From: Brandon Ray <publius@avalon.net>
Date: Sat, 09 Jan 1999 08:30:00 -0600
Subject: NEW:  Almost Midnight (1/6) by Brandon Ray


TITLE:  Almost Midnight (1/6)

AUTHOR:  Brandon D. Ray

EMAIL ADDRESS:  publius@avalon.net

DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT:  Anywhere and everywhere, so long as my name
stays on it and no money changes hands.

FEEDBACK:  Go ahead; knock yourself out.

SPOILER WARNING:  Numerous spoilers all the way through Season 6.

RATING:  PG-13, for language.

CONTENT WARNING:  Bad words.

CLASSIFICATION:  XRA; MulderAngst and TaraAngst; M/S friendship;
Mulder/Tara friendship; Bill,jr/Tara romance

SUMMARY:  Fox Mulder and Tara Scully team up to solve a mutual problem,
and find themselves swept up in an X-File.

Another in the Bill Scully series, the previous entries being
"Insurmountable Opportunities" and "Seven Days in November".  I don't
think you need to have read the previous stories to "get" this one,
although there are bits that would probably make a little more sense if
you had.  I guess the one thing you SHOULD know, if you haven't read the
first two stories, is that Mulder and Bill, jr, have pretty much buried
the hatchet.  They aren't exactly drinking buddies, but they get along.

"IO" and "SDiN", as well as all my other stories, can be found at:

http://www.avalon.net/~publius/MyStories.html

NOTE:  I have stolen the title for this story from a novel by Martin
Caidin.  It was...less than wonderful, and this story really has nothing
to do with Caidin's (although it has a vaguely similar theme).  But the
title was cool, and so I have liberated it.

DISCLAIMER:  In my dreams....

Missing parts?  You can find the entire story at:
http://www.avalon.net/~publius/MyStories.html

DEDICATIONS:  To Nonie, for tireless beta tests.  To Rachel, for
nagging.  And to the two Kristens for help with the San Diego locale.
Of course, any flaws herein are my responsibility.



Almost Midnight

by Brandon D. Ray (publius@avalon.net)


Fox Mulder's Apartment, Alexandria, VA
December 25, 11:58 p.m.

It was dark and the phone was ringing.

Fox Mulder struggled groggily to wakefulness, trying to sort out what
was real from the dream he'd been having.  The phone ringing for the
third time helped orient him, and he clumsily reached out and grabbed
the receiver before the answering machine could pick it up.

"Mulder," he mumbled.

There was silence on the other end; then he thought he heard someone
breathing.

"Hello?" he said, more sharply.  "Is someone there?"

"Fox."  It was a woman's voice, very faint.

Who the hell?  There were only a handful of people who might call him at
this time of night, and only one or two of them would call him by his
first name.  His eyes flicked over to the Caller I.D. box, and his
photographic memory identified the number instantly.

"Tara?" he said.

"Oh, Fox," she said, and this time he detected a tremor in her voice.

"Tara, what's wrong?"

There was another silence, and he thought he heard a choked sob.  "Fox,
I need your help.  I don't know who else to turn to.  The police say
they can't do anything, and the Shore Patrol --"

"Tara!" he repeated sharply.  "What's wrong?  What's going on?"

There was another silence, longer than the others, and when she finally
spoke again, he could barely hear her.  "Bill is missing.  And so is
Dana."

#          #          #

Ten minutes later Mulder hung up the phone.  He'd spent five of those
minutes calming her down, and another five gleaning from her what little
information she had.  Scully had been visiting her brother and his
family for Christmas -- that much Mulder already knew.  On the evening
of the 23rd she and Bill had gone out in search of eggnog.  They had not
returned.

Tara had, of course, notified the appropriate authorities:  The San
Diego Police and the Shore Patrol.  Neither agency had been able to find
Dana or her brother.  Not a clue, not a lead, nothing.  To all
appearances brother and sister had climbed into his car, pulled out of
the driveway, and vanished without a trace.

But Fox Mulder had been living in the shadows for a long time, and one
thing he knew with certainty:  Nothing vanishes without a trace.

Now he started dialing airline ticket reservation offices.  Twenty weary
minutes later his initial suspicion was confirmed:  There was not a
single seat available on any flight from Washington to California until
after the first of the year.  Which was, of course, totally
unacceptable.

Next he called Skinner.  The phone was answered on the sixth ring.

"Hello?"  His former supervisor's voice was foggy with sleep.

"This is Mulder.  I need your help."

"Wha --?  Mulder?"  A pause.  "I'm not supposed to be talking to you."
Another pause.  "Do you know what time it is?"

"Scully's missing."  He didn't say "again".  He didn't have to.  "So's
her brother Bill."

Another pause, very brief.  Then:  "What can I do?"

"I need a civilian air transport priority for Delta Flight 1109,
departing from Dulles at 5:30 this morning, with a connection in Atlanta
with Delta 423, non-stop to San Diego."

A faint rustling sound.  "Okay, got it.  Anything else?"

"I also need to assert federal jurisdiction, with myself as SAC."

"Jurisdiction shouldn't be a problem," Skinner replied.  "Scully is a
federal agent, and her brother's in the Navy, right?"

"That's right."

Skinner continued, "But the San Diego SAC may have some problems with an
outsider --"

"Fuck the San Diego office," Mulder said flatly.  "If they were doing
their jobs, instead of sitting around with their thumbs up their
collective asses, maybe this kind of thing wouldn't happen."  He was
being irrational, and he knew it, but there was no one else to take his
anger out on.

There was another moment of silence.  Finally, Skinner said, "I'll see
what I can do, Mulder."  He hesitated.  "Have you spoken to Kersh?"

Kersh.  The new A.D.  Mulder hadn't even considered calling the man; he
didn't really know him, and he certainly didn't trust him.  "No."

He could almost hear Skinner nodding to himself.  "All right.  All
right, I guess I understand.  I'll do my best to expedite things for
you; with luck your authority should be waiting for you by the time you
arrive in San Diego.  Anything else?"

"Not for now."

"Keep in touch, Mulder.  I'll do anything I can to help; you know that."

"I know."  And he punched the disconnect button savagely.

One more call to make.  This time the phone was answered promptly, and
the voice at the other end sounded as alert as it ever did.

"Frohike," Mulder said.  "Turn off the tape."

After the briefest of hesitations:  "Done."

"I need some research done, and I need it fast.  I need you to get me
everything you can find on a missing persons case.  The information will
be in the files of the San Diego Police Department and wherever the hell
the local headquarters of the Navy Shore Patrol is located in that
area.  The subjects are Bill and Dana Scully."

A shocked silence.  "Jesus.  I'll get right on it."

"Whatever you find, send it to me on the net.  My private account; not
the FBI one.  I'm flying out of Dulles at 5:30, and expect to be in San
Diego by 12:30 or so Washington time.  If you can start feeding me
information before then, I can study the files on the plane and hit the
ground running as soon as I arrive."  He hit disconnect without waiting
for a response.

Mulder rose from the sofa and moved rapidly to his bedroom.  Owing to
the nature of his job, he always kept a suitcase packed and ready to
go.  All he had to do was add a few toilet items, and his Sig Sauer.
The entire process took less than ten minutes, leaving him with far too
much time to kill before he had to leave for the airport.  He considered
finding something to eat, but his stomach rebelled at the very idea.  He
considered pouring himself a drink to calm his nerves, but he was afraid
that once he started drinking he wouldn't be able to stop.  Finally, he
sat down on the sofa again to wait.

#          #          #

Dulles International Airport
December 26, 5:14 a.m.

The airport was crowded, even at five in the morning.  Mulder knew he
should have expected that, given the impossibility of making a
reservation without using government muscle, but he hadn't really
thought about it, and the reality of the bright lights, the incessant
Christmas music on the overhead speakers, and the jostling, happy crowds
of travelers came as something of a shock.  For the past five hours he'd
been living in a world even darker than the one he usually inhabited,
and finding himself suddenly in a bubble of holiday cheer was hard to
cope with.

At first he had dealt with it by ignoring it, and concentrating on the
mundane tasks of procuring his boarding pass, getting his gun past
airport security, and making a belated phone call to Tara to let her
know he was on his way and when to expect him.  But that had taken only
so long, and now he was sitting in the waiting area of his assigned
gate, trying not to think too much.

God, he was tired; he was exhausted.  He knew he should have slept; he'd
only been asleep for a couple of hours when Tara's phone call came, and
the only thing he was certain of was that the day ahead was going to be
a long one.  But just as his stomach had refused to entertain the idea
of food, so his mind had refused to embrace the concept of sleep.  He'd
alternated sitting on the sofa not watching the television, and pacing
restlessly through his apartment.  He'd thought about going running as a
means of diversion, but shied away from it, not wanting to leave the
shelter of his apartment until he absolutely had to.  Not wanting to
acknowledge that there was a world out there, and that he had to deal
with it somehow.

<<God, Scully, what have they done to you this time?>>

He had finally gotten past the guilt he used to feel when something
happened to her.  After Antarctica, it had at last seeped down into his
soul that she was there with him because she wanted to be, because she
had as much invested in this quest as he did.  He had known that with
the top of his mind for a long time, but it had really only been lip
service; his heart had not been in it.  She had known that, and deep
down he had known it, and hated himself for not giving her the respect
she needed and deserved, but they had seldom spoken of it, because those
conversations always ended so badly.

But somehow, out there on the ice fields, holding each other as they
waited to die and watched an indisputably alien spaceship rising into
the sky, the knowledge had finally trickled down to the small, dark
place where Fox Mulder really lived.  At that moment, as he finally
acknowledged in his heart that she was a free and independent adult, he
had also realized that the one who had really been imprisoned by his
obtuseness had been not his partner, but himself, and that now, finally,
he was setting himself free.

Somehow they had struggled out of that experience alive, and they had
both emerged the stronger for it, as well as infinitely closer.  But
still they hadn't spoken of it.  Both of them had recognized the change,
but by its very nature it hadn't seemed necessary to say anything.

He had thought for awhile that they might become lovers, but that hadn't
happened either, and after awhile that seemed right, too.  They were
closer than lovers, and Mulder had come to realize that adding sex to
the equation would be...wrong, somehow.  Not morally wrong, but wrong in
the only way that mattered:  It would be wrong for them.  As he had
remarked to her just last month, at the height of another case which
neither of them had expected to survive, "We don't need that, Scully.
That's not us.  That's not real.  If we did that, we would not be who we
are."  And she had agreed.

None of this, of course, made it hurt any less, now that she was missing
again.  But unlike so many occasions in the past, this time it was a
clean hurt.

Finally they called his flight, and he was able to stop thinking again
for awhile.

#          #          #

Somewhere over Arizona
December 26, 8:59 a.m., Pacific Standard Time

The trip from Washington to San Diego was the longest seven hours of Fox
Mulder's life.

First had been the comparatively short hop to Atlanta; then an
excruciating 55 minute wait for the connecting flight.  Finally they
were in the air, headed west, but still time seemed to drag, and the
fact that he was seated next to a young couple bubbling over with love
hadn't helped matters at all.

As soon as they were airborne he'd opened his laptop and logged onto his
ISP, but there was nothing there from Frohike, which meant that there
was nothing there of importance.  He'd spent the next three hours
disciplining himself to only check his email once every quarter hour,
which required almost all the self-control he had, and also left him
with more then fourteen and a half minutes out of every fifteen with
nothing to occupy his mind.

Now, finally, there was the message icon blinking in the upper left hand
corner.  With a sigh of relief Mulder clicked on the icon and waited for
the message to appear.

Two minutes later he slammed the laptop shut in disgust.  Nothing.
Nothing nothing nothing.  Frohike had been apologetic almost to the
point of obsequiousness, but the fact remained that he'd found nothing
that Tara hadn't already told Mulder over the phone the night before.
The San Diego Police Department's records showed only a routine missing
persons investigation:  No clues, no evidence, no leads.  Dead end.  And
the Shore Patrol didn't even have that much; from the information
available on their intranet, they were barely interested.

Thank god he was almost to San Diego, so he could start a real
investigation.

#          #          #

San Diego International Airport
December 26, 9:48 a.m.

The San Diego airport was just as crowded and just as overflowing with
holiday cheer as Dulles and Atlanta had been.  Grimly, Mulder pushed his
way through the crowds, his eyes searching for Tara.

In the back of his mind he wondered how she would receive him.  The last
time he'd come to San Diego he had not been at all welcome in Bill
Scully's home, and he had left as soon as possible.  True, things had
thawed a bit between himself and Bill in the last few months, but he had
no way of knowing how much of that Bill had shared with Tara.

<<She called me,>> he reminded himself.  <<This wasn't my idea.>>  But
at the very least that indicated a willingness to work with him on their
mutual problem, and that was good enough.  It wasn't necessary that they
like each other, as long as they had a common interest.

Not that it really mattered very much one way or the other; Mulder was
here to find Scully, and nothing, but nothing, was going to prevent that
from happening.  Tara's cooperation would make things a little easier,
by giving him a base of operations and perhaps an entre to officials at
the Shore Patrol, but he didn't imagine she would make much real
difference.

He found Tara waiting just outside the security checkpoint, hands in her
coat pockets, staring off into space.  Elbowing his way past an
overweight businessman, Mulder walked up and stood in front of her, but
she didn't stir.

"Tara?"  Still nothing.  More sharply:  "Tara!"

She shook her head, and then she was seeing him.  "Fox," she said, very
faintly.

"Tara...are you okay?"

Her features firmed up and she shook her head again.  "That was a damned
stupid question, Fox."

He sucked in his breath, then nodded slightly.  "Sorry."

"That's okay.  I guess I was kind of out of it for a minute.  Do you
have any luggage?"

"No," he replied, hefting his carry-on.  "I try to travel light."

"Then let's get going."

A few moments later Tara was popping the trunk on a late model Saturn
and stepping aside to watch in silence as Mulder dropped his carry-on
into the compartment.  Leaning over so that his body would conceal his
actions from casual passersby, he removed his Sig Sauer and holster from
the bag, withdrew an ammunition clip from the outside zippered pocked,
and finally clipped the whole assemblage to the right side of his belt.

"Was that supposed to impress me?"

He turned to look at Tara, and raised his eyebrows.  She was standing a
few feet back with her arms folded across her chest and a cold look on
her face.  "Was what supposed to impress you?"

She waved a hand at him.  "The whole routine with the gun."

Mulder shook his head.  "No.  I always carry a weapon when I'm on an
assignment."

She looked at him for just a moment, then some of the tension seemed to
go out of her and she nodded and sighed.  "Sorry, Fox.  It's been a
tough couple of days."  She smiled briefly, but only with her mouth, and
then moved towards the driver's side of the car.  "I guess we're even
now."

"Sure."

The drive to her home passed in silence.  Mulder sat in the passenger
seat, staring out the window, trying not to think about Scully, and the
most obvious distraction was the woman sitting next to him.

He really didn't know Tara Scully at all well.  He'd met her only once,
when he had come to San Diego the previous Christmas.  She hadn't made
much of an impression on him then; he'd been focusing all of his
attention on his partner, and Bill had seemed to be just as happy to
have Mulder keep his distance from Tara in any case.  A few days after
he'd arrived, she'd gone into labor and had her baby, and that had ended
what little contact he'd had with her.

The bottom line was that Tara was an enigma to him.  He'd tried not to
tar her with his negative emotions towards her husband, but past a
certain point he couldn't help himself.  The fact that he'd finally
gotten to know Bill a little better in the last few months had helped,
but he still had more than a little residual unease towards her.

He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn't even notice that he'd
drifted off to sleep.

#          #          #

Residence of Bill and Tara Scully
Miramar Naval Air Station, San Diego, CA
December 26, 4:02 p.m.


Someone was shaking his shoulder.

"Fox, wake up."

He stirred groggily, and pulled the blanket up a little higher.

"Fox!  Wake up!"

A momentary pause, then a rustling noise, and suddenly the room was
flooded with light.  With a groan, Mulder rolled onto his back and
opened his eyes, and tried to remember where he was.  He didn't
recognize the room, so he must be in the field, working on a case.
There'd been a dream...a nightmare.  Scully had been taken again --

Scully.  He sat bolt upright and squinted at the figure silhouetted
against the window.  As he watched, the figure moved closer, and then he
recognized her.  Tara Scully.

Shit.  It wasn't a dream.  But it was a nightmare.

He shook his head and ran the fingers of one hand through his hair.
"How -- how long have I been asleep?"

Now she was standing next to the bed.  "About six hours.  You fell
asleep in the car on the way from the airport."

He nodded slowly.  The last thing he remembered was staring out the car
window at the light Saturday morning traffic.  He'd been thinking about
something....something....  He shook his head in frustration; he just
couldn't remember.  "I was really out of it," he admitted.

"I'd say so.  I had a hell of a time getting you into the house.  One of
the neighbors, Tom Christopher, finally came over and helped me."  Her
lips quirked in annoyance.  "He seemed to think it was a little odd for
me to be bringing a strange man into the house when Bill wasn't around.
But I told him you're with Dana, and I think he believed me."

Mulder stared at her for a moment, then shook his head again.  "Great,"
he muttered.  "That's all I need."

Tara raised her eyebrows.  "Aren't you?  I thought --"

"No," he replied, cutting her off.  "No, we're not."  He threw back the
blankets and swung his feet out of bed.  He was still wearing his slacks
and undershirt from the morning, and after a quick glance around the
room he spotted his bag sitting on top of the bureau.  His weapon, still
in its holster, was laying next to it.  He padded over and picked up the
bag.

"Fox?"  He turned to look at her.  She was still standing by the bed,
but now she wore a look of acute embarrassment.  "Fox, I'm sorry.  I
didn't mean --"

"It's all right, Tara," he said, more sharply than he'd intended.
"People make that mistake all the time."

They stood looking at each other for just a moment longer, then she
seemed to notice that he was half-dressed and holding his overnight
bag.  "I'll leave you be, then," she said awkwardly.  "Go ahead and
change, or whatever, and I'll try to put together some sandwiches or
something.  I'm sure you must be hungry.  I'm starving; I haven't eaten
since last night."

He nodded.  "Okay."

She walked over to the door and pulled it open, then paused for just a
moment, and turned to look at him over her shoulder.

"It's okay, Tara," he said softly.  "Really."

She nodded once, and turned and left the room.

#          #          #

End of Part 1




Almost Midnight (2/6) by Brandon Ray


TITLE:  Almost Midnight (2/6)

AUTHOR:  Brandon D. Ray

Missing parts?  You can find the entire story at:
http://www.avalon.net/~publius/MyStories.html

The rest of the headers are at the beginning of part one.


Mulder came downstairs a few minutes later to find Tara in the kitchen,
mixing something in a bowl.
He felt a little more human, having changed to jeans and a polo shirt
after taking a minute to splash some water on his face in the bathroom.

"Tuna salad," Tara said in answer to his inquiring gaze.  "I hope that's
okay.  Normally I'd have leftovers coming out of my ears today, but
I...I didn't feel much like cooking yesterday."

"Sure," he answered.  "Tuna salad is fine.  Can I do anything to help?"

She shook her head.  "No.  I'm just about done.  Why don't you grab a
couple of beers, or whatever you'd like, and go on out and sit down.
I'll be out in just a moment."

Mulder nodded and crossed to the refrigerator, pulling the door open and
bending down slightly to examine its contents.  A half gallon of milk,
still mostly full; orange juice; miscellaneous jars of jelly, salsa and
so forth.  A couple of jars of partly eaten baby food.

And a six pack of Rolling Rock, with one bottle missing.

He stood very still, trying to control his breathing, while at the same
time cursing himself for his weakness.  Dammit, if every single little
thing that reminded him of Scully was going to set him off like this, he
was going to be no good to anyone.  He had to get better control of
himself.  He had to.  For her sake, as well as Bill's.

"Fox?  Are you okay?"

Somehow Tara's question broke the tension he was feeling, and he was
able to chuckle.  Grabbing two bottles of beer, he shut the refrigerator
door and turned to face her, a slight smile on his face.  "That was a
damned stupid question, Tara," he said, hoping she'd pick up on his
amusement.

She flushed and looked away.  "I -- I'm sorry, Fox.  That was
thoughtless."  She took a breath and looked back at him.  "I'm sorry."

Mulder shook his head, and took a step towards her.  "No, Tara.  It's
okay.  It was funny."

She stared at him for just a moment, then looked down into her bowl and
resumed mixing.  "No it wasn't."

Mulder stood looking at her for just a moment, waiting to see if she
would add anything.  Finally, he shrugged and walked out of the room.

#          #          #

5:14 p.m.

The meal passed quickly and in silence, with Mulder and Tara sitting
across from each other at a dining room table that seemed far too
large.  Mulder tried to concentrate on his beer and sandwich, doing his
best to ignore the ghosts in the apparently empty chairs.

After they'd finished eating they continued to sit quietly for a few
minutes, looking at everything except each other.  Finally, Mulder broke
the silence.

"Tara, we have to talk.  I have to know what happened.  All the
details."

She nodded reluctantly.  "I know.  I don't want to, but I know it has to
be done."  She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them.  "Just
let me clear the dishes.  I'll be right back."

A few moments later she was seated across from him again, her expression
wary, and perhaps just a little angry.  As gently as he could:  "Tara, I
really am sorry.  I know how hard this is, and I know you probably
already went over this with the police."

"You got that one right," she said flatly.  Her voice deepened in an
exaggerated mimicry of Joe Friday.    "'When was the last time you saw
your husband Mrs. Scully?  What was he wearing Mrs. Scully?  What sort
of car was he driving?  What color?'"  She drew in a deep breath and
continued, and now the anger was in her voice as well as on her face.
"'Was he having problems at work Mrs. Scully?  Was he having problems at
home Mrs. Scully?  Are you sure it was his sister he left with Mrs.
Scully?  Can we see his address book Mrs.  Scully?  Who is this woman
listed under the R's Mrs. Scully?'"  She slammed her hand down on the
table.  "Fucking cops!  Fucking sons of bitches!  Whose side are they
on, anyway?  They don't know anything about him!!"  She blinked angrily,
and wiped her forearm across her eyes.

Mulder flinched slightly at hearing that sort of language coming from
her.  He opened his mouth to respond, but she must have seen the
expression on his face, because now she turned her anger on him.

"What's the matter, Fox?  Didn't think I had it in me?  You thought I
was just some sweet little housewife, and never let a bad word cross my
lips?  Well you can fucking well think again!"  And she folded her arms
across her chest and glared at him defiantly.

Mulder felt his own anger flare, and he looked down at his hands,
clenched tightly together on the table in front of him.  He took a deep
breath and tried to control his breathing.  Scully.  Focus on Scully.
This was for her, and he had to stay focused; he couldn't afford to lose
his temper, as tempting as that might be.  Besides, Tara wasn't really
angry at him; he was just the most convenient target at the moment.
Suddenly he could almost hear Scully's voice in his ear:  "Not
everything's about you, Mulder."

He shuddered.  That had been one of the bad times.  But that was a long
time ago, and it was over.  Now Scully was missing, and he had to find
her.

He had to find her.  Failure was not an option.

He looked back up at Tara, his features calm and composed.  He locked
eyes with her, and in measured, deliberate tones he said,  "Okay, Tara.
Let's take those questions one at a time."

She continued to glare at him for just a moment longer; finally her
shoulders sagged in acceptance.  "Sorry, Fox," she said, very softly.
Then she straightened up and looked him in the eye again, and this time
he saw determination rather than anger.  "Let's get it over with."

They were about three quarters of the way through the interview when
Mulder realized she was holding something back.  He wasn't sure what it
was, but from the set of her shoulders and the tone of her voice, he
knew that she was hiding something.  The very idea that she would try to
conceal something infuriated him, but he had conducted too many
investigations for it to come as a complete surprise.  People often
shaded the truth in these situations, at the very least.  Unfortunately,
this time he was personally involved, and that was making it difficult
for him to maintain his own objectivity.

"What is it, Tara?" he asked abruptly, a little more roughly than he had
intended.

She blinked, and shook her head.  "What is what?"

"What is it that you aren't telling me?"

She stared at him for just a moment.  Then:  "Nothing.  There's
nothing...."  Her voice trailed off, and if Mulder hadn't been sure
before, he was now.

Again he felt the anger rise in his chest.  He needed this information;
he needed everything.  He knew it was hard on her, but he'd thought she
had understood the importance of this.  Now it was his turn to slam his
hand down on the table, and he glared at her as he did so.  "Dammit,
Tara, don't lie to me!"

The words hung between them in the air for a timeless interval.
Finally, she looked back up at him, and once again fury flashed in her
eyes.  "You son of a bitch!"  Her voice was cold.  "You bastard!  You
think you have to know everything?  Fine; I'll tell you."  She stood up
and leaned across the table at him, her hands pressed flat on its
hardwood surface.  "Bill and I had a fight, okay?  A nice little lovers'
quarrel.  Is that what you wanted to know?"

As quickly as it had come, Mulder's own anger was gone, and he nodded
slowly.  It felt right.  He even thought he knew why she hadn't wanted
to tell him, and why she hadn't told the police.  When he spoke again
his voice was very soft.  He knew he was taking her on an emotional
rollercoaster ride, but he couldn't help himself.  He was responding in
the only way he knew how.  "It was because of the questions about other
women, wasn't it?"

Again she stared at him, her face an expressionless mask.  Finally, she
nodded.

Mulder continued, "The police asked you those questions, and insinuated
that Bill was seeing someone else, and that made you angry, and you
didn't want to give them anything that would reinforce that idea.  And
you were afraid I thought the same thing, because I was asking a lot of
the same questions."

He stopped and waited.  Again she nodded.

"Tara, I'm very sorry.  I know -- believe me, I KNOW -- how much this is
hurting you.  Most people think that in this sort of situation the fear
and worry over the missing loved one is what causes all the pain, and
that is important.  But that's only part of it."

He stopped and took a breath before continuing.  "And the other part of
it, in some ways the worst part, is the sense of violation you get from
the people who are supposedly trying to help you.  They pry into your
life, they ask embarrassing questions, they go through your personal
papers and other belongings, they draw unpleasant inferences.  And you
know they have to do those things, you know they have to do a thorough
job, but that doesn't make it any less of a violation."

He reached across the table and lightly laid one his hands on  top of
each of hers.  "Tara, tell me about the fight.  I need to know.  It's
the only way I know how to do this.  I'm sorry."

For a moment he thought she was going to lash out at him again, and he
braced himself for the onslaught.  But then she took a long, shaky
breath and sank back down in her chair.  And after another moment, she
started talking.

"It was...it was that same afternoon.  Wednesday afternoon, the 23rd.
Dana had been here since the previous Saturday, and everything had
seemed to be fine."  She smiled at the memory.  "Dana and Matthew really
hit it off.  It was so sweet."  The smile died as quickly as it had
come.  "Then on Wednesday afternoon, I walked in on them in Bill's
study.  They were talking about something, and they both looked pretty
grim."  She shook her head.  "I haven't seen Bill look that way
since...since the Gulf War...."

Her voice trailed off.  Mulder waited a moment to see if she would
continue on her own.  Then, in the same soft, accepting tone of voice,
he said, "Go on, Tara.  Tell me.  Tell me what happened next."

She shrugged restlessly, and her eyes dropped to look at their hands,
now twined together on the table top.  "It was really nothing.  I guess
I interrupted something, but I didn't mean to.  I just wanted to ask
what they wanted for dinner.  But then they both looked so tense and
worried, and I couldn't help myself, I just blurted it out, and asked
Bill what was wrong."

"What did he say?"

"Not much of anything."  She looked back up at him, and now her eyes
were large, wounded circles.  "He said it was none of my concern.  Those
were his exact words.  And then...and then he pushed me.  He actually
pushed me out of the study and shut the door."

Mulder hesitated, trying to decide how to ask the question which had to
be asked.  At last he said, "Tara?  Remember, I'm trying to help, so
don't get mad at me.  I have to ask this.  Is Bill...abusive?"

She shook her head violently.  "No.  No.  Absolutely not.  He's never
laid a hand on either me or Matthew."  She looked Mulder square in the
eye.  "You have to believe me; I would never stand for that.  My...my
first boyfriend was like that, and I put up with it for far too long,
until the day he actually put me in the hospital.  After that I swore
that I would never allow a man to do that to me again.  And Bill never
has."

Mulder nodded.  "Okay, I believe you.  Let's move on.  Was there
anything more to the fight?"

Tara shook her head again.  "No, not really.  I was waiting until we
went to bed, so we could have some privacy when I confronted him about
it.  So I suppose the fight, as such, hadn't actually happened yet.  But
I had planned it, and Bill had to know it was coming."

"All right.  Do you have any idea, any idea at all, what Bill and Scully
were talking about?"

"No.  They were talking about something, and I think it was important,
but they both shut up as soon as I came into the room."

"And this was in the study?"  She nodded.  "I presume the police went
through the study?  Bill's files, papers, that sort of thing?"

"Actually, he doesn't have much in the way of files.  He keeps
everything on the PC; he's a very modern sort of guy."  She smiled
slightly.

"Did the police look at what was on the computer?"

She shrugged.  "I suppose so.  I wasn't there while they were
searching.  I couldn't bear it."

"Did they take anything with them?"

She shook her head.  "No.  No, I'm sure they didn't."

Mulder nodded sharply, and stood up.  "All right then.  Let's go see
what we can find."

#          #          #

8:22 p.m.

Mulder leaned back in the swivel chair and stared at the computer
screen.  Nothing there.  Nearly three hours of searching, and there was
nothing there.

Everything was neatly organized, each item labeled and sorted and tucked
away in the appropriate directory on Bill Scully's hard drive.  And
there was nothing there.  Nothing there to interest him.

Dammit.

Tara sat in a straight backed chair that she'd brought from the dining
room, but Mulder was barely aware of her presence.  Neither of them had
spoken a word since leaving the dinner table.  There hadn't seemed to be
anything to say.

Mulder sighed.  Time to start on the floppies.  Not that there'd be
anything on them, either.  He opened one of the desk drawers and started
rooting around.

"What are you looking for, Fox?"

He paused for a moment, and turned and looked at her, slightly
startled.  "Uh, his backups.  His floppies.  At least, I'm pretty sure
they'll be on floppies.  He doesn't seem to have a zip drive.  Do you
know where he keeps them?"

"Oh, sure.  Bottom left hand drawer."

Mulder pulled the drawer open, and saw that it contained a storage case
full of floppy disks.  He lifted the case out and set it on the desk.

Like the files on the hard drive, the storage case was carefully
organized, with each disk assigned a slot in one of several categories,
and each one labeled and dated in Bill's neat, meticulous handwriting.
Correspondence, personal finances, downloads from various newsgroups and
mailing lists, freeware, shareware....and then he found it.

Maybe.

It was a blank disk.  No label.  Sitting all by itself in the back of
the storage case.  Mulder glanced quickly down at the still-open drawer
where he'd found the case, and noted that it also held two boxes of
unused floppies.  One of the boxes had been opened, and looked as if it
was about half full.  So Bill didn't keep his unused disks in the
storage case.

Mulder tapped the disk against the edge of the desk thoughtfully.  This
could be innocuous.  It could be just another blank disk which for some
reason had been put in the storage case instead of being left in the
box.  It could also be another backup which Bill hadn't gotten around to
labeling yet, set aside as a reminder that this still needed doing.  It
could be any of a number of innocent things, unrelated to Scully and her
brother's disappearance.

But Mulder didn't believe it for a minute.  All of his professional
instincts were screaming that this was the key.

One way to find out.

He slipped the disk into the floppy drive and waited for the machine to
read it.  His eyes lit up, and he smiled for the first time in hours.
Bingo.

It was password protected.

"Fox?  What is it?"

Mulder blinked.  Once again, he had forgotten about Tara's presence in
the room.  He turned to look at her.  "I'm not sure yet," he replied.
"I found it in with the rest of his floppies, but it hasn't got a label,
and it seems to be password protected.  The hard drive isn't protected,
and neither are any of the directories or files on it, so I'm guessing
this is something important.  With luck, it may be a clue."  He paused
for a moment, and drummed his fingers on the desktop.  "Do you have any
idea what the password might be?"

She shook her head, and dragged her chair a little closer.  "No.  I
didn't know Bill had started using passwords."

Mulder nodded absently, and stroked his chin.  Then he went on, talking
mostly to himself.  "Passwords are supposed to be random character
strings, for security reasons, but almost nobody actually does that.
Most people use something they can remember -- a word, or a phrase.
Something that means something to them.  That's how most computer hacks
get done -- by guessing what the original user would have chosen as a
password."

He drummed his fingers on the desktop again, then moved his hands to the
keyboard.  "What's Bill's date of birth?"

"March 1, 1962."

Mulder tried typing the date in, using several different formats.  None
of them worked.

"Your birthday?"

"August 20, 1965."

Still no luck.

"Your anniversary?"

That one didn't work either.  Mulder worked his way through the
significant dates he could think of:  Matthew's birthday; Maggie
Scully's birthday; Charlie's and Dana's and Melissa's birthdays.
Graduation dates.  Engagement dates.  The date of Bill's first command.

So maybe he wasn't using a date.  First names of family and close
friends.  Middle names.  Last names.  The names of favorite pets.
Current and former duty stations.  Favorite movies and CD's.  And on and
on and on.  Finally, Mulder ran out of ideas, and just sat staring at
the screen in frustration.  He was so close; so very close.  He could
feel it.  Whatever was on this disk was important.  If only he could
come up with the right password.  It was driving him nuts, knowing that
the information he needed might be sitting right in front of him.  If
only he could find some way to read it!

"Lucasta."

He swiveled his head and looked at Tara.  "What?"

"Lucasta," she repeated, an odd look on her face.  "It's one of
our...our favorite poems.  It means something to us.  Try it."

Mulder turned back to the keyboard, and typed in the word.

Paydirt.

His eyes rapidly scanned the filenames appearing on the screen.  There
were an even dozen of them, most of them labeled simply with a date.
Towards the bottom of the list, three files caught his eye.  One was
labeled "Dana".  One was labeled "Jiggs".  And one was labeled
"Mulder".  All three had been created on the 21st.  Five days ago.  Two
days before Scully and Bill had disappeared.

He double-clicked on the one with his name on it.  And then he swore.

It was encrypted.  And a moment later he discovered that the others
were, as well.

This time, Tara touched him lightly on the shoulder, and when he turned
there were question marks in her eyes.

"I don't know, Tara," he said, responding to the question she hadn't
asked.  "I don't know what's going on, and I can't find out.  Not
directly, anyway."  He waved at the computer screen.  "He's encrypted
these files, and I'm no computer whiz.  Figuring out a password is one
thing; breaking any serious encryption is something very different."

"Couldn't you just find the software he was using?"

Mulder shook his head.  "I don't remember seeing anything like that on
the hard drive, but even if I found it, it wouldn't do any good, because
I have no way of knowing what he was using as a key.  And I just don't
have the skills to work it out the hard way."  He thought about that for
a moment.  "But I know some people who do."

He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and punched the third speed
dial, glancing at his watch as he did so.  It would be almost midnight
on the east coast, but they wouldn't have gone to bed yet.

The phone was answered on the third ring.  "This is Mulder," he said,
and waited.

After a brief pause, Frohike said, "I've turned off the tape; hang on
while I put you on the speaker.  Langly and Byers are here, too."
Another pause.  "Okay, go ahead."

Mulder briefly explained the situation, concluding, "So I guess I'm up
the river without a paddle.  I need these files decrypted, and I need it
done fast.  I'm going to email copies to you, okay?"

"Wait a minute, Mulder."  It was Langly's voice.  "I wouldn't try that,
if I were you."

"Why not?"

"Captain Scully struck me as a thorough sort of guy when he was in
Washington last month.  If he's taken the trouble to use passwords AND
encryption, there's also a chance that he's set some booby traps that
would erase the files if anyone tried to copy them.  It'd probably be
safer if you just sent us the disk through snailmail."

"Damn.  I hadn't thought of that."  Mulder drummed his fingers on the
desktop.  "Snailmail would take too long.  Even by FedEx, there's no way
it'd get to you before Monday, at this point.  Is there any way you guys
could come out here?  There may be more than just the one disk, in any
case."

Again there was silence on the other end, and Mulder could almost see
the three men exchanging glances and shrugs.  He and Scully weren't the
only ones who specialized in non-verbal communication.  Finally, Byers
spoke.  "Sure Mulder.  Whatever you need, we're there for you.  And for
Scully.  You know that.  We'll catch the first flight out of Dulles in
the morning."

"You need any help with travel priorities?" Mulder asked, and then
realized he was being an idiot.

Langly again, laughing:  "Don't worry about it.  I think I can manage
three plane tickets.  You want me to charge them to your Amex, or to
Captain Scully's?"  He laughed again.  "Or maybe I'll charge them to
that new A.D. of yours, Kersh."

Mulder chuckled.  "That would be fitting.  He owes Scully a couple of
grand.  Just cover your tracks, guys.  See you in the morning."  And he
hit the disconnect.

#          #          #

11:43 p.m.

Mulder sat on the sofa, staring at the unlit Christmas tree.  A fire was
laid in the hearth, but he hadn't bothered to light it.

He'd spent the rest of the evening going through the other floppy disks
in the storage container, and for the sake of thoroughness had even
checked the blanks in the opened box he had found.  As he'd expected,
there had been nothing of any interest.  Nothing except that one,
unmarked disk, now resting in his  pants pocket.  In his mind's eye, he
could still see the filenames, floating in front of him:

981130.

981203.

981204.

And on and on.  And finally:

Dana.

Jiggs.

Mulder.

They floated there, tantalizing him, just barely out of his reach.  If
only he could move a little bit closer, just a little bit --

"Fox?"

Mulder jumped at the sound of Tara's voice, and turned his head to see
her standing at the foot of the stairs.  "Tara," he said.  "I thought
you'd gone to bed."

"I had."  She stood silently for a moment, then walked slowly over to
the sofa and stood in front of him.  She was dressed for bed, the hem of
a sensible flannel nightgown peeking out from beneath a blue quilted
floor-length robe.  "But I couldn't sleep."

He nodded slightly, and waited for her to continue.

"Fox, I wanted to...to apologize."  He opened his mouth to speak, but
she rushed on, cutting him off.  "I've been a perfect bitch today, and
I'm sorry.  You don't deserve it.  I know you're doing the best you can,
and I really appreciate it."  She paused for a moment.  "May I sit
down?"

Mulder smiled.  "Sure.  But only because it's your sofa."

She smiled back, and for the first time in his memory there was real
warmth in it.  She sat on the sofa, a foot or so away from him, then
turned to face him again.  "I really am sorry, Fox," she said.  "And I
really, truly appreciate what you're doing."

"I'm not doing it for you, Tara," he reminded her.  "Or at least, not
JUST for you."

She nodded.  "I know.  I really do know.  I know it's not about me, and
I know it's not even about Bill.  It's about Dana."  She reached out and
gently touched the place over his heart, then drew her hand back and
folded it with the other one in her lap.  "I understand."

"Tara, I told you," he said gently.  "It's not like that."

Again she nodded.  "I know it's not.  That's not what I meant.  Two
people can love each other very much, even if it isn't...physical."  She
blushed slightly.  "I'm sorry, I don't mean to be stupid, or
embarrassing.  I'm just trying to tell you that I understand."

"What do you understand, Tara?"

"I understand that this is just as hard for you as it is for me.  Maybe
it's even harder for you, in some ways.  At least with me, I'm allowed
to be upset and demonstrative, both because I'm a woman, and because my
relationship with Bill fits into what people expect.  But you're a man,
and your relationship with Dana..."  She trailed off for a minute, and
shrugged.  "It's different, that's all.  Most people just don't
understand it."

He considered her words for a moment.  Maybe she really did understand,
at least a little.  It would be such a relief to find someone who did.
Sometimes he felt very alone, as if no one would ever really understand
the way he felt about Scully, what she meant to him.  Hesitantly, he
said, "Have you read the Symposium?"

Tara raised her eyebrows slightly.  "You mean Plato?"  He nodded, and
she smiled.  "Yes.  And I was thinking about it just tonight, while I
was lying in bed.  It's why I finally came back downstairs."  She closed
her eyes and quoted.  "'For you may say generally that all desire of
good and happiness is only the great and subtle power of love; but they
who are drawn towards him by any other path, whether the path of
money-making or gymnastics or philosophy, are not called lovers -- the
name of the whole is appropriated to those whose affection takes one
form only -- they alone are said to love, or to be lovers.'"

Mulder smiled again.  "I've always liked that passage."

She nodded, a serious expression on her face.  "I thought you might."
She held his eyes for just a moment, then stood up from the sofa and
stretched.  "Well, it's been a long day, and I haven't really had much
sleep, and tomorrow Matthew comes home from my mother's house.  I've got
to get some rest."  She hesitated just a moment, then bent down and
kissed Mulder gently on the cheek.  "Good night, Fox."

Mulder watched as she walked away, turning his head to follow her
progress towards the stairs.  As she put her foot on the first riser, he
said, "Tara?"

She stopped and looked at him over her shoulder.  "Yes, Fox?"

"I've never liked my first name.  My friends all call me Mulder.  Do you
mind?"

The smile he got back this time was radiant.  "Of course not.  Good
night, Mulder."  And then she went on upstairs to bed.

#          #          #

End of Part 2








Almost Midnight (3/6) by Brandon Ray


TITLE:  Almost MIdnight (3/6)

AUTHOR:  Brandon D. Ray

Missing parts?  You can find the entire story at:
http://www.avalon.net/~publius/MyStories.html

The rest of the headers are at the beginning of part one.


....Fox sits cross-legged on the floor, focusing all of his attention on
the Stratego board.  There has to be an answer, and he knows that if
just thinks about it long enough, he will find it.  He absolutely,
positively isn't going to let her win this one.  He just has to
concentrate...the answer is here....

....And then he has it.  With a smile of triumph, he reaches out and
moves one of his pieces, tapping it against one of hers so that it falls
over, face down....

....And she laughs, and claps her hands together.  Fox looks up in
astonishment as his opponent rocks back and forth in delight, her red
hair swirling around her head and mischief dancing in her bright blue
eyes.  As she sees the look of puzzlement on his face, her laughter only
increases, and she says, "It's a bomb, Mulder!  You hit a bomb!"  She
throws her arms in the air and shouts, "Boom!"....

....And he looks down at the board in confusion, and feels his stomach
sinking.  A bomb?  It can't be a bomb!  He has it all worked out; he
knows where her bombs are, and that can't be a bomb.  But if it IS a
bomb, if he HAS made a mistake, then he has lost.  Again....

....And then she flips her piece over to reveal that it is only a scout
after all, and she leans across the board and puts her arms around his
neck and she whispers in his ear, "I had you big time!"....

....And then the room is flooded with an intense, white light.  Fox is
paralyzed; he can't move, he can barely breathe.  She seems unable to
move, as well, and as he watches in horror her body lifts off the floor
and floats towards the window.  He tries desperately to break free of
whatever force is holding him.  He has to get loose, he has to save
her!  But even as he struggles, he knows that he will fail, and inside
his head he is screaming her name, over and over and over....

....And then all he can hear is her voice on the answering machine:
"Mulder!  I need your help!  Mulder!  I need your help!
MulderIneedyourhelpMulderIneedyourhelpMulderMulderMulder --"

"Mulder, wake up.  Mulder, please wake up -- you're having a nightmare.
Mulder?"

Slowly his eyes opened, and he found himself staring up at Tara Scully's
face.  He blinked and shook his head; already the details of the dream
were fading from his consciousness.  There had been something about
Samantha, except that she was also Scully...he couldn't quite grasp
it...

It was gone.

"Mulder?  Are you awake now?"

He nodded slightly.  "I think so."  He realized that he was lying on the
sofa, had apparently fallen asleep there, and Tara was kneeling in front
of him, bent over him, peering down at his face, concern etched on her
features.  "What...what happened?"

"You had a nightmare," she said.  "You were calling to Dana."  She
smiled slightly.  "Actually, you were calling to 'Scully', but that
means Dana, right?"

He nodded again.  Very softly:  "Sorry if I woke you."

"That's okay," she replied.  "It happens."  After the briefest of
hesitations, she said,  "Do you remember what you were dreaming about?"

He shook his head.  "No.  No, it's completely gone."  He struggled into
a sitting position, and stretched to get the kinks out of his joints.
"Sorry," he repeated.

Tara stood up and offered him her hand, pulling him from the sofa.  "We
should get you tucked into a proper bed; you'll sleep better."

"I'm not sure I can sleep," Mulder admitted.  He felt embarrassed at
having to admit to weakness in front of her, but he also felt he owed
her an explanation for having disturbed her sleep.  "I, uh, I get these
nightmares, you see.  Most of the time I can't remember what they were
about, but they always wake me up."  Hesitantly, he looked at her face,
and was relieved to see nothing but understanding and compassion there.
"I haven't had one in awhile."  Not since Antarctica.

Tara nodded in sympathy.  "I'm so sorry, Mulder.  Would you like some
herbal tea?  Maybe that would help settle you down."

He shook his head.  "No.  That doesn't work for me; I've tried it."  He
smiled weakly.  "Believe me, I've tried most remedies at one time or
another."  And there was only one thing that really worked for him, only
one thing that would allow him to get back to sleep -- but she was
missing.

Tara seemed to read his thoughts.  "I understand."  She took his hand
again and squeezed it briefly.  "We'll find them, Mulder.  We'll find
them.  I promise."

#          #          #

Miramar Naval Air Station, San Diego, CA
December 27, 12:01 p.m.

"We'll find them, Mulder.  We'll find them.  I promise."

The words seemed to echo in Mulder's mind as he moved wearily to the
next house.  The next front door, identical to all the others on this
block.  The next Navy wife, with 2.3 children, a dog and half a dozen
tropical fish.  The next bland, colorless woman who had no information
that would be of any use to him.  No information at all.

"We'll find them, Mulder.  We'll find them.  I promise."

He paused for a moment in front of the next house and considered the
matter.  How could Tara possibly know a thing like that?  How could she
say such a thing?  How could she even think it?  Scully would have known
better; Scully would never say that to him.  Of all the things Scully
had done for him over the years, perhaps the most important was that she
had never promised him that they would find Samantha.  Not once; not
even after he'd killed John Roche, when it would have seemed so easy and
natural -- almost necessary -- to try to offer him some form of
reassurance.

Scully had never lied to him.  Not about that.

"We'll find them, Mulder.  We'll find them.  I promise."

Tara hadn't meant to be lying; in his heart he knew that.  She had been
trying to help, trying to calm him in the only way she knew how.  And he
had allowed her to think that she had succeeded; he had allowed her to
lead him upstairs to the guest room and tuck him into bed, and he had
obediently closed his eyes and lay quietly until she finally slipped out
of the room and returned to her own bed.  But he had not slept.

"We'll find them, Mulder.  We'll find them.  I promise."

Mulder shook his head.  Words.  Only words.

He sighed, and was about to start up the front walk to the house in
front of him when he heard a vehicle pulling up behind him.  Turning, he
saw without surprise that it was the Shore Patrol.  He'd been wondering
how long it would take them to show up.

A moment later he was facing a short, stocky brown-haired woman in her
early 30s, wearing the insignia of a lieutenant commander.  Her hair was
either cut short or done up in a bun under her uniform hat; Mulder
couldn't tell for sure.  In one hand she held a clipboard; the other
hand rested lightly on the baton strapped to her belt, and her body
language radiated confidence and authority.

"May I please see some identification, sir?"

Mulder flipped his badge at her, and replied, "I'm Special Agent Fox
Mulder, FBI.  I'm a guest this weekend of Bill and Tara Scully."

The woman briefly consulted her clipboard and nodded.  "All right; I
have you on my list."  She looked back up at him.  "Agent Mulder, as you
might guess we've had some phone calls about you this morning.  I
understand that you've been asking questions about Captain Scully and
his sister.  May I ask what your interest is in this matter?"

"Dana Scully is my partner."

The lieutenant commander nodded again, as if she already knew that, and
stood looking at him for a moment seeming to study his face.  Finally,
she sighed.  "Agent Mulder, I don't wish to be difficult, and I
appreciate the situation you're in.  But you don't look like you've just
fallen off the turnip truck, and I'm sure you know that you cannot
conduct an investigation on this base without permission from our
office."

Mulder nodded in resignation.  "I know.  I should have checked in with
you yesterday.  I'm sorry."  He tried to keep the bitterness out of his
voice.  "God forbid I should offend the gods of the bureaucracy."

She actually smiled at that.  "Hey, we both know how the game is
played."  The smile vanished.  "But for the moment I'm afraid I'll have
to ask you to cease and desist.  Tomorrow morning you can come in and
talk to Captain Talbot; I'm sure he'll find a way to work things out for
you.  But until then...."  Her voice trailed off.

Mulder nodded again, and for just a moment he looked back at the house
he'd been about to approach.  He knew in his heart that there was
nothing there for him.  Finally he turned back to face her.  "That's
okay, Commander.  I was done here anyway."  And he turned and walked
away, back towards Tara's house.

#          #          #
.
Residence of Bill and Tara Scully
12:32 p.m.

The Lone Gunmen were waiting for him when he got back.

"Frohike," Mulder said, amused in spite of himself.  "You
look...charming."  The little computer geek was standing in the doorway
to the kitchen, wearing a frilly, feminine looking apron with "Navy Mom"
embroidered on it in hot pink.  "Why haven't I ever seen this side of
you before?"

Frohike snorted.  "Laugh it up, G-man," he replied, humor glinting in
his eyes.  "SOMEBODY has to cook lunch, and Mrs. Scully had to go pick
up her kid.  Come on and keep me company while I finish up."

Mulder hesitated.  "Are Langly and Byers..."  He let his voice trail
off.

"They're in the study, working," Frohike replied.  "There's not much I
can contribute right now, so I've been relegated to K.P."  He stood
looking at Mulder for a moment; when the agent didn't move, he added,
very softly, "Come on, Mulder.  There's nothing you can do right now,
either."

A short while later Mulder was leaning against the kitchen counter,
watching as Frohike poured a little more beer into the bubbling cheese
mixture on the stove.

"Welsh rarebit, Frohike?" Mulder asked.  "I had no idea.  I thought
frozen pizzas and carryout were the extent of your culinary talents."

The little man smirked slightly.  "How often do I get access to a real
kitchen?" he asked.  "Certainly not at YOUR place.  But I'll have you
know that I was the pride and joy of Mrs. Johnson's eighth grade home ec
class at Chester Arthur Junior High."

"You took home ec?"

Frohike looked at him briefly and grinned.  "Sure.  It was the only way
to get out of taking shop, and Mr. Gonshorowski certainly had nothing he
could teach ME.  Besides, I was the only guy in a class with 20 girls."
He looked back down at the pan.  "Be nice to me, Mulder, and sometime
I'll make you my famous crepes suzette."

The two men fell silent for a moment.  There was an awkwardness between
them, an uneasiness which wasn't normally there, and after a minute
Mulder realized what was causing it.  "It's okay, Frohike," he said
softly.

The little man didn't look up, but kept stirring the cheese sauce.
After another short silence, he shook his head.  "No it's not," he said
flatly, and finally turned to look Mulder in the eye.  "I let you down.
You were counting on me to get you the information you needed, and I let
you down.  I let HER down."

Mulder took a step forward, and laid a hand on Frohike's shoulder.  "You
didn't let her down, Frohike.  You got me exactly what I asked for.
It's not your fault if there wasn't anything there to find."

Frohike stared at him for another pair of minutes, and Mulder was
shocked to see unshed tears glistening in the little man's eyes.
Finally, Frohike said, "You know, don't you, that I love her as much as
you do."  It wasn't really a question.

Mulder nodded.  Very softly:  "Yeah.  Yeah, I know that.  And so does
she."

"Are we gonna find her?"

Mulder hesitated, remembering how he himself had reacted to Tara's
assurances after his nightmare.  Finally he just said, "We're going to
do the very best we can."

"I hope to god it's enough," the little man replied.

"So do I, Frohike.  So do I."

#          #          #

12:51 p.m.

"Is that really a Mercedes you guys have parked in the driveway?" Mulder
asked as he slid into his seat at the dining room table.  The three
Gunmen were already seated and working on their portions of the welsh
rarebit.  "I suppose I knew it was possible to rent a Mercedes, but I
never thought I'd see it done."  He cut off a piece of toast smothered
in cheese sauce and popped it into his mouth.  Raising his eyebrows in
surprise as he chewed and swallowed, he looked over at Frohike.  "You
know, this is actually pretty good."

Frohike smirked.  "It'd be better if Captain Scully had anything other
than Rolling Rock in his fridge.  I assume that's YOUR influence."  And
he rolled his eyes.

Langly picked up the conversation.  "Yeah, it's a Mercedes.  I like to
travel in style."  There was a gleam of malice in his eye.  "Besides,
Kersh's Amex isn't even close to its credit limit.  Yet."  And he took
another bite of rarebit.

Mulder snickered.  "I don't think I even want to know about this."  He
took another bite and shook his head.  "This really is good."  He
wiggled his eyebrows at Frohike.  "Sure you don't want to settle down
and raise a passle of kids?"  Frohike snorted, and Mulder turned his
attention back to Langly and Byers.  "So have you got anything yet?"

Byers shook his head.  "Not much.  And what little we do know is bad."
He glanced at Langly, then back at Mulder.  "It looks like Captain
Scully was using DES encryption, which is no big surprise, since he
works for the Navy.  And while DES is far from being as secure as the
NSA claims it is, it's still going to take awhile to crack."

"How long?" Mulder asked.

Byers shrugged.  "It's hard to say for sure.  With the right specialized
equipment, we could probably do it in a few hours, but with what we were
able to bring with us it's probably going to take a couple of days."

"Two days," Mulder repeated.  He put down his fork and stared down at
his plate.  Somehow he'd been sure that his friends would be able to
wave a magic wand and solve all his problems.  Idiot.  That only
happened in the movies.  He took a deep breath and raised his eyes to
look at Byers again.  "Well, do the best you can."

Langly cleared his throat.  "Uh, Mulder, I know you've probably already
done all the easy stuff, but --"

"Yeah," Mulder replied.  "Tara and I spent a good part of yesterday
evening going through birthdays, nicknames, and all that crap.  Came up
empty, except for the filenames."

Langly glanced at Byers and Frohike, then looked back at Mulder.
"Actually, it was the filenames I was thinking about.  Has it occurred
to you to call Colonel Casey and ask him if he knows anything about
this?  After all, his name is on one of those files."

Mulder stared at the blond man in stunned disbelief.  Call Jiggs Casey?
Why in the hell hadn't that occurred to him sooner?  It was so
blindingly obvious.  Was he really so far gone in rage and self-pity
that he could overlook something that elementary?

His thoughts flashed back briefly to the month before.  He'd met Casey
briefly at the climax of the last investigation he and Bill had worked
on together.  The colonel was an old friend of Bill Scully's, and an
aide to  the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.  Casey's personal
intervention at a crucial moment had helped to break the back of a
military conspiracy to overthrow the government, and it made perfect
sense that Bill might turn to the tough-minded Marine in a crisis.

Just as he had turned to Dana.

And just as he had apparently considered, at least, turning to Mulder.

"Dammit!"  Mulder jumped from his chair and strode rapidly to Bill
Scully's study and started going through desk drawers.  He found the
address book on the third try, and in another moment he was lifting the
phone and preparing to dial.

"Wait a minute, Mulder!"

He looked up in surprise to see Langly moving rapidly forward.  The
blond man took the phone from Mulder's hand and replaced it on the
cradle.  "The other thing I didn't get a chance to tell you is that the
phones in this house are tapped.  I discovered it during a routine sweep
while you were out, earlier."

Mulder nodded, and reached in his pocket for his cell phone.  "At this
point," he said, "nothing can surprise me."

In another moment, he found out he was wrong.

#          #          #

Shore Patrol HQ, Miramar Naval Air Station
December 28, 9:21 a.m.

Jiggs Casey was dead.

The shock still reverberated through Mulder's system, nearly 24 hours
later.  To have had his first real lead dangled in front of him, only to
be snatched away moments later...it had been unbearable.  Mulder had
felt himself slipping into a deep depression, into a darker place than
any he had inhabited since Antarctica, and for the rest of Sunday he had
been barely able to function, let alone think coherently.

*God, don't let Scully be dead.  Please God, let her be alive.  Let me
find her.*

But Jiggs Casey was dead, along with his wife.  Dead in a house fire,
apparently caused by faulty wiring in their Christmas lights.  Dead in a
house fire that started on the afternoon of December 23rd.  Dead in a
fire that started almost to the minute as Scully and her brother had
pulled out of the driveway and vanished.  It was a horrible, ghastly
coincidence.

Mulder didn't believe it for a minute.

*God, don't let Scully be dead.  Please God, let her be alive.  Let me
find her.*

That had been his mantra the rest of the day, it had been all he could
think of.  The darkness had settled around him, enveloping him and
cuddling him like the old friend that it was.  He had sat on Tara's
sofa, staring at nothing at all, not even allowing himself the comfort
of curling up into a ball.  He had been vaguely aware of the Gunmen
moving about the house, talking quietly to each other, and later he had
noticed a woman's voice, and Mulder had been forced to rouse himself
just enough to confirm that it was not Scully before slipping back into
his fugue.

*God, don't let Scully be dead.  Please God, let her be alive.  Let me
find her.*

Eventually the house had grown quiet, and Mulder had known that he was
alone at last, and finally it was safe to cry.  But he had not been able
to.

"Agent Mulder?"

Mulder blinked and emerged from his reverie.  That had been dangerous,
he realized.  He was very fragile emotionally, and it wouldn't take much
to send him right back into the fugue of the night before.  He had to
concentrate on the outside world; he had to concentrate on doing his
job.

He had to find Scully.

He rose from the bench he'd been sitting on and stepped forward to meet
the tall, grey-haired man in the uniform of a Navy captain who had
called his name.

"I'm Robert Talbot," the man said.  "I understand you wanted to see me?"

"That's correct, Captain Talbot."  He flipped his badge at the man, then
reached out and shook his hand.

A moment later the two men were seated in Talbot's office.  Talbot sat
looking at Mulder for a moment, his fingers steepled under this chin,
and Mulder had a sudden premonition that the interview was not going to
go well.

Finally:  "Agent Mulder, I'll come straight to the point.  While I am
not happy that you launched into this investigation without getting
clearance from my office, I do understand your situation.  I'm willing
to let that go by; water under the bridge, and so forth."  And he
stopped and waited.  Mulder nodded.

"However," the officer continued, "I'm afraid I'm not going to be able
to permit you to resume your investigation.  At least, not at this
time."

"Why not?" Mulder spoke sharply, rapidly.  He felt his emotions boiling
up in his chest.  He had to make Talbot understand; he had to get his
cooperation.  "I have a legitimate interest; this is my partner and her
brother we're talking about.  And I've been granted full authority by
the Bureau to pursue the matter. Naturally, I'll be happy to cooperate
with your office in any way that's necessary --"

"Agent Mulder."  The other man was holding up his hand, forestalling the
flood of words.  He compressed his lips, and his face took on the
expression of a man about to deliver bad news which was not of his
devising.  "I'm afraid your authority to investigate this case has been
terminated."

Mulder felt his eyes widen in shock.  "Terminated?  By who?"

"By your headquarters in Washington.  I received a call this morning
from an Assistant Director Kersh informing me of this decision.  It was
confirmed by fax just before you arrived."  Pause.  "I'm sorry, Agent
Mulder."

Mulder sat in stunned silence and tried to comprehend what Talbot had
just said, but it just refused to sink in.  He could not conceive that
anyone would deny him what he needed to find Scully.  This wasn't
happening; it couldn't be happening.  It was a dream, all a dream.  A
nightmare.

"Agent Mulder?"

He snapped back to a semblance of attentiveness and found himself rising
to his feet.  "Thank you for seeing me, Captain.  I'm sorry for taking
so much of your time."

"Agent Mulder --"

The door swung shut behind him, shutting off the other man's words.

#          #          #

Fred's HandiMart, San Diego, CA
December 29, 4:23 p.m.

"I'm sorry," the clerk said, shaking her head.  "I haven't seen either
one of them."

"You're sure?" Mulder replied, still holding the two photographs out for
her inspection.  "It would have been the evening of the 23rd, around
seven or perhaps a little later.  They were looking for eggnog."

The clerk continued shaking her head.  "No.  No I definitely didn't see
them.  And I was the only one working that night.   Sorry."  And she
turned to the next customer.

Mulder turned and walked out of the store.  In the past 36 hours he had
canvassed every grocery and convenience store in a two mile radius of
the Scully residence, and found nothing.  Not that this was surprising;
the San Diego Police had already covered the same territory, and also
came up empty.  But Mulder had no other leads, nothing to go on, and he
couldn't stand just sitting in Tara's living room waiting for something
to break.  He had to stay active, or the fugue he'd experience on Sunday
night would return.

Kersh had called three times in the past day and a half, each call more
abusive than the one before.  On the last occasion, two hours before,
the Assistant Director had threatened to send someone out from the San
Diego field office to claim Mulder's badge and gun.  Mulder had turned
his cell phone off after that call, and then switched it back on thirty
second later.  Scully might call that number; she might call to tell him
she was okay, and on her way home.  Or she might call to ask for his
help.  She might.

She might.

He wouldn't let himself think about the third possible call he might
receive about Scully -- the one that some stranger would have to place.

He slid into his rental car and picked up the list of stores he'd left
laying on the passenger seat.  Fred's HandiMart had been the last place
on the list; now he had nowhere else to go.  No one else to interview.
No more leads to follow up on.

Nothing to do but wait.

He sat in the car for several minutes, staring out through the
windshield and off into the distance.  She was out there somewhere.  He
could feel it.  Somewhere....somewhere...somewhere in this city.  He
almost felt he could hear her heartbeat.  It was calling to him,
beseeching him, asking him to come to her.  If only he could listen just
a little more carefully....

He shook his head in exasperation.  This wasn't getting him anywhere,
anymore than interviewing Bill and Tara's neighbors had, anymore than
canvassing grocery stores had.  He had to keep himself focused on the
task; he had to follow the careful, methodical steps he'd been taught to
use so many years ago in Quantico.  He had to suppress his natural
tendency to go haring off on a hunch, and take the cool, rational
scientific approach.

He had to be Scully.  Not Mulder; Scully.  Mulder alone was only half a
person.  Only Scully was whole; only Scully could find the truth.  Only
Scully.

He started the car and threw it into gear, and headed back to Tara's
house.

#          #          #

Residence of Bill and Tara Scully
December 29, 5:15 p.m.

Mulder pulled into the driveway next to the Gunmen's Mercedes and
switched off the engine.  He sat for just a moment, his hands still
resting on the steering wheel.  He hadn't slept much in the past 48
hours, and he was tired; bone tired.  The need to cover the grocery
stores was all that had been keeping him going, and now that the
interviews were over, with nothing to show for them, he really starting
to feel the exhaustion.  He knew he would have to sleep soon, or he
would be no good to anyone.

Like he was any good to anyone now.

He pulled the key from the ignition and climbed wearily from the car,
and a moment later he was standing in Tara's living room, staring at the
sofa.  What little sleep he had got had been on that sofa, and now it
seemed to be reaching out to him, calling his name and inviting him to
stretch out and let his cares disappear.  It was so tempting just to let
it all go for a few hours.  Just stretch out, let the tired muscles
relax, and....

"Mulder?"

He looked around and saw Tara standing in the door to the kitchen,
holding Matthew in her arms.  He nodded slightly in acknowledgement of
their presence; he was suddenly too tired for any but the most necessary
speech.

"How'd it go?  Did you find anything?"

He could tell from her tone of voice that she already knew the answer,
but still he shook his head.  "No."

She nodded slightly, and just stood looking at him for a minute.  Then:
"You got a letter this afternoon."

Mulder felt his eyebrows raise slightly.  "A letter?"

"Yeah."  She nodded towards the sofa.  "I put it on the coffee table."
Again she feel silent, and the two stood looking at each other for a
moment.  Finally she simply turned and walked back out of the room.

He watched her go, and continued looking at the empty doorway for
another moment, before finally turning and walking over to the sofa,
sitting down heavily.  The letter was just where Tara had said it was,
lying on the coffee table next to the copy of the Symposium which he had
found in Bill and Tara's library the night before.

He reached out and picked up the envelope.  His name was typed on the
front, and it was addressed in care of Tara Scully, Miramar Naval Air
Station, San Diego.  It was postmarked the previous day.

For a minute he pondered the significance -- if any -- of the fact that
it was addressed to him in care of Tara rather than in care of Bill, but
the meaning of that eluded him.  He was tired; so tired.  He really
needed to sleep before his brain stopped functioning entirely.  But
first he had to see what was in the envelope.  He slit the flap open
with his thumbnail, and gently shook it until the contents slid out onto
his lap.

Mulder froze.

It was  picture; a Polaroid snapshot, of Scully and her brother.  They
were sitting on a sofa, side by side, and Scully was holding a copy of
yesterday's newspaper, angled so that the headline was visible.
Something about Iraq, but that wasn't important; what mattered was that
she was alive -- or had been 24 hours or so ago.

Or at least, someone wanted him to think that, he reminded himself.  It
would be no big trick to fake such a picture; hell, he himself might
even be able to manage it, and it would be no feat at all for the Lone
Gunmen.  So the photo itself proved nothing, and he knew that whoever
had sent it to him also knew that.  They were playing with his
uncertainty; they wanted him to have hope, but then to doubt his own
hope.  They wanted him to doubt himself.

And it was working.

With a groan of despair, Mulder closed his eyes.

#          #          #

End of Part 3