know about him?" Robin snapped, wiping sweat from her
cheek on her  shirt sleeve. "I think I know him better than you do,
Victor."

Victor put his arm on the top of the supports, leaned his chin on his
forearm and stared  her hard in the face.

"You do, yes," he said softly, his face devoid of its usual teasing
and mirth. "But I've seen  what he sees when he dreams, Robin. I know
what he fears and wants and believes. I  know his heart in a way that
you cannot." 

She looked up, her eyes shining. "I know. But he's mine, Victor. You
should have taken  me with you. You had no right to keep me from what
you saw that night."

Victor quirked a sad smile. "You'll see it all, Robin," he said. "If
you want to, that is.  You'll see everything he is if you'll trust in
who he is. All of him. And if you believe what  he tells you and what
you see."  

She looked away, a tear running down her dark cheek that she swiped
away. She nodded,  still not looking him in the face.

"Thank you for what you've done for him," she said quietly. "I didn't
say it before...and I  do owe you that." 

Victor smiled, leaned back and replaced the battered cap. "You don't
owe me a thing,  Robin," he said kindly, then reached for a split
rail, tilting it up on its end. 

"Feel like one more before we take a break and get out of this heat?"
he asked, knowing  she needed to be doing something with her hands. 

"One more," she said, hefting the wood and chancing a smile, though
her voice was gruff.  "Then lunch is on me." 

**

12:36 p.m.


Bo was panting, even in the shade of the one tree left near where the
barn had been,  though the trees was black and missing its leaves. 

Granger looked at him and sympathized. It was not a place to be
covered in anything  black, including his own skin. 

"It's hot as hell out here today," Granger ventured as he and Mulder
sifted through the  debris, picking out tools that looked like they
could be salvageable from the pile of black  ruins and charred beams.

"Summer comes early here," Mulder said, picking up a hammerhead, the
black blade of a  saw. "There'll still be some cool days off and on,
but this is what it's like a lot." 

Mulder had taken his shirt off while he worked, his skin working on
tan. His blue jeans  were covered with soot, his boots smeared and
dotted with ash. Scully had trimmed his  hair herself, and it was
short enough to have spiked a bit as he sweat. 

"Voice of experience?" Granger teased, pulling out something that
looked like it used to  be a table saw's vise, its wooden screw-handle
burned off. 

Mulder laughed, standing and wiping sweat from his chest. "Yeah," he
said, squinting at  Granger. "I've spent a little bit of time in this
area, you could say." 

Granger laughed, and Mulder did, as well, reaching for the canteen at
his belt. He opened  it, offered it to Granger, who drank and handed
it back.

"How's Dana doing?" he asked as Mulder took long draughts, water
dripping down. 

"She's good," Mulder replied, and wiped his mouth with the back of his
hand. "Tired, but  I think that's all of us at this point."

Granger nodded. "I'll say." 

Mulder looked down at the pile of tool parts they'd collected, his
hands going to his hips  where the band of a pair of boxers was
showing above the jeans' waist.

"She's been on the phone this morning. Quantico." 

Granger nodded. "Things about Mae?" 

But Mulder shook his head. "No," he said quietly. "She's been hired to
teach Forensic  Pathology at the Academy. She'll start after she's
been cleared to work by her doctor in  D.C. and go up until she goes
on Maternity Leave."

"She's leaving the X-Files?" Granger replied, agape. 

Mulder nodded. "Yes," he said. "She'll consult, of course, but with
the baby coming...we  both think it's for the best."

Granger looked at him, trying to see if he looked disappointed or
angry. He was smiling  at Granger instead. 

And Granger immediately knew why, and smiled back.

"So," he said, clearing his throat importantly and picking up a shovel
to lean on its  handle, looking nonchalant. "Do you have any idea
about her replacement down there in  the basement, Agent Mulder?" 

Mulder looked down, his lips pursed importantly. "Why yes, Mr.
Granger, I have one or  two." 

"Well," Granger said, pulling himself to his full height, which still
meant that Mulder  dwarfed by him five inches or more. "I just happen
to have recently had a few  experiences that I think make me...uniquely
qualified for a position in your division."

"So I've heard," Mulder said, and the two looked at each other and
grinned. 

Granger reached out and put his hand on Mulder's shoulder, and Mulder
did the same.  They gave each other a shake. 

"Have your people call my people," Mulder said as their hands dropped.

"Yes," Granger said. "We'll do lunch." 


**

1:00 p.m.


Scully sat in a plastic Adirondack chair Mulder had picked up for her
at Home Depot in  Farmington, a plastic stepstool by Rubbermaid tucked
in front of it for her to prop up her  swollen legs and feet. There
was a blanket hitched up on poles over her head, giving her a 
wide swatch of shade in the too-bright sunlight. 

Behind her, the brand-new screen door of Albert Hosteen's temporary
double-wide  opened without a creak, and Hosteen himself stepped
outside, pushing the corner of a  grilled cheese sandwich into his
mouth. 

"You have not eaten," Hosteen said softly. 

"No," Scully replied, her eyes on something far in the distance,
something she couldn't  yet see. "I'm not very hungry, Mr. Hosteen,
but I'll get something in a little while." 

"Hm," Hosteen said, standing next to her and chewing for a long beat.
"Sara is making  you eggs and dry toast. Some orange juice." 

Scully smiled, shook her head, and laughed. 

"I don't know what I'm going to do without you all to fuss over me,"
she said. "You all  are quite a force to be reckoned with, that's for
sure."

Hosteen smiled. "So are you, Agent Scully. And I feel that you will do
fine taking care of  yourself once you've gotten the answers you are
about to seek." 

Scully nodded, long ago giving up on being surprised at anything he
knew or said. 

"Yes," she said. "I'll go as soon as I'm able. He's waiting for me."

Hosteen finished his sandwich, wiped the crumbs from his hands on his
jeans. Then he  moved to stand behind her, his hands going to her
shoulders, resting there. 

"You will find many answers where you're going," he said softly, his
hands warm  through her shirt. "And make a decision that will change
the rest of your life, and your  baby's, and Mulder's." 

She nodded. "Yes." She'd sensed that, that the road she had been on
was leveling, that she  was coming to a crossroads that led to
destinations she didn't know yet.

"You will know what to do," Hosteen said softly, and she reached up
and touched his  hand, gave it a squeeze. "And you will be able to do
anything you choose. I have always  believed that of you."

Scully smiled, gripping his hand. "Yes," she said, unable to look at
him as tears brimmed.  "And for that and so much more, Mr. Hosteen,
you have my love and my thanks."  


*****

HOOVER BUILDING
WASHINGTON, D.C. 
APRIL 21
8:34 a.m.


It was all so surreal. 

There he was, Agent Fox Mulder once again, his charcoal suit cleaned
and pressed and  bagging a bit more than usual from weight he had
lost, a maroon tie patterned with white  flecks at his neck. He had
his feet up on his desk, his leather work shoes feeling strange 
after what felt like months in boots. 

He looked around, taking it all in.

Glass cases filled with bits of rock, pieces of evidence deemed too
strange for the F.B.I.  Evidence Stores to keep. The clippings even
more yellow on the walls, the files he hadn't  put away gathering
dust. The dim lights leaked through the perpetual night of the place.

He swung his legs down from the desk and swiveled to look at the wall
behind. The  pictures of saucers, cows dead in fields. The simian face
of the body in Belle Fleur,  Scully standing behind it, looking barely
old enough to drive and pissed. 

And off to one side, the familiar pixilated blue of a bad photograph,
the letters stark and  large in the overhead light.

I WANT TO BELIEVE.

He smiled. 

He did, he thought to himself. Just not the same things that he had
when he'd first put the  poster up when he'd been hidden down here in
the old copy room, the words  back then   the only prayer he knew. 

He heard footsteps on the stairs, the rustle of keys and paper bags,
and turned toward the  sound.

"Soh-ey," Granger said, coming in the doorway with a bag from
Starbuck's in his teeth.  He came forward with a cup of coffee in each
hand, his keys dangling from his thumb  and set them all down on the
edge of Mulder's desk. 

"There was a line," he said, freeing up his mouth, "And I got off this
morning a little  late."

Mulder pointed to the giant cups. "What? The pot I make down here not
good enough for  you, Granger?" And Granger laughed.

"Dana warned me you don't clean the cups or the pot, and besides-" He
nodded toward  the poster and the general clutter of strange things.
"-this place could use a little class." 

Mulder stood, reaching for the cup. "All right, Mr. No-Fat-Tall-Venti-
Skinny-Latte-Two- Shot-Extra-Soy-"

Someone cleared his throat, and Mulder stopped in mid-sentence,
Granger turning as they  both looked toward the door. 

Jack Rosen stood in the doorway, Walter Skinner  marred with healing
cuts in his face  and across his bald pate  at his shoulder behind. 

"Mr. Granger," Rosen said, nodding to him, then leveled his eyes on
Mulder. "Agent  Mulder." 

"Good morning, sirs," Granger said, and Mulder was glad he spoke
first. He didn't like  the way Rosen was looking at him, though he
couldn't blame the man. There was still a  vague blue spot at the base
of his jaw. 

Rosen walked in, Skinner looking at Mulder with a look he knew well. 

Watch your mouth, for Christ's sake, it said. Mulder didn't even have
to hear him speak to  hear the frustration and the curse. 

"Getting settled in to your new assignment, Mr. Granger?" Rosen asked,
coming forward  to stand near the desk, his hands behind his back. His
eyes were on the poster behind  Mulder, then his eyes flicked to
Mulder's face. 

"Yes, sir," Granger replied. "Though I just got-"

"Mr. Granger, Mr. Skinner," Rosen interrupted, still staring at
Mulder, "Would you two  be so kind to step into the hall for a moment?
And close the door behind." 

Mulder saw Granger look to Skinner uncertainly, but Skinner jerked his
head toward the  door, and the two men left. 

When the door had closed quietly behind them, Mulder returned his
attention to Rosen's  unreadable face. 

"Agent Mulder," he said quietly.  

"I'm sorry for striking you, sir," Mulder said. In New Mexico he'd
still been so pissed at  the clusterfuck of red tape  even after
Scully was safe  that he'd simply avoided Rosen  rather than say he
regretted the punch. He'd been home with Scully since they returned, 
so he hadn't really had the chance. 

It was Scully who had told him to apologize, as soon as he could, and
though he would  have done it anyway, the seriousness of her tone and
her face had sealed the decision that  morning before he'd left. 

Rosen nodded. "I appreciate that apology, Mulder," he said, and he did
seem pleased  behind his mask. "I understand you were under a great
deal of duress, and I'm willing to  overlook your behavior during
this...incident...because of the unique nature of the  circumstances." 

Mulder nodded, his hands going behind his back. "Thank you, sir," he
said. "I'll try not to  let it happen again." 

Rosen's lip curled. "Thank you for not promising," he said. "Because
that's one you are  incapable of keeping." 

Then he stepped close to the desk. "But I will say this," and his eyes
flared with rage. 

"Agent Mulder if you ever punch me again you'll have a hell of a lot
more to worry about  than a horse in your bed. AFTER I have your badge
for it, and AFTER I've got you up on  charges, I'll come back at you
so hard you'll be wearing your ass for a fucking hat. Are 
we clear on that?"

Mulder looked at him and swallowed. "Clear, sir," he replied. 

Rosen nodded, and turned, going back to the door and opening it again.
"Come in," he  said, and Skinner and Granger filed in, both glancing
from Rosen and Mulder to see  evidence of what had been done or said.

"Break him in easy, Agent Mulder," Rosen called over his shoulder as
he went out the  door. "I leave it in you and Mr. Skinner's hands to
keep things clean down here."

"Thank you, sir," Skinner said, standing by the door, cocking an
eyebrow at Mulder.

"Don't ask," Mulder replied, and reached for his cup, took a drink. 

Granger went to the desk for his own coffee, perching on the corner of
the desk. Mulder  picked up the bag and started rifling through,
coming out with a muffin the size of his  fist. 

"You feeling all right?" he said to Skinner, taking a bite. Skinner
was standing there with  his hands on his hips, his jacket off, his
shirt starched and pressed to within an inch of its  life. 

"Yeah," Skinner said, shaking his head. "I felt better before I saw
the two of you together  and my stomach started to hurt."

Mulder laughed. "Why's that?"

"You two have already proven that trouble is right behind you," he
said through his teeth.  "I'm going to go up and start a stack of
Incident Reports for this division. Just to get an  head start." 

"Sir, we can't get in more trouble than Mulder did with Agent Scully,"
Granger protested.  "Could we?"

Skinner went for the door, and a fond, bitter laugh came up. "She kept
him out of trouble,  Mr. Granger, believe it or not." 

Walter Skinner held the knob, took one more look back. 

"God help me," he said, winked, and closed the door as he left.  

Granger took another sip of his coffee, and for a moment, as Granger
looked at him,  Mulder was reminded of the young man he'd met in
Richmond, a man not much younger  in years as experience, with that
eager look of a kid in a toy store. 

"So...are going to start a case before you and Scully leave or do you
want to just get me  oriented so I can catch up on my reading while
you're away?" 

Mulder looked down at the desk, the decision he'd come to over the
days since his return  to D.C. playing across his thoughts. "I've got
something for you to read and start doing  some thinking about, yeah,"
he said, turning to the file cabinet behind and to his left. 

"All right," Granger said, putting down his coffee and reaching for
the bag. "What's the  case? Unexplained phenomena? U.F.Os? Crop
circles..."

Mulder thumbed through the folders, zoning out Granger's list. 

Thumbing from A to F to H to L to M. 

"Samantha Mulder..." it said, the folder thick, the label faded from age
and use.   
He pulled it out and held it in his hands. 

"No," he said softly, took in a deep breath, and turned. 
"Unexplained Death."

And he set the folder in Granger's hands. 


****


OFF THE COAST OF VANCOUVER ISLAND
BRITISH COLUMBIA
CANADA
APRIL 23
8:23 a.m.


The ferry from the coast of Vancouver Island to Denman Island was
small, the weathered  boat large enough to hold perhaps 20 cars and
trucks carrying supplies to the tiny islands  off the coast. The air
was crisp and cool, and the water of the Pacific the deepest blue 
Scully had ever seen. 

They'd gotten off the prop plane from the main airport in Vancouver
across the channel,  and Scully had sat, her back aching from the
travel, while Mulder gathered their suitcases  around her in the
one-room airport while he secured a Subaru Forester  the only kind of
car the rugged island rented  at the counter near the back. 

As she waited, she kept her eyes on him, the curve of his back in his
jacket, the way he  shifted his weight from one Niked foot to the
other as he spoke to the clerk. In her hand,  the ferry schedule and a
printout on Heliwell, the wooded park that gave way to cliffs on 
Hornby Island, just off the coast. 

When he'd returned with the key, he picked up their bags and leaned
forward to give her a  warm, soft kiss. 

"You all right?" he asked as he pulled his face away. 

She nodded. "Yes, thank you," she said, her hand on her belly, rubbing
softly as though  for luck. "I'm ready to go."  

She was wearing a black swing coat at the ferry's railing, watching
the boat move closer  to the first island's shore, tucked under
Mulder's arm. They said nothing as the boat blew  its horn, people
going back to their cars. They simply followed behind. 

As they bumped onto the ramp at Denman, caught in a line of cars all
following the signs  that pointed them across the island to the ferry
to Hornby  the end of the line  Mulder  reached over and clicked on
the radio, respectful of her need not to speak as they drove. 

She couldn't help but be a little frightened of what she'd find when
they reached where  they were headed. She could feel that Mulder was
also filled with a feeling between  concern and dread. His thumb was
worrying the side of her hand. 

"It's going to be okay," he said softly, the radio playing something
old and American and  familiar in a way she couldn't name.

It was Mulder who recognized it first, reached for the volume control
and laughed. 

"'...I'm crazy for feeling so lonely...I'm...crazy...crazy for feeling so
blue...I  knew...you'd love me as long as you wanted...and then you'd leave
for somebody  new..."

Scully closed her eyes and smiled, lifted his hand to her mouth,
rubbing his knuckles  against her lips. 

Across the island, they boarded the ferry for Hornby, the 15-minute
trip spent this time  inside the car rather than at the railing as
they embraced, the minutes taken up this time in  the language of the
kiss. 

They disembarked and the cars pulled up a steep climb, Scully
unfolding the map she'd  printed out, telling Mulder to follow this
road until they reached a market at the center of  town. As they saw
it some minutes later, she told him to turn left. 

Down a winding road that was canopied by trees. Past a fork in the
road marked by a split  tree, the sign pointing right toward Heliwell
Park.  

Scully looked out the window as the road turned more narrow, houses
tucked far off the  road in the shadows of leaves. There were no other
cars  too early for the tourist season,  still too cold, the island
too remote. Everyone on Hornby was there was because they 
lived there during this, the dawning time of the living part of the
year.

Then they turned a corner, and saw car after car after car lining the
road, most of them  rentals identical to their own. 

"Someone's having a party," Mulder said mildly, giving the parked cars
a wide berth. 

Her brow creased down, and she pushed a long strand of hair back from
where it had  slipped. 

Cars and cars. Then a driveway going up on the right.

"Mulder," she said. "Slow down. I think-"

And as they passed the drive, she looked up and the house was there. 

Dark wood, almost black. Huge for the island or any other place. The
stained glass  windows were glinting both from the sun pushing through
the arch of trees and from an  inner light. 

The design was a strange spiral, multicolored and formed into a
circle. It looked like two  circles but when she looked at it she
realized it was one unbroken line, turned in a pattern 
not like the one that stood for Infinity. 

"That's it," she said, and Mulder stopped, backed up, and went up the
drive. 

There were no cars in front of the house, all of them clustered for a
mile down the road  below the house. She looked out the window at the
design on the windows again as  Mulder cut the engine and it died into
silence. 

"Strange designs," he said, looking out her window at the windows.
"But really  beautiful." 

She nodded. "They look like...mobius strips," she said, looking at them.
"They're  continuous circles made by rotating a strip of paper 180
degrees and connecting the  ends."

There was a mathematical equation to it that she couldn't recall,
though she tried for a  moment. 

She tried until the huge wooden doors to the house opened and man
stepped out onto the  stone landing, a smile on his face. 

"Looks like someone knew we were coming," Mulder said quietly,
unclipping his  seatbelt. Scully did the same. Mulder got out and came
around to her door, opened it, and  helped her climb down from her
seat. 

The man watched them, that same smile on his face. He wore a suit and
a bowtie, his  dark hair slicked back from his face. "Mr. Mulder, Ms.
Scully. Welcome." 

They both turned and gaped. 

 "Many questions, I know," the man said, putting a hand up to quiet
Mulder before he  could speak. "Mr. Strawn will explain everything, I
promise. Please. Come in. We've  been anxious to meet you both for
quite some time." 

Scully looked at Mulder, who reached down and took her hand. The hair
was up on the  back of her neck. 

"It's okay," he said softly, squeezing her hand. "I think everything's
the way it's supposed  to be." 

She took in a breath, the man standing to the door's side with his arm
toward them,  gesturing them in, the wide smile still in place. 

"Okay," she said, and the two of them went up the steps slowly, past
the man and into the  house. 

They were standing in a foyer the size of one floor of their house, a
set of closed double  doors on the left and the right. They could hear
voices  many of them  chattering  behind the ones on the right. 

"My name is Hobbie," the man said. "I'm one of Mr. Strawn's
assistants, his...butler, if  you wish. May I take your coats before you
go in?" 

"No, that's okay," Scully said, and Mulder, too, shook his head. 

"We're fine," he said, standing close to Scully so that their arms
nearly touched. 

Hobbie nodded, unflapped. "As you wish," he said, " If you'll come
with me then," and  he went to the double doors and pushed. They swung
in, and the chattering instantly  stopped.

And both Mulder and Scully stood, stunned into silence as they faced
the room the doors  had hidden. 

It was the size of a small ballroom, ceilings that extended perhaps 20
feet, rich wood the  color of the house's outside. The walls were
lined with sconces, the floor covered with  oriental rugs that were
priceless with design and age. 

And inside, perhaps 100 people were standing, all facing the door,
their eyes kind and  most with smiles on their faces. 

They were from all races, many in ceremonial dress. Men and women from
India in saris  flecked with golden thread. An entire group from some
part of Africa, their clothes a riot  of colors and jewelry adorned
with feathers and shells around their necks. Men in suits, 
women in clothes of all sorts. Asian men and women in kimonos and
robes. Monks in  brown and orange and white. 

"Welcome to The Mobius Group," Hobbie said, standing beside them,
touching Scully's  back. "Please. Go in. I think you'll find some of
the people you see...familiar?" He  grinned. 

Scully gripped Mulder's hand and started to walk. 

"Pleasure to finally meet you, Ms. Scully," a dark-skinned man said as
she passed  through the threshold. "Mr. Mulder," and he tilted his
head in respect. 

"Hello," an Indian woman said from the other side as she went further,
the crowd parting  as they passed. "Welcome."

"So glad..."

"...looking well..."

"...very happy..."

And so it went. 

Finally, they reached the center of the room, the crowd continuing to
part, and Scully  pulled up short and pulled in a surprised breath. 

"Hello, Agent Scully." 

Albert Hosteen, Sara Whistler and Victor stood in ceremonial Navajo
vestments, Hosteen  looking at her with his chin up and the hint of a
smile on his face. 

"Mr. Hosteen...?" Scully stammered. "You...?" 

"Victor?" Mulder got out, as stunned as she. "What are you doing
here?"

Victor smiled, not looking as young or as nave here among the quiet,
distinguished  group. 

"Mr. Strawn will tell Dana," he said, and he and Albert Hosteen and
Sara began to move  to the side. "We'll fill you in while she's with
him. But it's all all right." 

And as they stood aside, there he was. 

Black suit, a blanket across his thin legs. The wheelchair was old
with a high back, and a  man stood behind him to push him slowly into
the space the Hosteen group had made. 

He looked more pleased to see them than any of the others, his frail
looking hands  reaching out toward them both. 

"Welcome to you both," he said, and Scully felt her knees going weak.

How long had she heard that voice speaking to her in her visions and
dreams? It was as  familiar to her as her father's had been. 

"My name is Walter Strawn," he said softly as Mulder reached out first
to shake his hand.  "I am the head of the Mobius Group and this is my
home you  and all the others  have  come all this way to gather in.
Thank you for making the trip." 

He turned to Scully, but spoke to Mulder as he took her in, seeming to
drink in the look  of her face. 

"Mr. Mulder, if you'll be so kind as to remain here with Mr. Hosteen,
I need to speak to  Dana for some time alone." He smiled at Scully.
"Just a slow walk for you, Dana," he  said. "Out on the bluffs
overlooking the sea. I know you have much to ask me and I have 
much to say." 

Mulder started to object, but Scully squeezed his hand. "It's all
right, Mulder," she said  quickly. "I'll go with him. It's okay."

She still had not told him about what she'd seen. And though she'd
seen the horse's body  in her dreams, she hadn't told him what she'd
done  what she was capable of doing  again.

Victor came forward and put an arm around Mulder's shoulder. "Come on,
Mulder," he  said. "We'll fill you in while we all get something to
eat." 

Mulder looked at Scully, his face a bit blanched, and she nodded. 

"It's okay," she said, letting go of his hand. "I'll be right back." 

**

10:42 a.m.


The cliffs at Heliwell were some of the most beautiful things Scully
had ever seen. A  path wound through the forest, a quiet man named
Joseph pushing Strawn along it up to  where the trees ended and the
cliff opened up, covered with light green grass that looked 
like heath. The path curled along them, safely away from the edge
where the Pacific  moved in undulating waves to crash against the
cliff's bottoms, the whole place lit by  sunlight and caressed by a
salty breeze. 

Several times Strawn asked if she was all right, if their pace was too
quick or too steep. 

"No," she said each time. "No, I'm fine." 

Now, moving along the cliffs with her hands dug deep in her pockets,
she looked out on  the ocean, the seemingly limitless space. 

There was a bench set at a vista on a particularly high bluff, and
Strawn instructed Joseph  to take him there so that Scully could sit,
and then to "leave them alone for a bit." 

Scully gathered her coat around her, though she wasn't cold as much as
apprehensive.  Though she'd just met Strawn, she felt she'd known him
for years, but the circumstance  was strange enough that she didn't
quite know what to expect or say. 

Strawn sat beside her in his chair, close to the side of the bench
where she sat. He  tunneled his hands beneath the plaid blanket across
his lap and began to speak.

"Let me tell who we are," he said softly. "I know that is the first
thing you will ask." 

His tenses confused her, but she did not address it. She kept her eyes
on the sea. "Yes."

"The Mobius Group is a collective of people from nearly every part of
the world," he  said. "We are people drawn together because of our
unique ability to see things that  others cannot see. We gather every
year to discuss the things we've seen and put them to  constructive
purposes if we can, to avert things that we can, to help in places
where our  foresight gives us the ability to offer aid where others
can or will not."

Scully nodded. "So the people in that room..." she began. 

"Yes," Strawn said, nodding. "They see similar things that you are
able to see. They have  seen each other over the course of their
lives. They have seen me and they have all come  here at some point to
make their decision to join in our work or to receive help or advice 
on how to move forward with the rest of their lives."

""Their decision'?" Scully said. "What is there to decide? You say
that as if there's a way  to stop these things I'm seeing." She turned
to look at him. "If that were possible, I would  have stopped seeing
them long ago."

He shook his head. "Some of what you see can be controlled, but not
all of it, no. You  will always have the ability you have, Dana. I'm
sorry. I have watched you for two  decades now and I know that it is
the last thing you desire." His eyes were heavy and sad 
behind his glasses, his mouth turned down, his face a mask of regret.

"It is, yes," she said. "Especially when the things I see..."

"Yes," he finished for her. "Mulder's death in the shop. Your daughter
there to witness. I  have watched these things with you. I know it is
difficult to bear."

"Difficult?" she said, finding the word not up to the task, but Strawn
only smiled. "You  call what I've seen merely 'difficult,' Mr.
Strawn?"

But Strawn only nodded. "Yes. A friend of mine, Michael Lansing, who
recently passed  away, saw, all during the second World War, the faces
of the people in Auschwitz," he  said. "From his farm in Nebraska
where his family grew corn. No one knew of the camps  then, or so they
said, and he did not understand the horrors he had seen."

Scully swallowed, feeling suddenly foolish. "I'm sorry," she said.
"That was selfish of me  to say."

"You do not know the stories of the others, the things they've had to
see," Strawn said,  putting a hand out to touch her sleeve. "Do not
blame yourself for that." 

Scully looked away, then back again, replaying what he'd said. "Then
what is there to  decide if we have to see them?" she asked. 

"Oh, many things," Strawn continued. "Many things." He turned his gaze
from the ocean  to her face. "You have seen things which do not seem
to be possible. Things that  contradict."

Scully nodded, pulling her cold hands into her sleeves. The entire
conversation gave her  the creeps, though she was relieved to be
having it. She was more than relieved. 

"Yes. I saw Mulder killed and then...and then I saw him alive when my
daughter was  older. A mother herself, with a dark-haired son." The
latter memory made her smile,  though the smile melted away. "One of
them of is true, and the other can't be."  

"Yes and no," Strawn said. "That is a very black-and-white view,
though it is the only  one you could have at this juncture, I know." 

"They can't both be true," Scully tried again, confused. 

"No," Strawn said, nodding. "But then neither could be true. You
simply do not know."

Her head was spinning, and she looked down. "I don't understand," she
said. 

Strawn smiled. 

"You know something of time, Dana," he began. "You wrote a rather
controversial paper  on the topic, which, incidentally, I have read."
He winked and went on. "What I ask you  is to suspend those ideas and
think of a metaphor instead. Think of a subway station far, 
far beneath a city teeming with life. Now picture the people from the
city riding the  escalator down to the station at certain appointed
times, times when they are supposed to  make certain decisions that
will affect their lives, say. They wait for the train they know 
they should board, and when it comes, they get on and they ride
away."

She nodded. "Go on." 

"That is the linear life that most people lead, Dana. They do not have
the choice of the  train they will board. They do not know the other
trains can take them to another place.  On each train that stops, as
the doors open, they look into a scene from their life  their 
next day, their wife. The plane they will ride. They go down and board
that one train they  can see and they ride away." 

Now he turned to look at her. "But you, Dana, you and everyone else in
that room you  saw  Albert Hosteen, Agita Patel, Youssou N'Maga...you
stay on the platform and  watch the trains come and go all day."  

Scully felt it all click into place. "So what I'm seeing
are...possibilities of things that can  be. Not what will be."

Strawn shook his head. "You do see what will be. You simply do not
have the ability to  be able to tell the correct train in the comings
and goings of the ones you see. But the real  one stops, as well."

Scully stood slowly, her hand on the small of her back, and walked a
few steps toward  the sea. 

She understood now, and the weight of the year lifted off of her like
a veil. 

"That's the decision I must make," she said, not facing him, the wind
gently blowing her  long hair back. "You can teach me to tell which
one is real." 

"Yes." Strawn's voice was quiet. 

"But that's the only choice I have, isn't it?" She turned. "You can't
make it stop. You can't  take it away." 

He looked at her sadly. "No," he said. "Nothing can do that. Nothing."

She put a hand over her mouth, feeling tears coming on. "Would that
give me comfort?"  she asked, and her voice broke. "To know the future
that way?"

Strawn shrugged. "Some it does, to know that all but a few things that
they see are things  that will never be. To some, no. It is a prison
for them, to know and, in most cases, be  helpless to change what they
see. Michael Lansing could do nothing to stop the things he 
could see. But then Agita was able to save her mother and 300 others
from boarding a  plane. Michael chose, in the end, not to know, and
Agita chose to see." 

He smiled faintly, and she could tell he knew a great deal of the pain
she was feeling, the  grief. 

"That is why I offer you the choice of what you would prefer, Dana. I
offer my help in  whatever path you would like to take." 

Scully touched the baby beneath her hand as Rose turned, her head
pointing down. She  stroked the cloth, considering. 

It was an offer of a lifetime, some part of her realized, awed. To
know the future? To  have the possibility to alter what she could see?

She stroked the baby again, thinking of the life she wanted Rose to
have...the life she  wished for Mulder. For herself.

"What did Mr. Hosteen choose?" she asked, staring down at her hand. 

Strawn smiled broadly. "Albert sits in the station all day," he said
fondly. "But he does  not care much for trains. He concentrates
instead on the people waiting on the platform,  and waits for them to
choose what they may."

She quirked a smile. "So he knows all the possibilities. That's how he
knows the things he  does."

"But not what will happen. Yes." Strawn smiled kindly. "Victor and
Sara are the same  way. They tell us things they know of, but they do
not know what information they give  is real and which is not. Those
of us who have chosen otherwise are the only ones who  can tell."

"So everyone sees something different," Scully said, as if to
herself.

"Yes," Strawn said. "Each according to his or her gift." 

She turned again and looked out onto the ocean, remembering something
she'd read years  ago in college. Some psychology class that dealt
with myth. The ocean was the first of all  symbols, Jung had
theorized, the one that gave rise to all the rest. It was the first
thing  that humans had looked upon and been staggered by the mystery
about, the surface  hiding so much they could not fathom and would
never understand. 

That was the way of things, she thought, staring at the deep blue of
the cold, cold sea. It  guarded its secrets beneath a thin surface of
jet-black glass... 

"I do not want to know my baby's life before she lives it, Mr.
Strawn," Scully said, her  voice firm and strong. "I don't want to
know Mulder's before he does, at least not and be  sure what I know is
true or real. I would not rob Rose or Mulder or myself of the chance 
to live this life as I believe it was meant to be. In mystery." 

Strawn looked at her, gave her a small smile. "Will you work with us
as the Hosteen's do  then, Dana? If I help you control what you see so
that it does not overcome you? If I help  you to have this...mystery?"

Scully smiled. "Of course," she said softly. "Of course I will."

"Then come," Strawn said, and held out his hand. "Come with me,
Dana."

Joseph was returning from the edge of the trees. Scully watched him
approaching, then  looked at Strawn's frail outstretched hand. 

She went toward him the few steps between. She took his hand and held
its warmth, tears  on her face, while behind her the ocean glinted the
sunlight, rolling toward them,  timeless, with its surface like glass.
 

 
****

EPILOGUE

*******


7912 LAUREL STREET
ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA 
JULY 24
1:02 a.m.



A pale full moon shining through the window to the bedroom, the orb
huge and peering  like a great eye in the star-shot night. The room
was bathed in its gray light, the curtains  open, light falling on
Scully on the bed, curled on her side with her eyes on the window, 
her arm cradled around the moon of her belly. 

She had a restlessness tonight, her body taut and sore and, as it had
been for all these  months, waiting. 

Her back throbbed faintly, and she shifted her legs to ease the
pressure, her belly pressing  against the mattress a bit more firmly.
Inside her, the baby slept, as still as Mulder behind  her, his arm
draped across her middle, his fingers on the light fabric of her
T-shirt.

The pain did not diminish, and she shifted again, moved her head
against the pillow to  bend into a more defined question mark. 

Mulder's arm tightened around her waist, and she did not know if she'd
woken him or if  he hadn't been sleeping at all. He was as restless as
she was now that her due date had  come and gone two days before. 

"What can we do?" he whispered, and then his lips were on the whorl of
her ear, his nose  in her hair. 

Her body was suddenly humming with the feel of his mouth against her
skin. His warm,  slow breath sent a shiver up her, and she pushed her
hips back against him once, twice.  An instinct. 

He let out a short breath, surprised, and kissed her temple, lingering
there. 

"Oh," he murmured, and slid his hand beneath the hem of her shirt, his
hands smoothing  over her tight skin to her heavy, sensitive breasts.
She leaned her head back and kissed  him, a hand going to the waist of
his boxers.

"Yes," she whispered against his lips. "Please..."

And he moved to do what she asked of him.  

When they were finished, both of them drenched with sweat, their
breathing heavy, his  cheek against her temple, her hands holding one
of his in front of her body, she chuckled,  though the pain in her
back was worse. 

"What's funny?" he murmured, but she could tell he was smiling, too,
his bare body  curved against her back. 

"I was just thinking," she began, kissed his hand, rubbing his
knuckles against her lips.  "That was just like our first time." 

He hummed his assent, remembering, then he chuckled, as well. "You
mean the part  about us making love with my arm and your leg in
casts?" 

She laughed full-out now. "Exactly," she said. 

She kissed him again, their lips lingering. 

"That was one of the best nights of my life," he said as he pulled
back an inch, chiding  her. "Even if it was a little awkward." 

"Exactly," she said again, and he pushed his hand down, taking hers
with it, and stroked  the now-bare mound of her belly. The baby
knocked a foot against their hands. 

"We woke her up," he said, and she gripped his hand. 

"Just in time for me to go to sleep," she replied, and the fatigue was
in her voice, a sleepy  gravel. 

"You think you can sleep?" He caressed her as the baby kicked again,
rolling. 

"I think so," she murmured, settling down deeper into the pillows.
"Hmm....thank you." 

She could hear the smile in his voice. "You're welcome," he said, and
lay his head down  behind hers, his arm still around her, stroking her
dewed skin. 

She drifted, the baby shifting. She sensed her daughter's
restlessness, a thin thread of  feeling connecting them. She tried to
send out the state of ease she felt there in the circle 
of Mulder's arms, the moon shining in the window still, but brighter
now, turning  everything soft and silver. 

Finally, she slept. 


**
  
5:54 a.m.


A fist clenching inside her. 

The feeling woke Scully, dragging her from sleep. Like a cramp bearing
down on her,  tightening her middle just above the baby and moving
down, radiating around the globe  of her middle, around her back, then
toward her pelvis. 

She put her hand on her belly, drew in a sharp breath as she opened
her eyes, taking in  the gray morning light. 

The feeling persisted for a moment, then ebbed away. 

The baby had woken and moved, as though puzzled.

"Mulder," Scully said, rolling on her back and over to face him as he
opened his eyes, his  eyes catching the light, his hand going to her
hair, smoothing. 

No fear in her voice as she told him to check his watch and start
counting the time  between the contractions, a small smile on her
lips.


** 


10:03 a.m.


"Your turn, Doc," Granger said softly, tapping the deck on the table.

They were sitting at the kitchen table -- she, Mulder, Granger and
Robin -- a wicked  game of rummy going on for the past hour. A score
sheet next to Mulder -- four long columns of numbers -- showed that
Mulder was winning.

"Okay..." she said, but she was distracted, the new contraction
winding itself inside her,  coiling. She could feel her entire body
growing taut with its impending wave. She  reached up and wiped sweat
from her forehead, her upper lip. 

"Scully?" Mulder said from beside her. His voice was quiet, but his
face was looking a bit  more furrowed, and the hand that came out to
grip her forearm was tighter than usual. 

"It's okay..." she said, drew in a breath and reached for the card,
though she already knew  what it would be. She still had much to learn
from Mr. Strawn. Much...

"You sure, Dana?" Robin asked from across from her, setting her cards
down in front her.  

"Yes," Scully said quickly, picked up the card, looking at her hand.
"It's fine. It'll pass in  a minute." 

She'd been having them the whole time they'd been playing cards, the
contractions  growing stronger and closer together, though they were
still about five minutes apart. She'd spoken to Hannah on the phone,
and until her water broke or the contractions got more intense, Scully
had told her she wanted to be at home. Hannah had agreed.

Like Hannah, Scully was a doctor. She would know when it was time for
the hospital and  time for Hannah to be involved at all. Hannah
respected her enough to know that. 

"I don't know how you can be so calm," Robin said, and Scully
discarded, a King of Spades. She knew that Robin, who was losing
badly, needed the card. "Just sitting here  watching you is making me
nervous." 

"It's really okay," Scully said, forced a wan smile. "It's labor. It's
going just as it's  supposed to." 

And it was. Including the mounting pain.

"You want some more ice chips?" Mulder asked. He'd crushed a tray of
ice for her at the  counter, had them waiting in a bowl in the freezer
to refill the glass she had at the table.  He and Granger had cups of
coffee in front of them, Robin, a Coke. 

"Sure," Scully said, but more to give Mulder something to do,
somewhere to move. She wanted him to be relaxed again, as he'd been
when they'd first woken. He had  seemed so at ease, as she had then,
but the pain was starting to show on her, and she  could tell he was
seeing it and, though he was prepared, it still made him concerned. 

He took his turn at the game, setting down four nines in a row as he
stood and went for  the counter with her glass. He wore a gray
T-shirt, his most faded jeans, his Nikes. Bo,  who'd been sleeping
beneath the table, rose and fell in behind him. 

The two of them padded soundlessly across the room and Mulder poured
the chips into  the glass. He was on his way back to the table when it
hit her. 

A crushing wave coursing through her body, worse than it had been yet.
Her hand  clenched around the cards and then she dropped them, going
to her feet, her hand on the  table for support. Granger was beside
her instantly, Mulder reaching her, setting the glass  down and
getting his arms around her, steadying her.  

"Okay..." he murmured. "Okay, Scully..." 

"I--" She didn't know what she intended to say, her body seemed to
contract in on itself, a  jolt of pressure and pain. 

Then a sudden flood of liquid soaking her sweatpants, a dark stain
down the inside of her  thighs. 

"Robin?" Mulder said calmly as Scully's hands dug into his upper arms.
Her eyes were  closed, her brow creased as she concentrated on the
pain, the contraction still moving  through her. "Can you go get
Scully's suitcase for me? It's upstairs by the bedroom door." 
His voice sounded very far away.

"Sure," Robin said, and Scully could hear her moving around the table
and out to the  hallway that led to the living room and the stairs. 

"I'm okay," Scully said again, puffing out a breath. "I just need
to--" She tried to sit, but it  seemed to make the pain worse. Mulder
tightened his grip on her, and she swayed a bit  unsteadily, Granger
grabbing her arm. 

"Help me get her to the couch so I can call the doctor," Mulder said,
and he and Granger  started to guide her, the two men supporting most
of her weight, though she forced  herself to walk through the pain. 
 
They took her into the living room to the couch, lay her down on her
side, her head on the  throw pillow in the corner. She curled into a
ball as the contraction pressed through her.  The sunlight was in the
room here, spread out on the couch like a warm blanket. She felt 
it touching her skin and concentrated on its warmth, on Mulder's hand
on her sweaty  hairline as he tapped on his cell phone, dialing
Hannah's number. 

Robin returned with the suitcase, stood over her with Granger. 

She didn't listen to the conversation between Mulder and Hannah,
concentrated instead  on her breathing, on the feel of the light. 

"She's not concerned at all, but she does want you to go ahead and
come in," Mulder said  as he hung up the phone. 

Her breath caught, and Granger knelt down beside her leg, looking
fretful. 

"It's all right," she said, though her breathing was coming a little
fast. "Just a bad one.  Things should...pick up from here. Start going
faster." 

"We're going to head on out," Mulder said, his voice pitched calm,
soft. He looked at  Granger and Robin.  "Thank you for coming over and
staying with us."

Scully watched her friends nod. "We were happy to do it," Granger said
gently, his hand  on the outside of Scully's knee. "We'll take Bo, go
back to our place. We'll call Frank so  he can tell Mae. You call us
when you're ready for visitors, okay?" 

Scully nodded, the contraction finally begin to fade, but it had left
her panting, sweat on  the neck of her T-shirt. She felt wet and
sticky and hot. 

But not afraid. Things were progressing, going as they should. 

And she knew that the baby was all right. She sensed that same
puzzlement she'd felt  earlier. Some fear from the baby. But Rose was
all right. It made her feel a strange  contentment, this feeling that
the three of them were doing this together. She did not feel 
alone with any of it. Mulder was here. Her baby was here. Her friends
had been here,  keeping her company through the morning. 

"We'll finish the card game...later..." Scully said faintly. 

"Why?" Mulder quipped. "You were just letting us win anyway." 

Granger and Robin chuckled, and Scully blushed, caught. 

"Good luck, Dana," Granger said softly. "All our hopes for an easy
time." He took her  hand and kissed the back of it, gave it a squeeze.
Mulder moved out of the way to let Robin touch a kiss to Scully's
cheek. 

"Be well," Robin murmured, and then the two of them were gone, out the
front door into  the morning light. 

She thought of her mother then, whom she talked to that morning. She
was going to meet  them at the hospital when she went. She would call
her when she got there she decided.  They still had a long wait ahead
of them.  

Mulder looked at her, leaned over her on the couch. 

"Tell me what you need," he said, stroking her hair. "I'll get it for
you." 

Her breathing was coming down toward normal now, but the sweat was
still pouring off her. 

"I need a change of clothes," she said softly. "Then I just need *you*
when we get there."  She looked up at him, a small smile on her face.
"You. With a story." 

He smiled back. "You got it," he said.


****


THE BERESFORD CENTER FOR WOMEN'S HEALTH
NORTHERN VIRGINIA REGIONAL MEDICAL CENTER
ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA
12:16 p.m.


The room was large -- a double bed against one wall covered with a
flowered comforter,  a night table with a lamp, the room lined with
cabinets. On the other side of the room, a  large couch and a coffee
table. There were rugs around the room to cover the linoleum, 
pictures on the walls of landscapes and flowers. 

Scully had chosen this room for the way the light came in through the
windows by the  couch, giving it a bright air. It had been one of
three rooms with windows and this one  had set her the most at ease
for some reason she couldn't name. After she'd chosen it, 
Hannah had admitted to it being her own favorite of the birthing
center's rooms. 

Hannah was gone, with a promise to return in an hour to check her
again. Scully was  almost ready, Hannah had said. 

"Not long now," were the words she left them with, touching Scully's
bare leg as she  completed her exam there on the couch. And then she'd
added, her lined face bright.  "You're doing wonderfully. Just hang
on." 

The words had made Mulder feel better, since the pain had gotten so
much worse, Scully  beginning to moan as the contractions took her,
her face going blood red, her brows  knitting down. She had completely
pulled his T-shirt from the waist of his pants as he'd 
held her, her upper body on his lap, the rest of her curved into a
comma along the length  of the couch beneath a white blanket. She was
facing him, on her side, her face  burrowing into the pillow on his
lap, the pillow wet with sweat. Her hair was drenched  with it at this
point, her face shining in the light from the window. 

They'd stayed on the couch because she wanted to be in the light.

He had a book beside him, Alice Walker's "The Color Purple," the same
book he'd been  reading to her for weeks now, and he'd just reached
the part where the children came  back from Africa, greeting their
mother in the field of purple flowers, when Hannah had 
returned to check her progress. 

Now, this close to the time when she would push their child into the
world, he closed the  book, lay it on the table beside the couch and
took her hand in one of his, squeezed, the  other going to smooth back
her unruly, sweat-slicked hair around her flushed face. 

She had taken nothing for the pain, simply ridden it through, and he
could tell the toll it  was taking on her. Still, she looked so strong
to him, a determined, concentrated look on  her face as she breathed
through the contractions. He didn't think he'd ever seen her look 
more like herself, how he saw her. Or more beautiful. 

"You're doing so well," he said softly, his chest feeling full. "So
well. I'm so proud of  you." 

Maggie had said something similar when she'd visited awhile ago,
before Hannah had  come in, her mother rubbing Scully's back for a
long moment before she'd taken her leave  of them for the rest of the
time.

"I'll be waiting," Maggie had told them, her eyes on Mulder. 

He'd nodded, taken her outstretched hand, felt the squeeze. 

Then, with one final brush of Scully's hair, she'd gone.

Now, his words about being proud of her teased a smile from her,
though her eyes were  closed. 

Then she opened them, her hand reaching out to smooth down the T-shirt
he wore where  she'd wadded it with the last contraction. She
swallowed, and she seemed deep in  thought, her chest heaving, her
breath fast. 

"What is it?" he asked. She seemed suddenly sad. 

"I was just thinking..." she said, her voice soft and breathy. "I was
thinking...that this is  the last day you and I will be together."

"You leaving me?" he teased, trying to bring some lightness to her
somber tone.  

She smiled. "You know what I mean," she said softly. "The last day of
just...the two of  us. Things won't be like they've been before. Ever
again." 

He nodded, stroking her hair. "No," he said. "I guess they won't."

He thought about it for a beat. Things had already changed so much --
since she'd left the  basement for her maternity leave, accepted the
teaching assignment at Quantico. Since  Granger had moved down to the
basement himself to take her place. 

"Are you sorry at all?" she asked, and now he did see the tears in her
eyes, catching in the  sunlight across her face. 

He thought for another few seconds as she searched his face. "You
asked me once before  if I had any regrets," he said, thinking of the
morning in Cape Charles all those months  ago, when she'd placed his
hand on her belly -- empty -- and asked him about regrets of a 
different kind -- the regrets of a life with only her. 

She seemed to need to think about it a moment, and then she nodded. "I
remember," she  whispered, stroked his stomach. She had begun to
tremble faintly, as though she were  cold. 

"You remember what you said to me after that?" he pressed, pulling the
blanket up closer  to her, though her shaking only increased. She
shook her head. 

"Tell me," she asked, her voice breaking as tears came. 

"You said that you and I were like a person in a warm, safe bed who
was dreaming," he  murmured, reaching his arms around her and pulling
her closer to him. "Do you  remember now?"

A contraction was coming. He could feel it as her body began to tense.

"Yes, I remember," she whispered, the pain scratching her voice. 

"You said you wanted us to be able to keep dreaming. About anything.
That you didn't  want that to ever end for us." 

She nodded. "Yes." 

"Scully," he began, leaning over her and kissing her temple. His hand
strayed to her  belly, his hand cupping its curve in his palm. "This
is a new dream we're dreaming...and  it's a beautiful dream..."

She choked on a sob, turned her face toward him, her lips, trembling,
on his cheek.

"I love you," she whispered, and the tremor was in her voice now. 

"I love you, too," he replied, and touched her lips with his, then
rubbed his cheek against  hers, holding there as the contraction began
in earnest, her breath catching. 

"Oh God..." she gasped. "Mulder, I..."

"Breathe, Scully..." he murmured. "Just breathe..."


**


1:36 p.m.


"Come on, Dana, almost there..."

"You're doing great, Scully...I see her." 

She was on the couch still, squatting, her elbows on the back, the sun
still coming in the  windows. She'd been unable to lie down, the pain
in her back throbbing. 

Mulder knelt beside her, a hand between her legs where Hannah had
guided it. Hannah  had reached for her hand, as well, the nurse
steadying her, and placed her fingers next to  Mulder's on the soft
mass of the baby's head.

"She's got so much hair," he said, his voice quiet but delighted. 

"Another push, Dana," Hannah said, her voice firm but gentle. "Come
on..."

Scully pulled in a breath, braced herself. She couldn't help the cry
that crawled up her  throat, her body burning as she bore down,
trembling. She kept her hand on the baby's  head. 

"It's too loud for her," she gasped. "Too bright...God, I don't want
to hurt her..."

"It's okay, Scully," Mulder said softly. "She's okay. She's right
here." 

Everyone spoke with a hushed urgency. Hannah pulled out a bulbous
instrument and  suctioned the baby's nose and mouth.  

"Just the shoulders, Dana," Hannah said softly. "One more push for the
shoulders." 

Scully bore down again, fighting down the cry. Her legs shook with the
effort. The  burning was nearly more than she could take. 

"Mulder, keep your hand on the baby," Hannah said softly. "Help me
guide her  out...that's it..." 

The feeling of slipping, a rush of fluids onto the heavy sheets
covering the couch, and the  rest of the baby suddenly out. Scully
looked down and saw the baby cradled against  Mulder's arm, covered in
blood and creamy white. Hannah was moving the cord away 
from the baby's face, the tiny features like a fist, the mouth shaking
open and then, hands  trembling on either side of Mulder's forearm...

A cry.

Tears burst from Scully's eyes as she looked at the baby, leaned
against the back of the  couch, sinking further down on her haunches,
and reached for her. 

"Help me..." Scully said, her voice gone, and Hannah pushed up her
gown around the  still-round shape of her belly, Mulder leaning up and
holding Rose in the crook of his  arm, then gripping his daughter in
his hands as he lay her, belly down, against Scully's  abdomen. The
baby was limp and wrinkled as Scully got her hands on her, pressing
her  close. 

The nurse, Jessie, moved in with a blanket and covered the baby to
just below her matted  dark hair. 

Then Mulder was there beside her, kissing her face, her hairline.
Scully couldn't take her  eyes off the baby, the small face turned to
the side, the baby still crying. 

"It's her..." Scully kept saying in her ruined voice, choking.
"Rose..."

The face she had seen in her mind for all these months. The dark hair,
the color of  Mulder's. The button of a nose. The long, tiny body in
her arms. The full lips. 

If Hannah was confused at all but the comment, she gave no indication.
She simply  stayed kneeling on the floor, her hand on the baby's back
to hold her against Scully's  body, her fingers around the cord,
waiting for the pulsing to cease. 

Mulder kissed Scully again and she turned toward his face, her hand
coming up to touch  his rough cheek, one hand on him and the other on
their daughter, who was quieting now,  the crying spent, the baby
puzzling again, her small hands gripping at Scully's skin. 

Time seemed to drift, then to hold still, and Scully let herself go,
her eyes closed and her  body growing limp, Mulder's tears on her
face, his lips on her ear as he whispered to her. 

Something about her. Something about dreaming. Something about love.

She was like a boat, tossed on a storm-swept sea, that had finally
made its way to shore.

Finally.

Finally made it home.  


******


END OF NOVEL AND SERIES.


AUTHOR'S NOTES: 
 
I'd like to thank the following people for their help  with
information or with support   during the writing of this novel:

- To Jen, Arwen, Robin and Dani for the information on childbirth.
- To dtg and Shari for help with formatting and posting the chapters,
and dtg specifically  for maintaining and updating the website and The
Cave, and for her incredible support of  and enthusiasm about my
work. - To Jean Robinson for keeping up her enthusiasm for the story,
even during its hiatus. - To Nancy, Robin and Nancy (Beach...), for
their chapter-by-chapter detailed feedback  and kind emails.
- To E-muse, for its fabulous sense of community and its support.
- To QofMush, Revely, Shari, Barbara D., Haphazard Method, Marakara,
Sarah Segretti,  Jean Robinson, JET, MCA, Anjou, Snacky, Sheaclaire,
Laney, Jill Selby, Michaela,  MD1016, Blueswirl, Lilydale, Emma
Brightman, Meredith, Snark, Nlynn, Sue Pyper, and  Elizabeth Rowandale
for being my family and my friends.  - To Nlynn, for the wonderful
book jacket. - To linc, Ana_Sedai, Jessie, siggy, Beckyc, lucie, the
old Stalker's Nest folks and the rest  of the supporters at the Haven.
- To the Lost & Found Board (and Kim, its moderator), for being such a
positive and  supportive place to visit on the web.
- To the Enigmatic Dr. for archiving my work.
- To the Cryptkeeper for support of the shorter works.
- To the readers who were patient enough to wait while the story went
in and out of hiatus  as my life got really full and really big and
really wonderful along the way. I promised I'd  finish it  I just
didn't specify the year. ;-) 

And of course, to Dani, Shari, Revely and Sheri, who all beta'd
sections of this book, but  especially to Dani and Shari, who managed
 over the span of five years  to beta every  chapter of every book.
If you've enjoyed this ride, you have them to thank for it.

This book is dedicated to B. Thanks for sharing my life.

I can't promise to answer all feedback (which is why I've given an
"out" for sending it in  m headers  it seems rude to ask for it if
I'm not sure I can send some back), but if you  would like to reach
me, you can do so at Bonetree@gmail.com. 

So long and thanks for all the fish. ;-)


Bone 
September, 2004