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

Chapter Five: Duet

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

Davies Symphony Hall
3:30 PM
 

Mulder and Scully had fashioned a makeshift office between
Terrace rows F and G, seats 18-20, as they sifted through the
digital camera's printouts of the inscribed cell walls. Down
below on the stage, the San Francisco Symphony was
rehearsing the second movement of the Mendelssohn,
refining itself to Joshua's interpretation. Dillmont had found
a way to get himself called onto another case for the
remainder of the afternoon.

"I'm going to deaccelerando eight bars before letter C, right
before the key change. I want to milk that phrase just a little
more."

Mulder could hear Joshua's voice expanding and echoing in
the Hall's precision acoustics, followed by his violin.

The conductor tapped his stand. "Let's take that
again...everyone, ten before C."

On his lap, Mulder was sorting digital prints, separating out
the words written by the repeating phantom hand. It wasn't
easy as the seat next to him flipped up, scattering a sorted
stack to the floor between the bolted rows of chairs. He bit
his lip to keep the obscenity he wanted to exude from
echoing off the first balcony overhead.

"Mulder..." Scully leaned in from the row behind, whispering
to him under the pianissimo pulse of the orchestra. "Can't
this wait until later?"

Mulder looked up from where he had knelt down between
the rows, picking up photos. "I want to decipher this message
as soon as possible before our violinist becomes the artist
formerly known as Joshua Segulyev."

"Do you believe deciphering the message will end the
attacks?"

"Right now it's the best lead we have. I'm certain now these
common phrases all point to the writings of a single slender
individual."

"But Mulder, you saw the surveillance tapes of the lock-up.
No one but the block guard entered or exited that section
last night. Harris was incarcerated. He had to have written all
this himself."

Mulder set the disorganized pile back on the cushion,
pressing it down and wedging in his laptop to hold it in place.
Brushing off his pant leg, he climbed over a row, taking the
seat next to his partner so they could communicate more
clearly.

"Last night at dinner, Joshua told me that he'd been somehow
expecting to see the Thin Man, like he had come to him as an
omen."

"Joshua believes that now?" she said, questioningly.

Mulder gave her a straight look. "Yes, he does."

Scully looked down at the paperwork in her lap, refusing to
make an issue of it. "Well then, maybe you both should
consider the psychological profile I just finished reviewing on
Alice Schmidt. She's been diagnosed as a borderline paranoid
schizophrenic given to delusions and high suggestibility. She,
too, had a strong ambiguous reaction to the police sketch we
faxed over last night."

Mulder closed his eyes and stretched his neck back, taking a
moment to collect himself. "I'm sorry, Scully; I didn't get
much sleep last night."

She blinked in acceptance of his apology for being snappy
this early evening and passed the report over to him. He
glanced at it and set it aside. He rubbed his eyes, too tired to
read it. "So where does this leave us?"

"It leaves us with two suspects who have highly unstable
psychological profiles. My guess is that they've encountered
this Thin Man, as you call him, and he was able to intimidate
them to the point where they believe they still see him."

Mulder crossed his arms and tried to get more comfortable
in the small plush seat. "That doesn't explain Joshua's
sighting."

"No," she admitted. "Not entirely, but he is under a great deal
of stress."

"Are you suggesting he's met this man before?"

"It's possible. If this man is skilled in hypnosis or other
suggestive techniques, he could be planting thoughts and
images in these people, including Joshua."

"But Joshua's the one being threatened. If our masterminding
suspect was able to get close enough to hypnotize him, then
why didn't he just make good on his promises and..." Mulder
made a trigger-pulling move with his hand.

"Perhaps killing Joshua isn't his final goal? Have any of the
repeated phrases actually mentioned death? The words of
violence, as confusedly as they've been spelled out, have
been from the hands of Schmidt and Harris, who incidentally
both attacked Joshua in a violent manner that was particular
to them. The Thin Man, if he even exists, may only be trying
to scare Joshua into hearing his message."

Mulder gave that some serious thought. Whoever was
influencing these people, he was getting better and faster
results. "Which makes clarifying the message even more
important," he said to her, reaching forward and picking up a
photo he'd missed under the adjoining row. He flipped it
around, thinking. Something caught his eye in a flow of
markings he had previously taken for scribble.

"Scully...look at this. Does that look like Cyrillic to you?"

Scully took the photo from him, shifting it around. "I don't
know, my Russian is pretty spotty. Do we have a translator in
San Francisco?"

"Yeah, but I think he's busy with a concerto right now."
 

***********************************
 
Guest Artist's Greenroom
4:00 PM

"I'm sorry; I may look Russian, but I never learned to read or
write it," Joshua said, handing the printout back to Scully. He
was off for the rest of the day while the orchestra rehearsed
the remainder of their program. "It might be Cyrillic, but
aside from a few general terms of endearment and profanity,
I never heard my grandfather speak Russian. He was very
'Anastasia' about that--he wanted to forget everything about
his homeland."

"Your mother lives in San Francisco. Do you think she might
be able to help us?" Scully asked.

Joshua felt the pull of guilt in his gut. "She might, but right
now she doesn't even know I'm in town. I'd like to keep it
that way for a few more days if possible. And I'd really prefer
that she didn't find out about these letters at all. I can call
Nanette. She speaks a little Russian, I think."

Mulder looked puzzled. "I thought your manager was
French?"

Joshua sat down in his dressing chair, draping his arm along
the back to ease the ache in his left side. "She is. She was
born there, but she was raised in Chutove, the same
Ukrainian village my grandfather came from. I think their
parents knew one another or something. She's taken care of
me for years."

"When did Nanette begin to work for you?" Scully asked.

"When I was about seventeen, after we moved to San
Francisco. My grandfather arranged for her to come live with
us."

"That must have been difficult, considering the communist
state of the Ukraine during the early '80s," Scully
commented.

"I suppose so. My grandfather was always tight-lipped about
any dealings he still had with Soviet Russia--he detested the
entire revolution, collectivization in particular. He just
wanted to come to America, start a new farm, and forget. He
had to leave my grandmother behind when he defected, you
know."

"Was this the same farmland your mother inherited?" Mulder
asked.

"Yes. When she married, my grandfather gave over the deed
to her and her new husband as a wedding present. He'd done
well with it in the almost thirty years he worked it, and saved
enough money to retire to Philadelphia. I can't say the same
for my father, though. The land was virtually worthless and
my mother penniless when he passed away. That's why she's
living in our old Divisadero home now. Nanette sees that a
portion of my income goes to her each month. She's well
cared for even if she doesn't quite appreciate it."

"We'd like you to ask Nanette to look at these photos
tomorrow morning and see if she can translate any of it,"
Mulder said, dragging a couple chairs from the dressing
table. He took a seat across from Joshua and offered the
empty chair to Scully. She took it, and sitting, filed the cell
photo away in her bag.

"We interviewed Harris today," Mulder continued. "He
reacted very strongly to the sketch of the Thin Man. I think
he's seen him before and was compelled by him to continue
the message writing. I haven't had an opportunity to piece
the entire message together, but in all, it seems to be a
mixture: random hateful babblings in Harris' handwriting;
some legible phrases written in the familiar second hand; and
now something that looks like a few lines of Cyrillic."

"Does the message say anything meaningful yet?" Joshua
asked, with apprehension. A part of him wanted to
understand what this thin man was asking of him, while
another part didn't want to even think about it.

"From what I can tell, the core message seems to reflect a
discovery, an end to a search. 'We have found you...you are
the one...' You seem to represent a significant end to a
quest."

"But why me? I don't understand what it is I'm supposed to
represent."

Mulder glanced briefly at his partner before he continued.
"Are you familiar with the Tales of Baba Yaga?"

Joshua could see Scully's tension rising at the mention of the
fairytale. He wondered why her partner's methods continued
to come as such an unwelcome element to her. He turned
back to Mulder. "Yes, my grandfather used to read them to
me. The witch is the most well-known of the old Russian
fables."

"Can you recall one involving a legend about a ten-thousand-
year-old man?"

Joshua felt an unexpected chill run up his spine. He could
recall an illustration from the book his grandfather used to
read to him, a watercolor drawing of an emaciated old man
with long gray hair and a beard. "Uh, the witch has the man
locked in her hut for years, until a young prince comes by
and finds him chained in a closet. The...old man tells the
prince if he'll set him free, he'll give him a magical map to
find a...I'm forgetting...a golden shield, or something like
that. He lets the man go and the prince leaves on his quest
which takes years and years--so long, that when he succeeds
and returns, everyone he knew from his youth is dead and he
has aged beyond recognition and lost his kingdom." He
looked at Mulder, questioning the connection.

"That's the one," the agent said with an odd grin. "I can
understand the old man's wish to be released from bondage,
but what doesn't make sense, according to what I learned at
BSU, are his motives for cursing the prince for freeing him."

Scully appeared to reach her capacity for entertaining
Mulder's tactics and interceded. "What I believe my partner
is trying to say, is thus far we've only been able to establish
method. Harris has a history of assault with sharp
instruments, and Schmidt has a history of domestic
terrorism. They acted out their aggressive compulsions in
like manner. What we can't establish with either of these
suspects is motive."

"You mean why they would want to attack me?"

"Yes," Scully continued. "Or how they would even gain
awareness of you--your rehearsal schedule, or private
address, for example. Ten-thousand-year-old-men aside,
what we're seeking is someone with a tangible grievance
against you...and one area we've been looking into is the
death of your ex-fiance."

Joshua couldn't hide his uneasiness at this admission. Scully
continued, in a careful tone. "I contacted Elise's stepfather
today. I told him we were investigating a series of threats
against you. He wasn't very cooperative, but I did manage to
establish the fact he and his wife were upset you hadn't
attended the funeral. They claim to have sent several letters
to you, none of which were received, apparently."

"What?" Joshua opened his mouth in shock. Why hadn't he
received them? No wonder they weren't returning his calls.
He thought it over; there was only one reasonable
explanation.

"Nanette," he said, setting his forehead in his hand. "She
must have felt she was protecting me." He held the thought
for a few moments before he looked up at the agents again.
"I think it's about time I spoke with her, about more than just
her Russian."
 

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

Marina Flat
8:00 PM

When Mulder parked outside the Marina flat, he was
surprised to find Joshua and Dillmont at the front walk,
awaiting the musician's private car. Joshua had his tux and
long coat on, the Stradi case tucked under his arm. Dillmont
had made an appearance after their talk with Joshua at
Davies so Mulder could head back to the hotel for a nap and
a bite to eat before his shift. His mood had improved
considerably, despite his growing irritation at Scully for
making him feel he needed permission to conduct this case
according to his own instincts.

Joshua at least seemed pleased to see him. "Mulder! Just in
time. You get a free concert tonight," he said, nodding his
quick good-bye to the other agent, who looked very relieved
as Mulder came up onto the curb to take his place. "Not that
I wouldn't have taken Agent Dillmont, but he's not half the
classical aficionado you are."

Mulder nodded his incredulous thanks. He was mildly
flattered. He had just barely begun to know anything about
the subject. "I didn't know you had to play tonight."

"Neither did I. I just got the call. Thank God--there's the car.
We need to get out to Berkeley in twenty minutes." Joshua
seemed genuinely excited as he rotated his wrist to check the
time.

The car pulled up half onto the curb and the driver stepped
out to open the back door for the two men.

"I'm going to get spoiled by all this chauffeuring and
catering," Mulder told him as the doors were shut and the
car pulled quickly out onto Jefferson.

"Not quite the same treatment you get as a government
employee, I assume?"

"Not even close, but we do get all government holidays off.
Even if I don't take them, ever. What will I be forced to listen
to tonight?" he asked with a mock sigh.

Joshua set the case down at his feet and shifted his coat off
his shoulders. "Do you like Bach?"

Mulder's interest piqued. "I do. In fact I'm well acquainted
with him. My mother had a vast collection on vinyl. I'm quite
fond of the Brandenburg Concertos."

"Good. I think the chamber orchestra is playing one after my
set. We'll stay and listen if you like."

"What are you playing?"

"Bach Concerto for Violin and Oboe. Will called me in a fit
about twenty minutes ago. His violinist is stuck behind a
chemical spill on the Nimitz freeway just outside of San
Jose."

"Will?"

"William Bennet, SF Symphony principal oboist. They do
small chamber concerts six times a year at St. John's
Presbyterian in Berkeley. He's just amazing; wait until you
hear his tone--phenomenal. Beats the hell out of Heinz
Holliger, but don't tell any Swedes I said that," he said with a
laugh; then he suddenly went silent as if arrested by a
thought.

"Ah...shit. Driver, can I use your phone?" The driver reached
back, handing a cellphone to Joshua.

"What's wrong?" Mulder asked.

The musician smiled, shaking his head. "I forgot to ask what
key we're playing in tonight."

"What key?"

Joshua nodded, smirking a bit to himself then frowning
briefly when the phone message service picked up and he
beeped off the phone. "Damn, they must already be in the
green room. Yes--you see, the Bach Oboe and Violin Concerto
wasn't originally written for Violin or Oboe; it's a
transcription from clavier. Sometimes people read the D
Minor version, which is pitched easier for the oboe--others,
the C Minor," he explained, thanking the driver and returning
his phone. "I can play both from memory, but I really hope
it's in C Minor. It's my favorite key; it breaks the heart. I
think you'll like it," he said with a smile.
 

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

St. John's Presbyterian Church
Berkeley
8:50 PM

Turn-of-the-century Gothic architecture was made for more
than worshipping a deity, Mulder discovered, gazing up at
the high arched alcoves and stained glass windows that
bounced and projected the melodies of the chamber
orchestra. Each note resounded in the high space, from the
tiny cling of the harpsichord, to the deep groan of the cellos
and basses, all seated closely together on the raised steps
before the altar as they played the concerto's opening
Allegro. Joshua and the yellow-haired oboist, William, stood
in the front sans music, passing the counterpoint back and
forth as the movement wound down into the final bars.

He could get used to a life like this--traveling the world from
metropolis to capital, rushing off to a church while his ward
took on an unexpected chamber gig. Moreover, it was
pleasant to have an excuse to just sit back and listen to the
classics for the sake of enjoyment--not just during an
elevator ride or a frustrating turn on hold. He didn't even
mind the cold wooden pew under his ass, or the fact he had
to sit sideways to cross his legs. For the first time in his life,
Mulder was enjoying sitting quietly in a church.

In the silent pause that occurred between movements, the
oboist took a quick sip of water while Joshua let the Stradi
hang at his side for a brief arm stretch before tucking the
instrument back under his chin. The oboist sucked the
double reed once or twice and their eyes clicked. With a
barely perceptible nod, William began the Adagio and the
orchestra followed in the next breath.

In his mind's eye, Mulder began to see the notes forming an
image of two young lovers. The raindrop pizzicato of the
cellos metered the love poem, sung through the long
plaintive cries of the oboe reaching toward its higher
register; while Joshua's patient bowing led and nurtured the
young maiden into his embrace, seducing her, making her
sing only for him.

Joshua held his instrument so delicately, it was a miracle it
didn't slip from his fingers as it wove itself around the slurs
and vibrato of the reeded woodwind. Mr. Bennet held under
ten fingers a cluster of glinting keys that exuded the most
sublimely penetrating tones from such a small core of wood.
The control these men had over their inanimate extensions
was unbelievable--they became the instrument.

Mulder soon found he could no longer look at the musicians'
faces as they played this Adagio without feeling a unusual
ache painfully filling his throat. The soul of every note played
freely across their eyes as they fell open or slightly closed
without shame. He could not imagine what it was like to
know an art so thoroughly one could simply fall in step with
another musician of comparable skill and together create a
sound so pure and effortless. Did these men know one
another, or was he bearing witness to the briefest of
marriages, captured between the bars and measures of
sustained whole notes and half rests under the echoing
arches of a decades-old church?

He envied them--their ability to communicate intimately in a
form so timeless and readily accepted and shared with the
opened ears of the audience that filled the pews. He felt
himself pulled so close into it he could barely breathe...and
at all costs doing everything he could to hide it.

The Adagio was winding down, crawling ever more slowly as
the two instruments struck longer and stronger sustained
chords together. Then the oboe rose and gave one final
statement of exaltation alone before the chamber group sang
one last note along in chorus and all fell silent together.

Mulder held his breath through the brief pause until the
frolic of the final Allegro got underway. He swallowed his
emotion and took the respite to let his heart catch up on the
oxygen it needed to keep beating. Joy and celebration in
Bach he could take; it was the simple beauty of the slow solo
voices that tore at him. He opened the small program he still
held in his hand. It had been ages since anything had moved
him that unexpectedly.

The Concerto was in C Minor.
 
 

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

Marina Flat
1:00 AM
Friday

Mulder stood at the window looking down at Marina Blvd.,
running along the Bay Shore. He could see his reflection in
the glass. His face looked aged to him--like somehow years of
his life had flown by in a moment and now here he was older,
quieter, standing in a strange apartment well after midnight,
with the minutes ticking by so slowly he could feel the long
silences between the seconds.

Joshua was showering before bed, and Mulder found himself
wishing the night would fade and the sun would rise so he
could leave, and go back to his empty hotel room where he
could feel numb, neutral. The silence disturbed him and he
found himself eyeing Joshua's CD Rack and stereo to his left.
He'd been invited to make himself at home many times, so
why not now? There were still echoes of emotion in him that
had been called up by the music he'd heard tonight. He
wanted to find something to make the seconds tick past
faster--something that would help distract him from the
uneasiness he was feeling.

Vivaldi Guitar Solos. They seemed as good as any. He slid the
disc in and hit play. The clean pluck and strum of a single
acoustic guitar with string accompaniment dropped lightly
into the room as Mulder heard the shower shut off. They'd
been out late. Joshua had met up with him at intermission
and they stayed for the Brandenburg. It was nice; it felt
friendly. Mulder was pleased Joshua would make the time for
him, to just sit and listen to Bach together.

Afterwards, they joined a few orchestra members at a
Berkeley late-night cafe for some coffee and conversation.
Mulder let Joshua make the introductions--he knew he didn't
want them to know he was FBI. For once Mulder didn't want
them to know, either. It was nice to just be labeled "friend"
and included even if he had no answer to "What do you
play?"

Violin and viola cases stuffed the booth they all occupied as
stories were shared. One of the men could recall working
under the direction of Leonard Bernstein during his final
years with the New York Philharmonic. Names of composers
and musicians living and dead--they were spoken of as if they
might drop by and share a cup with them at any moment.
Music kept people alive. It also connected the living. Joshua
had never met these men before, yet they had hours of
stories to share and a common language to speak in. It was
quite simply one of the best evenings he'd had in a long time.
Yet, somehow he couldn't bring himself to voice that
gratitude to Joshua as they rode back to the city together in
the back of the car, silent.

"Ah, caught you."

Mulder turned away from the window, a little startled.
"Vivaldi, good choice. Very relaxing." Joshua appeared from
the alcove, robed, and drying his short dark hair with a
towel. "I think I'll restring my 'A' before bed. It will give it
time to loosen before morning," he said, tossing the towel
aside and reaching for his case which he brought over to the
back of the piano, unzipping and unlatching the lid. "Why
don't you sit down, Mulder? You make me nervous pacing
around."

Mulder pushed his hands into his pockets and made his way
over to the couch, sitting at the end farthest from the
Steinway. "Sorry."

"It's all right; you're just doing a job..." he said somewhat
oddly, reaching into a bookshelf drawer for a slip of fresh
strings. "But you could take off your tie for a change. We
know each other that well at least," he said with a brief grin.

Mulder complied, if for no other reason than to convince
himself there was nothing to be feeling awkward about. Yet
he did feel strange, like he was somehow there under false
pretenses.

"Thank you for the concert--and the coffee. I enjoyed it," he
said simply, feeling a bit more at ease as he slipped his tie off
and folded it on the coffee table. "I don't get the opportunity
to do that very often."

Joshua turned the tuning peg on the violin, loosening the
aging A string. "To go out with a bunch of musicians, or to
listen to Bach?"

"Either."

"I figured that," Joshua answered as he flicked on a small
halogen light over the piano, casting him in a mini spotlight
in contrast with the dim interior of the studio.

"Was I that obvious?" Mulder asked, with a somewhat
embarrassed grin.

Joshua only nodded as he unwound the string slowly with
precision.

"It was interesting. I think I'm learning more about this art
every day."

"You are. That's what I like about you, Mulder, you're very..."
He paused to bite his lip as he pulled the string free with a
twang "...curious. It's refreshing to meet someone who's
experiencing classical music for the first time. It's like taking
your kids to Disneyland," he remarked with a shrug. "Or so
I've been told."

Mulder chuckled at that comparison and relaxed, settling
back into the corner of the couch, letting his arm rest along
the cushions. "I've never been to Disneyland either," he said
softly, wondering why the heck not. "That's supposed to be
every American's dream, right? Disneyland, Old Faithful,
Empire State Building...you're done. You can die now."

Joshua smiled, feeding the new string into the burrowed hole
in the peg. "Well, I guess I'm done for, I play at the
Disneyland Hotel in two weeks. I'll send you a postcard."

"Thanks."

"There aren't too many places I haven't been to for at least a
few hours," he said, slowly tightening the peg a few turns,
before pausing and rewinding to begin the process again with
less string feed.

"That must have been something--touring Europe and Asia
for three years."

Joshua nodded, keeping his eyes on his work, crossing one
bare leg over the other as he settled his hip against the piano.
He was quiet for a few moments and Mulder wondered if
he'd touched a sore subject. "People have been very kind to
me," Joshua answered. He seemed satisfied with his
threading, and turned the knob quickly to pull the string
taut. He plucked it and gave the peg another half turn. "You
should let yourself out more, Mulder, just be with people. It
sharpens your perspective and broadens your thinking."

Mulder chewed his lip, wondering what the young man was
getting at. He wanted to ask if he was suggesting he had a
narrow mind. It amazed him that anyone would think that.
That almost made him sound normal for a change. "I may not
be that immersed in the general public, but I do see my share
of mind-broadening events."

Joshua agreed with a nod. "That, I can imagine. But it's not
quite the same thing...there we go...let's try this." He picked
up the violin and plucked the strings in pairs, making fine
adjustments with the knobs at the base of the bridge. He
began to walk with the instrument under his chin, plucking
and adjusting, making small sounds along with the guitar on
the stereo. The man could make music even when he was
tuning.

"How long have you been involved in these obscure
investigations?"

"Almost ten years," Mulder answered, wondering at how long
it had been himself. No wonder Diana seemed so different to
him now. She had been there at the start. A person can
change a lot in a decade, X-Files or no. "I created the unit to
examine and perpetuate a forgotten collection of
unexplainable cases--everything from ghosts to UFOs. I've
spent these years trying to find the connections between
them. It's amazing how often the history of the unknown
repeats itself."

"What is it you hope to learn?" Joshua asked, walking around
the back of the piano. He reached down to strike a key as he
passed, plucking some more with a twist of the knobs.

Mulder opened his hand. "Answers, truths. I believe I'm
seeking proof positive of mankind's greatest riddles."

Joshua laughed. "Which are those? I keep forgetting."

Mulder shrugged. "I suppose the most confounding questions
are the simplest ones--Who are we? Where did we come
from? What is our purpose? What is the meaning of life?"

"Have you ever killed a man?" The plucking stopped, and the
musician came to a stop at the window where Mulder had
been looking out a few minutes earlier.

Mulder rubbed his chin nervously. He hadn't been expecting
that.

"You don't have to answer if it makes you uncomfortable," he
added.

"Yes, I have."

"Just once?"

"No. Many times."

"How?" Joshua asked with something that sounded like
sadness and awe.

"I shot them." A direct answer to a direct question. Why did
it make him sound like a beast?

"With the weapon you're wearing now?"

"Yes, or one very much like it. It's standard FBI issue..."

"I see, but what I meant was *how.*"

Mulder looked at his firing hand resting in his lap. It was
easier than looking at Joshua turned away from him. He felt
like this might just exclude him from that sense of
"belonging" very swiftly. It was bound to happen sooner or
later. The nature of the life he had chosen always drove in an
inevitable wedge. He just hadn't wanted it to happen tonight.
He had liked being normal, for a few hours at least.

"I'm trained. All agents are trained. We are taught to analyze
the situation and act accordingly. Deadly force is an
unfortunate, but necessary option sometimes."

"You just...react," Joshua said without emotion.

"Sometimes a drilled reaction is the one move that saves
your life or the life of your partner. I didn't say it was easy. I
think about it a great deal afterwards, wondering if there was
a better way."

"Who have you killed?"

Mulder released a breath. He didn't think he wanted to
answer that.

"I don't mean names, just what kind of people--criminals?"

"Yes. Murderers, rapists, serial killers, pedophiles. I don't
think they're missed."

"Have you ever killed a woman?"

"No! Never. Joshua, what's this all about?"

Joshua turned around to face him again with a look of
apology, of acceptance. "I'm sorry. I wanted to know."

Mulder licked his bottom lip, looking away, trying to calm
himself--trying to understand why this was upsetting him so
much.

"I've upset you. I'm sorry. You were having a nice evening. I
shouldn't have pried. It can't be easy for you."

Mulder sat up and leaned forward, drawing a hand through
his hair. He wanted to flee--to go crawl back under a rock by
himself somewhere. This was why he didn't "get out" more. It
served him no purpose. His life was bound to the abnormal,
the unbelievable and the profane. No one could understand
that. No one except maybe Scully. He wished he could see her
right now.

He must have been staring very intently at the white throw
rug at his feet to not notice Joshua approaching. He held out
the Stradivarius to Mulder at arm's length. "Take it," he said.

Mulder looked up at him, confused. Joshua nodded, watching
him carefully with dark blue eyes. "Take it for a moment."
Mulder reached out with two hands to hold the violin as
Joshua released his grip on the neck. It was surprisingly light,
like a dried leaf. Mulder set it in his lap, fearful it would fold
in his hands.

"In 1726 a small artisan by the name of Antonio Stradivari
sat in his workshop in Cremona, Italy, and began planing the
wood for this violin. He gouged it and shaped it and bent it
until it fit a form in his mind's eye. This chamber," he said,
pointing to the curved holes in the sides of the violin before
taking a pluck at the new string, "made the exact same
sound, this same 'A,' almost 275 years ago. Both you and I
and Antonio all have that much in common now. This small
handmade instrument connects us."

Mulder glanced down at the violin with its dark, age-tinted
stained wood. "What is it worth?" he asked out of curiosity.

Joshua looked down at him with a somewhat distant
expression. "The last time this instrument was sold was to the
Philadelphia Conservatory in 1956, for the equivalent of 1.3
million dollars today."

Mulder looked up at the man in the robe standing over him.
"I think I'd like you to take this back now."

Joshua smiled at him and folded his arms--it appeared he was
enjoying Mulder's discomfort. Mulder wasn't letting more
than the tips of his two index fingers touch the instrument
settled in his lap.

"When they awarded me this instrument I couldn't even pick
it up for a month. I was almost sixteen. I left it in the case. I
would open the case, check the barometer every few hours
or so, but I couldn't even touch it. It was too much. I would
lie awake and get up in the middle of the night to just stare at
it. Finally, my grandfather said to me, 'Sasha, you fool, go get
the fiddle. What's wrong with you? You need me to show you
how to play?' I told him I didn't think I could touch it, that I
couldn't ever play it. That I'd never be good enough to play
it.

"A few days later it was my birthday. Grandpapa took me by
the arm and told me he had a surprise. He told me I had to
play for a very special guest and blindfolded my eyes, led me
into the drawing room, and sat me in a chair before my
waiting audience. He then went and got my violin and set it in
my hands. I took the bow and played the first note. I knew
immediately it was the Stradi, but I couldn't stop; I had to
perform. My instinct, my training, made me play right to the
bitter end. I was glad for the blindfold, because I wept the
entire time. When I finished there was only silence. I removed
the blindfold to see I had played to an empty room."

Mulder didn't know what to say in the pause that followed.
He wanted to say something and he wanted to turn away.

Joshua blinked and continued.

"The instrument is now considered priceless. It will never be
sold again--only loaned to another violinist after my death or
retirement."

"I don't think I've held something quite this valuable before,"
Mulder said, trying to sound grateful.

Joshua looked at him, held his gaze closely. "I think you
have," he said quietly. With a sure touch, he took up the
violin and nestled it under his chin, walking away to finish
tuning.

Mulder watched him move slowly across the reflecting glass
of the window panes. A white robe and a dark violin, plucked
tenderly by its lover pane to pane. He walked back to the
case and set the violin in to rest.

"I'm going to sleep now," he said without looking up. "Do you
mind turning off the stereo?"

Mulder got up from the couch and walked on numbed legs to
the stereo, clicking the power as the lights came down and
went off. In the dim glow of the moon he saw Joshua turn
down the bed, pull off his robe, and slip into the sheets.

'Do you have an instrument?' the men had asked him.

Now Mulder had an answer for them--a gun.
 

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

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

Chapter Six: Truth

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

He was back in Vermont, sitting on the white bench by the
swan pond. He came here in the mornings after a sleepless
night so the flutter and bob of the birds could calm his mind.
In the night he would wake, reaching for the violin, but they
had taken it from him. The instrument was sitting silently in
New York, waiting patiently on the back of a piano for his
return.

He could see her walking up the path toward him as she was
accustomed to doing at this same time early each day. She'd
smile at him; he'd smile back. She was pretty, small and fair.
But she hadn't said hello, not yet. She just kept walking. But
not today.

"I'm a poet," she said, taking the seat next to him.

"Have they taken your paper and pen?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Do you miss them?"

"Yes, and no," she said, brushing her long light brown hair
back from her shoulder. "It's nice to not have the option."

"I suppose," he answered, feeling the darkness rising in his
gut.

"So what are you?"

"I'm a musician...a violinist."

"Are you good?"

He grinned a little. "Yes, I am."

"You must be if they sent you here."

"How is your poetry?"

"It *was* good."

"What happened?"

"It began to corrode my blood."

He could see the places, traced in thin scars across her
wrists, where she had tried to extract it.

###

Later, in his bed, they tried to find answers to the questions
that had been eluding them. Why is the moon made of paper?
Why is the sea just a line of painted blue on the horizon? Of
what is each of us made?

The sweet smell of her skin under him, her arms reaching
down his back, pulling him deeper into her. This was a place
where questions didn't need to be asked and they found
themselves disappearing here again and again. Until one day
he knew it was time to go home. It was time to accept the
cruelties of life and learn to focus on the beauty.

For a while it seemed that philosophy had been born into her
as well. He had placed it there, inside her. It was something
they could share and build on. These were the gifts lovers
had to offer.

###

If it was an open grave that had sent him to that place in
Vermont, it was a newer grave that brought him home.

He stood alone, watching the men lower his father's casket
into the frozen ground. Ice covered the dead meadow grass
and crunched underfoot. He felt his breath sealing in crystals
around the edge of his scarf, holding in the unspoken
scream. Looking across the chasm between them, he could
see his mother crying and crying for someone who had died
in his heart the day his first violin crumbled into ash.

###

"Are you here for Valentine's?" she asked, her pale blue eyes
filled with joy at his arrival home.

He kissed her hands and took her outside, where her family
had a small goldfish pond.

"I have a poem for you," she said, placing a small slip of rice
paper in his hands. He didn't open it.

"Will you play for me tonight?" she asked, hoping once again
that he had brought the violin.

"I can't..." he said, and let the paper slip from his fingers, the
ink bleeding from it as it floated on the surface of the pond.
 

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

Marina Flat
8:30 AM
Friday

Joshua woke. The sunlight was piercing through the windows
he had left uncurtained last night. He rolled over to look at
the couch. Like a magic spell, one partner had transformed
into the other at sun-up. Male to female.

"Did I wake you?" Agent Scully asked.

He scratched the back of his head. "No, I need to get up.
Dress rehearsal this afternoon, very exciting."

She smiled pleasantly and resumed her writings in a small
notebook while he reached to the floor for his robe and
headed to the bath to clean up and dress.

Joshua closed the door and turned on the faucet. Nanette
would be here in half an hour and he still hadn't figured a
way to approach her on the subject of his mail. It wasn't
entirely her fault; at one point he had been glad to let her
take over his dealings with the rest of the world. He
shouldn't be too surprised to find her editing out the trials of
life for him. She wanted him to stay happy. She didn't want
to see him deteriorate like he had two years ago when she
coerced him into spending six weeks at Appassionata in
Vermont. It was a refocusing program for "confused" artists--
a nutfarm disguised as a polite vacation with charming
bungalows.

He bent over the sink to run handfuls of water through his
hair. He wasn't crazy, not even then. Where is the madness in
grieving? Still, it had served its purpose. It got him playing
again. They probably printed that in their brochures.
 

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

 9:10 AM

"Would you like some coffee, Agent Scully?"

"Yes I would, thank you."

"Nana?"

"None for me, darling," his manager said, fishing in her
briefcase for her reading glasses. Joshua had no idea of her
real age, but she did seem to be about ten years younger than
his grandfather, who'd passed on at 85.

Agent Scully had spread seven photos out on Joshua's small
kitchen bar. He didn't own a table; he never ate here. He
filled two mugs and set one next to the agent as he brought
over the sugar and creamer. He pulled up a stool and sat,
watching Nanette squint over the first photo of the cell
writing as he sipped.

"Yes, yes," she said in her French-tinted lilt. "This is Russian,
for certain. This word here means animals, farm
animals...livestock, you know. And this word here below it
means wheat or grain."

Agent Scully looked mildly surprised and glanced at Joshua,
who shrugged.

Nana picked up the next photo, turning it to find the letters.
"This word is hard to read; it says...oh, I don't like this word.
Why are you asking me to read this? This is a bad man..."

Agent Scully touched Nanette's wrist to calm her. "We need
to know what this means if we're going to stop the attacks."

Nanette looked up at Joshua and he nodded for her to
continue.

The old woman set the photo flat on the table and touched
the first word. "This word, 'zariezam,' it means...to kill, to
slaughter; and this word means to bury in the ground."

Agent Scully was writing the words down in her notebook.
"What about the letters in this last set of photos?"

Nanette looked at the last three photos taken of the same
word at different angles. "It means...to hunger, or to starve.
That is all I see in this. How can this help you?" She asked the
agent, flustered.

"My partner believes that these key phrases and words are
part of a message, mixed up like a word scramble. He
believes if we take all the words and arrange them in order,
we can understand what this person or persons are trying to
say."

"I think it's nonsense," Nanette said stubbornly. "They keep
writing them because you keep reading them--paying
attention to them. I was right in throwing them out."

"Nana," Joshua spoke up reluctantly, looking into his mug.
"Protecting me by keeping me ignorant of things like this will
only hurt me in the long run."

"But Joshua, you need to keep focused on your playing."

He looked up at her, trying to find the courage to make
himself clear. "I know, Nana, but not if it's going to get me
killed. I have to ask you--did you keep Elise's funeral
announcement from me?"

The old woman looked shocked. "What, darling? No! How
could you say such a thing?"

Joshua gave a nod toward Agent Scully. "The FBI called her
parents, Nana. They said they mailed me many times."

"No. Joshua, no. I did not do this. I did not see any letters
from them. If I did, I would have brought them to you. I
didn't hear about this tragedy until you called me from the
hospital."

Joshua felt like he couldn't quite believe her, but kept those
unsettling feelings to himself. His mail was being handled
care of the FBI now, anyway. She was an old woman--afraid
for him, that was all.

"I'm sorry, Nana; of course you didn't," he said, setting down
his mug. "Now tell me how things are going with Vienna."
 

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

Marriott Hotel
Union Square
1:10 PM

There was a knock at his door. Mulder sat up from where
he'd been lying across the bed, arranging and rearranging the
words and phrases he'd copied onto torn pieces of Marriott
stationery, trying to make sense of the mysterious message.

"Mulder? Are you awake yet?"

"Yeah, Scully. Hold on," he replied, reaching for his slacks
and pulling them on before letting her in. He'd showered and
begun to dress when a particular strain of text had caught his
eye-- "...we were sacrificed for you...you must see where you
came from...you are us..."

Although Mulder still believed the plural was a ruse, the
voice was demanding that Joshua pay notice to some sort of
mass suffering or sacrifice. It was the only demand the
phantom seemed to have.

Mulder opened the door. Scully stepped in, giving him a
frustrated look. "I've been trying to call you for over an
hour, Mulder. Why did you turn off your phone?"

"My phone?" Mulder absently reached for a pocket which
he'd yet to put on. "Oh, I forgot. I was at a concert last night
with Joshua in Berkeley. They requested all pagers and
cellphones be turned off."

"You went to Berkeley with him?" she asked, somewhat
surprised, as Mulder shut the door and walked to the bed to
pull on his shirt and do up the buttons.

"Yeah, a Bach chamber concert...Scully, did you get that
translation this morning?"

She reached into her blazer for a small notebook. "Yes. You
were right, Mulder; it's Russian, but the words don't form a
full sentence." Mulder looped his tie around his collar and
took the notes from her, ripping out the page and then
tearing out each separate word.

"Sounds like farming terms," he said, laying them out on the
bed with the other scraps. "I wonder if it's in reference to
Joshua's childhood?"

"It could be," Scully agreed, coming to stand at the end of the
bed to read over his arrangement. "Mulder, did you know
that Joshua voluntarily checked himself into a psychiatric
recovery program in the spring of 1997?"

Mulder stopped knotting his tie at this new fact. "He did?"

"Yes. It seems he suffered a mental breakdown earlier that
year and canceled his tour dates. Newspaper reports claim he
collapsed after the conclusion of a concert in Paris. He had
been informed during intermission that his grandfather had
passed away here in San Francisco after suffering what was to
be the final of a series of minor strokes."

Mulder felt saddened by this news. Joshua hadn't told him
how his grandfather had died.

"It was during his stay at this program that he met his fiance,
Elise Strathmore."

Mulder finished with his tie and reached for his shoes, sitting
at the edge of the bed to put them on. "What was she in for?"

"Suicide attempt. One of several throughout her life. Which
leads me to believe her parents probably aren't likely to
blame Joshua's desertion solely for her death."

Mulder stood and pulled on his coat, reaching into his pocket
to make sure he turned his phone back on. "I suppose that
leaves us with even fewer leads," he said dejectedly.

Scully licked her upper lip in an equal show of frustration. "I
don't understand, Mulder; what's the connection between
Schmidt, Harris and Joshua? Nothing in their past records
indicates a thread of commonality, and we've yet to
determine who wrote the first of the letters."

Mulder brushed her arm and pointed back to the display on
the bedcover. "I'm more certain than ever that the answer is
here, in these words. We just need to find the key to their
meaning. Consider the series of events: First, Joshua happens
upon Harris; a few minutes later the thin man appears to
him. Less than an hour after that, Joshua finds himself at
Harris' knife point. It's almost as if the Thin Man was sending
a message to Joshua, letting him know Harris would be the
next assailant. At first I thought we were searching for
something natural, but the more dead ends we hit through
conventional means, the more I'm convinced we're dealing
with the unnatural."

Scully raised her eyes to him and sighed, exasperated.
"Mulder..."

"What, Scully? Why does the idea that this Thin Man might
not be made of flesh come as such a impossibility to you?
When you, yourself, have witnessed a harbinger of death first
hand?"

He hadn't wanted to bring it up--that case of the murdered
co-eds near the DC bowling alley. He hated to bring up any
mention of those bleak days, when she had been sick. But
somehow he couldn't help himself--he wouldn't let her
dismissing remarks go unchallenged this time.

It seemed she didn't appreciate the reference either, and her
hands found their way to her hips as she snapped back at
him. "Baba Yaga, Mulder? Who's next on your suspect list,
Mother Goose? You're grasping at straws."

Mulder sucked in his lower lip before he let his growing
irritation get the better of his tongue. "If you have a better
theory, Scully, I'd love to hear it."

She turned away, a flush of crimson rising to her cheeks. She
had nothing to offer him. The discussion was closed as tightly
as their divided grips on the nature of the world. Why did a
pairing that used to complement so well do nothing but lay
mortar between the stones of their ideals nowadays?

"I realize we differ in our approach to solving cases," he said
thickly. "We've always differed. What's changed is you used
to respect my methods."

"Mulder," she said with an audible level of hurt in her voice.
"I respect *you.* What I don't respect is your lack of common
sense and tact when dealing with other professionals."

"You mean Joshua."

She closed her eyes.

"I'm sorry if working for the X-Files embarrasses you," he
said, grabbing his card key and heading past her for the
door. "This is my life."
 

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

Davies Symphony Hall
Grand Green Room
7:00 PM

Joshua emerged from his private room dressed in his
performance best--a white bow tie and vest with classic 19th-
century collar, black waistcoat and tails. Ostentatious
perhaps for evening wear, yet still well within code for world-
class soloists. It was an hour before downbeat and most of
the Symphony musicians were milling about the main green
room, tuning instruments, checking reeds, and blowing spit
valves.

Joshua greeted a few of the musicians and wished them a
good performance as he made his way through the crowded
room. He loved galas; they always brought out the city's
finest citizens--from mayors to movie stars--all dressed to
the nines and strutting about looking important, nibbling
finger sandwiches and sipping champagne. It was a spectacle
he was always thrilled to be at the center of. He was looking
forward to seeing the audience filling the seats and corridors
instead of the SFPD's Emergency Response team, which had
been doing a final sweep of Davies during the afternoon
dress rehearsal. Mulder told him the team had been
searching for traces of explosives in the early morning hours
during the previous week as well. So far every stairway and
ceiling tile had turned up clean. Even though Alice Schmidt
had been the only suspect to send in bomb threats, they
weren't going to take any chances with an, as yet,
unidentified accomplice.

Joshua had seen the FBI about throughout the day as well--
Scully, Mulder and Dillmont, plus a few others he didn't
recognize. They appeared to be interviewing and double-
checking staff members and ushers as they reported to work.

Joshua flipped back his tails and took a seat at one of the
tables, idly flipping through the day's paper. Aside from a
preview of tonight's concert, there was no mention of the
'curse,' his attack, or the near miss in Philadelphia. Joshua
hoped his fortune would turn now for the better and the
evening's performance would run as smoothly as the
impromptu Bach last night.

Joshua smiled a little to himself--he'd enjoyed spending
yesterday evening with Mulder more than he'd like to admit.
His growing fondness for the man was probably not going
entirely unnoticed by the agent, but if Mulder was becoming
aware of it, he showed no sign. As much as Joshua was
looking forward to performing tonight, he was looking
forward even more to those quiet hours afterwards. It wasn't
hard to see that the music was beginning to have its subtle
effect on Mulder, even if the man was trying his best to hide
it--fearing the emotions the notes could evoke as a weakness.
As much as Joshua enjoyed educating Mulder in music, he
yearned to show him how being with a man, like opening the
heart to Bach, was anything but a show of weakness. In truth,
he found it to be an ultimate act of masculinity--to overcome
the lies and perceptions of misguided faith and beliefs and
discover that deep down we are all the same, both needful
and giving.

Joshua knew Mulder was a fine vintage better left to age
slowly in its cask than to be swallowed in haste, but his
inextricable attraction to him was beginning to get the better
of his careful pacing. It had been well over a year since he'd
led anyone into his bed, and there was no mistaking his
reviving thirst for it.

"Mr. Segulyev?" A backstage tech with a headset approached
him, disrupting his thoughts. "If you're ready, Security would
like to brief you."

Joshua nodded at him briskly, and followed him out into the
hall. He was still hoping to downplay the extra security
measures, which at this point hadn't gone unnoticed by
anyone in the Symphony Association. Fortunately, most had
yet to connect the bomb threats to him directly. It seemed
for some of them, bomb scares were not an unheard of
occurrence. The tech held open the door to Davies' security
monitoring room. The security chiefs and Agent Dillmont
were awaiting him inside.

"We finished the sweep and all is clear," said the chief.
"They're about to open the doors and begin admitting the
guests. Anyone acting suspicious will be pulled aside and
inspected. Extra ticket handlers are posted to assure
authentic admission. At $100 a seat, we're not likely to be
seeing many vagrants trying to wander in."

"Agent Mulder will be staying with you until you go on," said
Dillmont, checking his watch. "He's probably arriving at your
green room now. We'd like you to return there immediately
following this interview. Once onstage we'll have extra
security posted at each entrance to the Hall. After your
performance we'll ask you to wait backstage until the
concert's conclusion, when you'll be escorted safely out of
the building."

Joshua sighed his regret at the soon-to-be cattle herding of
his person. So much for mingling with the city's elite. He'd be
enjoying the gala from backstage tonight.

Dillmont was eyeing his chest. "Are you wearing the vest?"
Earlier, before he began to dress, the agent had brought him
the latest in kevlar fashions. Joshua had left it thrown over a
chair.

"No," he said, unabashed. "I refuse to play in a suit of armor.
I need to be able to move my arms freely, you know."

"Your choice," Dillmont shrugged. "If security is finished with
you, you can return to the green room."

The security chief nodded his dismissal. "I think you should
reconsider the vest, however," the man added as Joshua
headed for the door.

"Tonight I begin a new decade in my life," Joshua said over
his shoulder, pushing the door open to return to the
musicians. "I'll take whatever comes my way."
 

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

Guest Artist's Green Room
7:15 PM
 

Mulder knocked on Joshua's door before entering. There was
no answer, so he opened the door slowly before stepping in.
He had no idea what sort of preparations a musician took
before a performance and he didn't want to disturb Joshua's
concentration. His caution was needless as he soon
discovered the room was empty. He wasn't concerned. He
knew Joshua was around somewhere nearby and Security
would direct him back here soon enough. What did concern
him, however, was the vest left hanging from the back of a
dressing chair. He should have known that was a futile
request.

Mulder took a seat and straightened his tie. He'd just
returned from the hotel where he waited for Scully to change
into a gown for the evening. They were going to be seated in
the audience where they could keep a closer eye on Joshua
during the performance. He had completely forgotten about
renting a tuxedo and selected his best suit instead, a dark
rust brown coat and slacks with a dark blue shirt--a
combination of colors that he hoped would make him look
more fashionable and less Federal.

Scully had emerged from her room in a devastating scooped-
neck number with long sleeves and white sequins. As
breathtaking as she was to look at, he knew she still hadn't
forgiven him for the early afternoon outburst in his hotel
room. To be honest, Mulder had yet to forgive himself. He
hated being at odds with her; it made him feel lost inside. He
counted on her so much for stability during their casework;
he had begun to take it for granted, perhaps. Whatever strain
had been pulled between them, he was desperate to ease it,
yet found he didn't have the slightest idea how. Their ride
back over to Davies had been as silent as an ice covered
pond.

The door opened and Joshua entered, looking rushed. "For
godsake, Mulder, do they have to keep those techs following
me every second of the day? I feel like I'm part of an
international broadcast with them reporting my every move."

Mulder gave him an understanding nod. "I'm sorry about
that. For what it's worth, most of these security measures are
coming from Davies' management, not us."

Joshua seated himself in a chair across from Mulder and
took a deep breath. "I just want to give a good concert
tonight--that's all, and don't give me shit about the vest."

Mulder glanced at the discarded safety measure sitting to his
right. "I won't. I don't think you're likely to have anything to
fear tonight. I'm keeping my eye out for tall gaunt men."

Joshua laughed despite himself, running a calming hand
through his hair as he glanced over at the violin lying
patiently in its open case. "Well, I'm as ready as I'll ever be.
The orchestra will play the Mozart overture first and then, at
twenty after eight, I'm on."

"Do you get nervous anymore?" Mulder asked.

"Not really," Joshua said, shaking his head. "I've played just
about every major violin concerto in existence in front of a
live audience. I know the Mendelssohn like I know my own
heartbeat. It would play out of me even if Rome were burning
down. But I do get excited. If you took my pulse right now
you'd find it running at a good clip."

"I've had days like that," Mulder added. "I usually wind up
going for a run to bring myself back in focus."

Joshua looked over at him with a somewhat daring
expression. "You want to know what I do to focus before a
performance?"

Mulder was uncertain as to what Joshua was about to tell
him. "Sure."

Joshua stood up and opened the dressing room door. "Follow
me."

###

Mulder followed Joshua down a long hall to an unmarked set
of double doors somewhere deep in the back of Davies Hall.
Joshua pushed them open and Mulder followed him up a long
turning stairway. When they'd climbed about three flights,
Joshua opened another smaller unmarked door to reveal a
dark, narrow staircase heading straight up. It was blocked at
the bottom by a tall gate.

"You can unlock the gate by tugging the chain like this," he
showed him, pulling the gate open so they could ascend the
stairs. "We'll need to be very quiet now," he said in a
whisper, going carefully up the flight to a door at the top.

Joshua tapped lightly on the door and a man in a black t-
shirt and headset opened it a crack and peered out.

"Joshua. I was wondering if we'd be seeing you tonight," he
said, squinting at Mulder. "Who's this?"

"A friend," Joshua answered, giving Mulder a look he
couldn't quite identify. "We'll be very quiet."

"All right, come on in," the man said, opening the door to
them.

Mulder stepped into the dim room, waiting for his eyes to
adjust. The ceiling was low, just barely clearing his head. The
walls were covered in thick foam tiles. To his right was a set
of shaded one-way windows. Stretched below the windows
was a massive computerized control panel with hundreds of
switches and blinking lights manned by the technician. They
were in the main sound room.

Joshua was standing at the windows, waving Mulder over to
him. "We're at the highest point in Davies right now," Joshua
said, just over a whisper. "I like to come up here to watch the
audience collect in the seats."

Mulder looked down through the glass and experienced a
second of vertigo as his mind took in their new positioning.
He had no idea they had climbed this high. You could see the
entire concert hall from up here. An intercom system piped
in the broadcasts of the technicians throughout the building
along with a running background of the audience members
beginning to wander into the Hall. Closed circuit televisions
kept an eye on the main entrances so the sound men would
have some idea of the assembling attendance.

"Take mic five down another three feet," a voice was heard
saying through the comm line. "Mic five descending," replied
the sound tech into his headset as he flipped a switch in the
panel in front of him. Mulder could see a microphone on a
long cable slowly descending from a small hole in the ceiling
to join about four others dangling several feet down,
hovering over the stage directly below.

"Are they recording tonight?" Mulder asked.

Joshua glanced his way from where he was standing close to
the glass, serenely observing the miniature people below.
"Yes, they're making a digital recording for EMI Classics all
this week, so try not to sneeze between movements, okay?"

Mulder made a 'who me?' expression.

"Where are your seats?"

Mulder pulled his ticket from his coat pocket. "Lower
orchestra, row A, seat 22. Scully has 23."

Joshua moved a step to the right, pointing down. "You'll be
right there, near that woman in the green dress and feather
collar. Front row, right below me. I always stand stage right,
so the violin faces the audience and I can make eye contact
with the conductor."

"You'll be within arm's reach should there be any problem,"
Mulder said.

Joshua nodded, and returned to the glass. "Look there, at
that family coming in," Joshua said, pointing to the lower
orchestra seats. A man and woman were leading their
polished and fluffed boy and girl, maybe ages six and ten, up
the aisle to look at the stage. A few orchestra members were
out upon it already, warming up.

"I love seeing that. The children. It's so important to expose
them to music as early as possible. I don't know if you're
aware of this, Mulder, but learning music is like learning a
language. You'll never be able to pass as a native speaker if
you don't begin to make the proper vowel sounds before age
five. Music is the same way. A child must begin to develop an
ear before age six, or they'll never be able to attain perfect
pitch and advance to the virtuoso level."

Mulder crossed his arms and leaned into the support
between the panes, drawn to watching Joshua in profile,
gazing down over his audience--a little like Zeus atop Mt.
Olympus looking favorably upon his people.

"I've heard that term before. Perfect pitch. What does it
mean, exactly?"

"Musicians with perfect pitch can pick a note out of the air
and tell not only its place on the piano keyboard, but its
exact intonation as well. Some people are born with it and, if
trained, can maintain it throughout their lives. Some schools
argue it can be taught. But I've only ever seen it in musicians
who were given their first lessons before they knew how to
read words or ride a bike."

"Do you have it?"

Joshua grinned. "Thanks to my grandfather, yes. The long
warm-up notes you hear the oboe down there playing...that's
middle C...now he's going to the D...and now a high D an
octave above it." Mulder listened, but could barely detect the
notes filtering in through the intercom. "Oboists are always
worrying over their harmonics. You'll see them come out
onstage first before the rest of the orchestra to fuss with the
ill-tempered woodwind. See...look at that boy there now
tugging at his father's arm," Joshua said, warmly. "He's
telling him that's an oboe."

Mulder leaned in closer to the windows. He could see the
boy, but could not hear the words. Joshua's sense of hearing
must be truly exceptional to pick a child's voice out of the
light jumble of gathering sound emitting from the speakers in
the sound booth.

"I don't know how you could hear that."

Joshua smiled. "Years and years of practice."

"I can imagine the pursuit of music at this level takes
tremendous dedication," Mulder said, seriously.

Joshua had a far-off look come over him as he began to
relate another chapter from the story of his childhood to
Mulder, his eyes flickering over the movements below.
"When I was ten years old I came home from school one day
to find my private violin instructor from the Philadelphia
Conservatory sitting in our small living room, talking to my
grandfather. They called me over to them, and I put my book
bag down and came and stood before the man. He told me I
had been invited to join a very special training program for
young violinists. Outside, I could see the boys from my
school running down the block throwing snowballs across
the road at one another. This professor told me he would
give me until the end of winter vacation to decide if I wanted
to join their next semester after the holidays. But he also told
me I needed to understand that the program would be very
difficult. I would be expected to practice more than I ever
had in my life--six hours a day, six days a week--no
exceptions. I would have to leave my school and work with a
tutor at home and do my homework in the evenings. He said
he understood this was a big decision, but if I agreed to these
things, he knew in his heart I would grow up to be one of the
finest violinists in the world."

Joshua paused in inner reflection before he continued.

"I spent that winter holiday playing in the snow with my
friends and in the evenings I spent a lot of time alone with
my violin in my upstairs bedroom. My grandfather didn't say
a word to me about it until New Year's Day when he sat me in
his lap and took my hands in his. He told me there were two
kinds of men in the world. There were men who went to
school, grew up, raised families and lived very happily like
everyone else, doing the best they could; and then there were
men, very special men, who were willing to give up all the
comforts of a simple life to have just one moment of true
greatness. He said both men were equally honorable in the
eyes of God. 'What do you choose, Joshua?' he asked, and in
his eyes I could tell he would love me no matter what I
became.

"I know he thought it was quite a lot to ask of an ten-year-old
boy who barely knows the world, but for me the choice was
very easy. Since I had first heard Grandpapa fiddling lullabies
to me in my bassinet, every night when I closed my eyes to
sleep, I heard the violin--in my dreams, whispering comforts
to me in the voice of God. No sacrifice would be too much, I
felt, as long as He continued to speak to me."

"Do you still hear Him?" Mulder asked after a beat of silence.

"I do," Joshua said, turning to him with a very honest
expression. "Every day when I play, I go back to that ten-year-
old boy and I remember what it was like to dream of this,
this life I have, this ability to create a sound so complex and
beautiful from such a simple instrument. There's something
people don't realize about children--they put truth into their
playing--it takes maturity to learn how to lie. I'm certain the
day I forget the truth in my playing is the day God will
abandon me."

"Then you'll need to hold onto that truth, Joshua. Never let it
leave you."

Joshua gave a faint smile and resumed his place at the
window, reaching out with the fingertips of his right hand as
if to touch the tiny people below. "I know you have held on,
Mulder, and I admire that more than you'll ever know--
because I understand the sacrifice involved. You and I gave
up throwing snowballs years before the other kids; and I
suspect, like myself, you've never given it one moment of
regret."
 

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

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

Chapter Seven: On the Ruins

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

Applause for the overture. Waiting in the open wing, the
soloist watches for the conductor's arm to extend and
beckon him forward in a wordless introduction.

The instrument is under his arm and the bow dangles from
his forefinger as he steps out onto the polished stage floor to
the rising applause of the audience--filling the seats, boxes,
tiers, mezzanine, balcony and terrace with people he can
sense, but cannot see as his eyes are filled with the
brightness of the lights.

He comes forward upon the stage and turns to his right to
face the Hall as he settles the wise wood of the Stradivarius
under his chin and he breathes in its familiar mustiness. The
clamor fades quickly as he lifts the bow over the strings,
ready to begin. He makes eye contact with the conductor and
the baton descends. Three brief beats of the Allegro molto
and he sweeps the first dotted quarter note from the violin.

For over 150 years the Mendelssohn concerto has been
performed countless times by countless musicians, but never
before has it been performed quite the way this musician
plays it as the microphones catch the occurrence overhead.

He feels the meaning behind the notes as he plays them--
their sensibility is a communication that he shares with the
audience. The expression he chooses is not bound exclusively
by the written notes; rather, he bends the basic framework
laid out by the composer into his own understanding. It's the
refinement of that inner expression that marks a virtuoso.

The four fingers of his left hand press the strings precisely
against the smooth black neck of the violin--first position to
second position and back to first--fingering the A, the C, the
B flat, running the tip of his smallest finger up the neck to
catch the high E before descending to drop into the low D a
half breath later. The hairs pull flat against the strings
making them sing. The bow moves smoothly, and never
rushes. It drops and climbs and strikes and chatters across
the strings. These are a thousand tiny movements and
adjustments made per second that are scarcely
distinguishable to the eye. Only the ear can pull the resulting
vibrations he feels under his chin and hands into focus; the
rest is instinct--the meaning behind the music, the contents
of his heart.
 

###
 

In the seats directly below, a listener falls prey to the voice
speaking on the stage. For all the many things he has seen in
the world, there are few that have made him wonder so much
at the impossibility of what he is witnessing, the ability to
bring something so complex as a concerto to life.

The sound of violin he's heard before in modest space is now
echoing off the second floor balcony and reflecting off the
sound deflection shields hanging high over the stage as the
orchestra quiets and the musician begins his cadenza. His
solo voice begins in low phrases of flirting statements and
brash recapitulations culminating into rapid-fire arpeggios--a
full seven note chord struck note for note in faster and faster
succession until the tones become one, the spaces between
them melting into solid sound.

The Andante begins a minute later, the bassoon carrying the
audience into the second, slower movement. The sounds are
warm and loving, unashamed. There is a wonderful moment
where the solo changes and divides into two separate
melodic lines, as if two violins were playing to one another,
but there is only one pair of hands creating the sound. The
bow is pulling two strings at once as the fingers hold the
double stop to play two lines against each other. The result is
a seamless duet.

The listener turns his head slightly to watch her where she
sits next to him. She is almost smiling as she listens. She
looks unguarded, peaceful. She hasn't looked that way to him
in years.
 

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

The Cliff House
Land's End
11:30 PM

"Oh God, please don't tell that story."

Joshua sat at the head of the table, hiding his face in his
hands laughing, as the man to his right, a cellist formerly
with the New York Philharmonic, set about sharing an old tale
of their past antics together.

"We were playing Radio City, a Christmas Beethoven Festival,
during one of the worst storms in recorded history in New
York," said the cellist, smiling as Joshua peered up, giving
him a 'you wouldn't dare' look.

"That was in '93, right?" someone bellowed from the far end
of the long table, ringed with an assemblage of raucous
orchestra members and friends, who had instructed Joshua's
driver to detour him here to Land's End for an after-hours
surprise 30th birthday feast. Bits of roasted lamb and wild
rice with glazed carrots still stuck to the edges of the nearly
emptied china plates. Gold helium balloons were tied to their
chairs, floating, while the champagne was flowing freely.

"Ninety-three, or -four, doesn't matter," the cellist
continued, taking another generous swig from his own glass.
"Joshua was playing the Triple Concerto with Yang Kikumo
and who was that pianist...?"

Joshua sighed, defeated. "That lunatic
Austrian...Helmut...something." He leaned toward Mulder
who was, incidentally, the only completely sober man in the
room; which was good considering he was also the only one
armed. "I have no idea what he's talking about; he's gravely
mistaken," Joshua said, poorly defending himself. Mulder hid
a grin and took his last bite of lamb so the waiters could
clear his plate for the dessert service. He was going to be
doing a lot more running back in D.C. after this case to make
up for all the fine dining.

"Ah, my good friend Helmut Schratz, how we miss him here
in the States. Will he ever return?" someone
melodramatically lamented from Mulder's side of the table.

"Not after Radio City. It nearly ruined his career!" chuckled
another.

"Anyway," the cellist continued, for those who were
unfamiliar with the story, "after the concert, which was
dreadfully long as most Beethoven festivals are--When will
they learn you can't play all nine symphonies and five piano
concertos in one night?--the storm had grown so fierce that
the guests were advised to stay inside until it settled some."

"That would have been fine if the fire marshal didn't have
this issue with people staying in their seats," added Joshua,
still feigning ignorance.

"Exactly," said the cellist. "So our conductor, Maestro
Thompson, was asked to drag the soloists back out onstage
for a little light entertainment to keep folks calm and
seated."

"Christmas carols!" someone yelled out.

"Yes! Christmas carols were requested. So Maestro Thompson
came back into the green room to find the Beethoven Three,
who had unfortunately found the hot pot of mulled wine
several hours earlier."

Joshua ran a hand through his hair as laughter skittered
about the room. "This is not making me look good right now,
is it? I swear I wouldn't have touched the stuff if I knew we
were going to go back on. And it wasn't my fault Helmut
decided to slip half a bottle of spiced Austrian Schnapps into
it either."

"You knew about the Schnapps, Joshua. You were in the room
when he did it."

"Bullshit! I swear I never saw that man do a thing! He was
insane; he used to practice the Triple Concerto backwards,
note for note--what the hell good does that do? I tried to
avoid being in the same room with him if I could help it."

"So after a few rushed minutes of bow tie straightening and
splashes of cold water, the men were brought back
onstage..."

Joshua leaned toward Mulder again, tonight's bowtie long
undone, pretending to fill just him in on the sordid details.
"Someone had found a set of flashing reindeer antlers and
snapped them on my head just as I went out. I was so
distracted trying to find my bow, that I didn't even realize it."

"Flashing his Rudolph best," the cellist said over the
mounting giggles, "Joshua proceeded to attempt to lead the
two in a rousing rendition of Jingle Bells, in diverse keys."

"Now the part you fail to appreciate, my friend," Joshua said
interrupting him, "is that Kikumo only spoke Japanese and
Helmut only knew German or Dutch or Latin or some other
useless language. I'd like to get my hands on the fool who
thought it would be a good idea to send an English-speaking
Jewish violinist out to teach a Buddhist cellist and an legally
insane agnostic pianist the correct key for 'Little Town of
Bethlehem.'"

The cellist patted Joshua's arm affectionately as the group
had a hearty laugh at his expense. "It was not your finest
hour, that's for certain. But to make it all better there was a
columnist and photographer from the New York Times
snowbound as well."

Joshua downed the last of his champagne and set the glass
back down rim first on the tablecloth like a shot glass. "You
had to mention that, didn't you?"

"Front page, Christmas morning, there was a full-color spread
of Joshua and his merry trio fumbling their way through "We
Wish You a Merry Christmas," laughed the cellist.

Joshua looked sheepishly at Mulder. "They caught me in full
antler-blink. Remember, I have to live in that city."

Mulder smiled and accepted a cup of cappuccino from the
waiter. "So is this what they call musician humor?"

The cellist leaned forward on his elbows. "I have one for you,
Mulder. What's the difference between a trombonist and a
dead snake in the road?"

Mulder took a sip of espresso. "I'm afraid to ask."

"The snake was on his way to a gig!"

Both the cellist and Joshua found that hilarious as they
laughed heartily over it.

"Okay, I'll gladly admit I don't 'get' that one," Mulder said
good-humoredly.

"That's okay, Mulder. You'd have to be a trombonist to really
appreciate the subtleties of that joke," Joshua said. "And
thank God none are present."

The lights were dimmed then as a quartet of waiters came
out singing "Happy Birthday," carrying a sparkling-candled
German chocolate cake. The throng joined in as the dessert
was set before the special guest, flinging sparks on the
tablecloth. Joshua made a valiant effort to blow them out a
few times before he got smart and plucked them off like
Fourth of July sparklers and doused them in his water glass.

"German chocolate...everything with you is German,"
someone teased. "You play Beethoven, Brahms, Bach--where's
the Russians?"

Joshua looked up from his task of making the first cut into
the cake. "I've played the Tchaikovsky."

"Once," the heckler insisted.

"Fair enough; I guess I don't care much for that concerto. I'd
play Rachmaninov if he'd bothered to write for violin, or
Stravinsky if it didn't call for whacking on the instrument
with the back of my bow...Here, who needs this knife?"

The waiter took the knife and the cake away to serve it up as
the maitre'd stepped up to Joshua to let him know he had a
private call. "I'll be right back," he said, licking caramel icing
from his fingers. "Eat, everyone, please."

Mulder was halfway through his square of cake when Joshua
reappeared, holding up a champagne glass and clinking it
with a knife to get everyone's attention.

"Distinguished ladies and gentlemen of San Francisco. As
much as I am honored by the offer to assume the roll of
concertmaster next season, I'm afraid I'll have to politely
decline," he announced, barely controlling a smile. "It would
seem I'm being shipped out to some rag-tag band of fiddlers
in Vienna next January for an eighteen-month world tour."

Joshua was plainly ecstatic as his party guests whooped and
rose from their seats to congratulate him in his success with
cheers and a round of bumbling hugs and handshakes.

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

12:15 AM
 

Mulder stood in the Cliff House's first floor hallway, reading
the framed vintage newspaper headlines covering the Great
San Francisco Earthquake of 1906, and waiting for Joshua
and his driver to finish gathering his coat and gifts.

Presently, he saw two men approach him on their way to the
facilities.

"Mulder, right?"

Mulder turned away from the yellowed newsprint to accept
the man's handshake.

"Steven and I would like to congratulate you and Joshua on
this tour. You must be very excited," the man said, suddenly
wrapping Mulder in a hearty hug.

Mulder was a bit stunned at the burst of affection, as the
man broke the hug and "Steven" took a turn shaking his
hand.

"Yes, thank you," he said, not bothering to correct them.
With his FBI identity hidden, it was an honest mistake. One
can't expect to seen out and about with a man every night in
San Francisco and not fall under that assumption. He just
hadn't been expected to be slapped on the back for it. He
smiled politely as they went on their way.
 

###

Ten minutes later, Mulder was helping Joshua's driver load
the gift boxes into the back of the limo.

"Here's the last of them," Joshua said, handing his driver a
final bag. "God, would you look at that?"

Mulder followed Joshua's gaze down the cliffside to the
ocean below. The waves were breaking against what looked
like the crumbling walls of an ancient ruin. The moon was
reflecting in some of the shallow pools formed between the
decapitated concrete foundations.

"What is all that?" Mulder asked.

"It's what's left of the Sutro Baths from the 1890s. We should
have a closer look. Come on," he said, brushing Mulder's
coat sleeve before starting down the nearby path into the
darkness.

Mulder eyed the ever-patient driver. "I guess we'll be right
back," he said and fished inside his coat for his flashlight.

###

Joshua must have been down this path many times before to
be able to navigate it so well in the dim moonlight, Mulder
thought, stepping over a thick root in the trail. He could just
see him reaching the base of the cliffside and disappearing
behind a stone wall.

"Hold up," he shouted, skipping the last of the switch-backs
and crunching through the iceplant. Joshua was waiting for
him just beyond the bend, standing beside a broken block of
cement, its rusted and twisted rebar reaching toward the
night sky. "I don't think you want to fall on one of those."

Joshua gave him a mischievous look and Mulder followed
him through the foundation maze, working their way closer
to the sea. The smell of pooled algae was thick in the cold air
as the wind whipped off the rolling waves. "Step up here,"
Joshua said as he climbed up onto a tumbled cement block
to reach the high edge of a wall. "You can see better from up
here."

Mulder climbed the broken block until he came to stand next
to Joshua. The musician moved about on the three-foot-wide
shelf, pointing out landscapes in the crumbling remains.

"This was the mineral bath here, the long rectangle. Over
there, behind it, was the men's private bath. The Baths were
built just before the Turn-of-the-Century and the men needed
a place to recuperate from all those fine ladies in bloomers,
you know," he winked and continued, pointing out toward
the sea. "They built the world's longest salt water swimming
pool out there along the shore; the sand's almost choked the
outline now. Lifeguards patrolled it in rowboats. They used to
host a small carnival in the dunes behind it: candied apples,
bumper cars and pony rides--quite the place to take the kids
on a Sunday afternoon... But it's all gone now. They took it
all away," Joshua said, taking a small jump to the next wall so
he could follow its outline to the last barrier before the
ocean. Mulder caught up to him just in time to arrest his
errant footing as he made his way to the far edge.

"Joshua!" Mulder grabbed his arm and righted him. In all his
efforts to guard him, the last thing he needed was to let this
man slip off a six-foot wall into the sea.

"I'm sorry," he laughed and Mulder released him as he
straightened himself, keeping close. "I'm feeling very happy
right now. I think...the champagne may have gone to my
head."

From the look he was giving him, Mulder could swear he was
about to be kissed, but before he could crack a joke about it,
Joshua did just that--took him by the arm of his coat and
kissed him softly just to the side of his mouth.

Mulder was stunned by both the abruptness and sincerity of
the action.

"I'm sorry...I'm not..."

Joshua smiled like he'd been anticipating his reaction.

"I know you're not. That's all a part of why I find you so
appealing." He smiled to himself and turned his face back
into the sea wind. "You're not, and yet here you are."

Mulder looked down again to make sure he still had good
clearance from the edge of the wall. This crumbling San
Franciscan ruin was the last place he expected to be having
this type of conversation--no decent footholds.

Joshua stood with his hands folded inside his coat, warming
himself. "When I first came to San Francisco I was paired with
a 20-year-old accompanist," he said, looking out to sea. "He
was a lot like me, uprooted, displaced. He was living with
extended family, a cousin he'd never met, and when you're a
young man alone in a big city for the first time, it's easy to
become guarded.

"We didn't get along well at first. I think we were both trying
to show off. He resented me for being sent on scholarship,
but gradually something began to happen. We started
spending a lot of time together and day by day really began
to open up and become friends. Our playing improved as
well, once we stopped fighting one another and realized our
talents were put to better use when shared.

"We played to a standing ovation at Zellerbach Hall one
summer. It was a wonderful feeling...something we didn't
want to let go of. We became lovers that night and for many
nights afterward. I wasn't too surprised; I'd felt it coming on
for a long while. The fact I was with another man didn't
surprise me nearly as much as the tenderness--to have
someone who knows how you work make love to you, who
knows how your body feels.  I've had my share of straight
relationships, but I've never really found that again."

Mulder squinted at the horizon; he could see the red and
green lights on the fishing boats steaming back into port.
"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I think you've felt it coming on for a while now,
too."

Mulder let his eyes fall on the younger man standing next to
him. Joshua was still looking off, giving him the space he
needed to think this over. The problem was, he wasn't sure
he wanted to think. Thinking had been getting him nowhere.

Mulder shuffled from one foot to the next, hearing the aging
concrete surface crumbling in the gravel under his shoes.
What he wanted, he decided, was to get down off this
goddamn wall.

"I think we should go back," he said.

Joshua nodded his head slowly. "We'll go back."
 

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

In the car again it was quiet. The lights and colors of the
party were gone and the space the virtuoso and his protector
occupied was now dipped in shadows. Fleeting beams of
street lamps flickered over their faces at they kept their
thoughts to themselves.

Mulder was seated in the corner, trying to slip back and shut
his eyes, feigning some kind of fatigue if for nothing else
than to convince his heart to slow down. It was becoming
uncomfortably warm in his coat, but he didn't want to attract
the other man's attention by removing it.

Joshua sat with his face turned in profile, his thumb knuckle
pressed to his lower lip as he watched the dark store fronts
shuffle by. Mulder couldn't help but glance over at him. A
part of him wanted the violinist to keep his gaze away, while
another part, a more urgent part, wanted him to turn his
head and ask him one more time.

"I didn't get to wish you a happy birthday..." Mulder was
surprised to hear himself say.

It broke the man sitting next to him and he rolled his head
back against the seat with a small indeterminable sound and
his eyes, those deep blue eyes were on him, saying everything
they'd been trying to hide for the last week--in that look was
the simple agony of want.

Joshua's arm came up along the back of the seat. His
fingertips came to rest at the nape of Mulder's neck where
they paused to touch the curve of his jaw before slipping
back into the fine hairs behind his ear.

Mulder closed his eyes and just let himself feel the caress as
it stirred the tiny hairs and smoothed against the base of his
skull, around and around slowly, precisely. It was electric,
shooting sparks of feeling through a system that had shut
itself down long ago. The central core was beginning to
respond, and respond with a vengeance.

He felt the young man shift, coming to sit almost against him,
laying his palm against his cheek. He felt him lean in and the
warm softness of his lips touched his jaw, his neck, below his
ear--small gentle kisses, nudging their way under his chin
until a warm wet tongue traced the underridge of his lobe.
Mulder flinched and emitted a small sound and the musician
whispered, "Open your eyes..."

He opened his eyes and this time what he saw didn't scare
him half as much. Deep down he felt he could trust this man.
Joshua kissed his cheekbone, then kicked the intercom on
with his foot. "Driver, take us up Embarcadero...but don't
exit."

Mulder soon began to understand that once you stop
fighting, the surrender is almost a blessing. The need to
belong, to be accepted into this man's life, was so powerful it
equaled the compulsion of arousal. Indeed, Mulder knew
himself to be aroused, pushed to the brink with such
intensity he no longer remembered the reasons why this was
supposed to be wrong. He let his head fall back against the
seat and gave himself over freely to the touch of Joshua's
fine manipulative hands, slipping loose the knot of his tie,
undoing another tight button at his neck and another, lower-
-taking his time to touch his exposed skin with kisses and
brushes of his nose. He felt warm fingertips slipping through
the cotton of his shirt to graze his skin with small callouses
that marked the man by occupation.

A musician's practiced hands stroked his belly as his shirt
hung open, the fingers felt their way along the patch of hair
to his belt. Mulder turned his head suddenly in a mixed
response of acquiescence and doubt. His nose in Joshua's
hair, he could smell the man where his head lay against his
shoulder, under his chin, a tongue licking its way down his
throat. He didn't know where to put his hands, so he kept
them off--one on the door, one on the back of the seat. It
mattered that he do this right, he felt; it mattered that he not
offend the man; it mattered that he cared enough to want
him; and then nothing mattered as his belt slipped free and
those searching hands found him hard and ready.

###

The things you see. The things your eyes come to focus on
when the brain has slipped are what Mulder would remember
later. Up some forgotten street they had passed a gang of
dangerous children, running up toward the car as it sped past
them. A white cat bright as sunlight walked along the back of
a fence. An old man carrying a baguette stepped off the curb
into a puddle as he crossed the street. A streetwalker in a
pink sequined top, standing with her friend under a browned
street lamp, smiled at him where his forehead had
connected, pressed against the glass of the window looking
out, looking at everything--until his eyes rolled back into his
head and he came.

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

Another window. Joshua found him looking out again
through the windows of his flat--standing staring at the
water, at the empty street. He'd been so quiet, hardly a
sound had escaped him that long circuitous ride home in the
car. Mulder's shirt was still unbuttoned, hanging loosely like
a curtain opening to the perfect sculpture of his chest.

"You look good in blue," Joshua said, approaching him
slowly. "Very few men do." He came and stood behind the
man and took the shirt by the collar, slipping it off of him.
He kissed his bared shoulder and let his hands run down the
curve of his back. Mulder had done-up his pants before
leaving the car, the beads of sweat across his upper lip the
only remaining indication he'd been pleasured just moments
before. Joshua still felt the ache in his jaw from the effort it
took to bring him to climax. It was nothing compared to the
unsatisfied ache he felt for wanting this man; but where this
elusive FBI agent had shown patience with him, he was fully
willing to make the return sacrifice. He slipped a hand deep
into Mulder's left pocket and felt him there, rising.

Mulder turned his head, with a look of wonder and
confusion. "What are you doing to me?" he whispered.
Joshua pressed against him, letting him feel his own hard
need.

"I'm helping you feel again."

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

Naked, they sat together on the hard piano bench, straddling
it. Joshua had pulled it into the center of the bare floor, and
removing his clothes, sat upon it, beckoning Mulder to join
him.

Joshua's cock, slick from its own emissions, was thrusting
firmly against the small of his back while the musician's
tongue and lips worked their way around the muscles and
slopes of his back and shoulders.

The violinist's hands were between his thighs, urging them
apart as his fingers slipped low under his balls, caressing
them gently with each firm thrust against his back.

It was bizarre, different, incomprehensible--yet undeniably
erotic. In truth, Mulder had never known himself to be so
easily seduced; to have someone he'd known for so little time
bring him to such an extreme with so little fight.

Joshua's hands had left him and only one arm gripped him
fully about the waist as the man moaning softly behind him
jerked and let go a gasp as his warm fluid released, running
down between them, down the small of his back where they
sat pressed together.
 

*********************************
 

The moon moved into view through the wall of glass. It cast a
pale light over the back of the quiet Steinway onto the floor,
dragging the shadows of the turned legs to the edge of the
bed where two long bodies lay against one another--leg to
leg, arm over arm, draped in lazy serenity against each other.

An indeterminable amount of time passed before Mulder
opened his eyes to see Joshua looking down at him, his head
propped by an elbow, his other hand moving over the surface
of Mulder's chest.

"Was I asleep?" he asked, lifting his head, fearful that their
exertions had knocked him completely out of his sense of
duty.

"Yes, but I stayed awake. It's okay. You didn't sleep long. Your
gun's right over on the dresser."

Mulder closed his eyes and rested his head back against
Joshua's arm, letting himself give into the languidity of post-
pleasure bliss. Soon, he felt lips kissing his temple and he
opened his eyes again. Joshua looked as pleased as he was, if
not more so, and he'd barely touched the man tonight. He
needed to make up for that. Now that they were relaxed,
perhaps he could put aside his insecurity and find the
courage to give back a small portion of what had been
offered to him.

Mulder shifted up onto his elbow in like fashion and returned
the touching down Joshua's smooth stomach to his groin,
brushing the man's lighter skin with the back of his hand.
Something that had puzzled him earlier now became obvious
in the moonlight. The man was virtually hairless. It made him
look younger in an odd way--maturely pre-pubescent. Mulder
let his thumb pass over the bared scrotum; the skin
contracted and loosened under his touch.

"I suppose I'll need to explain that," Joshua said, letting his
leg slip back over his knee so Mulder could continue to
discover him. "I shave my testicles," he said with a nervous
grunt. "Damn, for some reason it sounds ridiculous when
explaining it to a man. Women don't mind. They generally
prefer not getting a mouthful of hair, and I enjoy the
freedom."

Mulder looked up at his new lover in this beautifully
awkward moment and for the first time tonight felt almost at
ease lying naked in bed with another man. He smiled despite
himself and shifted lower on the bed. "I guess I'll have to test
that theory."

Joshua shut his eyes and let his head fall back onto the pillow
as Mulder rotated his wrist to take his naked scrotum fully in
hand. "Please do."

Up close and personal, Mulder had to admit the sight of male
genitalia didn't do a whole lot for him. But holding Joshua's
maleness gently in the palm of his hand did give him a sense
of excitement, knowing that he could touch this man in a way
that was familiar to himself. He let his hand slide over the
naked sac and slip loosely around the younger man's half-
filled penis. He squeezed and tugged gently, feeling his own
arousal beginning to rebuild up out of restfulness as the
organ in his hand grew longer and fuller, stiffening at his
touch.

"Turn this way," Joshua whispered, brushing his hip and
Mulder complied, aligning his own burgeoning erection
against the violinist's perfect mouth.

It began with stroking and touching, Joshua mirroring his
moves as they entered the mutual serenade. Then with an
introductory kiss, Mulder let his mouth open to him,
uncertain of his accuracy, yet giving it his best try. Joshua
aided him in silent duplicate instruction--if it was too much
he let him feel it, if it was too little, he let him feel the
frustration as well. Step by step a method was formed as the
minutes ticked by until distracted by arousal to the point of
mindlessness, both men began to communicate their needs
through deep sucking mouthfuls and firm twisting grips
slickened by salivation for one another's climax. Joshua was
first to release, moaning in intense appreciation, keeping the
reciprocation earnest and constant though his contractions.
Mulder felt the sensation and bitter taste of come on his
tongue and quickly swallowed it, forgetting the temporary
foreignness as his own gripping peak reached him so much
easier and more lovingly than the night's first orgasmic
struggle. He clutched the man's ass with a groan and pushed
his own hips into his face until his ejaculation ceased.

Mulder rolled over onto his back and looked up at the high
ceiling and track lighting rails. As much as he knew this was
not the most conservative thing he had done during working
hours, he wasn't about to regret it, either. It was about time
he got paid to get fucked in a manner that pleased him. And
he was surprised at how much it pleased him.

"I never thought I'd find myself like this," he admitted, still
tasting the echoes of the other man's climax in the recesses
of his mouth. It was a little unnerving, but just a moment
earlier, he'd found the flavor of an aroused cock as sweet as
a woman and not particularly different.

"Most men don't," Joshua replied, shifting to rest the soft
waves of his hair against Mulder's hip. The tips of his fingers
brushed over Mulder's abdomen--the gentle strokes keeping
the nerves registering the euphoria of release in his groin and
belly alive and reverberating. "For some reason we're taught
it's wrong to share emotions with other men. We're not
allowed to cry or love one another. It's ridiculous. Why
shouldn't we be allowed to show affection?"

The affection concept was something that Mulder felt he
could understand, and focused his swirling feelings on it.
Never in his life had he been emotionally close to anyone of
his own sex, not his father, not his peers, and certainly not
any of the Gunmen. A vision of Frohike in a fluffy vest and
tutu pirouetted through his head and he laughed.

"What?" Joshua sounded like he wanted to be let in on the
joke.

"I'm sorry," he chuckled. "It's just that I don't believe I could
quite reach this level of intimacy with any of my current
male friends even if I wanted to. I think attraction has
something to do with it as well."

He raised his head to catch Joshua's shy flattered smile. He
hated to shatter the moment, but now that their sexual
cravings had abated he felt he'd best reassume the roll of
Federal agent before he fell asleep again. The thought of
Scully walking in at 4AM finding them wrapped up in one
another was more than he could process at this time. He sat
up and swung his legs over the end of the bed. He didn't have
the slightest idea how to explain this to her and figured it was
a much better plan if she just didn't find out. "I'd better get
dressed," he said and Joshua nodded compliantly. Mulder
knew from his expression the man would rather he stayed in
bed next to him and it touched him.

Mulder stood and collected his clothing, which had made
itself at home across Joshua's armchairs, couch and piano.
The imprint of two asses was still visible on the polished
black piano bench. Evidence, he thought, and ran his shirt
quickly over it.

Joshua rolled over sleepily to watch him dress. Mulder had
his pants and shoes back on and was working with his shirt
buttons and tie when he felt the need to ask. "You never told
me what happened to your lover."

"You mean, what happened to the man, or how did it end?"

Mulder looped the tie over, beginning the knot. "How did it
end?"

Joshua slipped his bare arm under the pillow and adjusted
himself more comfortably against it. "His family ran out of
money. Tuition was too high. He didn't make scholarship and
was sent back to New Jersey. I never saw or heard from him
again."

"I see," Mulder said, and cinched the knot up snugly against
his throat.

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

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

Chapter Eight: A Locked Box

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

Water was all around him as far as he could see. He was a
child floating in the Sutro salt water pool hundreds of feet
long with thousands of other kids suited in white and black
striped suits and billowy long bloomers. In his inflated water-
wings he could paddle without fearing his legs being too
short to touch the sandy bottom.

He heard the call of the carnival barkers and the squeals of
the other kids and he splashed around to face the shore. The
bumper cars were beeping and the ponies were walking in a
slow continuous circle in their corral, following the sandy
rump ahead of them.

"Joshua!"

Someone was calling his name. It was a man. He kicked
forward trying to find the voice among the swimmers.

"Joshua! Get out of the water!"

The voice sounded worried and he began to get scared. He
tried to kick toward shore, but the faster he'd paddle and
splash, the farther the dunes became. He began to cry out for
help and soon he saw one of the lifeguards rowing steadily
toward him in a rowboat, his back to him as he worked the
oars. He was wearing a long black coat as he rowed along
side him. The man reached into the water for him and pulled
his small child's frame up and into the boat.

The boy sat back and coughed, wiping the water from his
eyes. The man was wearing a suit and tie; he was tugging at
Joshua's arm.

"Joshua, show me your hands."

The child's arms lifted at his command and the fingers at the
ends of them were twisted and black.
 

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

Marina Flat
10:00 AM
Saturday
 

Joshua woke slowly. His mind wanted to wake and shake the
dark images from the recent dream, but his body was too
lazy to reply properly and he merely flopped over, planting
his face in the pillow next to him. A faint masculine scent
reached his nose and his lower body decided to inform him it
was high time to get up.

He opened his eyes, emitting a hazy moan. He felt terrible,
and he felt incredible. Fortune had indeed spun her wheel in
his favor last night. He'd had everything a man could hope
for in a birthday: a good performance, good friends, good
news, and plenty of food, drink...and sex. Now the resulting
hangover from a night well-lived was making his mouth feel
like spun cotton, and his head like the bottom of a kettle
drum. He was fuzzy enough at that moment to forget he was
sharing the space with a woman as he threw the covers back
and stood up, walking stiffly toward the bath.

Agent Scully gave a polite little cough for his benefit.

Joshua froze mid-stride. Scully was sitting on the couch as
usual; this time she really appeared to be involved in the
paperwork she held in her lap.

"Oh, sorry. Good morning, Scully."

"Good morning, Joshua," she replied pleasantly, keeping her
eyes on her work. Now both agents knew he carried a shorn
scrotum. Joshua hurried into the bathroom and shut the
door.

###

A long hot shower, a shave, and a couple tall glasses of
orange juice later, Joshua was feeling a good deal more
himself as he joined Scully at the couch to look at some mail
she had brought him from the field office.

"How's your wound?" she asked him as he took a seat next to
her, only half-dressed in his robe and a pair of loose slacks.
He pulled the robe from his shoulder so she could examine
it. He could feel the tickle of her fingertips as she touched
the skin around the pink ridge of the stitched cut. He wished
it was still Mulder's touch, but he supposed he'd have to wait
until later this evening to even talk to him. Joshua had a
matinee performance today at 2:30.

"It looks like it's doing well. You're keeping it bandaged when
you go out?"

"Yes, are you and Mulder coming to the show again today?"

"No, we have some work to see to. I think Dillmont and
another SF agent will be joining you this afternoon. I enjoyed
your performance last night; it was magnificent."

Joshua tried to hide his disappointment at the prospects of
lounging in the green room with Dillmont as he thanked her
for the compliment. He pulled his robe back on and reclined
into the cushions to leaf through the stack of mail. Every last
one had been opened and resealed with a flimsy strip of clear
tape, courtesy of the Federal Government.

"They didn't find anything unusual in your recent mail. As far
as we know, Schmidt was the last suspect to send anything
through the US Post Office. It also appears that Harris has
stopped writing. Mulder arranged to give Harris access to
another pencil, but he's yet to use it."

Joshua looked up from flipping through his assortment of
bills, letters and birthday cards. "Why do you think they've
stopped?"

"We're not sure, exactly," she said, slipping her notes back
into a file. "But they do appear to stop writing over time--
perhaps after they've ceased to be useful."

"Is that your theory or Mulder's?" he asked with a grin.

She returned the good humor. "Mulder's, but I'd be inclined
to agree with him in this instance."

Joshua decided their casual repartee might be accepting of a
little probing. "How long have you been working with Agent
Mulder?"

"Almost seven years," she answered with reverence.

"That's a long time," Joshua acknowledged. "Pardon my
asking, but as a scientist, what drew you to Mulder's work?"

Scully sat up straighter, looking forward into the light of the
windows. "At first, I was assigned to him. Then over time I
developed an interest in the work, became invested."

"Six years is quite a commitment to make for something you
don't believe in."

Scully turned her head, considering his statement. "I may not
believe in Mulder's theories, but I do believe in Mulder. He's
a tough act to pass up. I guess I want to see how it ends."

Joshua nodded, pleased with the answer. "I imagine it will be
quite a curtain call." Scully smiled lightly and dropped her
eyes to her work--there was more to her story, but she
wasn't about to divulge its plot. Joshua let her off the hook
and busied himself with his mail. There was quite a lot of it.
He breezed past most of the business-related items, spending
his time reading the birthday cards and standing them up on
the coffee table one by one until something caught his eye.
There was a long envelope from the Philadelphia Westbridge
Bank with URGENT-FINAL NOTICE typed in red across it. He
popped the tape off and opened the head letter.

"Dear Sir: Since we have not received word from your
representatives, it is our duty by state law to take possession
of the property at 10056 Hampshire Lane and proceed with
the auctioning of your unclaimed possessions held at this
address...."

Joshua couldn't believe his eyes, and gave them a good rub
before continuing. Then he read the letter again from the
beginning just to make sure it wasn't last night's champagne
still talking.

"Something wrong?" Scully asked, picking up on his distress.

"Yes...it would appear I'm no longer a resident of
Pennsylvania."

"What's happened?"

Joshua stuffed the letter back into the envelope in disgust.
"There must be some mistake. The Westbridge Bank says I've
defaulted on my loan. They've taken my property *and* my
personal effects which will soon be sold to the highest
bidder."

"Are you having financial difficulties?"

Joshua shook his head in an amazed negative. "Last time I
checked, I was gainfully employed. Not to mention I'm about
to sign a rather impressive contract with the Vienna
Philharmonic. Dammit! I have a Louis XIV harpsichord at that
address."

"Are your other properties in good standing?"

"Yes, the flat in New York and this one here," he said,
indicating their surroundings, "I own outright. The
Philadelphia property is a new purchase. I have it on a short-
term loan. Somehow, $60,000 has vanished. I need to call
Nanette right away."

Scully pulled out her cellphone and offered it to Joshua. He
took it and dialed his manager and waited anxiously while the
phone rang and rang, unanswered. Joshua beeped it off, and
glanced at his watch. "She's not home and I have to be at
Davies in under two hours."

"We could go by there on your way to the Hall," Scully
suggested.

Joshua stood up to go finish dressing. "Good idea. I'd like to
get over to her house as soon as possible."
 

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

1034 Sloat Blvd.
12:45 PM
 

Nanette lived between the ocean and the zoo in the Parkside
district, away from the main bustle of the city. The land
leveled off at this southern end of the San Francisco
peninsula, allowing the scent of sea foam, giraffe and
eucalyptus to blow freely through the streets. Scully parked
outside the narrow two-story Victorian, positioned flush to
the neighboring bay windowed homes that were the city's
architectural trademark.

Joshua exited the car, bank letter in hand, and jogged up the
steps to ring the bell. He waited, but there was no answer.
Nanette wasn't expecting him and she might have hopped
aboard MUNI to do some shopping for the morning. Scully
joined him at the front landing.

"No one home?"

"No, but I do have a key," he said, pulling out a small chain of
keys and unlocking the front door.

They stepped inside and Joshua called out for Nanette, but
there was nobody home.

"Her coat and bag are gone," he said, pointing to the empty
coat rack as he turned to shut the door behind them.

"Are you going to leave her a note?" Scully asked, following
Joshua up the hardwood floor hallway to a large room at the
back of the house where Nanette kept her office.

"Yes, but I'd also like to have a look around." Joshua knew
Scully could tell he was just a little suspicious, and she took
up the unspoken suggestion to help him inspect the room.

Joshua started with the writing desk set next to the chintz-
curtained window. The desk was an antique from the turn-of-
the-century, filled with tiny drawers and slots for arranging
papers and checks and receipts. Nana managed his personal
expenses, credit cards and traveling arrangements. An
accountant in New York handled his investments, properties
and taxes, but ultimately it was Nanette's job to make sure he
kept up with all the payments. He wondered which end of the
financial duo had dropped the ball.

Nothing seemed amiss as he pulled out and replaced the
contents of each cubby. Behind him, he could hear Scully
fingering through the items on the bookshelf and wall desk,
dragging open the heavy oak drawers.

"Joshua?"

He jumped a little at the sound of her voice. Why was he so
nervous? "Yes?"

"There's a lock box in the bottom drawer of this desk; do you
know what's in it?"

Joshua came over to peek down at the green metal box. "I
have no idea," he answered, bending over to lift it onto the
desk. It wasn't heavy, but did sound like it was filled with
something. "It's locked all right."

Scully pulled out a lockpick. "I thought this might come in
handy here," she said, and in a moment the box top popped
open. Joshua lifted the lid; inside he found a stack of old
yellowed papers and warped photographs, decades old. He
pulled them out one by one, turning them over carefully as
some were bible-page-thin and brittle to the touch. There
were letters written in both French and Russian dating back
to the 1920s and 30s; and two birth certificates, one for
Nanette, and another, an old, partially burned synagogue
document handwritten in Cyrillic. Of the stained and faded
sepia-tone photos, there were pictures of an old farm in
winter; a photo of a young girl with bows in her hair and long
strings of pearls around her neck; two women in kerchiefs
picking flowers; and finally a photo of two young farmers,
standing arm in arm, smiling, with a large tractor behind
them. There was a caption at the bottom of this photo,
written in aged-brown ink. Joshua recognized the only
Russian he could read, his grandfather's name--Ivan Segulyev.

"That's my grandfather," he said to Scully, pointing to the
photo's lettering.

"Which man?"

Joshua shook his head. He'd never seen a photo of his
grandfather young, without the long beard. "I don't know. I
can't recognize him, only his name. By his age, this must
have been taken before he left the Ukraine."

Scully pulled out the Russian birth announcement, holding its
place in the stack so it could be slipped back in. "Is this your
grandfather's, too?"

Joshua looked it over again. The birth year was 1913, one
year too late. He did not see his grandfather's name on the
document. "No. I don't know who that belongs to."

"Was Nanette ever married?" Scully asked.

"Yes, for a brief period to a man here in San Francisco while I
was away on tour. He was ill; he died before I ever met him. I
think Nana married him so she could stay in the US and he
could have someone to take care of him in his last days."

"Do you remember his name?"

"It was Barry Anderson. Nanette kept his last name."

"Was he from Russia, originally?"

Joshua thought it over. "No. I don't think so. Funny, but I
never even saw a picture of him."

"I think we should give some of these documents a closer
look, Joshua. But I can't be responsible for them; that would
be an illegal seizure."

Joshua understood. "I'll take them, then. We can copy them,
and I'll put them back before she knows they're gone."

Joshua found a large manila envelope and carefully slid the
contents of the lock box into it, folding over the top while
Scully slipped the emptied box back into the bottom drawer,
closing it tight. "I think we'd better get out of here," he said,
and Scully agreed.
 

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

1:30 PM

"I'll call you back after my performance. Just get out to
Philadelphia as soon as you can. Thank you...I hope it's all a
misunderstanding, too." Joshua set the cellphone back on the
dash as Scully drove him up to Davies.

"Well, this is strange...I don't know how much of that you
caught, but Nanette asked my accountant to turn over the
handling of the Philadelphia property in a signed letter from
myself about five months ago--around the time the bank
stopped receiving the payments. I'm concerned she may have
forged my signature. I know she knows how to do that; it's
been useful in getting things done while I'm out of reach, at
least until now."

"I can see where that ability might leave room for abuse,"
Scully commented.

Joshua let out a perturbed sigh. "I know she must have a very
good reason. Perhaps I am in some kind of financial bind and
she'd rather I didn't find out until the end of my California
concert series. But why she didn't tell me earlier...? God, I
can't even think about this right now. I have downbeat in
under an hour."

"You realize, Joshua, that however well-meaning Nanette's
motives may be, she's probably been hiding more than a few
unpleasant notices from you. Have you wondered how many
threat letters she might have intercepted?"

"I have been thinking about that," Joshua said, shifting
nervously, trying to maintain composure over his growing
uneasiness. "I keep telling myself she's just been trying to
protect me, but sixty thousand dollars... She's never handled
my large assets, nor taken an interest in them--it just doesn't
make sense."

"Are you assuming she embezzled the funds?"

"I hope not. If she needed money, all she needed to do was
ask--she knows that. What disturbs me even more, ironically,
is the photo of my grandfather. I know he purposely didn't
keep any photos of himself prior to his arrival in the US. He
was always afraid someone would find him and drag him
back, even after he became naturalized. I have no idea what
she's doing with one locked in a box in her office."

"If there's anything I've learned from my years as an agent,
Joshua, it's that people are often not what they seem."

Joshua pulled at a stray thread on his shirt sleeve, snapping it
off. "I realize that, but as an artist I *need* to be able to
completely rely on my representatives, especially during a
performance run. Thus far this week, my handlers have only
served to further complicate my life."

"I'll assure you, that Mulder and I are trying to do everything
we can to reverse that."

Joshua caught himself just short of saying something he
shouldn't. If anyone was guilty of complicating his life, it was
himself. He wondered if Mulder was awake yet and if he was
feeling the multi-layers of distraction, too.
 

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

Marriott Hotel
1:35 PM

"...you were stolen from us...your life is not your own...we
have been searching...we have found you...we were sacrificed
for you...you are the one...stop before we stop you...see what
you will not see...see where you came from...you are us..."

"...bury the grain and slaughter the livestock...we are
hungry..."

The phrases had variations, but the strips of paper Mulder
was working with simplified and condensed into more or less
one message. Except, of course, the lines of Russian.

Mulder rolled over on the bed onto his back and stared up at
the blank ceiling. He was showered and dressed, but Scully
was late getting over to meet him. Her delay was fortunate,
because he needed this time to try and assimilate last night's
rather unexpected detour. Was it just a case of being caught
in the right frame of mind? he wondered. Or am I completely
losing my mind? One thing he did know for certain: last night
Joshua had taken him to bed and he'd offered no protest. He
hadn't been this surprised by himself since hypnotherapy had
called up his first visions of aliens. That otherworldly
revelation had completely shattered his world view. He
worried Joshua might have the potential to exact a similar
effect from him.

Certainly, Mulder had the openness of mind to appreciate the
aesthetics of both sexes; but to become sexually aroused and
satisfied by a male, well, he just didn't know what to make of
that and flipped back over on his side to look at the print-
outs again. His detour was just that, he decided, a random
occurrence. His work was his world and in that world was
Scully. Whatever happened last night had no influence on
that. Or so he hoped.

Scully had made thorough notes on the translations Nanette
had given her. Letter for letter had been spelled out on the
notepad he had torn into individual words. Comparing the
notes to the photoprints, he realized for the first time that
not all the letters were accounted for. Checking again, letter
by letter, he was able to find four stray characters. He copied
them down as accurately as he could onto a fresh piece of
stationery and walked over to his laptop, taking a seat at the
desk.

He searched the internet until he found an English/Russian
dictionary with spell-assist. Activating the Cyrillic typeface
option, he ran his fingers along the keyboard until he located
the matching symbols on the notepad. E, N, O & P were the
keys to hit and he began typing in random variations in
groups of three and asking the dictionary to translate. The
reply was the same each time--"No word match, try again"--
until a particular arrangement caught the interest of the
spell-assist and the computer rearranged the last two letters
adding the fourth to spell, in phonetic English, the word
CHUTOVE.
 

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

San Francisco Public Library
4:10 PM
 

'...nous sommes excitées pour votre arrivée...'

Mulder was tempted to check the morning paper for a
special weather report from Hell. Not only had his by-the-
book partner brought him illegally seized evidence from
Joshua's manager's home this afternoon, but his virtually
useless college courses in conversational French were finally
beginning to pay off. Of course a freak cold snap in Hades
would go a long way to explaining last night, too, but he
really didn't want to go there again just yet. He didn't need
any additional fuel on the still smoldering fire he was trying
to snuff out and wondered if there was some truth to the
phrase, "freshly fucked glow," and if so, would Scully be able
to recognize it? The odd glances she was giving him as she sat
across the table, leafing through an oversized World
Almanac, might be evidence of it. Mulder didn't know if he
should feel ashamed, apologetic or smug.

"Mulder...?"

He matched her glance passively. "Yeah?"

"Are you doing okay with the translation? We should be able
to locate an interpreter for French far easier than the
Russian."

"Je suis trés compétent," he answered, hoping that meant,
'I'm all over it.' She just shook her head, cocking another
weird smile, and resumed flipping through the musty book of
facts, figures and numbers.

Mulder had the surreptitious photocopies of the lock box's
French letters spread out in front of him, along with an
English/French dictionary to help him with the longer words.
He was a little weak on the past imperfect conjugations as
well, but they'd already wasted two hours finding a Russian
translator who was now over 45 minutes late meeting them
at the library.

"Here it is, Mulder. Chutove, or Chutovo, depending on
translation--a Ukrainian agricultural village of 12,000 people,
45 miles from the south-western Russian border. Their main
crops are wheat, barley, vegetables, sugar beets, cherries and
apricots...herding animals, cattle, sheep, goats..." she read on
in silence for a few lines. "The population ratio of Ukraine is
73% Ukrainian and 22% Russian. Chief languages are
Ukrainian and Russian. The monetary unit is the Hryunya and
the chief religions are Ukrainian Orthodox and
Catholic...Nothing significant is jumping out at me. What was
particular about this village other than the fact Joshua's
grandfather hails from it?"

"Je ne sais pas. Mais, l'homme décharné..."

"Mulder, cut the French, already."

He smiled. He got a good ol' fashioned eyebrow for that. It
made all lack of logical sense that they'd be in step *today.*

"Tell me what they say...in English, sil vous plait."

Mulder tapped his pencil eraser on the edge of the copy,
glancing over his translation notes. "From what I can tell,
these are a series of letters dating from 1927-29 addressed
to Nanette's mother in Nice, France from her sister, Anna, in
Chutove, Ukraine. Nanette and her mother, Claire, were
either abandoned or never claimed by Nanette's father, and
from what these letters indicate, in need of a home. Most of
the contents are related to a planned relocation for the both
of them from France to Anna and her husband Ivan's wheat
farm in Chutove."

"Is there a last name given for Ivan or Anna? Joshua's
grandfather's first name was Ivan. That would make Joshua
Nanette's second cousin."

Mulder looked the signatures over. "Both sisters are
addressing themselves as Bizet--maiden names."

"Pardon me, but are you the agents who called me this
afternoon?" A heavy-set man in his late fifties with dark curly
hair and a short matching beard stood at the end of their
table addressing them in a rich accent. Leo Petrovsky was the
editor and publisher of the Ukraine Liberator, a native
language newspaper for Bay Area-Ukrainian immigrants.

"Yes, Mr. Petrovsky," Scully said, greeting him. "I'm Agent
Scully and this is my partner, Agent Mulder. Please have a
seat. We appreciate your helping us during your deadline."

Petrovsky gave a curt grunt and nod and took a heavy seat in
a chair at the end of the table. "I understand you need
translations of some documents."

"We do," said Scully. "There are several pages, but,
depending on your time, we'd like translations for these
first." She pushed over a stack of carefully unfolded papers.
On top was the singed synagogue document. Petrovsky
picked it up gently, turning it over in his hands. His thick lips
moved silently as he read it over.

"This is not Russian," he said, setting it down and laying his
finger on it. "This is a document in the Ukrainian language,
dated February 10, 1913. It is a birth record, handwritten by
a rabbi. These are very rare. The paper is burned, it must
have survived the destruction of holy places and relics during
the Revolution."

"Is there a name for the child on the document?" Mulder
asked.

Leo frowned, reading the document over again. "The name is
burned. It is hard to read. The first name is Alexander, the
family name is Ko...ka or Ko...kov, I can't be certain."

Mulder leaned back in his chair, rolling his pencil between
his finger and thumb. "I've been trying to determine the
cultural significance of a particular Russian phrase. Does
'...bury the grain and slaughter the livestock...we are hungry,'
mean anything to you?"

The man looked insulted and frowned at Mulder. "Of course,
you are speaking of the terror-famine of 1933."

Mulder was surprised at Leo's gruff reaction, and tried to
make amends. "I'm sorry, I'm not familiar with Ukrainian
history. What famine?"

The man's dark eyes glanced Mulder over. "You are Jewish,
correct?"

Mulder nodded. "Yes, partially."

"And you've learned everything there is to know about the
Nazi Holocaust, am I right?"

"Of course."

"Yet you don't know there was an even greater crime
committed against humanity in that same decade--genocide
on a scale the modern world has never witnessed, and has
almost forgotten."

Mulder tried to say something calming in what was clearly a
hostile topic for this man, but Petrovsky was determined to
explain it in his own manner.

"Millions of Ukrainian and Russian men, women, and
children were murdered in the name of collectivization--all
to prove a useless point, to enforce an inhuman form of
government--socialism."

"How?" Scully interjected. The man softened at the sound of
her empathic voice, but continued to bluntly relate the
unimaginable details.

"Joseph Stalin ordered the murder of over nine million souls
by the worst means possible--by starving them--a man-made
famine. When Ukrainian peasants refused to bow under
Soviet collectivization--the seizure of their land--he ordered
the Red Army to march in and slaughter all their animals and
take their food supplies. Then Moscow raised the grain
procurement quota by 44%--a goal so high it left the
peasants with nothing to feed their families. Farmers who
failed to meet these demands or tried to flee their homes
were shot or sent to prison work farms in Siberia.

"The work animals died first. Dogs and cats were eaten, bark
from trees, grass, garbage, everything. Do you know what
happens to a man as he slowly starves? The mind goes insane,
loses all reason and value--parents were known to have killed
and eaten their children."

Scully closed her eyes and her fingers touched her forehead.

"I am sorry for my coarseness," he said, addressing Mulder in
a somewhat calmer tone. "But you, along with the rest of
complacent America, should know."

Mulder nodded in somber agreement. "Would the village of
Chutove have been ravaged by this famine as well?"

The man rolled his tongue about his mouth, thinking.
"Chutove...oh, yes, Chutovo--as I recall it was deserted along
with neighboring Poltava when the Red Cross arrived in 1934
to try and locate survivors."

Mulder slid a photograph toward the man, the one of
Joshua's grandfather. "Can you estimate when this photo was
taken by the caption or design of the tractor?"

Petrovsky looked at the photo carefully, pulling out a pair of
reading glasses. "It looks like a Lithuanian-made thresher,
circa 1929. My uncles had one similar. The words say: 'Ivan
Segulyev and his new iron workhorse.'"

"You lost family," Scully said, understanding.

"Yes. Most of them. Five uncles and two aunts and their 18
children. I lost two half brothers. Only my father managed to
escape into Poland. I do everything I can to see that they are
not forgotten."
 

###

5:50 PM

Mulder sat back in the scruffy plaid library chair waiting for
Scully to return with their dinner. Leo was still working over
the Russian/Ukrainian documents in his slow stubborn
manner, refusing to speak a word until he was finished.
Mulder picked up the Chronicle and leafed through it, not
really reading more than the headlines.

He glanced at his watch. Two hours until he'd have to face
Joshua again. He figured the best course was to thank him
for the evening, let him know he had no regrets, but for the
sake of the case (and his own questionable professional
reputation), they'd best keep things zipped up from here on.
Still, it was going to be some time before he shook free the
memory of that dark head descending into his lap. He
swallowed and unfolded the next section.

Joshua, roguishly handsome and leaning into the sound of his
violin, graced the entertainment section in full color. Mulder
recoiled from the unexpected jolt that image sent him. Jesus,
didn't the man *ever* take a bad picture? It was a review of
last night's performance--"Segulyev Mesmerizes Davies with
Mendelssohn."

Mulder added his own caption: *Later, violinist seduces
secret FBI guard in back of limo, film at eleven.* Mulder
couldn't help but chuckle at his own indulgent sense of self-
flagellation. Leo grunted from the table behind him and kept
on scribbling and crossing out words, mumbling something
about the absurdity of the English language.

Mulder ignored him and read from the review:

"...Segulyev takes risks with his phrasing, letting the emotion
of the moment carry his bow into a daring diversion of the
classic literature. His clarity of tone and exceptional
mastering of the higher octaves at once thrills and fools the
ear into an unbound sense of passion and sublime journey,
tossing the soul of the listener as one gloriously lost at sea."

Mulder only had half an idea what the hell that was supposed
to mean, but it sounded enthusiastic. The next paragraph
wasn't quite so favorable.

"...A pity that in his later years this remarkable modern
virtuoso has retired from pulling at the reins of advanced
interpretation at what should be his most personalized
moment--the cadenza. Where one would be expected to
witness an unveiling of genius, one instead hears much of
what Mendelssohn himself would have stroked from his own
violin over 150 years ago. Segulyev falls flat with a
technically accurate, yet unimaginative expression of the
written notes. With the likes of Nigel Kennedy penning their
own cadenzas, the violin concerto has experienced a revival
of the art of improvisation unknown since the days of
Mozart. Sadly, this movement has yet to make a pilgrimage
to Davies Symphony Hall."

Who the heck was this guy to say Joshua's performance was
unimaginative? Dick Greene, staff writer. Mulder doubted
Greene had sacrificed public school and his playmates to
begin studying journalism at the age of ten. He folded the
section over in disgust as the scent of smuggled Mongolian
barbecue filled the study room as Scully slipped in, closing
the door behind her.

###

6:12 PM

Mulder stabbed his chopsticks back into the noodles, holding
them while Leo made a big show of laying out his completed
translations. The scent of soy and toasted sesame was
beginning to draw forth a few wandering snifflers. It would
be only a matter of time before he and Scully got booted for
the inappropriate gastronomic use of library facilities.

"These are very important letters," said Petrovsky with grave
conviction. "Very significant. Take good care of them. They
are from a farming log written in Russian, kept by a man as
his family entered the start of the famine. The first five pages
mostly log the daily business activities, grain storage levels,
weather forecasts and harvest estimates. The second section
details an army raid made on the farm and the killing of their
goats and pigs. He speaks of burying food to hide from the
soldiers. He speaks of fear of hunger for his family as the
winter settles in. There is an old Orthodox prayer, then he
speaks of nothing. The log ends."

"This other document here is very odd. It is a list of family
names--I have tried to spell them out phonetically for you. It
is a register of a collection of a large sum of money--a total
of 35,000 rubles."

"Is the family name Segulyev on the list?"

"Yes it is--right here."

"Can you determine the name of the author of these
documents?" Mulder asked.

"There are no names given. The farmer refers to his friends
and family by their association to him--daughter, son, wife--
as is custom."

Scully then asked a question that completely baffled Mulder.
"How much would that total on the register be in today's US
currency? Anywhere close to sixty-thousand dollars?"

Leo looked impressed. "By today's standard exchange,
adjusting for 65 years or so of inflation and unitary
readjustment-- I'd say that would be a good educated guess."

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

next chapters 9-12