Skinner, dressed in black, grasped Scully's arms as they stood in his room. "Now listen to me, Scully." He gave her a little shake. "I'm deadly serious about this. Look at me."

Her eyes met his. "I am looking at you."

"If he'd called your number, maybe. But he called mine. We have to assume that means he needs me and not you. It must be a trap. That means they'll be expecting you. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"I can understand English," she said, irritated. "Get to the point."

"You are not to follow me. You are to go to the police station and wait there for me to call. Am I making myself clear?"

"Clear," she echoed. "But--"

He shook her again, moving his face close to hers. His eyes were black with fear and a kind of urgent anger. "I am not negotiating on this, Scully. I know you think you should come with me. But if something goes wrong, they will not kill Mulder if they don't see you. Or at least our chances will be better. My responsibility is to both of you. If you come, you'll be playing right into their hands. Now goddammit, go to the police station and let me take care of this."

He released her and tucked his gun into his shoulder holster, patted his ankle above his boot to make sure his backup weapon was secure. Then he strode out into the coming dawn to where his cab was waiting.

Five minutes after he left, a second cab rolled into position at the front entrance.

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

Mulder blinked awake. There was no pain; his side was numb. He couldn't turn his head. His cheek was pressed into the carpet; it smelled like old dog. Dimly he realized that they had dragged him through the mud into the house, that the mud must have dried over his wound, effectively stopping the bleeding.

Cool.

He could see the door frame, and just the feet of the girl who was sleeping on the sofa. He could see into the small bedroom beyond the hall door, at an angle, just as far as the bed. It seemed to be a boy's bedroom. There was a poster of a race car over the bed. Under the window there was a kind of toy chest.

As he watched, the window slid open slowly, and Death, all in black, came gliding through like a huge black panther. Noiseless, inexorable. Death was coming for him.

No, wait a minute. It was Skinner. Stepping on the toy chest, coming down on the carpet. Looking around the room. Seeing something, a baseball bat. Picking it up. Gripping it too short, Skinner. Don't choke it. Never get any swing on it that way.

Skinner's boot came down not far from his face as he stepped over Mulder's body. Mulder couldn't look up, couldn't move. He had something to say but his throat wouldn't make words. Someone, not Skinner, gave a short yelp of surprise. There were no shots fired. Grunting, thudding. Smacking sounds, wet and ugly. A spray of hot blood across his bare arm. Someone saying Shit! and someone grunting Oof! like in a cartoon. He wished he could see what was happening, but he really didn't want to see. He just wanted to say one thing. Needed to say it. He tried to open his mouth, but his tongue seemed too swollen to work. He croaked. Somone went flying by him, one of the boys, landing limp as a discarded doll across the coffee table. Then it was quiet again.

Skinner crouched down by Mulder's body, unsure what to do for him. There was blood all over his arm, his back, but he was afraid if he moved him he might aggravate the injuries. He pulled his cell phone out to dial Scully's number.

While it was ringing he realized Mulder's eyes were open, he was opening and closing his mouth like a fish on a line. Relief washed through him. There was no greater gift he could give Scully than to return Mulder to her alive. The irony of it was too much to consider at the moment. Above all else, this man was his responsibility, and he would not let him down.

"Hang on, Mulder," he said softly. "I'm calling for help right now."

No answer. Dammit, Scully. Skinner pushed the button down and then dialed 911.

Mulder was trying desperately to speak. Skinner leaned down low to hear the words as Mulder whispered hoarsely:

"There are three of them."

Before Skinner could react, a booted foot shot out, kicking the phone out of his hand, sending it flying across the room. A seasoned warrior, Skinner sprang away from the blow, tucking his shoulder and rolling across the floor. If he had been attacked, it would have been the perfect move. But the man who kicked the phone out of his hand stood still, only looking at him as Skinner came to a stop against the sofa.

The man was in his early thirties, with a broad face and long dirty blond hair tied in a pony tail. He wore jeans and a striped tee shirt, cowboy boots. He held a sixteen gage pump shotgun in one hand, the butt propped against his thigh.

Skinner said, "Let me guess. Antoine Baxter, right?"

Baxter nodded, smiling. "And you must be that Assistant Director guy, right? Skinner. Man, I really, really didn't want to get you involved in all this."

"Then you shouldn't have broken into my office and removed records."

Baxter laughed. "You dumb sack of shit; that was your own people did that, not me. Even your little buddy helped out--" he nudged Mulder with a toe, "--by killing that dufus who was supposed to be me. What the hell did you hope to gain by coming here, old man? If you'd just let your guys do their job, and then you'd have made it through this alive."

Skinner straightened slowly. "Who are you, really?" he asked.

"Just a guy," Baxter shrugged, parodying modesty. "A guy who knows something, let's say. And in return for passing information around, I get the Big Boy protection, you know what I mean? Your guys got a little too close, so I had to hire a guy to be me just long enough to get himself killed. He was so fucking dumb I thought he'd blow himself up before he got caught. That's the Baxter this old boy shot." He nudged Mulder again, who groaned. "Would have all been tied up neat if you'd just kept your damn nose out of it."

"You can't get away with killing me," Skinner said.

"Hell, old man, I can get away with anything, just as long as I clean up behind myself. They'll figure one of these dumb punks did it. Her, too."

Skinner looked past him, beyond the two crumpled bodies he had taken out, to the girl sleeping on the sofa. He realized for the first time that she wasn't sleeping; her head was twisted back and her eyes were open and glazed.

He had a sudden sickening thought: Scully. He wondered if he could possibly get to the gun in his ankle holster before Baxter could get the shotgun up. He knew in his heart he could not.

"So this is it, I guess," Baxter said. He pumped the shotgun expertly, and Skinner heard the sound of his own death being chambered into the barrel, KER- CHUNK, a sound no law officer could ever mistake for anything else, or hear without a curling sensation in the stomach.

Baxter aimed the shotgun at him and Skinner couldn't help himself; he closed his eyes, turned his head away. At least it would be quick and painless. He hoped.

The sound of the shot was high and sharp, not the deep bass explosion of a shotgun. Skinner dropped down, rolling again, drawing his weapon from his ankle holster and coming to his feet, braced against the wall. But Baxter was already slumping over, the side of his head gone in a splatter of red gore.

Behind him, in the bedroom, Scully stood in the classic marksman's pose, one foot back to brace her weight against the recoil, the butt of her automatic set in her left palm like a teacup to steady the shot.

Skinner bent forward, his hands on his thighs, breathing out hard through his mouth. Scully was on her knees in an instant beside Mulder, her hands fluttering over him gently, exploring, examining.

"Oh, Mulder," she said, and the hairs on the back of Skinner's neck stood up; it was almost exactly the same voice she had used only a few hours earlier to cry out to him.

Mulder looked up at her and tried to smile. "I knew you'd come," he murmured.

"Always," she whispered. She leaned forward to kiss the top of his head, and pressed her cheek against his hair in a brief moment of tenderness. Mulder closed his eyes and sighed.

Skinner retrieved his cell phone and dialed 911 again.

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

The paramedics raised the gurney and rolled it level to the back of the ambulance. Scully started to get in, but Skinner caught her arm and pulled her back.

"He'll be fine," he said. "You and I need to get out of here before there are any more questions."

The sheriff had tried to sort out their bewildering tale; an anonymous tip, two young men attacking the girl, killing her, and a third man apparently in on it, too, Mulder injured but managing to call for backup, Scully and Skinner rushing to his aid. Big fight, everyone dead, end of story. The house actually turned out to be June Star's, a girl well known in town because of her reputation for taking boyfriends to the White Horse Inn. The boys were locals, too, each with a rap sheet long enough to erase all suspicion of their innocence. Skinner promised a full report to be faxed before the end of the week.

On the drive back to the motel, Skinner was so angry he couldn't trust himself to speak. Scully sat as far over on her side as possible, silent. Skinner's profile was intractable, jaw set, eyes blazing. She couldn't tell if he was fighting his rage or building it up for some kind of explosion. She stared out the window miserably, thinking of Mulder. He wouldn't die, but he was in pain. He would want her there. She was his doctor. He needed her for that, anyway.

At the motel Skinner marched her into his room as if escorting a prisoner. He slammed the door and turned to face her, his temper like a savage dog at the end of its leash. Scully didn't back away from him, didn't avoid his eyes. She was afraid, but only of his anger, not of him. This was the kind of thing she could handle.

He paced across the floor in front of her, his fists clenched. "Scully--" He had to take another breath. "Agent Scully, if you ever, EVER, disobey a direct order from me again, I will see to it that you receive the most severe disciplinary action allowable for the offense, up to and including your discharge from the agency."

She said nothing. He paced again, trying to release some of the energy generated by the demons inside him. He saw her kneeling by Mulder, her cheek pressed against his hair, the look on her face. He saw her framed against the doorway behind Baxter, a perfect target if there'd been a fourth man. If the girl had been alive. If, if, if. But then he remembered these eyes, anxious and watchful now, when they had been sleepy with satisfaction, looking into his as she drifted off . And he saw her smiling at him on the airplane, so long ago, that smile of forgiveness.

The demons saw it too, and fled. Skinner turned away from her abruptly and went to sit on the bed.

He said, "We still have to make up some bullshit report. I'll leave that to you. You're good at that sort of thing."

Scully wrapped her arms around herself, a gesture that tugged at his already battered heart. He felt defeated, and lowered his head. "That's all, Agent Scully. You can go."

"Oh, so I'm dismissed, am I?"

"I'm sorry if it sounded that way, Agent Scully. I'm just too tired to be polite right now. I just killed two college aged boys with a baseball bat. I just found out that certain people I work for would have been complicit in the murder of as many as half a dozen of my best agents, and probably me too." He waved his hand at her. "Do whatever the hell you want. Just don't go see Mulder until I come with you, okay?"

He felt her staring at him, but all his adrenalin had been spent in that last rush of temper, leaving him as hollowed out as a Halloween pumpkin. He stretched out on the bed, putting his hands behind his head.

"Get some sleep, Agent Scully."

"Is that an order?"

Her voice came from closer to him instead of further away. She was standing over him. He felt the mattress give as she sat down.

He looked up at her, not knowing what to expect. She reached out a hesitant hand to touch his face, stroking the stubble on his jawline lightly. He seized her hand and brought it to his lips.

"I'm sorry," she said.

He was too washed out to defend himself against her sudden sweetness. It simply worked. He said, "Thanks for saving my life, by the way."

"Anytime."

He searched her eyes. "No matter what happens in the future, Scully, I'm not going to be able to stop wanting you."

"But we both know there's no future in it."

"Does there have to be?"

"Well, there has to be a future, and presumably we'll all three be in it."

Mulder. He was never far from her thoughts. Ah well. Skinner moved over on the bed and Scully accepted his silent invitation, lying down beside him. "I'm so tired I can't think anymore," he said.

"Me, too."

He turned on his side, and turned her too so that he could hold her from behind, curled up spoon style. Having once given in to that kind of comforting, it was going to be harder each time to give it up, easier for her each time to let him touch her and admit that she liked it. He slid his hand over her stomach, brushing the undersides of her breasts with his thumb.

Her voice was sleepy, but amused. "Oh, Skinner, don't even start."

He chuckled. "You overestimate me, Agent Scully."

She shifted closer to his chest, getting comfortable, and he meant to say something else to her, but sleep washed over him in an irresistible wave, and he was dragged down into its undertow with his arms still wrapped around her.

click here for chapter 6