Guilty as Charged (2/2)

By Vickie Moseley

Guilty as Charged part six
V. Moseley
Disclaimed in part one

Cracker Barrel Restaurant
Sayerville, New Jersey
August 17, 1996 12:05 pm

Steve Marker pulled the unmarked squad car into the restaurant
parking lot. "Agent Mulder?" he asked, shaking Mulder's arm.
"Agent Mulder, come on. Time to eat."

Slowly, Mulder came out of his sleep induced fog and coughed a
little. He rubbed a hand over his eyes and grimaced at the bright
sunlight. "Where are we?" he asked hoarsely.

"Just before the I 287 interchange. Thought we'd eat here before
heading through New York. Besides, this is the last Cracker
Barrel we'll hit." Steve gave him an impish grin.

"Oh, gee, wouldn't want to miss that," Mulder said dryly. He
glanced at his watch. "We didn't make bad time," he noted.

"Yeah, well, the conversation in the car certainly didn't slow me
down any," Steve retorted. If anything, the silence in the car,
broken only occasionally by Mulder's snores, had almost put the
young detective to sleep a couple of times. In desparation he had
finally turned on the AM only radio and listened to garden reports
for the rest of the trip.

"Hey, my lawyer said not to talk to you, so I'm not talking to
you," Mulder grinned. Slowly, he unbuckled the seatbelt and
opened the door. As he stood, a wave of dizziness hit him hard
and almost dropped him to his knees. His arms flailed and he
grabbed the car door for support.

Steve was out of his door in a flash. "Jesus, Fox! Are you OK?"
he asked anxiously. He helped Mulder sit back down on the car
seat and looked him over closely.

Mulder waved him off. "Yeah, I'm fine. It's just hotter than I
expected," he lied. He took a few deep breaths to steady himself
and then stood up again, much slower this time. The parking lot
swam and shimmered a little, but he remained on his own feet.
Steve had reached into the back seat of the car and extracted the
crutches, which he placed under Mulder's arms. Mulder shot him
a grateful look and the two men headed off to the restaurant.

The smell of food did nothing for Mulder's stomach. It twisted
and turned and threatened to jump right out of his mouth. Still, he
recognized the dizziness for what it was--he was running on
empty in his blood sugar fuel tanks. Scully would skin him alive if
he passed out on the kid and ended up in a New Jersey hosptial.
For that matter, he would rather crawl to the Vineyard than face
that himself. So, regardless of how it smelled, he was going to
have to get something in his stomach.

It was a large restaurant and since it was a weekday, fairly
uncrowded. They were seated rather quickly by a matronly
woman who looked to be in her late fifties. She took one look at
Mulder and started to cluck.

"You ain't feeling that great, are you, hon?" she crooned. "Here,
let me get you some hot tea. Settle that stomach right up." In an
instant, she was back with a cup of hot tea and lemon. Mulder
smiled at her, and nodded. She left to let them look at the menus
and get Steve's diet coke and Mulder took the opportunity to fish
all the ice cubes out of his water glass and dump them in the tea
cup. Then he added three packets of sugar and drank it all in one
gulp.

Steve watched in silence, shrugged and looked at his menu.
However odd his captive's actions might seem, they didn't appear
to be illegal. "So, you still like meatloaf?" Steve asked.

Mulder had been staring at the menu, hoping he could find
something, anything that his stomach would accept and was taken
by surprise by the question. "Yeah, I guess so. How'd you
know?"

"You stayed over for dinner a couple of times when you and Gary
were in Scouts. I remember you raved over Mom's meatloaf so
much the first time that she made a point of making it for you
everytime you came over." Steve looked at Mulder over the
menu. "It's about the only time she'd make it on a weeknight," he
added with a grin.

Mulder nodded, placing the memory. "Your Mom was a great
cook. How are they--your folks?" Mulder asked, grateful that he
didn't have to read any more food descriptions for a moment.

"Fine, fine. They moved out to Las Vegas. Gary's married and
has a couple of kids, so they get to play the doting grandparents
and miss out on the lousy weather. Perfect retirement." Steve ran
his tongue around his mouth and then set the menu down on the
table. "Fox, ah, about this case . . ."

Mulder put up his hand to stop him. "Steve. That's not a good
idea. I don't want to get in trouble with my lawyer and my partner
and I don't want to get you in trouble if I end up having to accuse
you of entrapment or coercing a confession. Let's not talk about
it. OK?"

Steve swallowed and nodded. "Yeah. I guess you're right," he
admitted, chastened. "It's just that . . ."

Mulder grinned at him and shook his head. "You always were a
pesky little brat, you know that?" he teased. "Steve, it's bad form.
Really. How are you going to end up Chief of the Chilimark
Police if you don't learn this stuff early?"

"I don't want to be Chief," Steve said, staring down at the table
with a frown on his face. "I want, . . . or at least I thought I
wanted . . ."

"What?" Mulder asked, wondering why the kid was suddenly
feeling so self-conscious.

"I thought I wanted to go into the FBI. I mean, I've got two years
of community college. I'm working on getting my BA in
psychology from Boston University. But now . . ."

Mulder looked shocked. "Steve, I had no idea," he stated. He
regarded the young man closer. "What makes you think you don't
want that now?"

Steve took a deep breath and looked at his prisoner hard in the
eyes. He knew, in the depths of his soul, that before him sat an
innocent man. And he also knew that the evidence was being
stacked against him. It hadn't taken Steve very long to figure out
what was happening. All he really needed to figure out now was
the why and the who. But Mulder was sitting there, expecting an
answer that Steve didn't think he could give him right away.

"Let's just say I'm not that impressed with police work at the
moment and drop it, huh?" Steve answered and went back to
reading his menu.

Mulder nodded and did the same.

Martha's Vineyard Airport
1:15 pm

Mrs. Mulder waved to Scully as she walked into the airport.
"Over here, Dana," she called.

Scully adjusted the suitbag on her shoulder and the briefcase and
overnight bag in her hands and quickly walked over to the older
woman. "Mrs. Mulder, you didn't have to meet me. I was going
to rent a car," Dana insisted.

"Nonsense. Bill's car was in the garage anyway. No one else is
using it. One of these days Fox has got to take some time and get
rid of some of Bill's junk. I refuse to do it, I'll probably sell or
give away something Fox values," she said ruefully and led Scully
out into the glaring sunlight of the parking lot.

Once in the car, with the air conditioning going full blast, Mrs.
Mulder reached into her purse and handed Dana a key ring with
two keys. "Here. I'm going to drive us over to Bill's house. I'm
staying there until this thing is settled. My car is there. You can
take this one and do as you please. And I insist that you stay at
Bill's with me. The place is a mausoleum at night, I'd feel much
better knowing someone else was around," she lied blatantly,
giving Scully no choice but to agree.

As they pulled in front of Bill Mulder's home in West Tisbury,
Scully couldn't help but feel a chill run down her back. It was in
this house that Bill Mulder was murdered while he was trying to
tell his only son about the truth behind his sister's abduction.
Scully didn't like the idea of staying there, but liked the idea of
letting Mrs. Mulder stay there by herself even less. The place is
not haunted, she reminded herself, but not all spooks disappear in
thin air. With a shake of her head, she took her bags out of the
trunk and followed Mrs. Mulder up the mutitude of steps.

The house itself was beautiful. A full wraparound porch hugged
the main living area. Several doors led out to the porch from
different rooms. The sunlight poured through from dozens of
open windows.

"Bill was lucky, he got a house that catches the breeze. The ocean
is over that way," Mrs. Mulder said, pointing at one set of
windows toward the back of the house. "He never needed to
install A/C. Of course, in the winter, it's deadly cold here," she
added almost spitefully. She motioned for Scully to follow her
into the area off to the left from the front foyer.

>From a narrow hallway, four doors, two on either side, opened
into three bedrooms and a common bath. "Here, Dana. You can
sleep here. This was Fox' room, when he'd stay with his father.
I'm in the guest room, just next door. The bath is across the hall,
towels in the pantry next to the shower. Please, make yourself at
home." She smiled and left Dana alone to put away her things.

The room was sparcely furnished. There was only single bed, a
desk and a bureau. When she was settled, she sat down at the desk
and unpacked her laptop. Oddly enough, everything looked
cleaned and dusted in the room and Dana realized that Mrs.
Mulder must have spent the morning making the place liveable.
She got up from the desk chair and looked around.

There was a bookcase near the bed, five shelves filled with
textbooks. Mostly psychology books, some history. She didn't
see any evidence of 'UFO' or paranormal texts and realized he
probably kept those at his mother's house. She wondered what it
had been like for him, if he had hidden his interests in the
abnormal from his father as he grew up. From the little she had
seen so far, it didn't look like his relationship with his father had
been very open even before Samantha was gone from their lives.

On the second shelf of the bookcase, near the end, tucked neatly
between a treatise by Carl Jung and one by B. F. Skinner, she
found a photo album. Taking a moment to make sure Mrs.
Mulder was occupied somewhere else in the house, she sat down
on the bed and opened the album.

She stifled a giggle at the pictures. Color pictures of her partner
at a much younger age. His hair was lighter, sun bleached in some
of the oldest photos. Riding a shiny new two wheel bicycle as
autumn leaves shone in the background. He must have been six or
seven at the time. His father, looking on proudly, Fox a little wary
as his concentration focused on keeping himself upright and
moving forward. Wary, but never thwarted. Always determined
to succeed.

In the later pages, Sam became a prominent feature in the photos.
>From the odd angles and poor exposure on some, Scully
determined that her partner had been the photographer. As she
turned the pages, the pictures weren't so haphazard and she could
see that he had probably taken time to frame them and set shutter
speeds. But always, Sam was there. She wondered for a moment
if her own older brother had pictures of her that had been taken
with such care, such love.

It broke her heart to think that after all this time he was doubting
himself. Something was wrong here. Something was happening
in him that blinded him to the conspiracy around him. She almost
laughed at the thought that _she_ could see the set up, and he
couldn't. But it wasn't funny. It was frightening. Because if he
didn't believe fully in his own innocence, how could she expect to
prove it to anyone else?

"You didn't kill your sister, Mulder," she said aloud, softly
speaking to the little boy in the picture. "And I guess I'll just have
to prove that to you."

A thought struck her. She searched the bookshelf once more and
was thrilled when she found what she was looking for. An old
yearbook. A book of names--connections with people on the
island. She grabbed it and ran into the other part of the house,
looking for Mrs. Mulder, and a phonebook.

Chilimark Police Station
5:30 pm

Mike Chambers wasn't smiling when he walked in the door of the
police station. He looked around and spotted the young woman
he was seeking and made his way over to her.

"They get here yet?" he asked, not bothering with pleasantries.
Even he knew the value of billable hours.

"No, but Marker called in about an hour ago and said they should
be arriving around 5:30. So I expect them any minute," Scully
said, offering Mike a seat next to her on the wooden bench
outside the main squad room. "Did you come up with anything?"

Scully had called Mike immediately upon the discovery of the
yearbook and the two had agreed to split up the list of names she
quickly compiled with Mrs. Mulder. She and Mike had spend the
rest of the afternoon talking to people still on the island who knew
the Mulders, who might remember the night of the abduction and
who could possible spread some more light on the whole matter.

"Fox' teachers alternately loved and hated him, depending on how
badly he bruised their own egos. His second grade teacher had
wanted to adopt him after Sam disappeared, she said he just
looked so lost all the time. Then his seventh grade teacher
informed me in no uncertain terms that he knew the kid killed his
sister by the way he could correctly identify all the parts of the
frog's digestive tract _before_ they had covered that section in
science class." Mike shook his head. "I hate dealing with cases
this old. No one has a clear picture of anything. Time erases and
changes too much. And the fact that he was not exactly the
normal kid in any class only makes matters worse. Smart kids
may be teachers pets, but everyone secretly wants them to fall on
their asses. It's easy to pin something like a murder on them
because they're suspect in the first place."

Scully shook her head in agreement. "And a good number of
serial killers have high IQ's, which has been widely publicized in
the press. That doesn't help Mulder, either," she reasoned. "But
the neighbors all loved him. Apparently, he was the most helpful
boy in the subdivision. He was always raking leaves for older
folks and shoveling snow. He and Sam had a regular little snow
shoveling business for a couple of season. And they seldom
charged for their services. Said they just liked playing in the
snow." She smiled sadly. Snap out of it, Starbuck, she
commanded herself. She didn't want to have to go back to
Skinner and admit that the case was just too much for her because
it hurt too much. Mulder needed her help, she could offer tea and
sympathy later.

"I did get something rather odd," Mike said, breaking her out of
her private musings. "The people that lived on the other side of
the Mulders, not the Gibsons. Farrells. Yeah, here it is," he said,
flipping legal pages and finding what he was looking for. "Tom
and Clara Farrell. Tom's gone, cancer, ten years ago, but Clara is
still living, though she moved from the old house. Anyway, she
claims she saw something that night, but that no one would take
her seriously."

"What did she see?" Scully asked, curiousity brightening her
previous dark mood.

"Said she saw lights. Bright lights. She reported it to the police
when they came by to question her about Sam's disappearance,
but they told her it was just lightning. From all accounts, it was a
stormy night that night."

"Windy," Scully corrected absently. Lights, just like Mulder had
said. And no one had recorded that Mrs. Farrell had reported
them. She felt like she'd just found the church steeple in a 1000
piece jigsaw puzzle.

"Well, on a windy night, you can still have some sheet lightning,"
Mike commented, wondering why the young agent now had a
faraway look on her face. "Agent Scully? Are you feeling all
right?"

She looked at him, startled. Then she gave him a big smile.
"Great, Mike. Just great. And please, call me Dana. Now, what
is Mrs. Farrell's address. I want to talk to her a little more."

Steve Marker pulled up to the parking spot for his car and killed
the engine. He looked over at his prisoner and winced. The guy
looked like hell. Worse than hell.

When they stopped for lunch, everything seemed to be fine. There
was that episode in the parking lot, but after that, Mulder had
been conversant at lunch and had eaten a small, but respectable
portion of the daily special, a reuben sandwich with chips and cole
slaw. Marker noticed that Mulder didn't touch the cole slaw, but
he didn't eat his either, so he didn't make a big deal of it.

As they were leaving the restaurant, Mulder asked to go to the
restroom. Marker stood outside in the hallway, figuring there was
little chance of the agent escaping from a windowless room.
Mulder had been in for several minutes, and just as Steve started
to get worried, he reappeared, with the collar of his shirt slightly
damp and looking pale. He wasn't as steady on his crutches on
the way back to the car, so Steve helped him across the parking
lot. As soon as they were on the way, Mulder had pushed the seat
back as far as it could go and had fallen fast asleep.

Now that they were in Chilimark, Steve was feeling even more
uneasy. He knew the arraignment was scheduled for the morning.
Since bail would be set at that time, it meant that Mulder would be
sleeping in the jail.

He was in no danger, Steve knew that. Dangerous criminals were
seldom held in the small city jail. For the most part, Steve figured
Mulder would be the only occupant of the facility. And Steve was
certain that Mulder would be able to make bail in the morning. It
was common knowledge that the Mulders were well off, and since
Fox was the sole heir to his father's estate, it would be no problem
to come up with the cash to get out of jail until the trial.

Even so, Steve worried about Mulder spending the night at the
city's expense. Mulder was a cop. A Federal cop, but a cop none
the less. And from their short conversation at lunch, he was one
who took his job very seriously. Steve wondered how he would
feel if suddenly he ended up on the wrong side of the steel bars.
The thought made him shiver, even in the late afternoon heat.
This whole situation must have been a waking nightmare for the
FBI agent, and Steve couldn't help but feel sympathetic.

"Come on, Fox. We're here. Let's get you processed. You can
have some dinner and then sleep the rest of the night away, if you
want."

Mulder woke up slowly and stared around him for a minute or
two. Finally, it seemed to come to him that he was in a car and
needed to get out of it. He opened the car door and swung his
feet around, but as he stood up, his knees buckled and he
crumpled to the pavement. Steve shook his head and ran around
the car. He helped the agent to his feet and then got the crutches
out, but didn't bother giving them to Mulder. He just hooked the
older man's arm around his shoulder and helped Mulder to the
door of the police station.

Scully and Mike Chambers were waiting just inside the door. One
look at Mulder and Scully was on her feet, running over to him
and taking his other arm to help him to a bench in the squad room.
Mulder didn't seem to know her at first, but then smiled weakly at
her.

"Scully, you made good time," he murmured, somewhat
breathless. He was almost sheet white, his eyes were glassy and
dialated. She put her hand to his forehead and it was cold, a
greasy slick of sweat covering it and dampening his forehead.

"Has he eaten anything today?" she demanded of Steve, who was
standing nearby, not really knowing what he should do.

"We stopped for lunch. He had a reuben and chips. And three
glasses of iced tea," he added.

"He kept it down?" she asked, checking Mulder's pulse. It was
rapid and faint.

Steve was surprised by her question. "Yeah, I guess he did," he
said, not too sure of his answer. Then he thought back to the little
time before they left the restaurant. "Unless he got sick in the
bathroom," he muttered, almost to himself.

"Was his collar or hair wet when he came back out?" she asked,
not taking her eyes off her partner, who had thrown his head back
against the wall as if keeping it forward was too taxing.

"Yeah, it was," Steve nodded, remembering. "What does that
prove?"

"That he vomited and had to rinse his mouth out," she said tersely.
"Damn you, Mulder, when are you gonna cut this shit out," she
seethed under her breath. She looked up at Steve. "Look, he's
sick. He hasn't eaten, or kept anything down for three days now.
He's passing out from hypoglycemia, low blood sugar. And
something tells me you don't have an infirmary here."

"He got dizzy in the parking lot at the restaurant and he fell
getting out of the car just now," Steve interjected.

"Yeah, and he just lost consciousness," she retorted. "We need to
get him on an IV. He should probably be in a hospital, not that
he'll like that much," she said with an exasperated puff of breath.

"How do we know this isn't just his way of staying out of a jail
cell?" a voice inquired from the far end of the squad room. Scully
looked up, fierce and ready for battle.

A tall man, very well dressed, with a receding head of blond hair,
walked around the various desks and came over to the bench.
Steve swallowed, then addressed him.

"Rick, I don't think he's faking. He slept all the way here. And he
was really dizzy in the parking lot. He can't stand up. I don't
think you can fake unconsciousness," he added, but his voice had
grown smaller as the other man's stare became more intense.

"He faked four weeks of it about 20 years ago. You don't know
the Fox Mulder I know, kid. This guy should have gotten an
Oscar or an Emmy by now. Best Dramatic Performance by a
Lunatic," Rick said in a deadly calm voice. He turned to Scully
and favored her with a leacherous stare. "I'm Lt. Rick Price,
CPD. I'm heading up this investigation. And you would be . . .?"

Scully didn't bother standing, just glared hard at Price. "Special
Agent Dana Scully, MD. I'm with the Washington Office of the
Federal Bureau of Investigation." She made a point to enunciate
each and every word of her title, just so there could be no mistake
of exactly who she was.

If Rick was impressed, he did a good job of covering it. "I
thought this was being handled by the Boston office," was his only
comment. He turned to Mike and raised an eyebrow.

"Mike Chambers. I'm Agent Mulder's attorney. And I believe
that you are under state and federal statute to see that this man
receives immediate medical attention. Now, if a licensed
physician, like Dr. Scully here, thinks my client is in need of the
medical facilities only available at a hosptial, I firmly suggest that
you contact the nearest hospital and make arrangements for his
transfer as soon as humanly possible. Unless this county enjoys
civil rights lawsuits, that is," Mike said evenly.

Scully almost laughed out loud. Gone was the friendly gnome of
the morning. The man sitting next to her now was more like the
evil troll that ate the Billy Goats Gruff. And she was loving every
minute.

For a second, Rick looked like he was going to bring the
conversation to a standoff. But Steve was faster. He reached
over to the nearest phone and dialed the ambulance company
before Rick could stop him. Rick gave him a scathing look, but
remained calm.

"Marker, since you're such a bleeding heart, you can sit guard
duty. I'll send a uniform to relieve you at midnight, if they admit
him." He smiled at Scully, all teeth and no humor. "Hope you
like hospital food, Ms. Scully," he oozed.

Scully closed her eyes to keep from punching the guy in the
stomach. They all remained in their places, no one talking, until
the ambulance arrived, some five minutes or five hours later--
Scully would never be sure which.

*****

M&S---EP---GLWG---Smoker for Scully--------------------Queen of Angst

XAngst Anonymous "'Thin air'? Why is it always 'thin' air?
and Myth Patrol Why isn't it 'fat' air, or 'chunky' air,
Construction Site or 'basically fit, but could stand
to lose a few pounds' air?"
---Garbaldi, B5

xangst@frii.com------------Die-Hard Skinner Chick---------Dean Warner

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\ / For information on the XAngst Anonymous
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X A N G S T Anonymous
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From xangst@frii.com Sat Dec 21 13:38:29 1996

Guilty as Charged part seven
V. Moseley
Disclaimed in part one

Dukes County Memorial Medical Center
9:30 pm

His eyelids were too heavy to move, but he wanted to know
where he was. It smelled like a hospital, sounded like a hospital.
He prayed to everything holy it wasn't a hospital, but he'd had that
prayer shot to hell too many times to put any faith in it now.

He heard voices. Quiet. Feminine. For some odd reason, it
sounded like his mother and his partner were talking. That didn't
make any sense to him. The last time he was in a hospital with his
mother and Scully, his mother was the one lying down. He
considered that he had fallen asleep on a couch or something, but
it felt like sheets under him and his feet were bumping up against
the regulations corners at the end of the bed. Bed. This was
definitely a bed.

After he expended the energy to figure out his location, he pushed
his woozy mind to the task of considering why he was there. It
came back in bits and pieces. The handcuffs had made a big
impression and he tried to remember why he had been handcuffed
to Gary Marker's kid brother.

Samantha. They had found Samantha's body. It was the one thing
he had managed to convince himself, that she was alive and that if
he kept looking he'd find her. But they found her body. Positive
DNA match, the words echoed in his head a thousand times.

There had been times, many times in the past 23 years of his
existence, when he was at rock bottom and started to dig. In
those times, he had let his mind torture him with the thought that
Sam had died all those years before. That what he had in fact
witnessed was a simple kidnapping and murder of his baby sister.
The psychologist in him knew that kind of trauma would be
enough to cause the hysteria he had suffered and blockage of the
memories of the event. He's seen it in family members of crime
victims all of his career.

But he didn't want to believe it. So much evidence weighed
against it. But was it evidence? What did he really have? The
word of murderer aboard a dead sub in the Arctic Circle. His
father's assurances in a fever dream when he was close to death in
the New Mexico desert. Actually meeting dozens of little girls
who were exact images of his little sister, but could not have been
her, any of them. The word of a man who could raise people from
the dead, but was in all likelihood dead himself by now. Not
exactly irrefutable proof, by any standard.

It was no evidence at all, he decided.

Samantha. If she really was dead, what else had he blocked from
his mind? Could he have killed her? Probably by accident, he was
certain. He had never been physical with his sister, she was
always too little, but a shove every now and then between them
had been common. He could have shoved her. It was possible.
She could have fallen. It happens all the time. She could have
fallen on his knife. Then, in the panic that followed, he could have
buried her so that no one would know of his crime. Was the
dream, the one Scully refused to acknowledge, the real events of
that evening some 23 years before?

The thought that he could have done something that horrid chilled
him to the bone. If I really did that, if I really killed her, just let
me die, he begged all the forces of the universe. Just let me die.

Once again the darkness below him looked a lot more inviting
than the light above and he allowed it to pull him down and fold
him in its comforts.

"Why isn't he waking up, Dana? He's been on the IV for over four
hours now. Surely this isn't hypoglycemia any longer," Mrs.
Mulder contended. She was sitting next to his bed, a protective
hand on his arm, in case he should move, in case he should need
her.

Scully had defered to the older woman's position and had pulled a
chair up to the foot of the bed. From there she could watch the
monitors that were encompassing him. She could see his face,
which was still as death at this moment. It also afforded her the
opportunity to reread his chart, which was telling her absolutely
nothing.

She was furious. Furious at her partner for not telling her that he
was sick. Furious at the Bureau for only giving her three days to
come to the bottom of this mess. Furious at that son of a bitch
police lieutenant, the bastard AIC from the Boston office and that
bitch Assitant DA who were all hell bent on locking Mulder up
and throwing away the key. But more than anything, she was
furious at the shadow people who had taken her partner's sister in
the first place and who were now determined to ruin her partner's
life, if not help end it outright.

She realized a moment too late that Mrs. Mulder had not asked a
rhetorical question. The woman expected an answer. "I can't tell
you what the problem is, Mrs. Mulder. His blood sugar was
almost normal the last time the nurse came in to check. His
temperature is still low grade, at 96 degrees. I don't suspect an
infection. It's possibly a virus of some sort." She was drawing at
straws and she hoped her voice didn't reveal that. More than
likely, Mulder himself was causing his illness, his mind taking
control of his body. It was pure speculation and not really
grounded in medical science, but she knew it with a certainity she
could never deny. And she seen it herself a time or two.

She could almost see Mulder at this point in the discussion,
leaning in close and staring right into her eyes so that she rambled
and finally trailed off in a rush of red faced embarrassment. She
felt a faint blush touch her cheeks and that only served to make
her more angry. She needed out of that room and quickly.

"Mrs. Mulder, I'm sure you must be hungry. I'm starved. And
neither one of us can afford to end up like Sleeping Beauty here.
I'll run down to the cafeteria and see if I can find us some
sandwiches." She picked up her purse and headed out the door
before the older woman had a chance to reply.

She closed the door softly behind her, waiting to hear the click.
Steve Marker was still where she had left him, over 4 hours
before. He had found a straight backed chair and was leaning
back on the back legs. "How's he doing?" he asked in a stage
whisper.

"The same," she answered shortly and started down the hallway.

"Agent Scully," he called after her, trying to keep his voice low.

She stopped. She turned and faced him, bringing her arms up to
cross her chest. It was not her most receptive posture, and she
was using it to her full advantage.

Steve swallowed and almost decided not to pursue his line of
thought. But there was too much at stake. "Agent Scully, I want
to talk to you, if I may." He felt like a kid asking the teacher for a
ride home from school.

"If this is about the case," Scully said quietly, not wanting to boil
over in the middle of the hallway.

"It is. You see, there are some things I think you should know,"
he said and unconsciously brought his thumb to his mouth and
chewed on the cuticle.

Scully looked around the hall and spied another chair. She
brought it over to sit next to Marker. "OK, Detective. What is it
I should know?"

"You partner isn't supposed to be found innocent," he said simply.

"I think that's the point of an indictment, isn't it?" she asked, her
patience slipping with each word.

"No, you don't understand. From the beginning. Before we found
the body, before the ME examined the body, before we found that
knife. He was never supposed to be found innocent. The only
possible outcome from this investigation is that your partner will
be found guilty. Now, I figure, he'll be able to plead temp insanity
or some nonsense and manage to escape capital punishment. But
he won't be walking free. And he won't be an FBI agent.
Probably not for the rest of his life." Steve was trying to keep his
calm, but he was seething at the injustice and even more so at the
fact that the woman before him didn't grasp the seriousness of the
situation.

"I want to know exactly what brings you to that conclusion,"
Scully said through clenched teeth.

"OK, I was called in on the field work," Steve said evenly.

Scully's face screwed up with a confused expression. "So?"

"I've never done that kind of foresnics work, Agent Scully. Now,
it was an anonymous tip and all and it could have been a hoax, but
wouldn't they call in the State Police? Or you guys? I mean,
afterall, this was an FBI matter and as far as I know, it remains an
FBI matter. Regardless of if she were murdered or not."

"OK, I can see where that might cause some suspicions. But you
sound convinced. What convinced you?"

"The second tip. The first one was just the body. The second one
was to find the knife." He set the chair down on all four legs and
leaned forward so that he was inches from Scully. "The body
wasn't enough to connect him to the crime. They had to plant
something else. The knife. It was found a few feet away, but not
with the body. That confused me. If he buried the body, why not
bury the knife there, too?"

"Unless he didn't want the murder weapon found if and when the
body was uncovered," Scully reasoned.

Steve shook his head. "Pretty convoluted thinking for a 12 year
old kid, I'd say. Especially one found in a catatonic state the night
of the incident. And besides, I'm almost positive that Fox Mulder
had that knife long after his sister disappeared. I'm sure he had it
the summer after she went missing."

"How do you know that?" Scully asked, now intriqued.

"Because I saw him bury it. It and some badges and that Eagle
pin. In a little cigar box. By the light of a full moon."

"Tell me," Scully demanded.

"We had this oak tree behind our house. One night, the summer
after Sam disappeared, Fox stayed over. Fox didn't have many
friends, and he and Gary hung out some, but nothing close. He
and Gary were talking about witches and spells and Druids and
stuff. Friday night and time to scare the crap out of the little
brother, I guess."

His eyes unfocused, remembering a time in his early childhood.
"Mom made me go to bed at 10. I was just a little kid, probably 6
or so. I was in the room right across the hall from Gary's. I woke
up in the middle of the night from a bad dream. Druids sacrificing
me or something stupid. Anyway, I went over to Gary's room,
like I always did, but he wasn't there. I got scared and ran over to
the window. I mean, I figured the kidnapper was back and had
taken Gary. All the kids in the whole town used to have bad
dreams like that. But when I looked out the window, I saw Gary
and Fox, out under the tree with a shovel, digging in the dirt.
They put Fox' old lunch box in the hole and buried it."

"I remember distinctly seeing Fox bring that lunch box into the
house when he got there earlier that night. I snuck a look inside
when the older guys weren't looking. He had his Eagle Scout pin,
his Boy Scout knife, a scuffed up baseball, just kid stuff, ya
know."

"Why haven't you said something?" Scully growled. "That knife is
the only solid evidence they have connecting Mulder to the
crime."

Steve rolled his eyes. "Agent Scully, think about it. Do you really
think a judge is going to trust the memory of somebody who was
only 6 at the time? And besides, I don't know that he _didn't_ kill
her. I just know that the knife they found didn't have blood on it
when I saw it and that was a good six months after the
kidnapping."

"Steve, that's enough to cast doubt on the prosecution's case,"
Scully tried to persuade him. "If we can find the rest of the lunch
box, the other items, it would help. And if your brother would
testify to being there when Fox buried the items. But why did he
do that in the first place?" she wondered aloud.

"Agent Scully, I honestly don't know," Steve replied, shaking his
head.

Scully wondered about that all the way down to the cafeteria.
Surprisingly, it was farily busy at that time of night and it was
almost half an hour before she was able to get back up to Mulder's
room.

When Scully arrived back at the door to Mulder's room, she had
two sandwiches and two cups of coffee balanced in her hands.
Mrs. Mulder was sitting with Steve in the hallway. She got up as
Dana got closer.

"Dana, I was about ready to come find you. Fox started having
problems a little bit ago. His fever shot up. The doctor's in with
him now." She accepted the sandwich and the coffee, but put
both on the floor beneath her chair without even looking at them.

Dana sighed. The pieces were starting to fall into place, at last.
Just as she was finding the proof that she needed to blow the lid
off this farce, Mulder had convicted himself without benefit of a
jury and was in the process of sentencing himself. With a squeeze
of her heart, she knew he had more than likely given himself a
death sentence. He was giving up without a fight. "Now I have
to convince him that he's innocent," she muttered to herself.

"What, dear?" Mrs. Mulder asked, looking up anxiously at Dana.

Dana smiled faintly and gave Mrs. Mulder's shoulder a pat. "I'm
sure he'll be fine. This is probably a virus, as I said earlier. He's in
good hands here, Mrs. Mulder. Believe me, I won't let anything
happen to him. I have too much time invested in training him to
do his half of the paperwork," she said lightly and got the desired
smile in response.

"Look, I need to call Mike," Scully said when she was sure Mrs.
Mulder was feeling a little better. "He was doing some research
tonight. I better call him and let him know what's going on.
They'll have to postpone the arraignment until Mulder's condition
improves," she said hastily. "I'll be back in just a few minutes."

Scully called Mike and asked if he could meet her at the hospital
first thing in the morning. She didn't trust the phone lines to his
hotel enough to tell him what Steve had revealed. She also
needed to get Gary Marker's phone number from Steve. If it came
to that, Gary would be able to provide eye witness testimony that
Mulder was in possession of the alleged murder weapon, minus
the incriminating blood evidence, six months after the alleged
crime had been commited. That fact alone made the carefully
constructed frame start to come unglued.

Mike, in the meantime, had been busy finding some connections
he was anxious to share with her, as well. They agreed to meet
outside Mulder's room the next morning.

The doctor was waiting for her when she got back to the room.
"Agent Scully, Mrs. Mulder wanted me to talk to you about your
partner's condition," he said, wasting no time and escorting her
down the hall. To Scully's experienced eyes, he had all the
markings of an overworked young doctor in desparate need of an
additional set of hands.

"How's he doing?" she asked, taking the seat her offered her in the
small family lounge down the hall from Mulder's room.

"I'm afraid his condition is deteriorating at an alarming rate. His
fever spiked, it's 103.4 when I checked it just five minutes ago.
He doesn't seem to be responding to stimulus. B/P is slipping,
too. I've ordered an EEG to see what's happening. I've done
some preliminary blood work when he came in this evening and it
has me very confused. His white count is slightly elevated, but
nothing to suggest the symptoms we're seeing now. Aside from
the low blood sugar and electrolyte imbalance that he came in
with, he seems to be well within normal ranges. I did notice an
antigen that I'm not familiar with, but it doesn't seem related to his
problems. Do you know anything about it? Could this be a
relapse of something?"

Scully flushed slightly. "He had a rare virus a couple of years ago.
It was a bad time, but he recovered fully. I'm sure that's what
you're seeing," she assured him. "As for a relapse, I just don't
know." It hadn't occured to her that the retrovirus might rear it's
ugly head again, when Mulder was most vulnerable.

"Well, I'm running out of ideas. It's not an infection. I don't
suspect tumor, because most of the symptoms seem to contradict
that, but I've scheduled a PET, just to make sure. If you can think
of any bases I haven't covered, please speak up and I'll order the
test. I'm at a loss and if he keeps sliding, I'll have to recommend
sending him to Boston. They're better able to handle the tricky
cases than we are here on the Vineyard."

Scully frowned and shook her head. "I hope that won't be
necessary, Doctor. But do you mind if I have a look at the lab
results?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "His wallet has you listed as
emergency contact, I don't see why not," he said and handed her
the sheaf of papers in his hand. "If you see anything, please tell
me immediately."

"Of course. Can I keep these?" she asked.

"Sure, I can pull another set off the computer. Take your time,
look them over." He smiled apologetically. "I just don't have the
staff or the time to dig into a weird case right now. That's why he
might be better off in Boston," he added.

Scully was already concentrating on the pages in her hands. She
looked up at the mention, for the second time, of moving her
partner to Boston. Was it a good idea? It just didn't feel right.
"No, if it's all the same, let's wait on that decision. I'll talk it over
with his mother, but I'm sure she'll agree. I think he's better off
right here for the time being."

After the doctor left, Scully glanced at her watch. She had
promised her mother that she'd call her when she got settled. It
was already almost 10 o'clock. She pulled out her phone and
dialed.

"Hello," Maggie Scully answered, slightly out of breath.

"Mom, are you all right? You sound out of breath," Scully asked
with concern.

"Oh, hi, sweetheart. No, I'm fine. I just got back from taking Mr.
and Mrs. Spellman to the Senior Center. Tonight was a movie
night for them and they couldn't get their car started. I had just
opened the door when the phone started to ring. How was your
flight?"

"Still bumpy. Oh, Mom, I'll be staying at Mulder's father's house
with Mrs. Mulder and there isn't a phone connected there, so call
me on my cell if you need me."

"Always, sweetheart. How's everyone doing? Did Fox arrive
safely?"

"Safely, but not intact. He's sick, Mom. He hasn't been keeping
food down, when he's bothered to eat. He lost consciousness
almost the minute they got here. I'm at the hospital now."

"Oh, sweetheart," Maggie said sympathetically. "I'm sorry. I
knew I should have pushed him to eat last night," she added,
chiding herself.

"He wouldn't have kept it down, Mom. He ate at lunch and lost it
just a few minutes later."

"What's the matter with him? He was fine, before this all came up,
wasn't he? I mean, could that broken ankle cause all this?"
Maggie asked.

"No, it's more than an ankle. Mom, I think he's doing this to
himself. This whole case is just too much for him. He's never
really known what happened to his sister . . ."

"And this makes it look like UFO's had nothing to do with it,"
Maggie said sadly.

Scully gulped. "Mom, how do you know that?"

Maggie laughed sadly. "Fox told me a lot of things when we were
. . . looking for you. He was very forthcoming with information.
And we talked a lot about his childhood. He said you were the
only other person who knew those things and that might be why
they took you. I think he saw it as some sort of confession,
honey, purifying his soul. But I tried to tell him that all of that,
your disappearance, Samantha's disappearance, was not his fault.
I can see where he might be doubting himself now. You don't
think he's given up, do you?" she asked anxiously.

"I'm afraid so, Mom. I think he has. And I'm so close to solving
this, too. One of his neighbors saw lights that night. But there
were no reports in the police records," Dana sighed.

"Hmmm," Maggie murmured. "The police records didn't show
it?"

"No, but she reported it. I don't know, they may have been lost or
something. If I had something else to back up her story," Scully
said, thinking out loud. "Well, right now, I need to work on
getting Mulder to a point where I can at least ask him about some
of the things I'm finding out. He's not conscious right now and
he's got a high fever. I really need to go, Mom."

"I'll say a prayer for him, sweetheart. I always pray for both of
you, but I'll say an extra one tonight," Maggie assured her.

"Thanks, Mom. We probably keep them hopping up there," she
added with a resigned smile. "I'll talk to you later, when I know
more. I love you."

"I love you, too, sweetheart. Bye."

Maggie put the phone back on the table and stared at it for several
minutes. She knew her daughter well, and she could hear the
frustration and the worry in her voice. Maggie liked the young
man her daughter was partnered with, and was upset that anyone
would cause him this much harm. She wanted to do something,
something more than just offer prayers. "God helps those who
help themselves," she muttered to herself. Then she picked up the
aged address book that sat next to the phone. Quickly, she flipped
a few pages and came to a name she hadn't seen in quite a while.

"In the morning, I guess I'll have to pay a little social call," she
said aloud and smiling, turned to watch the late news.

*****

M&S---EP---GLWG---Smoker for Scully--------------------Queen of Angst

XAngst Anonymous "'Thin air'? Why is it always 'thin' air?
and Myth Patrol Why isn't it 'fat' air, or 'chunky' air,
Construction Site or 'basically fit, but could stand
to lose a few pounds' air?"
---Garbaldi, B5

xangst@frii.com------------Die-Hard Skinner Chick---------Dean Warner

**********************************************************************
_ _
\ / For information on the XAngst Anonymous
\ / email fanfic list, please write:
X A N G S T Anonymous
/ \ & xangst@frii.com
/ \ The Myth Patrol Dean Warner--Founder and moderator
- -

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

From xangst@frii.com Sun Dec 22 06:58:23 1996

Guilty as Charged part eight
V. Moseley
Disclaimed in part one

Dukes County Medical Center
10:00

Mrs. Mulder sat holding her son's hand and let silent tears roll
down her cheeks. Why him, she asked herself for the thousandth
time since that night. Why was it always Fox that had to suffer so
for other's sins.

Angrily she wiped the tears away with the tissue she had gripped
in her other hand. Twenty three years and the story was the same.
They knew no more than they had back then. And so many times,
Fox had been put in danger. So many times. Of course, she only
heard about many of those incidents after the fact. Her little
network of informants was growing fewer and fewer. More often
than not, she suspected that her son's partner conjoled him into
calling her, once he was out of danger. She knew that he called
her from countless hospital beds and quarantine rooms. She had
come to recognize the way his voice sounded, so tired, often
weak. She would wonder silently how close it had been that time.
Was it a bullet? A unknown disease? An explosion, a fire? What
occurance had almost stripped her of the only person in her life
that she valued? But she would never ask. She played the game,
went along with his blatant lies that he was fine and just calling to
find out how _she_ was.

A good little soldier. That's how she saw him some times. Doing
the duty that he had forced upon himself. So often, she had
wanted to fold him in her arms and tell him to give it up. It wasn't
worth it. She didn't want to find Samantha if it cost him his life.

It wasn't that she didn't want her daughter returned. But she had
been promised. No harm would come to her. None. She had that
on the utmost authority. She could never tell her son how she
knew that, he would be killed immediately. She had to keep that
knowledge to herself even though that secret put her son's life on
the line.

Now that secret was killing him. She knew, with a certainity that
only a mother could have, it was not Samantha's remains they had
found in Hobbs Park. She'd had her doubts about the young
woman who had shown up at Bill's door just a few years ago, but
she was certain that was a more probably occurance than to dig up
the body now after 23 years. And in Hobbs Park of all places.
She had helped raise the money for the baseball diamond there. It
was slap in her face, as well.

She looked over at her son. He's so handsome, she thought. He
looks so much like Dad. He had the same strong profile her father
had carried, the same mannerisms, the same boyish wonder at
each new discovery. And, sometimes, Bill's mannerisms would
surface, too. The way he would take everything into himself,
shutting out the rest of the world. Maybe, if Bill had learned to
trust her, had turned to her when he's gotten involved with the
project, maybe things would have been different.

"I love you, baby boy," she whispered, clutching his hand to her
chest. "Please, wake up, Fox. Mama really needs to talk to you.
There is so much you don't know. So much I've never been able
to tell you. It wasn't your fault, baby boy. Never your fault. You
have to believe me, darling. It was never your fault," she
murmured over and over again.

He laid there and didn't move. Not an eyelash, not a breath any
deeper than the last. The tears had become a steady stream now
and she knew what she had to do. God, how she hated the
thought, but it was her only recourse.

She heard the door click behind her and knew that Dana had
entered the room.

"Any change," the young woman asked, hopeful. Then she took
one look at the older woman sitting next to her partner's bed and
all hope vanished.

"No change," came the sad reply.

"The doctor wants to send him to Boston," Dana said slowly and
was taken back by the look his mother gave her. It was
frightened, like she had just suggested pulling the plug on her son.

His mother shook her head vigorously. "I'd feel better if he were
here. Smaller hospital, easier to keep track of people," she said
cryptically and Dana wondered what she was talking about.

After a moment, she leaned over and kissed her son lightly on the
forehead. "Dana is here with you, Fox. I have to take a break,
but I'll be back. I love you, Fox. I love you." She straightened
and then motioned for Dana to take her place. "I'm too old to sit
in these chairs for hours at a time," she smiled sadly. "Would you
mind taking my place for a while. I just need to stretch. I'll be
back later."

Dana sat down and reached over to take Mulder's hand in her
own. "Not a problem, Mrs. Mulder. Besides, we've got a lot to
talk about," she said, nodding toward her partner. She smiled
faintly and the older woman returned the gesture.

"Well, don't let him monopolize the conversation, dear. He has a
habit of doing that sometimes," she grinned.

"To tell you the truth, tonight, I might let him get away with it,"
Dana said lightly. Mrs. Mulder nodded in agreement and left the
room.

Averman's Pier
Seashore Drive
August 18, 1996 2 am

It was chilly, even though the day had been hot enough to break
records. The North Atlantic wind blew across the pier and
brought gooseflesh to her skin.

She heard the match strike behind her and didn't give him the
satisfaction of startling at the noise. She turned slowly, measured,
and regarded him with a look of pure malice.

"I didn't really expect to hear from you after our last encounter,"
he said mildly and drew on the cigarette in his hand.

"Probably because you thought I was dead," she returned with
venom.

"I would have regretted that deeply, my dear," he said softly. Was
that sincerety she saw in his eyes, or only the lights from the pier?
She could never be sure.

"Well, I really doubt there are many things you have ever come to
regret," she spat out.

He toed the sand at his feet and then looked at her. "You didn't
call me all the way up here just to fling insults, did you?" he asked.

She took a deep breath, let her anger built and then unleased it on
him. "Why are you doing this to him? I was promised. I was
promised that he would be safe. You lied to me, and I'm calling
you on it. All bets are off. The truth comes out, NOW!" she
shouted angrily, shaking her finger in front of him.

He grabbed the hand and held it tight. "I'm not the one hurting
him," he growled. She struggled briefly, defiantly, but he held
fast. Finally, with a grim smile, he released her arm. "I'm not the
only player in the game. You know that. I've kept my part of the
bargain, because you have kept yours. Balance of power. It's
worked for years, even kept us from destroying ourselves on more
than one occasion."

"I'm not talking world affairs, damn it! I'm talking about my son!"
she hissed.

"I'm not talking about world affairs, either. Just ours," he said
with a sad smile.

She glared at him. "He's not your son," she said in voice low and
filled with venom.

"I know that," he answered lightly. "If he were my son, he'd have
killed me when he had the opportunity."

"What do you want? What chip do I have to bargain to get you to
save him?" she asked, and the pleading sound to her voice caught
him off guard.

"I would have thought that you had learned not to grow attached
by now," he said with all seriousness.

"You bastard! I'm begging you. Save my son. Please. I'll do
anything," she was crying now and her tears clouded her eyesight
so that she couldn't see the torment on his face.

He was silent for a long moment. "I'll see what I can do," he said
simply. He turned and headed back to his car.

"At what price?" she called after him, the bitterness of the words
falling as quickly as her tears.

He stopped and turned toward her once more. "Why, the same as
last time, my love. Your continued silence." He turned his back
on her and got into his car, then drove away.

She fell to the sand and sobbed.

Dukes County Medical Center
August 18, 1996 7 am

He was so hot. The heat was scorching him. For a moment, he
thought he might be sitting in an electric chair and the warden had
already thrown the switch. Every nerve in his body felt as if it
were on fire. He tried to scream in pain, but no words came from
his mouth.

He'd been tortured all night by fever dreams, but his body was too
weak, too frozen to allow him any expression of his torment.
Visions of the knife, in his hand, coming down and striking
Samantha. Of her eyes, the look on her face as she died by his
hand. The feeling of total dispair when he realized what he had
done, and that nothing could ever change it. Just once, just once
he wanted to plunge the knife into his own chest, feel his own
blood soak his hand and seep from his body to let him fall, dead
instead of his sister. But the dreams never allowed him that
luxury.

There were sounds. Just on the edge of his hearing. He could
make out mechanical noises, beeping and bleetings. He knew all
too well that when he heard those sounds, he was not faring well
physically. This time, that thought gave him a small modicum of
comfort. He didn't want to live this time. He hoped he was dying
and that soon it would all be over.

There were other sounds. Soft voices. Again, just beyond his
understanding. One sound he knew. It was Scully's voice.
Gentle. Sturdy. No tears, just calm. It assured him that she was
there, but didn't get all weepy on him. It was one of the things he
treasured most about their friendship. She didn't get all weepy on
him very often, if ever.

Anger, that was another matter. Sometimes, she'd be so pissed at
him that he'd swear she was gone from his life for good. But she
would always come back, always be there when he needed her.

He needed her desparately now.

Scully, he thought, I killed her. I killed my baby sister and I can't
live with that. Scully, please make it stop. Make the visions stop.
Make the dreams stop. Scully, please help me. Please help me
slip away. I don't want to do this anymore, I don't. My search is
over, as it was at the beginning. My search, he thought with
disgust. The fiction of my mind so that I could live with myself. I
can't believe I duped myself so completely. The mind can play
truly vile tricks, he knew that. But to hide his actions so
completely, to fabricate such a perfect concealment, that was
astonishing, even to him.

It only made the pain of the truth that more unbearable. Please,
Scully, he pleaded again and prayed that she would know what he
was thinking. Please Scully. Let this end.

"Has the doctor been in?" Mrs. Mulder asked. Scully had been
surprised when the older woman had returned, eyes red from
crying, at 3 in the morning, and offered to sit up the rest of the
night. Dana had insisted that she take the nurse up on the offer of
a cot in the break room and with great relunctance, the older
woman had done that. Now she was awake and sitting by her
son's side again.

"He was in at 6:30. Little change in the blood chemistry, except
pyrogens are through the roof." She smiled self-consciously.
"Sorry, that's just a marker of fever. It really doesn't tell us
anything that we couldn't figure out with a thermometer." She
glanced back over the blood work. "At least the virus appears to
still be dormant," she muttered.

"Virus? What virus?" his mother asked. Ears on mothers were a
wonder of medical science, Dana had long decided.

"He had a particularly nasty virus a while back, but it's not
showing any signs of activity. That's the good news," Dana said
evenly.

"And the bad news?" his mother asked.

"He's getting weaker and we don't know why. This fever is
sapping him of his strength. It's starting to affect other systems.
Doctor Thompson has given this to the resident neurologist, Dr.
Grant. He's suggesting we put him on antipyrretics and work
agressively to get the fever under control. The usual methods of
treatment aren't working on him."

"Because he doesn't want to get better," Mrs. Mulder said bitterly.

"We don't know that, Mrs. Mulder. It's been my experience that
your son has a very strong will to live," Dana tried to reassure the
older woman.

"That was when he felt his life had a purpose. When he had a
duty to continue the search. But now, he feels the search has
ended and he feels that he is responsible for her death. He
couldn't live with himself, with that knowledge. He's trying to die.
He wants to die," Mrs. Mulder said flatly.

The sound of her voice, certain beyond any hope of correction,
frightened Dana even more than the woman's words.

"Then we just have to convince him that he's wrong. That it's not
Samantha they found. That she is still out there, waiting for us to
find her," Dana said quietly, confidently. Mrs. Mulder didn't miss
the fact that she had used the word 'us' instead of 'him'. This
young woman truly was her son's partner, in every sense of the
word.

"I hope we can convince him of that before it's too late," Mrs.
Mulder said with a tired sigh.

Dana patted her shoulder and glancing over to at her partner, she
left the room.

It was short walk down the hallway to the nurse's station. She
had been granted access to the hospital's fax machine stationed
there. Seeing no papers in the tray, she pulled out her cell phone
and dialed a number from memory. Thank God I remember my
spare batteries this time, she thought to herself as she listened to
the phone ring.

"Lab," came the voice in DC.

"Agent Pendrell, it's Agent Scully. Do you have those test results
I requested?" she asked, as always dispensing with any greetings.

She was quite certain she heard a sigh on the other end of the line
before Pendrell spoke. "Oh, hi, Agent Scully. Yeah, sure. I did
those tests myself. Results came in about 6 this morning. I was
just compiling them when you called. Do you have modem
access?" he asked.

"No, but I have fax access," she said and gave him the number of
the fax machine.

"How's Agent Mulder?" Pendrell asked, rather hesitantly.

"He's in the hospital. He's got a pretty bad fever," Scully said
shortly, not wanting too much information going out to the DC
office before she could talk to the AD.

"Gosh, on top of everything else," Pendrell said sadly. "Tell him I
said hi, OK?"

Scully smiled sadly. "Sure thing, Agent Pendrell. And thanks for
sending me this. I really appreciate it."

"Any time, Agent Scully, any time. Good bye," he said.

"Bye," she returned and disconnected the line. She turned and
waited for the fax machine to come to life. In a second, it was
spitting out papers. She gathered them and had just started to
glance at them when the double doors at the end of the hall
opened.

Mike Chambers looked downright chipper as he hurried over to
her. "Dana, come here. You have to see this," he said, taking her
arm and leading her to a small conference area.

"What?" she asked as he pulled out a chair and she sat down. He
handed her couple of stapled pages. "What are these, Mike?
They look like bank statements," she said.

"First, let me explain. Do you know who initiated this
investigation?" he asked.

She shrugged her shoulders. "The Chilimark PD when they
received an anonymous phone tip," she offered.

"No, not exactly. The tip didn't go to the police department. It
went to one individual. Lt. Rick Price. He received it at his home
some four days ago now. He had the 'presense of mind' to let his
answering machine record it. Rather clever for a guy who buys
overpriced suits, don't you think?" he asked happily.

Scully frowned. "What are you getting at?" she asked.

"Well, I didn't like the guy on sight so I decided to ask a few
friends of mine to do a little digging. Those papers you have are
his bank statements. You'll notice that he has some rather large
deposits scattered throughout, from something called COS
Industries. Five thousand here, ten thousand there. Nothing that
would pop your eyes out. But look at the deposit on August
15th."

Scully's eyes scanned the paper and then grew wide. "Half a
million dollars?" she said in amazement. She looked up at Mike.
"But this doesn't tell us anything," she said, throwing the paper
back on the table toward him. "Who is COS Industries?"

"Good question. My friends are very good at finding out deep
information. They hunted down COS and discovered that it's not
a registered company. As a matter of fact, aside from an account
in the Cayman's, it doesn't seem to exist."

Scully's forehead furrowed. "How can that be?"

"Well, according to my friends, and they can't prove this, but they
are pretty sure of their information, COS is one of the names used
during the Iran-Contra deal a few year back. Now, it may just be
coincidence . . ."

"What did they teach us the first day at the Academy, Agent
Scully," she whispered. "Pretty damned good set of prints, don't
you think, Mulder," she said, still talking to someone not even in
the room. Finally, she came back to herself and looked at Mike.
"Mike, just who are these friends of yours?" she asked with a sly
smile.

"Sorry, Dana. I never reveal my sources," he smiled in return.

Her grin grew even broader. "That's OK, Mike. And the next
time you talk to them, tell Frohike that I'm changing my e-mail
address because of him."

Mike's grin now mirrored her own. "I'll be sure to relay the
message, Dana."

*****

M&S---EP---GLWG---Smoker for Scully--------------------Queen of Angst

XAngst Anonymous "'Thin air'? Why is it always 'thin' air?
and Myth Patrol Why isn't it 'fat' air, or 'chunky' air,
Construction Site or 'basically fit, but could stand
to lose a few pounds' air?"
---Garbaldi, B5

xangst@frii.com------------Die-Hard Skinner Chick---------Dean Warner

**********************************************************************
_ _
\ / For information on the XAngst Anonymous
\ / email fanfic list, please write:
X A N G S T Anonymous
/ \ & xangst@frii.com
/ \ The Myth Patrol Dean Warner--Founder and moderator
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From xangst@frii.com Mon Dec 23 04:08:07 1996

Guilty as Charged part nine
V. Moseley
Disclaimed in part one

Maggie put the last of the groceries on the shelf and folded the
paper bags. "All done, Mrs. Gerts. Now, if you run out of
anything, you just give me a ring, all right?"

The ancient woman smiled from her reclining chair. "Oh, thank
you, Maggie. I'll do that."

Maggie waved her goodbyes and walked to her car. As she
started the engine, she thought again about what she was doing.

"Bill, I'm doing this for Dana. It can't be wrong if it helps her, can
it?" she asked aloud. A reassuring peace settled over her and she
smiled. Message received, loud and clear.

It was short trip from Mrs. Gerts house to the Pentagon. It had
been years since she had been there. Bill had retired in 90 and the
last time she had set foot in the doors was to attend his farewell
party. But surprisingly, the guard was the same man she'd known
back then.

"Mrs. Scully! To what do we owe this pleasure?" the guard,
whose name badge sported simply the name 'Jim' asked as she
approached his desk.

"Hi, Jim, it's been a long time, hasn't it? I was hoping to catch
Admiral Stevens. Could you ring his secretary?" She stood by
the desk, admiring the few wall paintings while the call was made.
A few seconds later, a young naval lieutenant appeared out of
nowhere.

"Mrs. Scully, the Admiral will see you in his office," she said in a
clipped, professional tone. Maggie smiled at her and followed her
down the hall.

"Maggie, Maggie, Maggie," Jack Stevens sighed as he stood up
and walked around his desk so he could take her into a friendly
hug. "It's been entirely too long. Come in, take a load off. How
is the brood of yours? Let's see, Bill Jr's married, any more follow
him to the altar?"

"Charlie's pretty much married to the sea, Jack," Maggie laughed.

Jack grew serious. "I'm so sorry about Missy. Such a tragedy. I
was stranded out in the Mediterranian when it happened. I
apologize for not being there," he said sadly.

Maggie nodded and smiled bravely. "I know you would have
been there if you could have, Jack. And the flowers were
beautiful. I know Missy probably appreciated the donation to
save the rainforest more, though," she smiled. "You were a good
Godfather to her. She loved you very much."

He nodded in his sorrow, then shook it off. "So, who's left?
Starbuck. How is Dana? Still the G-woman or has she come to
her senses?" he joked lightly.

"No," Maggie smiled. "She's still with the FBI. She loves it, Jack.
She thrives on it. Not much chance she's going to change her
mind on it now." She sat for a moment and twisted the hem of her
sweater in her hand. "It's really something that Dana is working
on that brings me to see you."

Dukes County Courthouse
Edgartown, MA
10:30 am

District Attorney Camden Garfield leaned back in his faux leather
chair and steepled his fingers in front of his mouth.

"I was under the impression that you had this case well in hand,
Andrea," he said to the young woman sitting in front of his desk.

"Sir, this was unavoidable. Fox Mulder is seriously ill. I've
spoken to the doctor myself. They are thinking of sending him to
Boston." She was nervous, but sure of her standing in this case.

"What's wrong with him?" Garfield asked, feigning indifference.

"The doctor isn't certain, sir. He's exhibiting a high fever.
Vomiting. Apparently his other major systems are having
problems now too. They aren't certain he'll survive, sir," she said
evenly.

"Save the state the cost of putting the little bastard to death, I
suppose," Garfield said lightly. "Well, the arraignment is
postponed until he's well enough to stand trial. But I want to
keep the police guard posted. Just in case we are witness to a
miraculous recovery," he said derisively. "Have the FBI labs
given you the data from the body?"

"Yes sir, and I'm a little confused by it. According to the data, the
DNA is an exact match of Samantha Mulder. But the body
appears to have only been deceased for 15 years. The age of the
child is determined to be approximately 8. She would have been
16 years of age 15 years ago. It's confusing, sir," she admitted.

"Just a mistake, Andrea. Believe me, even the all powerful OZ in
Washington has been known to make a mistake now and then," he
smiled and dismissed the young woman with a wave of his hand.

Martha's Vineyard Retirement Village
10:30 am

After her discussion with Mike, Dana had been more convinced
than ever that she needed to talk to Mrs. Farrell. While the
information on Rick Price was damning, it was not enough to
convince her partner that he hadn't killed his sister. Mrs. Farrell's
testimony, however, would be a good start to proving to Mulder
that he was right in his regressions, that the dream of the house
shaking and Samantha floating out the picture window had
actually happened, was the real experience.

She laughed for a moment. For almost four years, she had taken
that story with a grain of salt. If that was how Mulder had to
perceive it to get through each day, she could accept it. But to
actually prove it's validity as an actual report--the thought made
her head spin. This was putting her skeptical nature in a very
precarious position.

Dana got out of the car and walked up the sidewalk to the little
one story condo. She knocked smartly on the screen and was
greeted in a few seconds by an elderly woman in her early
seventies who smiled brightly upon seeing her.

"You must be Fox' little friend," Mrs. Farrell said happily as she
opened the door and let Scully enter. "Fox always did like pretty
girls," she added and motioned for the younger woman to sit
down.

"Actually, Mrs. Farrell, Fox and I met through work," Scully felt
the need to set the record straight, though she couldn't give a
reason for why that was important.

"Well, I know he's doing well, where ever he is. He was always a
smart boy. Smart and a hard worker. Why didn't he come with
you? I would have loved to seen him again," Mrs. Farrell said as
she handed Scully a glass of lemonade.

"He's not feeling very well right now, Mrs. Farrell. He sends his
regards, though," she lied.

"This whole mess about little Sammi, I bet that's what's bothering
him. Poor boy. He did love his little sister so. It hurt the whole
town the night those things came and took her."

Scully gulped. "Mrs. Farrell, did you see anything that night? The
night that Samantha Mulder disappeared."

"Why, the lights, dearie. I saw them more than just that once.
They'd come and go, regular some years. Like Christmas tree
ornaments, you know. Sometimes they would hover and blink
blue and green and red. Other times, like that night, it was just
bright white--so bright I thought the Ruskies had finally dropped
the big one, don't you know. The Kennedy's always on the island,
they probably thought this was the seat of government or some
such nonsense. More lemonade, dearie?"

Dana shook her head. "No, Mrs. Farrell, this is fine, thank you.
Now, on the night Samantha disappeared, do you remember what
time it was when you saw the lights?"

"It was just before 9, I remember. That was a Friday night. I do
love to watch TV on Friday's. I remember back then, the
Magician was on at 9. Bill Bixby was so cute. He was on that
cute little show with the Martian on it. But those lights, I don't
think they were cute little Martians. I think they were evil, what
ever they were. Taking that poor little girl away from her mother
and daddy and brother. She was so sweet. They used to come
visit, Sammi and Fox. I would always make them oatmeal
cookies. Tom and I were never blessed with children, so Sammi
and Fox were the closest we had to children of our own." Mrs.
Farrell stopped and wiped her eye.

"He didn't kill her, you know. Fox would never do that. He loved
Sammi, he loved her so much. He was a good brother, always
looked out for her. He could never hurt her, never," she assured
Scully. "Tell him that I know he didn't do it. He needs to know
that. He needs to believe it." The look she gave Dana went
straight through to her soul.

"Thank you, Mrs. Farrell. I'll tell Fox what you've said. You've
been a big help. Thank you." She shook the old woman's hand
and left.

"Well, Mulder, at least someone in this town believes in you,"
Scully muttered as she got in the car and headed for the hospital.

Dukes County Medical Center
11:00

When she got to the Mulder's room it was empty. Frantically, she
searched for one of the nurses she had seen come on the floor at
7. She found one at the nurses station.

"Oh, yes, Agent Scully. Dr. Thompson had Mr. Mulder moved up
to ICU. He developed respiratory problems an hour ago. It's on
the second floor, north corridor. Just take these elevators and you
turn right. Then follow the signs. His mom is up there with him
now," she added and went back to filling out a chart.

When she got to the second floor and finally found Mulder's bed,
her worst fears were realized. He was on a respirator. She
noticed another bag of clear fluid hanging next to the normal IV
solution.

"He wasn't getting enough oxygen," a sad voice said behind her.
She turned and Mrs. Mulder walked over next to her and looked
down on her son.

"I talked to Mrs. Farrell. Mrs. Mulder, why didn't the police
include her statement in Samantha's file?" Dana demanded.

"Clara Farrell," the older woman smiled. "Such a dear woman.
And completely insane. Her husband Tom was the only reason
she was never commited." Mrs. Mulder looked at Dana and
shook her head. "She was pregnant about the same time I was
expecting Fox. But she fell down the basement stairs. She lost
the baby. Something snapped. She was never the same. Always
talking about lights in the sky."

"So the police just discounted her testimony," Dana said with a
deep sigh.

"Probably. She'd call them every time Tom had his back turned.
But she wasn't violent. She'd never hurt a fly. She made cookies
for Fox and Sam all the time. Sam loved to listen to her stories of
when she was a little girl living in the midwest on a farm. But
basically, she's a crackpot. A sweet, gentle crackpot. I'm sorry,
Dana, if you got your hopes up over this, but whatever Mrs.
Farrell told you must be taken with a large grain of salt. And a
good dose of sanity."

Dana nodded and chewed on the inside of her cheek to keep her
emotions in check. So close, so close. She closed her eyes and
blinked back the tears. She would find it. She find the proof that
would convince him. She just had to keep looking.

"Oh, dear, when we were moving Fox to this floor, the nurse
found this on one of the chairs. I figured you must have left it
behind." Mrs. Mulder handed her the fax pages she had received
from Pendrell earlier in the morning.

"Thank you, Mrs. Mulder. I would have been looking for these
soon," she admitted. She said down in a chair near the curtained
divider and for the first time, really looked at the sheets of paper.

At first, she couldn't believe what she was reading. She went back
again and double checked. It made no sense, but then, knowing
some of the things she knew, it made all the sense in the world.
Pendrell had put an asterik next to one set of figures and
extrapolated them out. Her heart was pounding as the numbers
formed images in her mind. This was exactly what she had been
praying for.

"Mrs. Mulder, could you do me a tremendous favor?" she asked
suddenly, and the older woman looked up at her curiously.

"Of course, dear," she said quickly.

Dana thought hard, this had to be good. "Could you ask the
uniformed officer sitting guard if he would contact Det. Marker
and have him come over here to the hospital?"

"Certainly, dear," and she stood and walked to the area where the
police guard sat, outside the Intensive Care Unit.

Wasting no time, Dana hurried over to her partner's side and
leaned close to his ear. "Mulder. Mulder, listen to me. That was
not Samantha in that grave. It was a . . ." she stopped for a
breath, she couldn't believe she was saying this. But it was true.
She was staring at the proof right in front of her. It was all true.
"It was a clone, a clone, Mulder. You didn't kill you sister. I
don't know what's going on, but I have to talk to you. Mulder,
Samantha is still out there, waiting for you and if you die now, she
will always be waiting for you. Don't do this. Don't you dare
chicken out on me now when I finally have proof of this. I mean
it, Mulder. Don't make me pull my gun," she hissed, half joking,
half serious. She took a breath, regaining her calm, her strength.
"You gave me the strengths of your beliefs once, Mulder. Now
it's my turn. Let me return the favor. Take my strength, Fox. I'm
here and I'm waiting, too."

She sat back and held his hand and prayed with all her might that
he had heard and understood.

The dream was repeating itself again and he was so tired. The
only good thing now was that the dream seemed to be fading
around the edges. Everything was growing darker, now. A gentle
curtain was falling and he welcomed it with open arms. A blanket,
one he could curl up in and be safe, one that would protect him
from the dreams and make them end. Make it all end. But until
the curtain fell completely, until he could cower under the blanket,
he was forced to relive the dream. It made him ache, even though
he had long forgotten the pain his body was going through.

As he watched with his mind's eye, no longer curious, knowing
what to expect, the dreamscape changed. This time, when he
plunged the knife in his sister's chest, instead of red blood flowing
over his hand, it was green. It bubbled and oozed and burned to
the touch. And as he looked at Samantha's face, it changed, into
the face of the one he knew as the alien bounty hunter. It wasn't
Samantha at all that he was killing. It was the alien.

It all came together like the sunrise after a night of violent storms.
In the buffer of his mind, he replayed the sounds he had ignored.
"Let me give you my strength, Fox." Scully. Scully had the
answers. Scully wouldn't trick him, wouldn't betray him. Even
though he couldn't trust his own mind on this, he could trust
Scully. Just as he had once before, in a lonely SETI outpost in
Puerto Rico.

But he was so tired. His mind realized with a certainity that his
body was too weak. He would need Scully's strength this time.
He didn't have any of his own, he had let it all slip away from him
in his depression and dispair. He had to focus on her voice, on her
words. He had to follow her, let her guide him back.

Scully's phone was chirping in her pocket and she frowned. Mrs.
Mulder was still sitting by her son, trying to keep him bound to
the earth even when it was clear that he didn't want to be bound
here any longer.

Scully's whole body ached with the realization that she had failed.
He wasn't listening to her. He couldn't hear her. It was only a
matter of time.

She didn't want to leave, but the damned phone would not let up.
She looked over at his mother and gave her an apologetic look as
she stood and walked out into the corridor to answer the phone.

"Scully," she said tersely. If it was the Bureau, great. It would
save her the cost of the phone call to resign.

"Dana, honey. It's Mom," came the excited voice on the other end
of the line.

Scully's heart sank a little lower. She wasn't ready to tell her Mom
that her partner was dying. It would put a measure of reality on it
that she wasn't ready to accept. "Hi, Mom. Look, this is a really
bad time . . ."

"Oh, well, I won't keep you. I just need your fax number. I have
something for you."

Dana frowned in confusion. What on earth could her mother be
faxing her at a time like this.

"Mom, I don't think . . ."

"Dana Katherine, this is important. Now give me the fax number
and then you can get back to whatever it is that you think is so
important," Maggie said in a distinctly 'mother knows best' voice.

It took Dana back for a moment, to her early adolescence, when
that voice was the only voice her mother ever used. "OK, here,"
she said and quickly rattled off the number of the nurses station
fax machine.

"Now, Dana, I want you to go down there now and get this. I
don't want anyone else seeing it, do you hear me?" Maggie
ordered.

"Yeah, Mom, but what is this all about?" Dana asked, confused.

"You'll see when you read it. Tell Fox I still have him in my
prayers. He'll be fine, sweetheart. He's a very strong young man,"
Maggie assured her daughter. "Well, gotta run. I'm behind
schedule today. Take care and I love you." Maggie had
disconnected the line before Dana could respond in kind.

Dana walked back into the ICU in a confused daze. "Mrs.
Mulder, I have to run down to the nurses station to get a fax. I'll be
right back. If anything happens," she said, but couldn't complete
the sentence.

"I'll have someone come get you immediately, dear," Mrs. Mulder
said firmly and then smiled a quick reassurance.

Dana didn't want to wait for the elevator so she took the stairs,
two at a time. She was slightly winded when she got to the floor,
but beat her mother's fax by several seconds. As the paper fell
into the tray and Dana saw the letterhead of the cover sheet, her
eyes widened and she gasped. She grabbed the sheets of paper,
quickly scanned the attached copies and ran as fast as she could
back to the stairwell to make it to Mulder's bedside, in time, she
hoped.

Mulder's condition had changed in the few minutes Scully had
been gone. She ignored the curious look his mother gave her and
ran over to the opposite side of his bed. "Mulder, wake up, damn
it. You have to see this," she hissed in his ear. "Mulder, look
what I have. Proof! Proof that Mrs. Farrell isn't a crackpot,
Mulder. The Navy had a couple of cruisers running field exercises
off the coast of Masschusetts the night of Nov 27, 1973. Two
entire crews reported seeing a bright set of lights hovering above
Martha's Vineyard. My God, Mulder. The lights. The lights
were there, Mulder. They took her. Not you. You had nothing
to do with it. Nothing."

She was out of breath and didn't even notice that his mother had
brought a chair over for her to sit in. Mrs. Mulder gently guided
her down into the chair and squeezed her shoulder. "Why isn't he
listening," Scully cried, looking to Mrs. Mulder for an explanation.
"I listened to him. Why isn't he listening to me?" she demanded.

"Maybe he's listening, but he just doesn't have the strength . . ."
Mrs. Mulder's words were cut off by the sound of her son
struggling against the respirator. A machine set off it's alarm and
for a split second, Scully thought it was over, that he was gone.
But then, she realized it was just Mulder, coming back. She
looked over at her mother and they both broke into relieved
laughter.

"He heard", they said in unison.

Dukes County Medical Center
August 20, 1996 8:15 am

"Green is definitely your color, Mulder," Dana joked as she pulled
up a chair next to his bed. He pulled out the neck of his hospital
gown and squinted at it, then shrugged. His mother was beaming
at them from the opposite side of the hospital room.

"I want out of here," he rasped. His fever had broken, but his
body would take a while to get over the effects. His voice was
still hoarse from the respirator and he stomach was still sensitve,
but the doctor had assured him that in a couple of weeks he would
be good as new.

"One of these days, I'm buying you business cards with that
printed on it, so you don't waste your breath," his partner smiled
maliciously at him. "Couple of more days here, and then back at
your apartment for a week or so. By that time you'll be down to a
walking cast on your ankle and we can get back to work," she
promised.

"I want that in writing," he groused and smiled when his mother
laughed at him.

Mrs. Mulder got out of her chair and leaned over her son. "Well,
baby boy, as much as I love to watch you sleep and be grumpy,
I've had my fill lately, so I'm going over to clean out some of the
junk in your Dad's house." She kissed him on the forehead. "He's
in your hands, Dana. God help you," she added with a wink.

"Mom," Mulder sighed. "Please don't call me that."

"What? Baby boy? I've called you that since you were born. You
don't like it when I call you Fox. What am I supposed to call
you?"

"Never late for dinner?" he replied with a wicked grin. She
slapped him gently on the shoulder, kissed him again and left.

"Spill the beans," he commanded, settling back on his pillows.

"The District Attorney has dropped all charges. They were all set
to hit you with murder one, possibly going down to voluntary
manslaughter. But the case fell apart," Scully said with a smile
and pulled a set of papers out of her briefcase. She shifted
through them and pulled out a couple.

"When they checked the age on the bones, it didn't fit the timeline.
Now, it's not that exact, but fairly good to a couple of years.
Those bones were only in the ground no more than 15 years.
Since the age of the child was obviously pre-adolescent . . ." she
handed him the papers and he glanced at the highlighted sections.

" . . . it couldn't have been Samantha," he said, completing her
thought. He puffed out his breath. "But the DNA match?"

"A clone would have a perfect DNA match, Mulder. That's how
they are created in the first place. But the blood would have been
a problem. The marrow had dried out, it wasn't useable. Now, if
we'd found a blood sample . . ."

"But you did, I thought. The knife," he reminded her.

"Mulder, I made them do that blood test twice. Often, siblings
have the same blood type. So it would be a match for Sam, but it
could also have been a match for you. I made them compare it
against the DNA markers and guess what? It wasn't Sam's blood
at all."

"It was mine," he said nodding slowly. "How could I have
forgotten that?"

"You were confused," she suggested. "You were confused at the
time, and then you were confused at the accusation. You were so
frightened that it could be true, that you really did kill your sister,
that you forgot all the evidence that disproved that premise."

"How did you find out? About the blood, I mean," he asked, not
bothering to hide the rush of admiration he felt for his usually
skeptical partner.

She smiled self-consciously. "Really, it was Steve who made the
link. He remembered the night you and Gary did your little
'sacrifice' to their oak tree. I can only cringe at the infection that
little stunt must have caused," she said with a shiver.

"Hey, it's not a sacrifice without blood," he said lightly. "And my
hand never got infected. It hurt like hell for a couple of days, but
I kept putting alcohol on it and it cleared right up."

She bit her tongue and looked down at her hands. She had to ask,
but didn't know if he would answer her question. "Mulder, why
did you bury the knife, your Scout pin and the baseball?"

He shrugged and looked embarrassed. Still, after all she'd been
through for him, she deserved an answer. "I thought it would
bring her back. I'd tried everything, I'd even gone to church a
couple of times. Snuck out early on Sunday mornings before
either mom or dad woke up. Nothing was working. I figured, it
was worth a try."

"Sacrificing your most beloved possessions to an oak tree?" she
asked, trying to cover his embarrassment with a sly smile.

"At least it was before I found out about Playboy. Now, that
would have made an interesting discovery," he said, using humor
to hide the pain of that memory . "Did they find the rest of my
box?"

"In Lt. Rick Price's garbage can. Good thing the garbage men
missed it, although they probably wouldn't have taken it anyway
since it's a recylcable item. I didn't know you were into 'Johnny
Quest', Mulder" she teased.

"It was a phase," he shot back. "Keep it a secret and I won't tell
Pendrell that you had Mickey Dolenz posters plastered all over
your closet door when you were nine," he bribed.

She blushed deep red. "Deal. And I have to have a long talk with
my mother and see what other family secrets have been revealed."

"What happened to Price?" he asked, deciding that it was wiser
and healthier to change the subject.

His partner's face grew dark and she let out an exasperated breath.

"No, don't tell me," he said, and sank further back in his seat.
"Gone, vanished, no sign, no trace," he checked off on his fingers.

"And the body, too," she admitted.

"Right out from the FBI labs," he sighed heavily. "And I bet in a
couple of days, the computer will be purged off all that lab data,
too."

"Mulder, maybe it's just as well, this time. I mean, it would have
answered our questions, but would it have led us anywhere?" she
asked. "We know the truth, Mulder. They can't hide that from us
because we already know."

He looked over at her and gave her a weak smile. "You're right.
We already know."

The end.

M&S---EP---GLWG---Smoker for Scully--------------------Queen of Angst

XAngst Anonymous "'Thin air'? Why is it always 'thin' air?
and Myth Patrol Why isn't it 'fat' air, or 'chunky' air,
Construction Site or 'basically fit, but could stand
to lose a few pounds' air?"
---Garbaldi, B5

xangst@frii.com------------Die-Hard Skinner Chick---------Dean Warner

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