DISTRIBUTION: Please archive at Gossamer:
Xemplary. Anywhere else, just let me know.
SPOILERS: Fifth Season, some Second Season.
RATING: R for violence and language
GENRE: X-File (M/S-UST)
CLASSIFICATION: X
SUMMARY: Agents Mulder and Scully assist the San Francisco
Police Department in tracking down a mysterious strangler
in the aftermath of a 6.7 earthquake.

MY NOTES: Four long months in the creation--anything else
you've read by me (mostly MSR) pales in the wake of this
baby. The challenge I gave myself was to try to follow in
the humble footsteps of Vince Gilligan, and write the best
damn X-Files episode I possibly could in novel form. True to
the show, I've worked like hell to get my characterization as
accurate as possible. That is what I committed myself to. You
the precious reader are left to judge whether or not I completed
my mission. I *worship* the X-Files with a blind devotion. This
is my gift to the rest of the fans who follow with absolute faith
as well. The truth is out there...

TIME FRAME: Aftershock takes up with the characters during
the first few episodes of the fifth season after Scully's recovery
--sometime around Detour. At the start of season five, it was
obvious their relationship had evolved considerably and I felt
I wanted to explore some of those sentiments a bit more closely.
I also wanted to devise a way to create a greater intimacy for
them without actually disturbing the delicate balance between
professionalism and personal involvement. God! I hope you like it.
If nothing else, you'll at least learn a thing or two about plate tectonics!

EVENTS/LOCATIONS: Some of the events described in this
novella are based on my personal experiences during the
7.1 Loma Prieta Quake of 1989. I know what it's like to try
to get through a day while pelted by continuous aftershocks.
As for locations: I live 40 minutes from San Francisco and
visited twice to scope out locations for this work. Some
San Franciscans will no doubt inform me that some of my buildings
are on the wrong streets, and there aren't any restaurants in
Pacific Heights, etc. But the locations themselves are for the
most part true to the real thing. The fog effects were digital.

DISCLAIMER: Okay, here we go. I don't own them,
I'm just borrowing them because the grand high
sci-fiction genius Chris Carter invented them
and I'm horribly envious. All devoted regards to
1013, FOX, and such. No infringement, no money intended,
just one fan's way of worshipping perfection.

FEEDBACK: PLEASE!! Give me a reason for living.
My toil as a magazine editor is sapping the life
out of me! Terma99@aol.com
(My friends call me Sharon)

Missing chapters?
Goto: www.geocities.com/hotsprings/8334/fic.html

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

Aftershock

by Terma99

(1/11)

Pacific Heights
San Francisco, CA
THURS: 11:45 PM

Special Agent Fox Mulder bent to one knee and pulled the
black sheet back from the head of the body lying face-up on
the hardwood floor beneath him.

Sarah Maples, 28 years old, 5'3", 112 lbs., legal secretary,
homicide victim. Apparent cause of death--strangulation.

With a gloved fingertip, he brushed the blond strands of hair
back from where they had fallen across her neck. Clearly visible
in the apartment's dull lighting were dark bruises in the form
of fingers and thumbs branded into the pale skin of her throat.
A man's hands, thick and strong, but somewhat short, not
nearly clearing the circumference of her neck. Still, it was
enough to finish the job with crushing force.

Mulder chewed his lip in thought and raised his eyes to the
span of picture windows across from him, the lights from a
nearby restaurant cast a dull bluish hue over the apartment's dark
interior. He stood and moved close to the cool glass panes
looking down over the rooftops to the white pinpoint lights of
the San Francisco Marina several blocks below. Something
about this murderer wasn't ringing true, he could feel it.

Just then, the view through the window began to shudder
accompanied by the slightly queasy feeling of the room gliding
out of place. He reached out to balance himself and stepped
away from the glass instinctively. And then, it was over.

"Aftershock," muttered Detective Meyer, looking up from his
spiral notebook. "They hit about once every four to five
hours according to those seismologists out at Point Reyes.
Except we're only feeling the bigger ones."

Mulder nodded and turned to look out the window again. Down
on Greenwich St. he could see frightened tenants gathering
outside their apartments, jabbering and gesturing toward
the rooftops. San Franciscans had reason to be jumpy tonight,
just 36 hours earlier this city had been jolted by a major
seismic event--a 6.7 magnitude earthquake centered 20 miles
south of the city on the San Andreas Fault--the same fault
responsible for the devastating 1906 quake. Not necessarily
"the big one" but certainly a big enough one to take out quite
a few windows and retaining walls and slow traffic along
residential areas where a series of apartments and homes
were jostled off their foundations in the sandy shoreline bayfill.

The SFPD had assured him this particular block of apartments
was build on more solid ground. From five floors up Mulder
could still detect a slight sway as the aging walls settled back
into place. Not a feeling he was accustomed to, unlike the
usually quake-carefree Californians who took mild trembles to
no more notice than an occasional lightening flash. *Give 'em a
Friday night drive through an average DC snowfall--and the
story would be quite different*, he mused, shaking the
uneasiness from his head.

"Well that was an experience."

Mulder turned to see his somewhat shaken partner enter from
the hallway. She had been downstairs in the lobby querying
residents about the victim's movements earlier that day.

"Thank goodness I remembered to take the stairs." She crossed
the blue-hued hardwood floor to him, tucking an errant strand
of copper-red hair behind her ear. "So what do you make of this
case, Mulder?"

He shifted his weight from one leg to the other glancing behind
her at the half uncovered body on the floor. "Something isn't
right here, Scully. We've got four victims in three different
neighborhoods. Different heights, weights, sexes and even races.
All apparently murdered within 36 hours of one another. All
apparently by the same pair of stubby thick hands--bad jokes
don't get around that fast."

Dana Scully folded her arms across the front of her dark
double-breasted pantsuit, pursing her lips thoughtfully. "Yet
you're still convinced we're looking for the same perpetrator
in all four cases?"
Mulder nodded slowly, his darkened hazel eyes staring past her
to the small window in the north wall of the flat. He led her over
to it, pointing to the freshly dusted pane. "This was the only
window found open. Fingerprints match those of the victim. Her
front door was found bolted and locked. There are no other
possible entrances. And according to Det. Meyer, no evidence
of forced entry was found at the other crime scenes either."
He looked down at his partner as she stood on tip-toe to look out
the window and the five floor drop to the alley below.

Questioning, she matched his glance--"So you would think the
victim knew her assailant. Let him in perhaps?"

He agreed, his eyes narrowing, "Except he somehow managed to
lock the door on his way out. As well as the front doors of a
machine repairman in North Beach, a bicycle messenger in
the Mission, and a hairstylist in Excelsior District. None of
whom appear to have any known connection to each other--
at least according to their families and neighbors."

"Locksmith?"

"Possible. SFPD is already following up that lead," he shrugged,
crossing back over to the body. Crouching down he pointed to
the side of the strangled neck. "These bruises are nearly identical
on the bodies of all four victims. No other signs of struggle have
been found. All were found fully clothed, their personal effects
seemingly untouched." He lifted his eyes panning across the
small studio, its small kitchenette, bathroom, and bed nestled
between two bookshelves set next to the picture windows; his
gaze coming to rest once again on the lifeless body below. He
stood, his trenchcoat casting a blanketing shadow over the corpse.

"So what would you say Agent Mulder? Do we have a serial murderer
on our hands?" Detective Meyer asked, gesturing
to the body.

"It's still premature to make an absolute assessment, " he
answered, stepping closer to the shorter sandy-haired man.
"But I'd say a connection is most likely."

"A prolific sonovabitch, ain't he?" Det. Meyer scratched his
head wearily. "Just what we need right now in the middle of
this shaker."

Mulder nodded. "We're glad to help you out."

Det. Meyer motioned to his partner, "Agent Scully, were you
able to gather any more information?"

"I spoke to the superintendent and an elderly woman who both
live near the lobby," she began. "The super said he was home
most of the day and didn't see or hear anything unusual. The
woman, Mrs. Ping, told me she saw Maples enter the building
at approximately 5:45 PM, her usual time to return from work.
She greeted her. Maples was alone as was the norm. Mrs. Ping
didn't think she was seeing anyone."

"Yet time of death has been estimated at 6 or 7PM," continued
Det. Meyer. "If there were any sounds of a struggle coming from
this apartment, one of them would have heard it."

"And neither one of them remembers hearing anyone ring the
buzzer for the lobby door either," added Scully.

"Strange..." mumbled Det. Meyer. "A fellow usually makes a
mess when he strangles a person. Scuffs the floor at least,
knocks over a lamp, at least makes a thump or two. Unless
her neighbors are seriously hearing impaired, this guy must
have some kind of power over his victims."

Scully shot Mulder a quizzical look.

Mulder shook his head slowly, "No detective, I think what
we've got here is someone who's found a unique way of
killing quickly and quietly. Probably by slipping the victim
a delayed-action drug, or posing as a maintenance man or
bible salesman."

"That kind of act takes some practice," added Det. Meyer.
"This is the first time we've seen this guy's MO."

"Do you have someone looking into the national database?"

"The boys at the station are running a search."

"At this time the other three bodies are awaiting examination
at the city morgue?" Scully asked, flipping her case file open.

"Yeah," answered Det. Meyer. "The exams are scheduled for
six tomorrow morning."

Mulder gave Scully a look she immediately recognized.

"I'd like to observe the exam tomorrow, if that would be no problem."

"No. No problem at all. Like I said, we could sure use the help."

Mulder pulled his card from the inside pocket of his coat and
handed it to the detective. "This is my cellphone number. Call
us if you turn up anything else."

END (1/11)

********************
(2/11)
********************

Exiting the apartment, the pair of agents picked their way
through an assortment of crumbled stucco and broken glass
to the steep sidewalk running down the dimly lit street to
their rented sedan. Pacific Heights had retired for the evening,
most of the residents finding their way back inside their
tremulous homes for the night. The San Francisco air was
dewy with a light fog that anointed the street lights with
faint haloes.

"Whatta you say Scully? Take a late-night drive with me
down Lombard street?" Mulder quipped, nodding vigorously
over the hood of the car at her as he unlocked the doors.

Scully slid into the passenger's seat stifling a yawn. "I'd settle
for a drive down Van Ness, to our hotel." That earned her a
genuine grumble as he shut the driver's side door. "Mulder it's..."
she paused to glance at her watch. "it's two...three in the morning
our time."

"Night's still young here in fog city," he sighed, starting the
engine. She gave him a raised eyebrow and he chuckled
softly pulling out onto the street.

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

Their Columbus Ave. hotel was nestled between the steel and
glass urban forest of the downtown Financial District and the
spirited edge of Little Italy's North Beach district. It was an
older building with classic bay windows turned toward the
arching white cable lights of the Bay Bridge.

But Special Agent Dana Scully was in no condition to enjoy the
view. Exhausted from a six hour flight and a two hour delay at
SFO due to the quake, she was more than ready for sleep by the
time she shouldered her bags into the eighth floor room. It was
a decent hotel, but far from the luxuries of Union Square's
St. Francis. Mulder's rather frugal taste in travel arrangements
were all too familiar to her, but she wondered if his choice of
North Beach had less to do with the promise of the best
restaurants in San Francisco and more to do with Big Al's Adult
Book Store one block over at the end of Kearny St.'s infamous
red light district.

Eighth floor. As close as they could get to the ground. She closed
her eyes and wrapped her arms more tightly around the pillow.
She didn't relish the idea of running for the staircase in the middle
of the night. In the room next door she could faintly hear her
partner flipping channels on the TV. News reports of the quake
now almost three days old still clogged every network. How
he managed to function so well on so little sleep was beyond her.

To be honest, she wasn't exactly thrilled to be smack in the middle
of the aftermath of a major seismic event. Her little shake up in
the cracking Pacific Heights stairwell was the first and last time
she wished to experience an earthquake first hand. Still, it
would have been impossible to talk Mulder out of joining in
the chase for a mysterious serial strangler in the midst of a
public emergency free-for-all. The SFPD had called in every
favor it had to help get a handle on things. The governor had
already declared most of San Francisco county a disaster area.

She sighed, trying to forget the disaster long enough to fall
asleep before her 6 AM date with the coroner. One wall over
Mulder had evidently found a late-night talk show that amused
him. She took a deep breath, released, and let exhaustion pull
her away with the faint echo of his muffled laughter in her ears.

********************
North Beach
FRIDAY: 9:30 AM

Mulder sat on a wire rimmed sidewalk cafe chair outside one
of North Beach's multiple espresso and danish shops. He took a
sip from the tall glass mug, wiping the milk froth from under
his nose with a napkin. It was some kind of sweet espresso
amaretto thing. No one in California just ordered coffee anymore.
He set the mug down to cool a bit and broke off a hunk of
pastry, careful to let the buttery flakes fall on the table instead
of his tie. Presently a yellow checkered cab pulled up and
Scully emerged from the back seat with her black filebag.
She crossed the street and joined him in the rickety chair across
the table from him.

"What's that?" she asked, eyeing the steamy mug.

"Hmm, not sure yet. 'supposed to have caffeine in it, that's all
I need to know. Had breakfast yet, Scully?" She shook her head.

Mulder pulled a small yellow bag out from his coat pocket
and bounced it in front of her. "Plain toasted bagel...light
cream cheese."

She smiled and took the bag from him.

"Thanks."

She started to unfold the neck of the bag and was interrupted
by a tap on her wrist.

"What did you find?"

She set the bag in her lap. "I have to hand it to you Mulder,
you certainly have a way of honing in on cases featuring
bizarre forensic evidence."

"How's that?"

"It would seem strangulation was not the primary cause of
death," she answered, giving him a wary glance.

His expression immediately brightened, "Really?"

"Aside from the bruises, we did not find any of the characteristics
 typical of oxygen deprivation from restriction of the windpipe.
No elevated carbon dioxide levels, no vessel damage..."

"This keeps sounding better by the minute..."

"Wait until I get to the punch line...Our internal examinations
 revealed an abnormal swelling of the brain and heart tissue in
all for bodies coupled with elevated levels of myoglobin in the
urine--a condition normally observed only in burn victims."
She paused to let this sink in while she made a grab four the
 contents of her bag. She managed to get the wrapped bagel onto
the table before the next bullet-fire inquiry.

"And there was no other external evidence, of burned or
bruised tissue?"

"No. The bodies were clean. The crime lab did a sweep for fiber
and hair evidence prior to the autopsies. They weren't able to
come up with anything conclusive. However our killer commits
these crimes, he does it with a minimal amount of fuss," she
added, unwrapping the paper.

"Did anything turn up in the blood samples?"

"No, interestingly enough, the toxicology screen came back
 clean...Well, with the exception of a moderate sample of TCH
in the bicycle messenger."

"And what scientific explanation, Dr. Scully, have you constructed
for this quartet of lightly toasted organs?"

She managed a fingertip swipe of the cream cheese and paused
a moment to pop it in her mouth before answering.

"I couldn't tell you. Intense heat? High-voltage current? Neither
of which explain the lack of epidermal charring or blistering...I
was hoping you'd take over about now with an equally bizarre
but brilliant theory."

He parried her comment with a self-effacing tilt of the head.

"Don't worry, I've got one in the oven that's sure to impress."

She separated the bagel and took a bite from the lower half,
she chewed thoughtfully, then swallowed, her eyes falling to
his mug.

"You mind?" she asked innocently. He grinned slightly and
pushed the caffeinated beverage towards her. She took a
timid sip. "Mmm, sweet...there's espresso in this?"

"Somewhere."

She craned her neck to look into the cafe window.
"You don't suppose they serve regular here, do you?"

"I was afraid to ask."

Mulder's cellphone began to ring.

He pulled it from his coat pocket and answered it.

"Mulder."

Scully could catch what sounded like Det. Meyer's voice on
the other end.

"MmmHm...where is that in relation to North Beach?" Mulder
turned to his right to look up at the peaks of the Financial District.

"We'll be right over." He beeped the phone off. "Better get that
coffee to go, we've got another body."

********************
(3/11)
**********************************

Embarcadero One was the first of four 40 floor office
buildings connected at the base by a bayside shopping
center just north of the Bay Bridge. Embarcadero Center
was only a 10 minute walk from their cafe down Columbus
St. over to Sansome, past the skyline landmark Transamerica
 Pyramid. The air was cool and pleasant that morning, the
fog blanket had retreated a few miles back out to sea. Through
the rotating glass doorway in the building's main lobby, the
agents were greeted by Det. Meyer and an Embarcadero
security guard who signed them in and issued magnetic passes.

"At about 7:30 this morning building security was called to
the Hewitt Associates' 32nd floor offices," Meyer informed
them. "The body of mailroom supervisor Kimberly Kholer was
found face up on the floor near the copiers. Victim showed bruises
on the sides of the neck and trachea."

"Sounds like our boy," Mulder said, following the detective and security
guard into the elevator.

Scully followed in suit, glancing down a second before stepping
over the half inch separation between the tile floor and the
elevator. The 32nd floor was a long ride up.

The uneasy glance Mulder gave her as she came to stand beside
him told her he wasn't all that thrilled about taking the ride
himself. Unconsciously, she reached behind her and eased
herself against the railing, her eyes on the digital floor readout.
The security guard took his pass and held it against an
electronic sensor, activating the elevator panel. He punched the
"up" button. The doors closed and the car sprang into motion,
 expressing them to the 20th floor lobby where they switched
cars for the final climb.

The Hewitt offices occupied the entire 32nd floor. The mailroom
was located on at the back end of a plain gray carpeted hallway.
The security guard unlocked the door and they entered the
bright fluorescent-lit room. The mailroom roared with the sound
of a large humidifier nestled near the west wall, followed by racks
of paper boxes and duplication equipment. The north wall was
set with one-way windows that looked out over the city rooftops.
On the east wall were four office-class color copiers. The outline
of the body of the mailroom supervisor was taped in red to the
floor next to them.

"When was the estimated time of death?" Scully asked the
detective while Mulder walked over to study the outline.

Det. Meyer flipped open his notepad. "Around midnight last
night. The victim was working the night shift and the
timeclock shows she punched in around 11:15."

"Was anyone else working on this floor during those hours?"

"Not according to the timeclock."

"Did the lobby attendant report seeing anyone suspicious enter
the building around that time?"

"No, we've interviewed the night guard and she didn't recall
anyone arriving other than other nightshift employees."

"Is there anyway someone could have accessed the building
from another entrance?"

"Yeah," answered the guard. "If you got the right pass you can get
in through the loading doors."

"How many people have access to that entrance?"

"Quite a few I'm afraid," answered Det. Meyer. "We're looking
into that."

"The security cameras in the hallway..." she continued. "Did they
pick up anything?"

The security guard shook his head. "No ma'am, quite a few of
our cameras went down for a while last night--probably due to
all the quakes we've been having."

Mulder stood up from between the copiers. "Did anyone note
the time the cameras started malfunctioning?"

The guard looked confused and shook his head.

"But you have a tape of what they did pick up, right?"

"Yeah, but you won't see much."

"Show me."

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

Back in the lobby the guard cued up the evening's security
footage from the 32nd floor hallway. The tape was clear until
about 11:35 when Kholer was clearly seen entering the
mailroom alone. Then around 11:50 there was a shuddering of
the footage followed by intermittent static and finally the
camera went dead around 12:15.

"Rewind to 11:50," Mulder asked the guard as he stood behind
him eyeing the playback. "Stop there," he added when the
camera began to lose the image briefly. Mulder tapped his finger
at the screen. "11:50 last night we were being shaken from the
fifth floor of a Pacific Heights apartment building." He reached
into his coat pocket and removed the morning's Chronicle,
unfolding the front page. "When was the estimated time of death
of the other murders?"

Meyer reached for his notes. "Uh, 6:30PM Tuesday, 1:30AM,
and 5:30PM Wednesday..."

"...and 6:30PM Thursday," Mulder finished, handing the front
page earthquake report over to the detective. "All of the
murders were committed within forty minutes after each aftershock."

Det. Meyer eyed up the times. "Well, I'll be damned. We've
been shaking so much around here I didn't even think to make
the connection."

Scully moved closer to the two men, she touched her partner's arm
to get his attention. "Mulder? What are you saying?"

"Look at it this way, Scully. Somehow this guy was able to breach
the security systems in this building, and get in and out of the
 mailroom unnoticed. I don't think it's a coincidence that the
cameras went black within half an hour of the last seismic event."

"They could have been damaged by the quake."

Mulder turned back to the security guard. "When did the 32nd
floor cameras come back online?"

The guard fiddled with the VCR a minute before replying, "Looks
like they straightened themselves out around 12:45."

Mulder gave Scully a confirming look.

He then turned back to the detective. "I think you should have
some of your people re-examine the crime scenes for evidence
of electronic tampering."

"Electronic tampering?"

"Yeah, we've got what appears to be some creative electrical
effects on the bodies as well."

Det. Meyer looked at Scully, questioning.

She explained the chief medical examiner's findings in brief,
adding that electrical shock could be a cause of the tissue
damage they observed.

"Most of the other locations were private residences," resumed
the detective. "What should we be looking for?"

Mulder tapped his index finger on his lower lip, "I don't know...
try security systems, VCRs, computers, anything plugged in
that seems out of whack. Oh, and check out the Pacific Heights'
 security door. It runs on an electrical release system."

"Okay, we're on it."

Mulder turned and brushed his hand over his partner's
shoulder. "Come on Scully, we're gonna take a drive up the coast."

"Where?"

"Point Reyes, earthquake country."

********************
(4/11)
**********************************

Point Reyes National Seashore
1:30 PM

"Hey Scully, come take a look at this."

Mulder had wandered up the trail that ran past the Point
Reyes Seismological Laboratory. His sleeves were rolled up and
his suitcoat tossed over one shoulder as he turned to call to her--
the pleasant afternoon breeze tousling his hair across his forehead.

They had taken the scenic hour drive north up Hwy. 1 over the
steep sea swept Marin Headlands to the yellow grasslands of
the triangular land formation known as Point Reyes. On a map,
the landmass looked like a slice of pie separated and pushed
 northwards from the mainland by the deep cut of the San
Andreas fault. Here is where California did indeed look like it
was being pushed out to sea.

Scully closed the distance between them, squinting into the
warm sun. Mulder had stopped at the edge of a short wooden
fence.

"According to the sign here. This fence moved eight and a half
feet during the 1906 quake," he said, pointing further up the
path where it appeared the second half of the white picket fence
had scooted south quite a distance.

"That's right," said a new voice coming up the path behind them.
 "This fence used to be connected. You both have the dubious
honor of standing directly on the mighty San Andreas." Scully
looked down and stepped to her right. "Don't worry," he
laughed. "The ground won't open up on you."

The young, yellow-haired man held his hand out to her. "You must
be Agents Scully and Mulder," he noted, shaking their hands.
"I'm Russ Nilsen, Point Reyes Seismologist. They told me you
two were coming up."

He gestured enthusiastically up the trail. "You see how this path
runs up here 200 feet or so and then there's a gradual rise
walling the trail at a 70 degree angle? That's the fault. That six
foot rise is the point where the North American Plate and the
Pacific Plate collide. This path is just a slice of the 800 mile-long
San Andreas fault system."

"How far does the fault move day to day?" Scully asked, eyeing
the disrupted fence line.

"We measure a drift rate of as much as two inches per year. The
fault moves horizontally, a type of displacement known to
geologists as a right-lateral strike-slip. During the 1906
earthquake, roads, fences, and rows of trees that crossed the
fault were offset several yards, and the road across the head
of Tomales Bay was offset almost 21 feet, the biggest offset
on record!"

"How far has the fault moved since the quake a few days ago?"

"Well, a major earthquake creates an offset in only one section of
the fault at a time. There are sections that remain "locked" and
quiet over a hundred or more years while strain builds up--then,
in great lurches, the strain is released. The quake we experienced
 last Tuesday occurred in one of these locked sections just 20
miles south of San Francisco near Crystal Springs Reservoir.
It displaced a stretch of highway by six and a half feet near
the epicenter."

"Are earthquakes of this size at all predictable?" Mulder asked.

The younger man gave a conservative nod.

"We have a time-frame that we can work with. Large earthquakes
 occur at about 150-year intervals. The last large earthquake on
the southern San Andreas occurred in 1857, that section of the
fault is considered a likely location for an earthquake within the
next few decades. The San Francisco Bay Area has a slightly
lower potential, since the 1906 quake occurred under a hundred
 years ago. But there's still a good chance of a magnitude 7
occurring near here in the next 30 years. The San Francisco Bay
Area has one of the highest earthquake hazards in the world."

Mulder nodded thoughtfully, "I'm particularly interested in what
you can tell us about the aftershocks we've been experiencing."

"Hmm, I can probably better illustrate that on the seismograph.
Why don't you follow me inside."

Inside, the Point Reyes Seismological Laboratory amounted to
one part laboratory and two parts visitor center and natural
history museum. Nilsen lead the agents past various indigenous
 wildlife displays with stuffed bobcats and snakes to the
readily visible seismograph stationed near the back wall.
Nilsen directed them over to it.

"We record earthquakes via a world-wide seismographic
network. Each seismic station in the network measures
the movement of the ground at the site. This seismograph is
basically a pendulum mounted on a spring recording ground
 vibrations at frequencies of about 1 cycle per second," he
said, pointing down at the readout pen drawing an ink line on
a sheet of paper mounted to a slowly rotating drum. As they
watched the pen began to waver a bit left to right.

"It looks like we're moving right now," Scully noted warily.

"Oh, those small wiggles you see are caused by local disturbances
or noise. You want to see some real noise, take a look at the
wall here. These seismograms have recorded all of the activity
over the last three days."

The paper records were stretched out flat and tacked to the wall
like music notation with tightly aligned parallel lines drawn by
the pen with each turn of the drum, marking the passage of time.
On the far left was the frantic scribble of the recent 6.7 magnitude
 quake. The following pages to the right were the records of
the periodic aftershocks highlighted and dated clearly in red pen.

"I see you've recorded a lot more ground movement than the
local media," Mulder noted. "I believe I read about only five
 aftershocks since the quake."

"Thousands of small quakes occur in California each year.
Humans usually only feel those with a magnitude of 2.0 and up,"
answered Nilsen, regarding the seismograms with affection.

"Are there any signals, emissions of any kind that accompany

an event?"

"Well, we do observe what are called P- and S-waves that
travel deep within the earth's crust. When a fault slips vibrations
are released. The vibrations are of two basic types--compression
 waves that travel fast through the earth and are known as
primary or "P" waves and then the shear or "S" waves which
arrive later."

"Could an average person detect these waves?"

"Some are low frequency, some high frequency. The high frequency
 waves are often audible. In an earthquake, people may feel an
 initial thud or shock of the P-wave, followed a few seconds later
by a swaying or rolling motion that marks the S-wave. Yeah, you
 could certainly get a feel for it, if you were paying attention."

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

"P-Waves, Mulder?" He glanced over at her, sure enough, he was
met with a patented "Mulder-you're-nuts" look that only Scully
could have perfected into a fine art. This was the left-eyebrow
 version that also required a slight twist of the lips.

"I don't think it's a coincidence our killer acts out his aggressions
 after each aftershock," he reminded her in a mildly amused
tone. They were driving out route 12 past the Point's historic
cattle ranches, winding their way back to the freeway.

"Look Scully, cows..."

"I see them, very nice. But just how do you suppose these waves
are affecting our suspect?"

Mulder slowed the car, up ahead a team of ranchers were driving
a head of steer across the road. They came to a stop and he turned
to give her his full attention.

"Man's ability to communicate with the earth pre-dates civilization.
 The Aztecs were said to have been able to predict weather
patterns by listening to voices deep within the earth...not unlike
the shamanistic practices of the Early American..."

Mulder's photographic-memory slideshow was clicking blithely by
as he rattled off half a dozen ridiculous references. Scully quickly
 brought him back to the point.

"So what you're saying, in effect, is that these aftershocks are
 releasing detectable high and low frequency waves that
somehow drive this man to kill?"

"Uh, huh."

"Did you consider the possibility that these events are instead
 triggering a suppressed trauma in this man, causing him to act
 aggressively towards the closest bystander? For example, maybe
he experienced a loss or injury during an earthquake as a young
boy and those memories are just now resurfacing for him?"

"Oooo, when did you start snuggling up with my psychology
books?"

"I'm serious Mulder."

"No, it's not that his particular timing doesn't fit the trauma
profile; it's the ease at which he's able to get at these people.
A trauma victim is often paralyzed by his fear or overwhelmed
by a need to relieve his anxiety through avoidance behavior or
 aggressive action. Those responses are incongruous with the
 carefully planned pre-meditated murders we're observing--
the complete lack of struggle or fiber evidence.

"How was he able to breach security, or activate electrical panels?
 He's got something more about him that's not fitting into place.
I don't know exactly what it is yet, but I'm willing to bet our
 quivering pair of plates are going play a big role in it."

********************
(5/11)
********************

North Beach
5:30 PM

Later that evening found them dining at one of North Beach's
popular Tuscan restaurants. They sat on stools across from
each other at the corner of the faux onyx bar waiting for their
meal. The restaurant was crowded for a typical Friday night
but the service was fast and efficient--even if their waitress
was sporting an arrangement of metallic body art that ringed
her earlobes and eyebrows, with an accent or two through her
lower lip.

"I guess you need to be on the lookout for more than a hair in
your soup," Scully commented wryly, noting the waitstaff's
unique appearances. A spiky blue and red haired fellow was
ringing the register to her left, his tongue stud flashing as he
told a customer "thank you, come again."

Mulder laughed outright at her observations, stabbing at his
Caesar salad with a fork.

Scully turned to him leaning on her elbows with a curious half
smile of her own.

"Mulder, what's up with you?" she asked with growing
amusement. "You've been irrepressibly happy ever since
we landed at SFO? What is it about this city?" He looked
up at her, stupefied--caught in the act so to speak. And
was surprised to find himself suddenly slightly nervous
by her question.

Happy? Sure he was happy. Happier 'n hell that she was
sitting across from him, smiling at him, breathing, bumping
her knee into him each time she reached across to pluck a
crouton out of his salad.

"Don't know...maybe it's the Pacific air..." he mumbled,
 unconvincingly. "Are you sure you don't want me to order
you a salad?" he asked slyly, trying to change the subject.

She stopped, a pilfered crouton balanced at the edge of her
mouth between index finger and thumb--caught in the act
herself.

"No Mulder, I'm not that hungry," she lied coolly, and crunched
down on it unabashed. He grinned and resumed stabbing his
 romaine. Maybe he was so damned happy just from the
realization that his mind could easily conjure up this same
scene, except with him alone without a pair of blue eyes to
remind him there was more to living than surviving the next case.

"You know, I think I have you figured out..." she continued,
pausing to take a sip of sparkling water. He looked up from
his bowl, mid-chew--now most certainly nervous.

"You've got a twin. An identical twin, and the two of you switch
off when I'm not looking."

"What?" he chuckled, resuming his munching.

"Yeah, that would explain why you never sleep. You've got a
second team. One a little more jovial than the other." She blinked
up at him, seemingly very pleased with herself for this deduction.

"Hmm, well don't worry Scully, I'm sure "moody" Mulder will
be making an appearance long before this case is solved..."

The glasses hanging from their stems on the overhead bar
rack began to jingle and clink together. Their waitress holding
two pasta bowls stopped a few feet from their seat at the bar
and turned her face up to the swaying track lighting strung
across the open warehouse ceiling. Guests stopped mid-swallow
and fell silent as the room shuttered with a low rumble and
then stopped.

And then, just as if someone had pushed the play button again,
the room came back to life, instantly filled with the second half
of sentences and the busy sound of forks, knives and cups
colliding softly. Their waitress resumed her job and set their
meal down on the bar in front of them with a shrug.

Mulder glanced at his watch and shot his partner a grave look.

"Eat fast Scully, we'll be getting a call soon."

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

Golden Gate Park
6:45 PM

The hulking horned beast that filled the circle of Mulder's
flashlight beam snorted indignantly--spewing a film of snot from
its cavernous nose before using a deep grunt and with complete
lack of grace, heaved itself down into the mud.

"I forget, is it buffalo or bison?"

Scully was panning her flashlight beam across the chainlink
fence that housed one of Golden Gate Park's lesser-known
 attractions--the buffalo paddock.

"I don't know Mulder, but they sure do smell the same," She
replied, wrinkling her nose.

The call came approximately fifteen minutes into their pasta.
Sure enough, the suspect had struck in due fashion: The
only difference, his strike was slipping, his victim had survived.
By the time the FBI arrived on the scene an ambulance had
spirited the unresponsive woman away to SF General and the
SFPD was busy interviewing a key witness and developing
a composite. Other officers were combing the park and
surrounding neighborhoods for a glimpse of the suspect.

Mulder and Scully were surveying the scene by flashlight.
Footprints near the paddock indicated the suspect followed
the woman for some time before closing in to grip his hands
around her throat once they cleared the chainlink fence and
entered a grove of tall aromatic eucalyptus trees.

Mulder was crouched close to the ground tracking the damp
prints when Det. Meyer approached them from the squad car
where the officers were questioning the witness.

"The girl says she was jogging with the victim up the pathway
here when her friend stopped a few feet back to adjust her shoe.
She kept going until she came to the edge of the paddock and
was trying to pet a buffalo when she turned around to see her
friend walking with a short dark-haired man towards these
trees," he explained, pointing up to the towering eucalyptus
 surrounding them.

"She said it looked as if her friend knew the guy or something,
he had his hand lightly on the back of her neck. She called to her
has they moved out of view, grew concerned, and ran up here
in time to see the guy choking her. Once he saw her approaching,
he let go and ran off into the brush over there," Mulder stood
and followed Scully over to the edge of the grove where the
foliage had been clearly disturbed.

"The trampled escape route the suspect took ends at the street
side. We're questioning people, but haven't been able to
determine which direction he went from there."

Scully peered back towards the patrol car where the witness
was sitting, talking to the sketch artist. "It looks like they're
finishing the composite--can we speak to her now?" Meyer
invited her to proceed.

Scully stopped near the patrolmen at the door of the car and
with her flashlight illuminated the sketch pad the artist still held
in his hand. The face was square with dark curly hair and
stubble. An average nose, small eyes and somewhat larger
than average brows.

"Our suspect appears to be an Italian-American, about five and a
half feet, with a stocky build and small thick hands," described
the artist waving his hand over the sketch. "He was last seen
wearing gray-blue overalls with a striped short sleeved shirt
and heavy construction boots. The witness says he appeared
to be carrying a few tools in a large pocket on his pants leg."

"What kind of tools?"

He shrugged. "She couldn't say."

 A patrolman who was finishing his notes stepped aside so
Scully could approach the girl. She stepped off the curb and
 steadying her hand on the roof dipped her head slightly so
she could see her sitting, shaken in the open back seat of
the car.

"I'm Agent Scully from the Federal Bureau of Investigation,
I'd like to ask you some more questions..."

The girl nodded timidly, her arms wrapped tightly around her
waist. She was wearing a longsleeved jogging outfit with her
wavy brown hair pulled back in a matching band.

"What's your name?" Scully asked gently.

"Jenna...Jenna Abraham."

"Jenna, did either you or your friend..."

"Amy," the girl interjected.

"Your friend Amy," Scully calmly emphasized. "Did either of
you notice you were being followed?"

"Unh, uh...we were jogging in the open...it was still light out," she
said defensively, as if reciting a handbook for women's safety.
"We come through here all the time."

"Did you see any suspicious vehicles slowing near you."

"No. There were still people around here then. We weren't
exactly alone, you know."

Scully eased down so she could match eye level with the girl.
"Jenna, you didn't do anything wrong," she said, carefully
capturing the girl's nervous gaze. The girl crumpled then
and lowered her face, speaking into her hands.

"I didn't even see him coming. I didn't even think anything
was wrong at first. I...I thought they must know each other
because she wasn't trying to get away from him, she was
just walking away. And I didn't even think to shout or do anything
at first. They seemed like they knew where they were going..."
she was beginning to cry, but kept talking through her fear. "I
got there too late; he was choking her and she was just
standing there, staring straight ahead like nothing was going on..."

"Was he restraining her?"

The girl looked up suddenly then, struck calm all at once with
tears on her cheeks. "No...no, not at all. It was like he was barely
 touching her, you know? He didn't look as if he was really trying
to hurt her. Just...he had his hands on her neck was all and she
was just standing there."

Scully narrowed her eyes a bit in thought. "You told the
patrolman you saw tools. Can you describe them?"

The girl shook her head slowly. "They were in his pocket on his l
eg. Like I don't know...a screwdriver or something, maybe a
handle..." she began to make a gripping motion with her hand.

"You didn't see anything that might resemble a stun gun or
electrical shock device?" The girl shook her head again. Scully
patted the girl's hand and started to stand. The girl reached for
her arm to stall her.

"I um...you know I think I smelled something. I just remembered
 when you said electrical, because I thought I smelled something
like, you know, when you burnout your hairdryer...It didn't
make any sense to me--I forgot about it until now."

Scully paused, looking down at her thoughtfully for a minute.

"Thank you Jenna, that's very helpful to us."

Her partner was just finishing up with Det. Meyer as Scully left
the patrol car and met them back up the hill near the paddock.
 Mulder looked pleased about something. He came up to her
and leaned in close, speaking in a subdued tone only she could
hear.

"Meyer and the others reexamined the crime scenes. They
found minor electrical shorts and scoring on various items in
the victims' homes. One had faint scorches around the telephone
jack and in the receiver, another had some partially melted wires
in the home security alarm panel, and an Embarcadero electrician
 reported tripped fuses for the cameras in the lobby, elevator
 landings and the 32nd floor hallway. In each case, the
equipment was still operational, which is why it was missed."

"Did they check the lobby door in Pacific Heights?" Mulder shook
his head. "Not yet, they had the building evacuated temporarily
for earthquake inspection. They'll let us back in there tomorrow
 afternoon."

"Well, you'll be pleased to hear this. Our witness just told me
she smelled something akin to an electrical short when she
came upon the assailant in the grove. She also remembers seeing
him carrying some type of hand tools in his pocket."

Mulder thought it over a second. "An electrician. Someone
who knows security and telephone systems..."

"That would be my guess," she concurred. "And someone
who's probably also capable of creating or using a device to emit
an electric pulse, effectively shocking his victims into submission."

"That's one way to get people to notice you," he added grimly.

"So we know he's capable of tripping electrical devices, but how
was he able to unlock and lock dead bolts?"

Mulder's eyes were dancing excitedly, "I don't know, yet--but
we're getting closer."

********************
(6/11)
*********************

San Francisco General Hospital
SAT: 9:30 AM

Mulder eased back into the chair, trying to get comfortable. As if
it was possible for him to get comfortable in the cold, sterile
hospital hallway. He had logged too many hours recently in a
very similar situation, staring at the blank walls, the flat ceiling,
waiting. Waiting for news, waiting for change, waiting for
resolution. He dug around the inside pockets of his coat searching
for an orphaned seed or two. Lint, a long-forgotten ticket stub,
and some empty wrappers were the best he could come up with.
He was about to give in and go find the snack machine when the
door finally opened slowly and Scully slipped out, quietly
shutting the door behind her. Her eyes to the floor, she came over
to him and sat on the edge of the chair next to him with a sigh. He
sat up and leaned closer to her, she looked somewhat upset,
haunted, he thought.

She sat very still for a moment, collecting herself before she spoke.

"I'm afraid we're not going to find what we're looking for here, Mulder."

"Were you able to talk to her?"

"No. I don't think anyone will be for a very long time, she's..."
Scully stopped again and brushed her hand over her lips trying
to find the words. "She's suffering from acute retrograde
amnesia. Her short term memory function is impaired. She
can't remember much more than the last hour or so at a time.
She keeps asking where she is, and they have to keep telling
her over again from the beginning."

"Is this condition permanent?" he asked softly.

Scully shook her head, "Her physician isn't sure yet. According to
her mother she seems to only recall events from many years
ago, nothing recent. As with the other victims they did find
some fluid and mild swelling around the cerebrum; and when
she was brought in she was experiencing an atrial arrhythmia
which now appears to be under control."

"Could electrical shock have caused this?"

"Very likely, but they also found something else--a
dangerous reduction in her serum electrolyte levels, which can
not be explained by electrocution alone. She had abnormally
low levels of potassium, calcium, sodium and magnesium which
is usually only found in patients suffering from Addison's Disease
or kidney failure--either of which would have certainly kept
her from jogging last night.

"Mulder, if our suspect is shocking his victims, then they would
be frozen in place, unable to move, yet this girl's friend saw
her gently being led away by him seemingly willingly...and we
still don't understand how he's storing or releasing the charge."

Mulder straightened suddenly and laid his hand on her forearm
to interject. "Maybe that's *exactly* what he's doing when he kills
--recharging."

Scully looked truly puzzled.

"Electrolytes are dissolved charged particles in the body, right?"

She nodded.

"If my two semesters of forgotten college chemistry serve
me, potassium and the other ions you mentioned all carry a
positive charge."

"Yes they do."

"You know that bizarre but brilliant theory I've been working on?
I think it's about ready to get a fork stuck in it."

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

Pacific Heights
11:00 AM

"Mulder...Your theory?"

He met her with a mischievous grin and whispered, "I'm working
on it..." They were waiting along with Detective Meyer and
an electrician for the superintendent to unlock the front doors of
the apartment building they investigated their first night in
San Francisco. Mulder was fidgeting with impatience. He was
close, very close, and he knew somehow this apartment building
was going to give it up to him any minute now.

Once inside, the electrician set upon the front security door
searching for damage. When he pronounced the door in good
working condition despite its age, Mulder had him remove
the resident doorbell panel just outside the lobby. It too appeared
to be in good order.

"Maybe he didn't take the front door," Mulder reasoned to
himself rushing back outside, looking up at the dark stone
building. Scully followed him around to the west side and into
the filthy narrow eight foot alleyway choked with the
apartment's trash bin. Mulder was gazing up at the rusty fire
escape, unreachable from the ground. Or was it?

To her surprise he flipped the lid closed on the dumpster and made
a leap up onto it with a loud crashing echo. This brought him
five feet closer to the fire escape landing. "Scully, hand me
those crates." There was an assortment of milk crates half-
stacked between the dumpster and the wall. She reached down
and selected a couple. He took them from her and stacked
them together making to stand himself on them.

"You know Scully, I might be making a big mistake...this may
require a trip to the laundry."

"I hope you're not doing this to impress me," she called up after
him as he made a clean leg-up using the crates to step over onto
the escape landing.

He bounced himself on the landing a moment checking it for
stability as if his half-jump couldn't have ripped it from the
aging wall first. It seemed to be pretty solid. "Not bad for an old
G-man, huh?"

She answered him with an uneasy squint.

He took to the stairs and climbed the rattling metal platforms
until he was nearly even with the roof's edge. He gracefully
pulled himself up and over the low wall, landing on the
building's flat roof out of her line of sight. In a moment or two
his head popped back over the edge looking down at her.
"Scully, go back inside and find the door to the roof. It's locked
from up here--I'll need you to let me in."

"Okay!" she called up and made her way back inside to the stairs.

Once she arrived at the top of the fifth floor landing she could
hear Mulder's impatient tapping on the metal rooftop door just
up the hall. She pushed it open for him and he rushed into
the hallway, pausing for a moment, first eyeing the rooftop exit
and then the victim's apartment door just a few feet down the hall.

He raised his eyebrows at her. "That's a little convenient, don't
you think?"

She simply stood back watching as his odd thought process
unveiled itself. He walked over to the victim's door and bent at
the knees to look closely at the door handle and jiggled it. It
was locked as was the deadbolt above it. He touched his finger to
the keyhole a moment and then fiddled in his coat pocket,
removing the rental car keys. He stood then and waved the
dangling keys limply in front of the knob.

"Mulder?" This was certainly growing stranger by the minute--
even for him.

"Too heavy..." he mumbled, turning to her. "Scully, you got a
hairpin, paperclip, or something in your pocket?"

"Hmm?"

He looked at her eagerly. She reached in her deep coat pockets fumbling
around.

"Something small, metallic..."

She wasn't coming up with much.

"Anything..." he pleaded.

"Oh wait," she said, and reached for her ear, removing the thin
metal loop with tiny drop pearl. He took it from her, dangling
it between his first finger and thumb.

"Nice."

He crouched back down in front of the door knob and
delicately placed the metal loop against the lock and just as
carefully pulled his fingers away. The earring stayed in
place catching the light from the window as the tiny pearl
shimmered and relaxed against the keyhole.

Mulder turned his head back to her, his hazel eyes bright.

"The locks have been magnetized," he said with wonder and
moved her earring to the deadbolt where it too hung suspended.

She took a cautious step forward. "And this is evidence of...?"

Mulder was staring past her back up the hall to the roof door speaking more
to
himself than her. "He can reset the tumblers
with a focused magnetic field, letting himself in."

"He can what...?"

He looked down at her then, an odd half-smile crossing his lips.
"That theory you've been so patiently waiting for, here it goes...
I believe our killer is and of himself a walking electromagnet. He
has an ability to generate electrical current and magnetic fields.
It would explain the physical evidence at the crime scenes and
his methods for committing them."

As predicted, he was met with his partner's careful gathering
of critical analysis--punctuated by a tiny perplexed frown.

"Mulder, the human body isn't capable of safely carrying an
electrical charge more powerful than your average static zap from
a doornob; and yet you're claiming that this man possesses
an unknown ability to collect and store current capable of
causing serious internal tissue damage?"

"Essentially, yes." He shrugged plausibly, waiting for her to
continue.

"Have you considered the much more likely explanation that
he's simply devised a method of rigging himself with electrodes
or small insulated wires that might not be noticeable to the
passing eye?"

He blinked down at her. "Certainly, but why is there lack of
burn evidence on the skin of the victims?"

"If he's able to make full contact with the skin first before
applying the current there would be minimal epidermal damage..."

"True, but wouldn't he also be releasing the charge into himself
as well as his victims if contact is being made? How is he able
to survive it?"
 

She hadn't considered that yet and pursed her lips a moment
in thought.

"I don't think we'll know exactly how he does it until we find
him and search him," she added. "We haven't ruled out a
locksmith yet, it's not uncommon for handymen to magnetize
their tools for holding screws and nails in place, and our Golden
Gate Park witness did note he was carrying tools of some kind."

Mulder dipped his head to try and bring her closer to
his understanding of events. "The girl in the hospital Scully, she
was drained of her body's natural positive charge. It's been
theorized that when the body dies it releases an energy field,
some people even go so far as to call it the soul. In the 1890s
a French physician named Roucher captured photographical
evidence of this energy exiting the bodies of his terminally
ill patients at the exact moment of death..."

That earned him a seriously raised eyebrow. "Are you
suggesting that this man is capturing his victim's souls?"

"He's certainly capturing their ability to live."

"You still haven't explained to me how all this connects to
'voices from the earth.'"

"Okay," he conceded, "that's the other part of my theory still
in progress..."

"You must be slipping Mulder, you usually have it all figured
out in the first few hours, then spend the rest of the time
convincing everyone you're shamelessly correct in every detail."

"I do?"

She answered him with a smirk.

"Scully, how can you stand me?"

She plucked her earring from the lock.

"You're an acquired taste, Mulder."

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

1:00 PM

Scully stood at the roof's edge looking out over the tops of
the upscale apartments and homes out to the bay waters to the
steep shores of Alcatraz and beyond to where the fog was
beginning to billow up against the red cables of the Golden
Gate suspension bridge. The wind was picking up slightly,
sending a chill through her and she hugged her arms to her
chest.

It was more than just the incoming fog that made her shiver, it
was looking into the pale blank eyes of the girl in SF General
earlier that morning. It was as if part of the girl's mind had
been removed from her skull, carved out--leaving her with
only distant echoes of her past.

Scully tried to shake the thought and turned back toward the roof
in time to see her partner several feet away on hands and
knees, face almost to the tarred surface searching like he did for
the unobvious in the most ridiculous of locations. In a moment
he sprang back up to his haunches animatedly pointing out to
the detective some scuff or minor scrape to the roof's already
well-trampled and warped texture. It made her smile. Five
years together and he was still able to amaze her with his
boyish enthusiasm. Never a dull moment if you're working a
case with Fox Mulder, the most misunderstood agent in the
Bureau. She was grateful for it—this scene playing out to her
on the rooftops was one she would keep with her, something
she could hold onto and remember to get her through the
dimmer times. Not every pleasant memory was without its
darker half.

Memory, it was something she held sacred, and very, very
personal. That girl had something indescribably intimate taken
from her through violence, fear, shock...she still wasn't sure,
except for the fact that it shook her to the core. The cancer that
had been working its way inward, invading her and violating her
not so many months before had also carried with its promise of
pain a much greater threat to her--the threat of stealing
her memories. She had never spoken of it, but it had been by
far the symptom she had feared the most.

Would she have even noticed when her past began to drift
away? How would it have begun? Would she have forgotten
what she ate for dinner, or forgotten who she had eaten it with?
This was why this moment, this rooftop, this case, this city, was
now so much more than just a day at work to her--it was
an experience that combined with all the other experiences of
her life and came to make her who she was, they defined her.
And as are the eyes of many who take a glancing blow with
death, she now looked at each moment with greater clarity,
greater reverence. Which was how she looked at him now as
he stood to move toward her.

*Jesus, Scully...don't look at me like that. At least not here
anyway...*

He crossed to her from where he had been tracing the path of
the killer across the rooftop to the now notably magnetized roof
exit door. As involved as he had been in connecting the dots,
some long-distance sonar in his mind was telling him Scully
was pulling out of range and if he wanted to keep her within
certain boundaries, he'd better send out the search party quick.

She was standing looking over at him with a very serious, very
open expression. He wasn't sure if he was welcomed into
this contemplation, but one look in her direction had
enveloped every other investigative thought in his
head, extinguishing it. He believed he asked the detective to
meet him downstairs and perhaps the man had sonar of his
own because he had made a very brisk exit back into the building.

"Hey Scully, what's up?" he tried to ask casually, as he met her at
the roof's edge. She tilted her head to look up at him, not yet
willing to break the gaze. Her hair was sweeping up and around
her face, dancing across her cheeks like tiny fingers. A
curiously tender smile curving her lips.

"I was thinking," she said in a clear bright tone.

"'bout what?" he asked, and turned to lean against the waist-
high ledge, needing to escape her large blue eyes for just a
moment. He looked down, in the courtyard below a large hairy
man in a sleeveless T-shirt was watering his lawn with a
leaking hose.

"About how we choose to live..." she broke off.

*This one's going to be serious...I wonder if I'm up to it right now. *

He choked down the defensive impulse of making some half-
handed wise crack about inflatable lawn furniture and took a
deep breath instead, easing himself against the wall, and turned
to face her. To his relief she was looking out at the water.

"How's that?" he managed.

"Why did I choose to join the FBI?" she said without expression.

It was a rhetorical question. She was opening up to him, preparing
to unveil another layer of herself to him. As much as he wanted
to know her this way, to let her uncover herself to him, he was
never quite prepared for it--never confident of how he
would respond. He felt a touch surreal as if the ground was
moving under him again and was thankful for the wall against
his side.

"And why do I choose to stay..." she finished.

He felt something tighten in his chest. She was talking about
her recent illness and it's all too obvious connection to their work.
His work, his quest. There was a moment of silence. Was he
supposed to answer for her?

She dipped her head and looked down, gathering her thoughts.
"You talked to me about fate once Mulder. About having no
personal choice in what we do."

Yes he had. It was the most sane thing he could think of a few
years back to explain the horrendous couple of weeks they had
just experienced--his father, her sister, gone in a blink of the eye.

She took a breath and looked directly into his careful hazel eyes.
"I don't think I can believe in that anymore. Not after the last
few months."

The knot in his chest had taken another full turn taking his
stomach with it. My god, she wasn't about to leave him, was she?
Not here, not today, not on this rooftop with the wind in her hair...

"I have to believe I stay because there is nothing else in this
world that I would trade for it." She paused, letting this sink in.

Mulder did everything he could do to stand perfectly still. His
mind was flip-flopping on him. What the hell was she saying?
He most certainly wasn't up for this. If she didn't finish her
thought soon, he was going to take his chances and leap over the
wall onto the fat wet man below.

"Do you understand what I'm saying, Mulder?" her chin
dipped slightly, her expansive blue eyes were burrowing
themselves into him. Hell no, it would take a thousand years
before he could ever begin to get the most basic understanding
of her. He didn't think he'd ever get that much time. It wasn't
that far to the ground...

"I think so..." Did he speak? He didn't know how he could have spoken right
then.

She lowered her eyes and gave a small sound that was like a
sigh and a laugh, and she squeezed his hand.

"Come on Mulder, let's get you inside before you completely
lose track of this case." Numbly, he followed her retreating form
back inside like a small child being led from the playground.

*******************
(7/11)
*****************

Post St. Police Station
3:00 PM

The Post St. police station was centered halfway between the
elegant temple spires of the Japanese Cultural Center and
Kabuki Theatre and the decaying Hayes Valley projects.
Interracial tensions, roving neighborhood gangs, recent
emigrants, hard-working laborers, and drug dealers called this
part of the city home.

Mulder held the door for his partner has they rushed up the
dingy stone steps and inside to the front desk.

Mulder pulled his badge as did Scully. "FBI...Agents Mulder
and Scully, we received a call from Inspector Meyer who should
be arriving shortly."

The receptionist looked up briefly eyeing the badges. "You're here
for the Pirelli interview?" she asked.

"Yes," Scully answered. "We understand she hasn't been
questioned yet."

"Not yet," the woman answered. "They're still trying to track down
an interpreter. You can go ahead upstairs, however. Room 5."

"Thanks."

Upstairs the hallways smelled musty with aged fog- and
mold-soaked stone walls--a scent unique to San Francisco's
vintage structures. A small huddle of detectives had gathered
outside the door to interrogation room 5. Mulder flipped open
his badge again and was directed to enter the observation room
that doubled as a cleaning closet just beyond. Inside the
narrow room Mulder and Scully could see into the next room
through the one-way mirror to where the tearful woman was
sitting in a straight back chair opposite two officers with a
tape recorder. She was nervous and jabbering incoherently.

"Hees no my husband..." she was trying to say in painful English,
then gave up lapsing into her native tongue. Mulder once again
found himself swearing he'd find the time to acquaint himself
with more than the one, so far useless, Latin language he
had bothered to study.

"Where the hell is that interpreter?" Detective Meyer's gravely
voice could be heard moving up the hall. Presently he entered
the cramped room and made his way over to the agents.

"Thanks for getting here so fast," he said. "Didn't interrupt
another meal, I hope...Anyway, we didn't have much
trouble identifying the face in the composite once it
circulated through the precincts," he paused and flipped through
the stack of paperwork in his hand, pulling out a mug shot.
Mulder took it from him. He held it out to Scully so they could
both recognize the similar features.

"Vincent Pirelli, age 42, 5'4", small eyes, small hands--
we're analyzing his palm prints--arrested three years ago
in connection with a small check cashing fraud operation down
on Geary. Couldn't make the crime stick however, he was
released. Since then he's been doing honest work for Bay Area
Rapid Transit."

"What kind of work?" Mulder asked.

"Uh, maintenance of some kind..." Meyer flipped more
pages. "According to this, general contract work, some metal
work, some electrical. General repairs it seems. We're trying to
get his manager on the horn...Oh thank god!" Meyer had spotted
a young man coming to the door, one of the other detectives led
him into the interrogation room where he took a seat opposite
the woman. They began to communicate in a lyrical flow of Italian.

"She's the one who helped these guys nail down his identity,"
Meyer said in a low tone, stepping closer to the mirror,
pointing through the glass. "Reported her husband missing
early yesterday, except without a translation, no one really
took her seriously at first."

"How long had her husband been missing?" Scully asked.

"You're gonna love this--since the day of the quake..."

"Detective?" An officer peeked in catching Meyer's attention. "Anderson
wants to talk to you."

"I'll be right back," Meyer said, exiting the room.

Mulder turned to Scully who was still eyeing the suspect's
wife through the glass. The frightened thin dark-haired woman
was shaking her head saying the only word she knew well in
English, "No, no, no, no."

"I hope she has some idea where we can find him..."

With a deep rattle, the floor began to thrash violently. Scully made
to reach out to steady herself and realized the mirror was not
an option, instead she tipped backwards just as the lights cut
out knocking herself into Mulder who in turn to made a reach
for both her and the packed utility shelf next to him bringing
its unsettled height crashing to the floor next to them in a
raucous symphony of tumbling plastic, metal and shattering
glass. The woman next door issued a scream. The floor it seemed
had come unhinged and was writhing in a disjointed dance.
In another breathless moment it was over. The close walls
around them relaxing, but the lights that had once illuminated
both the windowless observation and interview rooms stayed
a stubbornly inky black.

"Shit..."

"Mulder, you okay?" He had released her and she could hear
him raising a hand to his head.

"Yeah. I just got beaned by Pine Sol--you?"

"Mmm...I think I'm standing in something sticky."

The small bulb light overhead hummed and hissed back to half-
life casting a brownish hue across the disheveled room. Scully
raised a hand to fend off the glare, realizing it wasn't necessary.

"Brown-out," Mulder mumbled, rubbing the back of his head
while making an effort to get to the door, pushing a rolling
bucket and mop out of his way. An outside hand turned the
knob and opened it for him, flooding the room with faded light
from the dirty hallway windows.

"Anyone hurt?" asked an officer.

"You guys really need to clean in there," Mulder said, turning
to make sure Scully exited the room without anymore missteps.

"Goddammit! What the hell is this shit?" blared one of the
inspectors. "I thought these damn aftershocks were supposed to
get easier on us."

"Evidently not," noted Det. Meyer who was helping a female
officer coax the now terrified Pirelli woman out of the
darkened room. "Take her to the lounge. Let her calm down,"
he said. "You get anything from her?" he asked the interpreter.

"Yes I did, at least what I could understand."

"Well?"

"She says her husband hasn't been himself since late
Tuesday evening. He apparently came home from work very
late acting strangely...she says he wasn't like himself at all. As if
he was a different person altogether. He was insisting he needed
to check in with some guy named Applegate. According to her
they don't know anyone by that name. His BART main-
tenance supervisor is named Webster."

"Did he tell her where he had been that night?"

The younger man shook his head, "No, he didn't give her
any explanation at all...Oh, she said he seemed to have
trouble finding his way around the apartment, asked her where
the bathroom was...very strange."

"When did she notice him missing again?" asked Mulder.

"About a hour or so after he arrived home he left, just wandered
out. Didn't say where he was going."

"Mulder..." Scully looked as if she was just becoming aware
of something. "I think...I remember from the case file...the
first victim, Reynolds, worked at Applegate's Body Shop."
Mulder looked at Meyer, questioning. The detective flipped
through his file again. He looked up in assent.

"She's right."

"He must have tailed his first victim from his workplace,"
she reasoned.

Mulder was shaking his head pondering the connection for a while.
"I don't think so, Scully. I don't think he was ever near the place."

"Why?" asked Meyer.

"The first aftershock occurred at about 6:20PM. The murder
followed about thirty minutes later. That report will tell
you Reynolds had gone home for the day much earlier
around 4:00PM, thirty-eight minutes before the major quake itself."

"How would he know about Applegate then?" asked Meyer.

"This may sound a little odd, but I think he stole that
information straight from Reynold's head." Meyer looked
perplexed. Scully braced herself for what was to follow.

"Pirelli's wife claims her husband seemed to have trouble re-
membering his way around his own house, and yet he was very
clear about needing to contact Applegate." Mulder looked to
the interpreter. "Did she say if her husband actually called the guy
or not?"

The interpreter shook his head. "I'll go ask." He headed away
from them toward the lounge.

"Wait a minute..." Meyer paused. "Exactly what do you mean by
 *stole* this information from his head?"

Mulder drew himself up to accentuate the fact he really did
believe what he was about to explain. "It's my opinion that
Pirelli possesses an ability to extract memory in the form of
electrical energy from his victims, damaging parts of their
central nervous system in the process--the brain and the heart
--centers for memory retention."

Meyer was making a valiant effort to comprehend this train
of reasoning, thus far Agent Mulder had shown an uncanny ability
to be right about this case, but this was beginning to
gravitate beyond his comfort level of normalcy. His
confounded expression must have communicated as much
because Mulder responded, "I know it doesn't sound very
probable, but so far the evidence is suggesting as much, at
least to me," he looked at Scully, she was saving her opinion for
later, he could tell. "Okay, I could be wrong, but at least look
into the phone records from that evening. I suspect he made
the call."

Meyer regarded the taller man with a questioning faith.
"We'll get right on it," he said with a shrug and stepped away.

Mulder turned back to his partner and prepared for a healthy
round of intellectual tennis. She was looking up at him slyly
through her lashes. "Evidently your reputation did not precede
you to the West Coast," she said with a patient little smile. He led
her further down the hall so they would be out of earshot.

"I may be mistaken, but I don't remember the part of medical
school where we studied the heart's memory center," she
said quietly, looking up at him. His face was set--fully determined
to defend his carefully contrived theory.

"Heart transplant recipients have frequently reported
assimilating personality characteristics of their deceased
donors--speech patterns, personal habits, sometimes even
memories. It's known as cellular memory."

"Mulder," Scully began in her best physician's consultation
manner. "Memories are formed in the brain as a result
of electrochemical signals moving through a network of billions
of nerve cells. No other part of the human body has the
proper hardware to function in this manner."

He gave her an obstinate grunt. "All right then, think about it
this way. Modern technology's developed computer neural
networks that imitate the brain's ability to learn and
store information for future use. What if this man harbors a
unique biological ability to access and in effect download from
the brain's electrical memory centers just like downloading files
from a hardrive? Extracting both energy and memories in
the process."

Scully was standing firm in her convictions, her arms coming to
cross over her chest. "I can understand someone developing
a method for killing with electromagnetic energy resulting in
the type of tissue damage we've found in the victims--but you
can't extract memories Mulder, it's not possible."

She was interrupted by someone up the hall whistling loudly to
get everyone's attention.

"Listen up people--we've got our suspect in sight. He was
just reported accosting a doughnut delivery man near the Wharf!"

*************************
(8/11)
********************

Fisherman's Wharf
4:30 PM

"Mulder, it's me."

"Where are you, Scully?"

"I'm standing at the corner of Taylor and Jefferson watching
a homeless man disguised as a bush scaring people as they walk
by for spare change," she said into her cellphone with a some-
what perplexed tone as a couple of startled teens started
shrieking.

"That's called street performance, Scully. Go give him a dollar."

"I thought I was supposed to be keeping an eye out for our suspect?"

"And?"

"Well, I see about fifty or so strange faces walking past me every
few seconds wearing badly matched T-shirts, ballcaps, and
video equipment."

"You're experiencing tourism. When this is over, I'll by you an
ice cream and we can try to fit in."

"Not likely Mulder, we don't seem to fit in anywhere."

"Have you tried sneaking into an insurance sales convention?"

She smiled wanely at his feeble attempt at FBI humor. "What's
your position looking like?"

"The same, except I get the occasional taped bloodcurdling
scream coming from the House of Medieval Torture behind me.
Sure you don't want to checkout the local attractions later?"

"I'll pass. Sixteenth-century bondage is more to your taste,
I think."

"I can compromise."

"Have the other officers checked in yet?"

"Yeah, we're all in position now. Pirelli wasn't very successful
with the doughnut man, he'll need to kill soon--keep you ears
open for commotion."

"I think I'll need to move a bit further from the local attraction
here then."

"Okay, but stay in contact with me."

Scully kept the line open and worked her way further up
Jefferson weaving through the early Saturday evening
Fisherman's Wharf congestion--easily San Francisco's
biggest attraction--infused with the smell of boiling seafood
and fresh-baked sourdough bread wafting into the air. The
streets of the Northern-most tip of San Francisco's peninsula
were packed with an array of attractions; from Ripley's Believe
It or Not Museum and the Underwaterworld Aquarium, to
camera shops, fast food, ice cream, and crab cocktail stands
lining the garishly cluttered street.

Pausing near the overhang of a store selling scenic placemats
and personalized license plates, she squinted into the
human confusion flowing toward her.

It was hard to focus on distinct features--the jambalaya
of backpacks, hooded sweatshirts, baby strollers, bicycles,
and balloon hats made it difficult to discern specific features.

After several minutes, a large bus pulled up temporarily stalling
the flow of people. As the coursing cleared, Scully was able to
see across to the street parallel. Near a line of people she could
just make out the color of gray-blue overalls.

She raised the phone to her ear, calm.

"I've got Pirelli in my sight. He's standing near the line for the
Wax Museum on Embarcadero. I'm moving east to get a closer look."

The voice of her partner was immediately in her ear. "Scully, listen
to me. I'll meet you at your location. Just keep an eye on him.
I'm hanging up a second to alert Det. Meyer. I'll call you right back."

Mulder redialed his phone and made the call while heading back
up Leavenworth to intercept. He rounded the corner and took
a moment to navigate through a wave of camera-adorned
Japanese businessmen pouring out of a bus.

He punched his auto-dial.

"Scully."

"Can you still see him?" he asked.

"Yes, he's moving east. I'm crossing to Embarcadero..."

"Scully, stay at Jefferson until I reach you."

She didn't answer.

"Scully?"

He looked down at his phone--the line was still open.

"Scully?"

The phone went dead in his ear. He punched the buttons and
dialed her again. It rang...no response.

*Damn...*

Mulder turned and made a quick right, running two blocks up
Beach before turning left at the last block to reach tourist-
impacted Jefferson a few breathless minutes later. He could see
the entrance to the wax museum clearly from there. She wasn't
in sight.

He crossed the street--and turned east, the crowd blocking his
view as he pierced the swarm vainly trying to catch sight of her.
He shouted her name and pushed his way up the narrow
sidewalk past the tacky cablecar souvenir stands and through
the steaming stench of the sidewalk crab pots--knocking into
an irritated tourist or two in the process.

"Scully!"

He stopped at the corner of Jones and whirled around urgently
trying to guess her last move. Then he caught sight of a swath of
red hair on the sidewalk just across the street from him half
hidden under the shadow of a chowder stand.

"Hey!" He yelled, as he started through the incessant traffic congestion to
reach her.

"Somebody help her!"

Until his shout, no one had bothered to recognize her fallen form
for what it was, moving unquestioning past her, carrying
packages and cameras. *Bystander apathy*. The psychologist in
him noted. As soon as he got to her he knew the once
indifferent throng would suddenly all stop to hover around
with keen interest. They were beginning to hover already.

He ran up to her, pushing people aside and knelt, taking her
up carefully and turning her over. Her eyes were rolled back
and nearly closed. He felt her neck, her pulse was strong. Her
eyes closed as he moved her and she gave a faint moan.

"Scully?" he called to her, brushing the hair from her cheek.
"Scully, can you hear me?"

Her lids fluttered and with a gasp she came back to herself, her
arms winging out to steady herself. She blinked up at him as
he steadied her across his knees, holding her against his arm.

"Mulder? What?" she looked past him squinting at the strange
faces circling them. Realizing that she appeared to be in
close proximity to the ground. "Did I fall?"

Her partner was clearly out of breath with beads of sweat
sprinkling his forehead. "Mulder? Where are we? Why am I on
the sidewalk?"

"What's the last thing you remember, Scully?" he asked with
obvious concern and dread.

She shook her head. She felt funny. Her fingers and legs
were tingling. She struggled to a sitting position and touched
her forehead. She felt very strange indeed.

"I remember...sea lions...I was watching the sea lions..." His eyes
told her that was the wrong answer. She thought it over...
sea lions. Why did she say sea lions? The memory was leaving
her and she felt that fuzzy vision replaced with one that seemed
a lot more familiar.

"We were...we were talking to Det. Meyer--they'd spotted the
suspect near the Wharf..."

His mouth tightened, "That was over an hour ago..."

"Hmmm?"

"That bastard got to you Scully. He got into your head, stole an
hour from you. He could have taken a lot more."

"But how--Mulder, I don't even remember..." her feeble attempt
at creating a scientific defense at this moment was ridiculous even
to her. Her memory was missing and she could feel it. Instead
she pushed away from him and got to her feet.

"Careful..." he began, straightening to steady her.

"I'm fine, Mulder." A tense flash of hazel told her that line was all
but useless.

A cellphone rang. It was hers, lying just under the chowder
table. Mulder bent and picked it up, answering it.

"Hello?" Silence for a second or two and then it hit with a
piercing electronic whine. He winced and pulled the phone
away from his ear. The phone shrieked and chattered for a
few seconds more and then disconnected. Dial tone.

"It must have hit the ground..." she began to say...but Mulder
was staring at her, shaking his head with a very serious expression.

"He's got your number," he said flatly.

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

Davies Medical Center
10:00 PM

Scully sat obediently on the edge of a gurney in the Davies
Medical Center emergency room. Through the window she could
see Mulder pacing the hallway like a leopard. His tag team twin
had most certainly arrived. They'd argued all the way over
here from the Wharf, him insisting her condition was a hell of a
lot more serious than she could believe it was. She sighed, trying
to calm herself. This had to stop. She wasn't sick anymore, he had
to believe that--to trust her to not fall to pieces on him. A spill to
the pavement could easily explain her bit of missing short
term memory. From what he told her, she didn't miss much.

Pirelli had vanished from the area and surprisingly enough no
bodies had been found. The doughnut man reported feeling a
little hazy, not much else. He could clearly remember seeing
Pirelli approach him from behind, asking him for directions,
then taking him by the neck started to push them back into an
ally. He kneed the smaller, huskier man in the stomach and ran
off to find a nearby police officer.

The nurse was speaking to her, telling her what she already
knew--take it easy, get some rest, call if she felt nauseated...

She was fine, dammit. And she wanted to get out of there, they
had wasted enough time on her. The nurse told her she could go
and gathering herself with a deep breath, Scully slid off the
bed, grabbed her coat and headed for the door into the lion pit.

Mulder stopped his pacing and stood staring at her as she
walked toward him, his jaw set.

"We're switching hotels," he said without room for debate.

"Mulder, don't be ridiculous..." she felt herself on the thin edge
of patience. "I'm tired, I'm hungry. I'm going back to the
hotel, ordering in and going straight to bed." She turned away
from him and made a brisk getaway for the door. He followed
close behind her, his hand issuing a not-so-restrained pressure
on the small of her back as he pushed the door open for her.
He somehow managed to reign himself until they reached the
car, then he let loose.

"Dammit Scully, why won't you trust me on this?" he said
petulantly, his eyes flashing a heated green.

"Mulder, I'm through with this."

"Don't you realize what this guy is capable of? Don't you see
what he's after?"

"I think you're overreacting."

"He took your memory from you. He knows...god knows what
about you. He has your cellphone number, maybe even your
room number..."

"How? How does he have these things? You can't just take
thoughts from people, Mulder!"

"Okay, then explain something to me. Why did you say
you remembered sea lions when you first came to?"

*Sea lions...yes, that was strange...*

Mulder bent closer to her, touching her shoulder to see if he
was possibly beginning to get through.

Scully's shoulders gave a bit. "I don't know..." she answered
without much conviction.

"You remembered sea lions because you were witnessing
another person's memory," he said carefully, his voice
suddenly dropping to almost a whisper, catching her large blue
eyes and holding them in his gaze. "A random orphaned
memory from one of his victims, suddenly infused in you like
a dying battery charge."

"But how..."

"Have you asked yourself Scully, why out of all the people on
the Wharf today he chose to go for you? When I found you, you
were blocks from your last location. I told you to stay and wait
for me."

"Maybe I decided to pursue him alone."

"Maybe, or maybe he called you to him."

She stared back at him incredulously.

"Every crime scene has one thing in common...a manipulated electronic
device."

She dropped her head slightly, her thoughts turning inward. Yes,
she was beginning to understand.

"That damned chip in your neck. It was described once as a
micro processing unit for receiving and storing electrical
impulses along the spinal column...for storing memories."

She bit her upper lip and looked up at him again. He pulled
back releasing his breath, feeling the tension across his
shoulders begin to relax. She believed him now.

"OK Mulder," she said with quiet resolution. "What do we need to
do to stop him?"

********************
(9/11)
********************

North Beach Hotel
SUN: 4:45 AM

The room was cold. The San Francisco fog had invaded with
a vengeance in the pre-dawn hours and poured like thick white
paint over the city where it hung churning slowly in the rolling
air.

Scully woke suddenly. Her left arm was chilled and damp where
it had escaped the wrap of the comforter in which she had
cocooned herself in an effort to keep out the fog. Sleepily, she
mused she should make an effort to get up and turn up the
wall heater which had now fallen silent, cracking and banging
as it cooled. She began to slip back into her dreams when a
shiver caught her shoulders and she decided the poorly
performing heater did indeed need her encouragement. She
sat up slowly and blinked, trying to build up the muster to leave
the meager warmth of the bed.

Mulder wasn't fairing much better. He had left the sanctity of
his own room and bed for the less-than-ideal side chair
cushioned into the corner of her room near the window. He'd
pulled the blanket and bed cover from his room and
wrapped himself in it as best he could against the draught of
the tall bay window. He was asleep, his weapon drawn across
his lap, his fingers loosely curled around the grip.

Scully moved carefully and drew her covers quietly around her
as she pushed herself into a sitting position. She watched
him, studying the outline of his face enclosed in sleep. He had
been insistent that evening that she allow him to keep close to
her, to keep guard for their suspect should he follow her here
to her room. He had intended to remain awake she was certain
and although the deep rise and fall of his chest proved otherwise,
she was also equally certain the slightest sound from her or
the street below would instantly rouse him to full alert. Like a
spider on its web--still, but ready to strike without warning.
But at this moment she didn't wish to disturb those delicate
threads just yet.

She had been furious with him last night. A type of fury only
he seemed to have the ability to instill within her. He had
an unsettling way of getting under her skin, goading her out
from her easy professional detachment into a storm of
insurgent emotions barely held in check. Their unique brand
of intellectual warfare could exhaust her at times. Yet she
relished every battle, marching into the skirmish freely
with weapons drawn. It was as enthralling as it was intense
and afterwards when he would give her that look that meant
*it's over now, I'm finished*--she would be diffused,
disarmed, dropping all her defenses with the will of his glance.

Scully pulled the comforter tighter. The realization hit her
hard sometimes when she wasn't expecting it--the sway he held
over her--how he could tug and pull at her like no other man
she had ever known. Mostly she tried to not think about
its significance and just focused on the matters at hand, comforted
by the knowledge that for every thread he had strung within
her there was an equal binding tie within him. Of that she
was certain, and at the same time that knowledge terrified her.

Terrified her to a point that it had paled even the gripping fear
of her own death not so very long ago as he had come to her side
in the final days before her miraculous recovery. The cancer
eating away at her body was wrecking an even greater damage
in him. She could see it. And she hated herself for adding to
the carnage that his ill-fated life had already carved into him.

What would he have done for her if she had failed to survive?
Would he have continued the fight in her memory, or would he
have given into his growing despair and executed an equal
revenge on his enemies with deadly force, destroying his own life
in the process. This was the nature of the terror for her. To
know with absolute clarity that the flawed and cracked soul of
this man was held together by such a delicate and impermanent
 thing as her flesh.

Scully moved again, slowly, silently and eased herself to the side
of the bed wrapping the comforter around her and cautiously
slipped down onto her feet. And even more soundlessly she
stepped tentatively closer to his chair. She smiled slightly as
she regarded him, his face half cast in shadow. He didn't move,
but she could see his eyes slipping in tiny movements behind
their lids--dreaming. The slight knit of his temple betraying
the nature of his dream. What did he dream about now?
she wondered. Was it the lies and betrayals, or the guilt and
self-deprivation he imposed upon himself as a daily penance
for all their losses and tragedies?
 

*If I can save you Mulder, let me...*

If only he could just let it go. If she could by some means repair
the cracks and seams and help him to rebuild into something
that could endure anything, even losing her. This is what she
wished for him. What she prayed for. Why she knew she could
never leave him, no matter what the cost to her.

Scully felt a tightness filling her throat and moistening her eyes.
In that instant, she was overcome with an undeniable need to
gather him up into her arms and hold him tightly to her, her
fingers in his hair, soothing him with tiny whispered
promises, pulling his face to hers and delicately kissing
away his demons with feather touches to his lips, his eyes,
his nose...

But, these were things she could not do. Would not allow herself
to do. For fear beyond a doubt that in this she would
completely undo him, unravel him, and unloose his drowning
soul and in its surging wake be washed away completely.

Instead she said his name.

He was instantly awake, tousling his coverings to the floor. His
grip coming down hard on his weapon.

"Mulder, it's okay." she said softly touching his shoulder as
he blinked up at her, his mouth half open in question. "It's early,
but I'm going to get up now." He looked at her obstinately.

"What time is it?" he asked, his eyes scanning the room, the tone
of his voice already indicating his irritation with himself for
falling asleep.

"It's five or so. Look--I want you to go back to your room and
really get some sleep. We've got until 9:30 before we're scheduled
to meet with Det. Meyer."

"Scully..." he began...

"No Mulder. It's my turn to be insistent." And with a gentle shove
she convinced him to listen to her.

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

Market St. BART Station
11:45 AM

"You're not hoping to find another mutant down here are you?"

"Don't know...but I think it's your turn to catch him."

Dana Scully smiled mildly at his nostalgic answer as they rode
the escalator down from street level to the underground Market
St. station. She was not having a good day. Too little sleep and
an aggravating dull headache at the base of her head were
clouding her normally active mind into a puddle of semi-alert
mush. She blinked, trying to clear her head.

Mulder, however, had emerged that morning infuriatingly
refreshed, thrilled with the prospect of descending three floors
down into the bowels of the Bay Area Rapid Transit system.

They had received a call earlier that day from Webster,
Pirelli's supervisor. The SFPD had finally gotten in touch with
him over the weekend. It seemed he had sent Pirelli home
about 5PM the day of the quake. He had appeared to be
acting "spacy." Webster thought he might have gotten too close
to the high-voltage third rail on the track they were repairing
during a quake-related power surge. He hadn't reported to
work since.

Webster and four other men in familiar gray-blue overalls
were waiting for them as they stepped off the escalator and
walked across the orange tiled floor. To either side of the
platform ran two tunnels plunging into darkness under the
streets of San Francisco. A rushing sound accompanied by a
blast of stale air coursed through one of the tunnels.
Announcing itself with a tonal beep, the angular snake-like
strip of the commuter train emerged from its lair and
whooshed to a stop on the right hand side, spilling and
collecting humans through its sliding automatic doors.

Mulder made their introductions to Webster.

"We're waiting for one more," the tall bony man said,
shaking Mulder's hand.

"Detective Meyer?"

"No, some guy from the seismology center up north--a Nilsen,
I think."

Mulder looked surprised. "A seismologist? Why?"

"Dunno, he called me. Said they'd been analyzing some data from
the last aftershock. Wanted to come by and have a look at the
tunnel. I figured I'd save time and scheduled you both together."

"Oddly enough, we've already met him."

Webster looked confused and then turned his gaze up toward
the entrance. Mulder turned in time to see a wide-eyed
Nilsen, yellow hair unbound, running down the escalator. He
sped over to the collection of people waiting for him like a
tour group.

"Sorry I'm late...parking, you know," he said out of breath. His
eyes were bright. He nodded a quick greeting to the agents
before turning back to Webster, "Can we get into the Daily
City tunnel today?"

"That's where we're headed," the thin man replied. "Hope
you brought your flashlights."

Pausing to don flaming orange hardhats at the equipment
shed, Webster escorted the group into a security passage and
down three long flights of stairs to an emergency exit door
which opened up into the Daily City line--closed for service
and repair ever since the quake. The air was heavy and
stale, smelling of urine, rat droppings, and mold. They shuffled
along the elevated narrow concrete pedestrian walkway
by flashlight, the tiny blue and red tunnel lights serving more
for location markers than illumination.

Single-file, they made their way--Nilsen between Mulder and
Scully filling then in on the latest seismographic readings
measured by the Point Reyes Lab.

"We didn't know at first what to think," he explained excitedly.
"We thought we were picking up some kind of magnetic
interference, skewing the data. But that doozy of an aftershock
we all felt last night rang it all in. We weren't seeing anomalies
after all--we were in fact observing fresh quake readings right
here in downtown San Francisco."

"You're saying we're sitting on top of the epicenter?" Mulder asked.

"Better than that. We're walking right on top of what appears to
be a newly formed fault, jarred loose by the other quakes. It
didn't really give a good shove on its own until last night's 4.2."

"Do you know the exact location of the fault?" asked Scully.

"Not yet. I'm hoping I can detect some evidence at the sight of
the power surge these guys said they had last Tuesday during
the major quake. It could have started shifting as early as then..."

"Holy crap! Would you look at that?" They suddenly came to a
dead stop.

"Jesus almighty. How the hell are we gonna repair that?"

They stood still for a moment, Mulder raised his flashlight over
his head, trying to get a peek.

"Hold up everyone. Let's not move until we get a light on
this," ordered Webster from up ahead. Two of his men
had shouldered a flood light with them and carefully
slipping through the handrail, lowered down the light. In
a moment or two the set-up was complete. The men flipped
on the battery pack.

>From behind him, Mulder could hear Scully's gasp.

"Oh my god..."

What was left of the previous week's construction equipment
sat teetering on the edge of a gaping jagged eruptive crack
carved from the near wall in a jumble of twisted metal and
rocky debris expanding into a black zig-zagging hole that had
opened in the ground swallowing the southbound line and
ending as far as they could see at wider gash ripped into the
far tunnel wall like a narrow cavern.

"Looks like someone's been doing a little re-routing."
Mulder commented as he followed the workmen down,
bending under the handrail, and slipping down off the four-
foot ledge to the ground below. Nilsen volleyed right behind
picking his way carefully toward the chasm. Mulder stopped
a moment turning to his partner.

"Coming down, Scully?" She looked undecided. Exploring the
raw edge of a giant gash in the earth wasn't very high on her list.
He held a hand up to her, beckoning.

"Come on. I'll catch you."

She slipped down to her seat and swung her legs over the
edge. Taking the rail in both hands, she ducked her head
under it, and pushed off the edge into his arms. He caught
her at the waist and deposited her onto her feet with a thud.

"You putting on weight, Scully?"

She snorted at him, tugging her coat back into place.

"Keep it up Mulder, and you're going in the hole."

Panning the disrupted tracks carefully with their flashlights,
they came up and stood with the others as close as they dared to
the edge of the rift. Nilsen was picking his way along its
length through the upheavaled black rock, shining his
borrowed flashlight beam at various points gleefully.

Mulder made his way up to Webster who was standing near
the leading edge, shaking his head.

"When was the last time your men were in this area?"

"Not since Friday," the man answered, still stunned.

"I take it, it didn't look this bad last week."

"Sure as hell didn't, there was ground here."

"Was this the location Pirelli was working on when the big
quake hit?"

"More or less. He seemed okay, just a little stunned. Later we
found readings of a power surge hitting this track, which was
strange considering the breakers were all shut off. I got
worried about him then. Told him to take the day off--go get
checked out."

"You're still uncertain of the source of the surge?"

The tall man shrugged, "It could have been anything--an arc
from a neighboring line...who knows. I can show you the
computer log."

"But the high-voltage third rail that registered this surge
is electromagnetic, correct."

"Yeah, pulls the train forward via a magnetic field."

Mulder was suddenly hit with a flash of light to the face.

"Agent Mulder, you're gonna want to see this!" It was Nilsen.
He was laying prone, as close to the far edge as possible near
the widest point in the span at the far tunnel wall. He lowered
his light, aiming his beam back down into the gash, peeping his
head over the edge.

Mulder waited a few seconds for his eyes to adjust and
stepped carefully over the remaining BART tracks to just a
few feet behind him.

"Down here," Nilsen urged Mulder to slip down next to him. He
eased down onto his stomach and closing his coat against the
filthy debris, pressed toward the edge until he could just
glance over.

Nilsen's beam was descending an obscenely long drop into the
chasm. In fact, the fairly decently bright beam failed at a point
at least 500 feet down where the expanse continued unhindered
in a layer cake of black and brown dirt sediments, cracked
and ripped apart by massive forces. Mulder reached and picked
up a tiny stone, tossing it over the edge. It was several long
seconds before it tinked against solid stone.

"Cool..." was Nilsen's comment.

"What are we seeing here?" Mulder asked quietly.

Nilsen answered him in an equally hushed voice. "This
fault, according to our readings is somewhat of an exception
to the types of fractures we normally find along the San Andreas..."

"Mulder, what the hell are you doing?" Both men turned and
slunk back from the edge at her disapproving call--coming to
their feet and stepping back to a safer distance.

"You're going to get a closer look than you think," she argued,
slightly out of breath, brushing the dirt from her partner's coat.

"Abnormal in what way?" Mulder continued, ignoring her stern
look.

"This fault is what we call a Vertical Strike Slip. Its movement
is primarily upwards, rather than horizontal, resulting in
an unusually deep fracture. Most faults in this area reach a
depth of 10 miles or so. This one however, is currently estimated
at at least twice that. If the data checks out, one of the deepest
faults on record."

Mulder turned to face his partner in awe.

"Voices from the earth, Scully."

**********************************
3:00 PM

Mulder stood just inside the door to the BART maintenance
office where he was going over computerized track routing
and signal records with Webster. Looking out onto the orange
tile platform he caught sight of Scully settling back against a
support column. Her arms were folded across her waist, her
head held a little low, hugging herself for either warmth or
comfort, he wasn't sure which. In the dank glow of the
florescent lights she looked a few tones paler than her
average porcelain color. He excused himself from Webster
for a minute and made his way toward her.

"Scully, you okay?"

"What...?" she asked, lifting her eyes.

He touched her arm. "You look tired."

She rolled her eyes up at him, "I am tired Mulder, I didn't sleep
well last night--it was a little crowded in my room."

He flinched slightly at her remark. He knew she didn't appreciate
the intrusion, but he couldn't allow last night to go any other
way, she was too important to risk. But still he knew her
tight remark wasn't just a result of poor rest. Her body had
made remarkable progress in repairing itself, but a little touch
of her resilience had yet to spring back into full bloom. Although
he'd never say it aloud, he could see she was not all back
together again--a little too thin, just a little bit fragile. As much
as he dreaded to admit it, he was wearing her down--running
her all over this city. It was just too soon to expect everything
from her.

"Don't look at me like that Mulder. I'm fine," she closed her eyes
then and smiled a little.

"If that's the case, then I'll have to insist you go wait for me in
the car." He rummaged in his pocket for the keys and handed
them to her. "Just don't play the radio too loud okay?" he
quipped with a small grin.

She looked at the keys a moment and opened her mouth as if
she wanted to protest, but her wavering form was simply
too exhausted to put up a front. She sighed and took them from
him, letting herself lean slightly toward him, brushing her
shoulder against his arm briefly in appreciation before
walking carefully away.

He watched her go. Give her time. She's going to be okay, he
thought. She was back with him. It was going to be okay.

*************************
(10/11)
*************************

San Francisco Hall of Justice
8:30 PM

The task force team meeting was going fairly well. They
had assembled around 7PM to go over the finer points of the
case and plan a tactical strategy. Mulder sat in a cold plastic
scoop backed chair behind a thin folding table like the others
--inspectors and officers of the SFPD--facing the evidence board
and listening to Detective Meyer's assessments, bringing everyone
up to date.

He was explaining the connection between Pirelli's behavior and
the electrical damage observed in the bodies and at the crime
scenes in a fairly rational manner--a slightly edited version
of Mulder's perceived "wild" theory of human electromagnetism
and communion with the earth's core.

Mulder really didn't mind that much, as long as they were
together on certain end points: Namely, that the killer
possessed some kind of method for drawing and
releasing electromagnetic energy, and the fact he had a
spotless record for making his move within 40 minutes
or so of each quake. He wasn't always successful, but he
did at least make the attempt. As far as they knew, there
had been no more murders or attacks attributed to him
since Scully.

"And how is your partner?"

Mulder looked up from his folded hands.

"She's fine. She took a fall, experienced some confusion,
but she's okay. She's downstairs speaking with the coroner
right now, actually." He wondered if they had found something new
--she should have joined them by now. He fingered his phone,
but realized vainly that the morgue was in the basement.

"We've also discovered," continued Meyer, "that the killer
collects information from his victims and seems to take on
some personality quirks. These quirks may be real or perceived,
but for certain, we do know he was able to obtain secret access
codes for Embarcadero and also according to phone records, was
able to place a call from his home to an unlisted number of
the employer of one of his victims."

"Agent Mulder can you share with the rest of us the
observations you made to me earlier on the progression
of the attacks?"

Mulder swiveled to face the assemblage. "Pirelli's wearing down.
His recent attacks have fortunately been unsuccessful. His last
two targets, of which I feel my partner was one, resulted in
minimal memory loss. He has not struck again today which leads
me to suspect he harbors the impulse to kill only within a
certain time-frame of each quake. If he is not successful during
that period, he lapses back into a passive state until he
feels compelled to act again. We will most likely see him begin
to select easier targets. The elderly, or young..." His statement
was interrupted by a rattling sound hitting the windows and
the men and women in the room reached to steady their coffee
mugs. It was a relatively light one this time and gratefully
over quickly.

"I think that's our signal to get moving," said Meyer gravely and
the meeting began to break up.

Mulder stretched his back and looked at his watch, 8:45 PM. He
was getting hungry. Time to slip out of here, collect Scully, and
grab a late dinner. He stood and quickly snuck out ahead of
the officers and made his way over to reception.

"Can you ring the morgue please?" The clerk punched the
number and held the desk receiver to him.

"Hello, yes. Can I speak with Agent Scully please?"

A pause.

"Agent Dana Scully. She was meeting with the coroner."

"Can I speak to the coroner then?"

Another pause, longer.

"This is Agent Mulder, I'm looking for Agent Scully...is she still
down there?"

"She left? When?"

Mulder twisted his arm to look at his watch again. She had left
the morgue almost an hour ago. Strange. He handed the receiver
back to the clerk. Maybe she was working on a tangent.

"Are there any other forensic departments open at this hour?"

"No sir, everyone's pretty much checked out for the evening."

He left the desk and reached for his cellphone—dialing. It
rang several times. No answer.

Mulder told himself not to worry as he hurried down the flat
cold hallway back toward the meeting hall. No big deal, she
wouldn't appreciate him thundering around checking up on her.
He tried the lounge. The door was locked and the lights were off.

*She was looking pale...*

Mulder made an even sweep of the main and second floors.
It didn't take long as most of the building was shut tight and locked.

*Come on, Scully. Where are you?*

Mulder entered the front lobby and waved to get the attention of
the desk clerk engaged in a phone call. The lobby was
nearly deserted. He clerk held his hand over the phone.

"If you can wait a minute..."

"I can't wait a minute," he felt his patience beginning to give a little.

"I need to know if you saw a petite red-haired woman come
through here over the last hour or so..."

The clerk was still listening to his call..."I'm sorry can you
repeat that...?"

Mulder brought a frustrated hand down on the cradle, ending the
call abruptly.

"Hey!"

"Listen to me," his voice was slow and clear. "I'm looking for
my partner, Agent Dana Scully. She stands about *this* high,
brilliant red hair, lavender suit..."

"Agent Mulder, something wrong?" It was Det. Meyer.

Mulder turned away from the flustered clerk--his eyes fading
into a worried gray.

"Scully...she left the morgue over an hour ago."

"She what?"

"She's gone," he said simply.

Meyer knitted his brows still confused. "You mean she left?"

Mulder was suddenly struck by a thought. He padded his coat
pocket. Relief began to flood through him,

"I gave her the keys earlier--she drove us here..."

*Maybe she's just waiting in the car.*

Meyer caught his meaning and the two men hurried for the
parking garage.

*She was tired, why did you drag her back out here...*

Because sending her back to the hotel alone was not an option.

As they entered the first floor of the garage Mulder's worst
fears were realized as he scanned the few remaining cars for
the deep maroon of their sedan. He didn't see it and he was
pretty damned sure they had parked along the South wall--
occupied now by only an old forgotten pick-up.

"Are you sure you parked here?" Meyer asked, out of breath.

Mulder nodded gravely.

"Would she have gone back to your hotel?"

"Not without telling me. She wouldn't do that."

*She was wearing down, just like Pirelli, just like that bastard...
Why the hell didn't you see that?*

His thoughts must have been reading clearly on his face because
the older man gave him a questioning frown.

"You think it's Pirelli? How...how the hell could Pirelli have
possibly found her here?"

"I have very good reason to believe he had means of tracking
her."

Out of frustration, he hit is auto-dial for her cellular again.
It rang five, six, times. Mulder was pacing now, staring at
the concrete ceiling feeling the pulse rising in his chest. He
pulled the phone from his ear with a rough sigh and was
about to beep off when the phone picked up and issued an all
too familiar shattering screech.

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

SFPD Special Teams Garage
9:13 PM

Mulder sat in the back of an unmarked SFPD surveillance van
staring down at the softly chattering cell phone held gingerly in
his palm. Silently he urged it on, to continue its rattling wail--the
last tenuous connection he had, the only hope they had of
locating her with any accuracy or speed.

*don't hang up...just don't hang up...*

"I'll show you what we've got here..." His internal mantra
was interrupted by the SFPD electrical technician who sat behind
the equipment desk finishing the final start-up of the
CellScope 2000 cellular tracking unit.

Carefully shifting the phone to his right hand, Mulder released
a deep breath and leaned in to view the monitors. He didn't
know what terrified him more--finding her dead or finding her
gone, the slate of the past five years wiped clean from her mind.

"This is the very latest in cellular monitoring technology,"
the technician said, pointing to the custom CPU and duel
monitor system. "We've got an antenna on the hood of the van
that feeds into the CellScope. The computer basically works as a
radio receiver, honing in on cell calls like a radio tuning to a
station. The signal is then analyzed by the directional
navigator which gives us a display indicating direction of the
call and distance," he said, pointing to a multicolored digital
readout on the screen. "Green for left, red for right, and blue
for straight ahead."

"Now the hard part's over...we know the cellphone number to
scan for," he said, punching the keyboard. The system readout
the number and the speakers began to blip through cell calls as
the scanner searched like a dial on a radio for the number. It
found the characteristic shriek very quickly. The technician
raised his brows eyeing the readout—"We've got it and it looks
like it's not too far away...let's try south on Mason," he called to
the driver and the van began to roll forward.

Mulder glanced down at his watch again. Time was passing at
an alarming speed—already 28 minutes since the aftershock. He
ran a hand through his hair.

"If she's near the other end of that line--we'll find her," offered
Det. Meyer who occupied the seat opposite. "We've run
down hundreds of drug dealers, foreign call racketeers, hackers,
you name it with this thing. I know...this means a lot to you."

Mulder gave him a grave nod.

*You have no idea...*

The van pulled from the station garage and started down
Mason. After five or six blocks the signal began to fade and
they stopped and doubled back a block or two before picking
up an indication to turn left.

They continued this zig-zag chase for several minutes,
pulling forward, then doubling back and turning, or sometimes
just cruising straight ahead to keep moving closer to the call.
While they waited at a light, the technician pulled out a small
device from a black case under the desk. He held it out to Mulder.

"What's this?"

"It's a pocket model of the CellScope. The wall unit is only
accurate for about a two block radius. Once we pin-point the
right area, you'll need to hop out and finish the search with this."
He flipped the power on and punched in a series of keys on
the surface pad before passing it to him. "Here on the top are
your LED display lights. They indicate direction, same as the
main unit, except here you follow the panning lights and this
readout just below gives distance in meters."

The van lurched ahead again and made a right. "We're getting
close..." noted the technician turning back to the monitors.
"Very close, make a left on Bay." They drove forward
slowly watching any indication of signal fade, lest they drive
right past it. "Keep forward..." the van drove up Bay St. to where
it narrowed to a one-way dead end in front of the San
Francisco Palace of Fine Arts. The tech pulled on his lower
lip, thinking, his eyes darting back and forth across the screen.
"Okay, okay," he said aiming his pointer finger at the screen.
"I think you'd better take to the street now. We're very close
and you'll save time on foot."

**********************
(11/11)
*************************

9:25 PM

The fog hung low and thick over the Palace of Fine Arts where it
had poured in past the Golden Gate Bridge just three miles
offshore. Visibility was slight, not more than a dozen yards or so
in any direction. The Palace of Fine Arts covered three acres of
what was once the 1915 Panama-Pacific International Exposition.
Its architect had envisioned a Romanesque ruin, mutilated
and overgrown with time. A combined Greek and roman construction,
its four-story-high rust-toned concrete Corinthian colonnade and
massive rotunda all reflected in the waters of a shallow lagoon
running the length of the complex.

Tonight the column capitals and stone lachrymose figures stood
solid and cold swathed in white air, the rotunda's massive
patina dome just visible above the fog bank, the waters of the
lagoon dull and flat in the stiff air. The men gathered at the
curbside and in coordination with five other patrolcars, split up
to cover the area. Mulder, Meyer, and two patrolmen entered
the complex from the grassy hillside at the southern-most end of
the park, following the LED indicator lights into the wide span
of trees and foliage that rimmed the lagoon.

Mulder held the pocket scope in his hand and lead the party
forward into the moist air. The signal was strong, not more than
450 meters from the source which appeared to be emanating
from the densest patch of greenery just east of the edge of
the lagoon. His cell phone in his trench inside pocket still
scrambled and chirped, urging them forward. Elsewhere there
was very little sound. It was as if they were surrounded by
packing foam, insulating and isolating. Their footfalls were dull
and fell where they stepped in the damp grass failing to travel
any distance. Although it kept them quiet, it also kept anyone
else in the park seethed in silence as well.

"Hold up, I think we're turning." Mulder panned the scanner
back and forth through the air in front of him trying to get a fix
on the direction. Ahead of them was a grove of plum
trees surrounded by a low circular hedge. The LED readout
indicated the general location of the shrubbery. Meyer and
Mulder exchanged a look and the four of them spilt into teams
of two each taking the opposite direction around the grove.
Mulder and a patrolman took the lagoon side and headed around
the solid line of manicured bushes, vainly peering into the
swirling air for a shadow of movement within the grove. The
tree leaves hung like wet black rags from the heavy tangle
of branches. They cleared one quarter of the circumference
before the scanner began to rotate to the right.

Mulder shifted the scanner to his left hand and pulled his gun,
the patrolman followed suit. "It's in the center," he whispered
and catching the man's eyes, mouthed to go on three,...one...two...

On three they crashed through the hedge and divided into the
grove aiming weapons behind tree trunks, through branches and
into dark corners zeroing in on what soon proved to be a very
dark, very empty grove.

*Damn...*

Mulder looked back to the scanner. It read five meters to the
left. Mulder pocketed it and pulled his flashlight. Panning left
he illuminated the crumpled folds of a dark coat lying flat in
the undergrowth beneath the plums.

"Hey, you find anything?" It was Meyer and the other men
pushing and cracking their way into the ring. Mulder bent down
and lifted the lapel of Scully's empty black coat and pulled
her cellphone from the inside pocket.

"Hers?" asked Meyer.

Mulder scrubbed his chin with the back of his hand, and looked up
at him, his eyes deepening to a dark cold gray.

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

They pulled back out of the grove and onto the rolling grass
slope. Mulder slipped the dead phone into his pocket. "We'll need
to split up--cover the complex from all sides."

Meyer and the two patrolmen took forward, left, and back.
Mulder went right...the direction he felt drawn to take. Weapon
in hand, he headed away from the others down toward the
cement lagoon path, a low green park bench sprang into his
flashlight beam just in time for him to avoid catching a leg on it.
He flicked the flashlight off. It was only contributing to the opacity
of the fog blanket. He blinked once or twice to let his vision
readjust. Now in the darkness, he could see the muffled drape
of trees and the thin cold line of the water just slightly
illuminated by the half moon. There was a dulled rushing sound
of the lagoon fountain as he drew closer and the lazy cluck of
sleepy ducks drifting in the algae-scented water. He reached
the cement and began to walk quickly and silently to the
north around the lagoon.

*..I just got her back...*

The inside of his mind was dividing itself into two different
tracks. The one more dominant controlled the grip on his gun,
the stealth of his steps, the scan of his eyes and sensitivity of
his hearing--checking and rechecking input, gathering any and
all external stimulus--the movement of the air, the muffled echoes
in the fog, a rustle in the bushes, and the shifting wafts of
miniature shadows gray against white. While quite against his will,
a second seeping whisper lapped at his concentration like deep
blue flame, feeding and fueling his primary focus, snapping
each nerve to full alert. It spoke to him in little verses
of consciousness...remembrances, beliefs, truths that kept
themselves buried below his frame of recognition waiting to
slowly bleed forth whenever the fear cut into him.

*...nature is woefully indifferent to whether we live or die...*

He believed it was true, or else how could anything with a flicker
of sentience pull her away from him again--to give and to take
so carelessly. To test him like this over and over in a myriad
of trials--some quick and hard, some slow and terrible.

He kept his pace, strong and even--his eyes vigilantly darting
back and forth across the path and back to the water, trying to
catch the finest variation in the natural background.

*...something we have no personal choice in...*

What sick fuck could devise a disease so insidious that he would
be forced to watch her shrink before his eyes growing
smaller everyday, her brightness dimmed and fading into
the crumpled sheets of a hospital bed. Driving him to fight like
hell against the hourglass to gather all the answers--to search, to
run, to kill.

But was it this same hand that devised a way to save her, to
bring her back changed but new and warm with renewed spirit
so bright it sometimes blinded him? And then just as soon as
the sweet respite served to build him up again, to let the wounds
just knit, it cut her away again to lay forth a new task, a new
tangled knot--leaving him to pray to whoever would listen that
he could unravel the cords in time to catch her.

*...what happens when I run out of time...*

His pace had briskly drawn him up alongside the lagoon's
north island--dark and choked with foliage. The path curved to
the left around it and began to turn towards the north end of
the hulking stone colonnade. Just as he passed the edge of the
island, his hearing detected the ever so muffled sound of a voice.
A single syllable straight ahead just across the water, smoothed
and buffed by fog, lighter than air--a note he knew, could hone
in on clearly in a room choked with voices without question.

*...she's here...she's close...*

He picked up into a light run and cleared the island, following
the snaking path to the west flanked by Monterey cypress. He
passed the chainlink fence that bordered the parking lot and came
to rest up against the first of a cluster of six foot thick columns
that held up the towering semi-circular Grecian colonnade.
Mulder pinned his back to the cold wet stone and holding his
weapon tight against him, lunged left drawing his arms out
straight targeting the barrel into the complex from left to right,
his aim coming to rest on nothing. His ears had betrayed him.
The dislocation of the sodden air, disrupting the path of her
single note.

His breath was issuing from his lips in billowing pants. Quick
and tight, the moisture from his lungs collecting on his brow
and layering his hair flat against his forehead. He glanced at
his watch again--49 minutes. His pulse was hammering in his
chest faster than he'd like it to be.

*...I need more time...*

His secondary consciousness was falling back on the simplest
of tactics--a plea. A plea to whoever controlled this twisted
and contrived world to at least grant him some space to
maneuver through this. How many errors was he allowed?
How many missteps? Who thought to half blindfold him in this
thick blank air and leave him to fumble with echoes and false
clues? It wasn't fair, it wasn't right.

*...you need to give me more time...*

He stepped into the open air path running between the line
of columns on the left and the curved stone walls of the
museum building to the right. High above, weeping ladies bent
in sorrow lay their weary heads on the column capitals
casting melancholy moonlit shadows across his path. He was
passing them by, approaching the mammoth rotunda, were it
stood cold and indifferent, dwarfing the colonnade--nearly double
its height in size. Mulder moved forward onto the grass,
his insignificant silhouette held in blank regard by the
Greek maidens that circled the rectangular bases of the colonnade
--holding together a wreath of laurel arm to arm forever frozen
in stone relief.

He heard a noise. Scattered at first, but now growing stronger as
he jogged silently forward trying to clear the last stone base and
slip through the central columns into one of the six arched
entrances of the rotunda. It was the shuffling of shoes on gravel
on cement rising into the air amplified and bouncing in echo off
the dome's interior. Mulder cut over the dewy grass to the
nearest arch flanked by two 20 foot Grecian urns set
upon rectangular base walls carved with visages of Greek
soldiers strained in battle. He lay back flat against the
nearest entrance wall and eased himself toward the edge,
following the eyes of the soldiers. Carefully without sound
or breath he peered around the edge.

He saw them.

In the pale curtain of moonlight that draped itself from the apex
of the arch to the center of the floor. Pirelli had her in his grasp.
He was holding her by the shoulders up against the corner of a
wall at the inside edge of the archway just across from him.
Mulder stilled his mind entirely, and aiming his weapon carefully
for Pirelli's head, crept silently toward them from behind.

Scully's eyes were open staring straight ahead at the stocky man,
her lips slightly parted. She seemed loose in his powerful hands,
as if she would fall if he didn't hold her upright. Mulder forced
his breath to stay even and slow as he circled to the right for a
clean shot. He was almost in position when Pirelli released his
hold of her arms and brought his hands down in a tight grip
around her throat.

"Let her go!"

Mulder's cavernous shout didn't make the man even flinch.
Mulder stepped closer, both hands gripping his gun, steadying
his aim, raising it to Pirelli's right temple--another few feet and
he'd have the shot.

There was a sound like popping static and the air around the
man and his captive began to hiss with the acrid smell of
ozone. Scully's eyes began to roll heavenward.

"Let her go, or I'll fucking shoot you!"

Her head snapped back violently and Mulder fired...once...twice
into the right side of Pirelli's head blowing a red spattered mixture
of flesh and gray matter across the gothic stone relief. The
stocky man slumped forward knocking Scully to the ground
under him.

In a second Mulder was on him pulling him off of her and
turning him over, throwing him flat on his back to the ground,
his hands on his neck.

And then it began.

As the blood coursed from the gaping wound in Pirelli's head,
Mulder could feel an uneasy sensation beginning in his fingers
where they were gripped to the man's flesh. The sensation grew
and spread rapidly, intensifying, radiating up his arms and across
his chest, down his back and legs. It froze him to the spot unable
to move and then it came...suddenly...

oh god...it was incredible...it was...

...images...thoughts...sensations...

...it was...

...what that man had just seconds ago stolen escaping through
him, into him, alighting within his very nerves, cells, blood...

...it was her...

What she saw, what she felt...scattered events over the last few
days coursing into him. She was inside him...he felt the warmth
of her skin, the blink of her eyes, the rise and fall of her chest,
the steady pulse of her heart, the movement of her body...the
playful brush of her hair across her face...her lips holding back
a laugh, a sigh, relaxing into a hidden smile...her small body
nestled in warm linen...her eyes closing blissfully into sleep...

Mulder felt his grip tighten madly around the man's throat
he wanted it, all of it, none of it would be allowed to escape him.

He saw how she looked up at the fog as it rolled over the red
towers of the Golden Gate Bridge. He saw her watching the
sailboats flitting across the bay. He saw how she peered into the
dark gash under the city streets. He saw her looking out her
hotel window to the beckoning bell tower of St. Francis of Assisi...
 And then he saw himself as she crossed the street to meet him
in front of the cafe. He saw himself smiling up at her as she took
the seat next to him. He saw himself bending close to her to speak
of things he only trusted her ears to hear. He saw himself stand
and move to her at the rooftop and the color his eyes took as
they met hers...and the gentle way she leaned into him wishing
him goodnight before tuning away and closing the door.

But more than that, he knew her thoughts, the way she felt when
she had experienced these little things. Why her spirit lifted
when she looked up into his eyes and followed the sound of
his voice...into an elevator, the car, a darkened hall, a muddy
hillside, up a decaying stairwell, or along the city sidewalks--
a sweeter brighter reinvention of those hundreds of little
moments they shared together every day...

And then he saw something he had not shared with her,
something he had not seen until now.

*If I can save you Mulder, let me...*

He saw her moving from her bed in the darkness, moving silently
to look down at him asleep in the hotel room chair. He saw her
eyes focusing on his face in the half-light. Just watching...breathing
so softly to not awaken him. He felt her emotion welling within
her and incredibly sensed her need to touch him, to bring him
close to her, to press her lips against his face, his mouth, to
entwine her delicate fingers in his hair, to tell him all the things
she feared for him, wished for him, to tenderly soothe him with
her sweet caresses...

And then as quickly as it had come--
the sensations began to fade...

...no...

She was leaving him, her electric pulse was dying and his
own familiar rhythms were returning one by one. He begged for it
to remain even as his vice-like grip released from the dead
man, falling away.

He gasped, pulling air into his lungs...he had been holding his
breath. He sank to the ground with a groan, exhausted--sucking
air in his lungs in great labored gasps.

She was lying near him, her face to the ground. He blinked,
how many seconds had passed? He struggled over to her and
gently turned her onto her back, stroking her hair from her
face, brushing the dust from her cheek with a tremulous hand.
Her eyes fluttered open, liquid blue, staring up into his.

"Mulder..." she uttered faintly as they lay on the ground under
the Palace dome side by side. "Mulder, where are we?"

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

MON: 11:45 AM

Mulder sighed and opened his eyes. The memories he had
been replaying in his mind, her memories, were growing ever
fainter with each rerun--becoming less and less her and
more tainted through his own inevitable embellishments. He
couldn't help but slowly kill them from his efforts to own them
to him. His mind was not her mind and his perceptions
would eventually unintentionally falsify them. Were they all
now just fragmented images of truth cut up and reassembled
by what he wished she had believed?

His recollections were becoming the memory of her memory. She
was leaving him, the events of the last few days were now just
lost electrons rejoining the fabric of space. An assortment
of experiences as lost to her as they were to him. With her
unaware, he silently mourned their passing. He could not
bring himself to tell her--he just simply couldn't find the
words to describe it.

The meaning of her memories, however, were not lost to him. He
had come to many understandings in the span of a few
breaths under the Palace arches the night before. He was
expressly grateful for them, in awe of them, and at the same
time frightened by their significance. How often had she longed
to reach out to him? How often as a friend, or partner, or
whatever word could describe what they were to one another,
had she given herself pause? Why did she hold back? She had
shown him the answer--her fear of undoing him.

He turned to her now asleep in the window seat next to him
and glanced down at the pale curve of her face turned toward
him. The plane was taking them home from the trembling
Pacific coast to firmer ground. He reached out and delicately
laid his hand over hers where it was lying limp against her
thigh, tracing her open palm with his thumb.

*It's too late to save me from you, Scully. Much too late.*

When had it begun? he wondered. Was it when he first saw her
lying prone in that hospital bed strapped to a network of
machines, her eyes taped shut. Or was it earlier when she
first tentatively spoke his name and he quickly silenced her in
a futile attempt to create some brand of ineffectual detachment?
No, it was earlier than that, it began when she began. When
she invaded his private basement with her confident handshake
and charmed smile. He knew somehow right then that nothing
was ever going to be the same for him. It had all changed
suddenly in the instant his eyes fell on hers. Fate. Inescapable
as death and life. She had become his life, all the rest was a
mere charade of tales and battles they were destined to play out.

She stirred in her sleep, and perhaps in response to his faint
touch, moved and let her body relax against him, her temple
coming to rest against his arm. He dipped his chin and let his
nose and lips fall against the crown of her head, feeling at peace
with knowing that, since it began, all he ever wanted was to love
her as he knew now without doubt, she loved him. As separate
as they were one.

"Just stay with me, Scully," he whispered into her hair so softly
his breath barely moved a strand. "Don't ever give up on me."
His eyes closed and her hand moved to fold into his.

(END 11/11)

*****************************************************
FEEDBACK: Four months of my life here folks...was it worth it?

It'll be worth it if you just let me know you read it. Actually
made it through alive. This was a killer to write and I plan on
just turning out SMUT for a while. But do let me know if you
feel another X-File opus from me might be worth another
four months of butt-numbing labor in front of the computer!
Terma99@aol.com.