Date: Mon, 03 Sep 2001 23:54:57 GMT
Subject: NEW:  City of Light by Bonetree  [0/25] 
Source: atxc

I am posting this for a friend.  Please direct all feedback to:
Bonetree@gmail.com


TITLE: City of Light
AUTHOR: Bonetree
RATING: NC-17 for sexual situations, graphic violence, and adult
language.
CATEGORY: Novel, Angst
SPOILERS: Everything through season five (this sort of takes
off into its own world somewhere within season six and just keeps
going...).
KEYWORDS: MSR, Angst.
SUMMARY: On the run through the American Southwest, Scully and
Mulder flee the shadowy forces of Owen Curran and Padden's government
agents, who threaten their freedom and their lives. On the way, they
must also struggle with their own demons, which threaten to tear them
apart.
ARCHIVE: If you can fit it?  Sure!  Okay for Gossamer, but anyone
else please ask first so I know where it's going.
FEEDBACK: Welcomed and responded to at Bonetree@gmail.com
DISCLAIMER: The following is a work of fiction. The characters of
Mulder, Scully, Skinner, Maggie Scully, Emily, The Lone Gunmen,
Albert Hosteen (and anyone else from the show who appears suddenly
out of the ether) are the property of 1013 Productions, Chris Carter,
and Fox. No copyright infringement is intended, and no profit is
being made from the use of these characters. All other characters are
my own creation and they, along with the story in this form, are the
intellectual property of the holder of the above AOL account.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story is the sequel to "Secret World," one of my
earlier fanfictions. I'm afraid this story will make absolutely no
sense if you haven't read that one before diving into this. "City of
Light" is the ending piece of a trilogy that began with the story
"Goshen."  While you don't HAVE to read "Goshen" to understand this
story, the events of that story will also be discussed in this one,
so I would recommend you read it, as well, or you're going to get
thrown by some references to and discussion about an event that took
place in the mountains of Virginia (specifically Afton Mountain) a
little over a year ago in this story's timeline. This is also an
established MSR story, and "Goshen" details the beginnings of the
relationship, which also might be helpful for you to know.

"Goshen," a novella, and "Secret World," a novel, can be found on
the main page of this website.

TIMELINE NOTE: This story takes place a little over two years after
"Emily." For the purposes of this story, seasons seven and eight have
never happened. Sorry, no Babyfic, Mulder abduction, or Doggett
anywhere in sight. Also, Albert Hosteen hasn't died (we're pretty
much AUing it here...).

Oh, and everyone's hair is still fabulous in this. ;o)

Other Author's Notes will follow at the end of the story, though I'm
going to go ahead and say a quick thanks here as we get started to my
betas -- Dani, Sheri and Shari. Here we go again, ladies!

Disclaimer in Chapter 0.  This is Chapter 1.

********

CITY OF LIGHT


"....My only advice is not to go away.
Or, go away.  Most

Of my decisions have been wrong.

When I wake, I lift cold water
To my face.  I close my eyes.

A body wishes to be held, & held, & what
Can you do about that?

Because there are faces I will never see again,
There are two things I want to remember
About light, & what it does to us.

Her bright, blue eyes at an airport -- how they widened
As if in disbelief;
And her opening the gate to a lit & silent

City."

        -- a variation on Larry Levis' "In the City of Light"



***********

NEAR JOSHUA TREE, CALIFORNIA
MOJAVE DESERT
MARCH 18
5:47 p.m.


The headlights of the ancient Bronco raked the cracked pavement in
front of it, piercing through the deep glow of the sunset over the
desert, the sky fading as if a shroud were being pulled down across
the wide white sun that hung cloudless on the horizon.  The truck was
moving fast, the engine thundering against the craggy tan of rocky
outcroppings that crouched around the road, the sound seeming to echo
through the open window on the driver's side.

Whizzing past the window, the odd shapes of Joshua trees, gnarled
and spiked and bent at strange angles against the darkening sky.
They stood on the barren landscape like wizened figures frozen in
place, the branches twisted and covered with their strange layers of
harsh green.

Mulder watched them pass out of the corner of his eye, though his
gaze was shifting back and forth between the road ahead and the rear
view mirror.  He reached up and scrubbed at his beard nervously,
smoothing it down, a habit he'd picked up since it had grown out.
Then his hand returned its iron grip on the steering wheel, guiding
the truck around a wide curve in the road that angled around another
small hill of rock and sand.

He glanced to the side, at the woman on the wide bench seat beside
him.  Scully was sitting with her back against the door, her arm
thrown over the back of the seat, her gaze out the back window.  Her
face was grim, creased, as she stared behind them, her body tensed.
He could see the muscles of her left arm shaking slightly as her hand
gripped the seat back.

From the trembling, he knew how tired she was.  The shaking always
gave it away.

"Anything?"  he asked finally into the silence between them.

Scully kept her eyes on the road, said nothing for a long moment.
He let the silence linger, trusting her to speak when she was
certain.  Trusting her.

They hadn't spoken since they'd left the highway 20 minutes ago,
heading down the shabby road that wound its way through Joshua Tree
National Park, one of the most desolate places Mulder had ever seen.
Even with the weeks they'd spent in the desert, this place seemed the
most remote to him.  He felt as though they were the last two people
on earth.

Right now, he hoped they were.

Finally, Scully turned in her seat, her arm coming down as she faced
forward again.

"They didn't follow us," she said.

The "they" she referred to was two policemen in a state police car
who had picked up their tail as they'd left Yucca Valley.  Scully had
seen them from the window of their tiny motel room there as two
policemen drove up and entered the office, asking the manager
questions as she watched them through the office's window.

Mulder had been sleeping behind her when she suddenly sat down on
the side of the bed, pulling on her shoes as she spoke to him with
urgency.

"Mulder, we have to go.  We have to get out of here," she'd said,
and he'd bolted upright immediately in the bed at the sound of her
voice, its tone.

"What is it?"  He wasn't even bleary as he asked it.   His nerves,
like hers, were constantly on edge.

"Police.  Asking questions."

He'd glanced at the window.  "Scully, it could be nothing," he tried
to soothe, putting a hand on her back.  She'd tensed at the touch and
risen, tossing a couple of things into her open suitcase on its
holder.

"We can't take the chance," she said hurriedly, and her voice shook,
but not with tears.  Knowing there was no way to talk her out of her
panic once it gripped her, he rose and began to dress quickly.

They were in the car and out of the motel, the key left on the
bureau, before the police could leave the office.  Everything had
seemed fine for the long moments as they wove toward the highway.

Then the car had appeared, seeming to follow them.  It tailed them
onto the interstate, through the desert on the outskirts of a little
outpost town called Joshua Tree.

It didn't follow them closely, but it did stay behind them, a
persistent presence in the rear view mirror.

Mulder had watched it the entire way, his eyes hidden behind
sunglasses while the sun still shone brightly against the pale sand.
For her part, Scully sat still in the seat beside him, her hair
tucked back into a small knot, the white dress shirt of his that she
wore accentuating the paleness of her skin.  Her white-knuckled hand
on the door handle was the only thing that belied her emotions.

"I'm getting off this road," he announced as they left Joshua Tree
and entered the national park.  She nodded, reaching for the worn map
between them.  He'd pulled off onto a side road and sped out of sight
around a sharp curve before the police car could catch up with them
enough to notice the turn.

Now he pulled off his sunglasses, tossed them on the dash
haphazardly, blowing out a breath at her announcement that they
hadn't been followed.  He didn't mean for it to sound as frustrated
as it did.  Scully's reaction, he could see as he glanced at her, was
immediate.  She stared down, suddenly intent on the map, her hands.


"I'm sorry," she said softly, barely audible over the truck's huge
engine.

He looked at her for a moment, then back at the road.  The desert
stretched out around them, the headlights seeming to brighten as the
sky continued to darken, the sun dipping below the horizon now, a
semicircle of white light.

"It's okay," he replied gently, reached over to grip her trembling
forearm.

"No," she said, shaking her head.  "I shouldn't have overreacted
like that."   She looked out the window, away from him as she spoke.
"They were probably just following us because we left in such a
hurry."

"You don't know that," he said, wishing she would look at him.
"They could have been acting on a description of us.  You could have
been right."

She shook her head again, looking down at where his hand touched her
arm.  Slowly she reached down and put her hand on top of his.

"I know how tired you were," she murmured, her voice showing her own
exhaustion now as the tension receded.  "How much you needed to
sleep."

He didn't disagree with that.  They'd been driving for hours, up
from El Centro near the Mexican border.  They'd avoided crossing the
border to stay away from Customs, who might have their descriptions.
They had false identification thanks to the Gunmen, but there was no
way to hide their faces.  Though Mulder was trying with the beard.

"How far until the next town going this way?"  he asked, moving his
arm back to the steering wheel to let her adjust the map.  She
reached up and flicked on the interior light, studied the map for a
long moment.

"There's a place called Twentynine Palms coming up in about 50
miles," she said.

"That's too close," he replied, shaking his head.  "In case you were
right about those cops, I'd like to put some distance from where we
were."

She nodded.  "All right."  She returned her gaze to the map.  "Well,
if we're really going to head back into Arizona, the next closest
place is Parker.  It's on an Indian reservation -- we'd be safer
there.  It's about 180 miles, though.  Can you make it that far?"
Her eyes filled with concern as she looked at him.

He rubbed at his beard again, trying not to grimace.  "Yeah, I can
make it,"  he said with an assurance he didn't quite feel.   He
returned her gaze, forced a wane smile.  "You should lie down and get
some sleep, though.  I know you're running on fumes."

Without meaning to, he glanced down at her hand, which was sending
the map into shivers.  She saw him looking at it and dropped her hand
into the shadows in her lap, hiding it from his view.

He regretted his action immediately; she was very self-conscious
about the nerve damage to her hand caused by her exposure to Owen
Curran's drug.  The injury could end her career as a pathologist,
perhaps as an FBI agent.  It was something they tried not to discuss,
one of the many unspoken subjects that travelled with them, between
them.

He cleared his throat, hoping to clear the moment with it.

"I'll stay up with you," she said finally into the awkward silence,
flicked off the overhead light and settled into her seat a bit more.
The interior of the car was washed in darkness now, the blue-white
lights of the dash giving their faces a ghostly glow.

He turned to glance at her.  Her expression was a mask, unreadable.

"All right," he replied softly, then returned his eyes to the road,
the headlights the only lights for as far as he could see.


**********

MESQUITE MOTEL
PARKER, ARIZONA
COLORADO RIVER INDIAN RESERVATION
9:45 p.m.


Mulder made his way slowly across the parking lot of the dingy
motel, the key to room 14 dangling from his limp fist.  He ached all
over, his back sore, his legs stiff in his worn jeans.  The edge of
his white t-shirt hung out one side of the waist band, dipping just
below the bottom of the denim jacket he'd picked up a few weeks ago
at a thrift shop in a town whose name he couldn't remember anymore.

There were so many towns.   He'd lost count of them, as well.

Almost two months on the road and his life had become a blur of sand
and highway, diners, midnight stops at gas stations, worn mattresses
and too-thin sheets.  His skin was deeply tanned now, and he'd begun
to notice the beginnings of creases around his eyes, the squinting
against the persistent sun and the strain of the life they were
living aging him, making him look care-worn.

Between that and the beard he now wore, he sometimes barely
recognized himself in the gas station bathroom mirrors he passed.
The face that stared back at him as he combed his lengthening hair in
mirrors of a dozen motels seemed strange to him.  Like he was turning
into someone else.

He sighed with the thoughts, approaching the Bronco now.  He pulled
the creaking door open, startling Scully awake on the passenger side,
her head bolting up from where it had slumped against the back of the
seat.

"Mulder?"  she asked quickly, breathless as her eyes scanned the
car, wide and bright in the dim parking lot lights.

"Yeah, it's all right," he said softly, and climbed into the
driver's seat.  It was a big vehicle, and he did literally have to
climb into it, despite his height.  He reached over and handed her
the key and she took it.

"The Presidential Suite, I assume?" she quipped.

"Of course," he replied, playing along, glad for her attempt at
levity.  "Jacuzzi.  Waterbed.  Full dining room and sitting area.
Room service all night."

He watched her small smile and it warmed something cool in him.

He put the car into reverse and backed it out slowly, struggling
with the lack of power steering once again.  He wound the wheel back
around and pulled down to the end of the parking lot, stopping in
front of the door marked 14 with crooked numbers, the paint chipped
on its front as the headlights glared at it.

He turned the key and the engine grumbled into silence, hissing
softly beneath the hood.

"I'll get the bags," he said.  "You go on in."

She hesitated, but then nodded, sliding out of the truck to her
feet.  He watched her go to the door, open it and go into the room.
After a few seconds a light switched on and he could see her
stretching at the foot of a bed, holding her lower back.

It only took him a few moments to hustle their bags into the room,
close the door behind him and throw the lock and chain.  Scully came
forward, reaching for one of her bags.  She'd already gotten out of
her boots, a brown pair of what he referred to as "shitkickers" that
they'd picked up along the way.  They were so unlike her, like men's
construction boots, but they were practical for the kind of terrain
they were in.  Her usual array of pumps just wouldn't do in the
desert.

Her other bag, the one full of her more formal clothes from the
undercover work, he set down by the door.  He only brought it in to
keep it from getting swiped from the car.  He had a suitbag that he
draped over a chair, also left forgotten, as he went to the bed with
his other suitcase.  He threw it down on the foot of it as he sat
heavily on the edge, peeling out of his jacket.  The t-shirt soon
followed, tossed with the jacket toward the other chair around the
chintzy table by the door.

He put his arms up and closed his eyes, stretched like a cat,
yawning, listening to various things pop as he did so.

When he opened his eyes, he saw Scully at the suitcase stand by the
dresser, holding a bottle of shampoo and conditioner, her toothbrush
and toothpaste in her hands.  But she was looking at him, a sad
expression on her face.

"What is it?" he asked gently, rubbed at his bare chest with one
hand as he braced the other on the mattress beside him.

She glanced away quickly, as though ashamed to have been caught
looking at him.  "Nothing," she said softly.  He saw color rise in
her cheeks.  "You just...you look..." She trailed off.

He looked at her, understanding.  Seeing his body had triggered
something in her.  Some feeling.  Something kin to desire.

And desire was like a phantom pain to her.

He smiled tenderly, taking her into his eyes.  "You do, too," he
murmured, and meant it.  He loved the way she looked wearing his
shirt, tied just at the waist of her jeans, loved the creamy triangle
of her chest it revealed, the cross shining against her skin.


Loved her.

His body ached for hers.  Sometimes it was like a physical pain, the
wanting.  Feeling her body so close to his as they slept at night,
but knowing he could do nothing but hold her, that he had to be
content with that.

John Fagan had taken the rest of her -- of them -- away from him.

At least for just the time being.

Or so he hoped.

He rose slowly and closed the distance between them, stopping a
small distance from her.  She was staring at the surface of the
dresser, avoiding his eyes as he approached.

"Hey," he said softly, and reached up to brush an errant strand of
her hair behind her ear.  She didn't flinch at the touch, which he
took as a good sign.  She looked into his eyes, and he didn't see the
overwhelming fear there he sometimes did.

"Can I kiss you?"  he murmured, keeping his fingers against her hair
at her temple.

She smiled, but it was a sad smile, then closed her eyes as she
rubbed her cheek against his palm.  After a beat, she nodded, once.

He took another step toward her and she turned to face him, setting
the bottles and things down on the dresser.  Reaching up with his
other hand, he cradled her face between them, rubbing at her temples
as he leaned in, brushed his lips against hers.  As their lips
touched, her eyes opened and he watched her face as he withdrew, his
eyes questioning.

She met his gaze, nodded again.  Her hand came up to brush across
his cheek, stroking his short-cropped beard.  With that, he leaned in
again and kissed her in earnest, moving his lips against hers,
feeling her mouth open beneath his.  He waited for her tongue to
enter his mouth first, met it with his own as their faces angled,
first one way, then the other.

Her hand trailed from his cheek down to his shoulder, across his
chest, her palm settling against his breastbone, in the soft hair
there.  Her fingers curled in it.

When they came up for air, he moved to her cheek, her ear.  "I love
you," he whispered to her like a secret.  He felt her small smile
against his cheek.   He kissed her below her ear and she shied away
slightly, shivering.

"You okay?" he asked, freezing.

"Yes," she replied, her voice low, the smile still on her face.
"That beard just tickles."

"I thought you liked it," he said, his hands going down to her
waist.  They closed slowly on the curve of her hips.

"I do," she murmured.  "It's just...different.  It feels different
to me sometimes."  Her expression darkened suddenly, like storm
clouds coming in.  "A lot of things feel different.  Still..."

He leaned his forehead against hers as she averted her eyes again.
"I know," he said.  "I know they do."  He squeezed her hips slightly.
"It's just going to take some more time.  That's all."

She nodded, withdrew from him, her hand falling away from his chest
as she shifted her body out of his grasp.  She picked up the items
from the dresser again and he stepped back reluctantly.

The times when he actually got to touch her like that were so
seldom.

He hid the disappointment from his face, the feeling just below it.
The now-familiar anger that bordered on rage.  Not at her, of course,
but at everything that happened.  At Fagan.  Curran.  Padden.  At
this whole damn mess they were in.

If they could settle in somewhere for long enough she might have
time to let it move through her, come to some sort of place in her
where she could move forward with it.

But they had to keep moving.  For both their sakes.

"I'm going to take a shower," she said, and he nodded, swallowing it
all down once again.  It was beginning to have a sore place in his
belly, his heart.

"Okay," he said.  "I'll take one after you.  Watch the news."

She nodded, brushed past him and headed to the small bathroom at the
back of the tiny room.  She closed the door behind her, something
sinking further in him with the sound of it closing.

Shutting him out once again.

He reached over and flicked the television on, scrolled through the
channels until he got to MSNBC.  Returning to the bed, he fished out
his pajama bottoms, clean boxers, just washed in a laundromat in
Tucson a few days before.  With that, he tossed the suitcase, open,
on the floor beside the bed and sat on the bed again, pulling off his
boots.  He fumbled with the straps on the ankle holster he wore and
set the gun and holster on the night table, the straps hanging down.
Then he lay down, propping the pillow up behind him.

They'd actually stayed in Tucson a couple of days, feeling anonymous
in the larger city.  It had been that feeling that had urged them
into California, thinking that perhaps being less of a couple of
"strangers in a strange land" would ease their minds.

They knew immediately, however, that it was a mistake once they'd
crossed the border.  Much more law enforcement -- border patrol and
highway patrol -- motel and gas prices higher than their meager
budget could afford, few Indian reservations where the Federal
presence was all but nonexistent, places which they'd found had given
them some small measure of comfort, though they stood out and could
find few places to stay.

In California, the towns were getting more populated, which made
them less conspicuous, but also exposed them to more people who might
recognize them from the photos Mulder had seen at a post office in a
town in Arizona called Red Rock.  He'd been there to rent a post
office box so the Gunmen could send them money without having to wire
it, which seemed more risky.  He and Scully were thinking they might
actually stay for a couple of weeks in that place to rest up and slow
down.

Seeing the photos, he'd torn the sheet off the binder hanging on the
wall while the lone clerk was in the back, stuffed it in his pocket
and left in a hurry.

They'd left the town that night, as well.  Moving on.

He shifted on the pillow, throwing his arm behind his head to
cushion it when the flat, bumpy pillow would not, chewing his lip as
he thought about all this.  He stared at the television screen, his
eyes dry and tired.  He scrubbed at them with his other hand.

The news was on, a prime-time news show.  So far nothing about
Curran, though they'd seen other reports about the manhunt for him on
other nights.  They'd yet to see something about themselves, for
which Mulder was relieved.

"They're keeping it quiet with the press, treating it as an internal
matter," Skinner had said the last time Mulder had spoken to him,
from a payphone at a gas station on the road a few days before.  "The
task force that's looking for you is pretty big, but they're not
making a lot of noise about it.  Granger's well again, working on it
with them now.

"I don't think there's any press about you two because Padden's
trying to fly in under everyone's radar about this, hoping to get to
you before anything gets clear about his screw up with the embassy
bombing.  He's trying to get to Curran, too.  There *is* a lot of
pressure in the press about him, as you've probably seen."

"Yeah, we've been watching the news when we can," Mulder had
replied, standing beneath the lone light at the corner of the lot
while Scully bought coffee at the convenience store.   He remembered
his frustration peaking.

"I can't believe there's nothing that can be done about these
charges."  He had been holding the flyer with their photos on it at
the time, read off it.  "'Wanted for conspiracy to commit terrorism,
murder, attempted murder'?  What the fuck is this?  I can't believe
this would even stick."

He stared at the pictures of he and Scully, Scully placed on the
sheet as an identifier for him -- "most likely travelling with..." --
in his description.  They'd used their official FBI photos, the
photos they'd worn for years on their badges now looking like
mugshots.

"I've gone to the Attorney General about it," Skinner'd replied
tensely.  "He trusts Padden more than he trusts me, more than he
trusts anyone.  He wants you caught.  Both of you.  He doesn't know
what Padden's up to with using Scully to get to Owen Curran.  I tried
to explain that to him and was told I was being 'paranoid and
irrational'."

"Feels good, doesn't it?"  Mulder had replied darkly.  Skinner did
not reply.

Mulder relented, watching Scully walk slowly through the parking
lot, two cups of coffee in her hands, glancing around nervously.

"So I take it you're saying stay out again," he said dejectedly.

"I think if you come in, especially before Curran's caught, they're
going to string you up by your nuts, Mulder, and there's nothing
anyone will be able to do about it.  Padden can make anything stick
right now.  He's got his head so far up Ashcroft's ass, for one
thing, and for another, Ashcroft is new and will listen to just about
anything at this point.

"And I don't have any proof you weren't involved.  Your trip into
the Grey Mouse that day is being used against you, incriminating you.
The fingerprints in Mae Curran's apartment.  Fagan.  All of it.  I
can't protect you, so I want you to stay out of sight."

A pause.  "How's Scully holding up?"

"She's been better," Mulder said evasively.  Skinner didn't know
much of what had happened to her -- only that she'd been exposed to
the drug.  Nothing about the attack by Fagan.

"Is she still having after-effects of the drug?"

"Yes," Mulder replied softly.  "I think some of that might be
permanent.  But she won't talk about it."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Skinner had replied, matching Mulder's
tone.

They'd ended the call with a promise from Mulder to check back in a
week or so, getting off the line right as his coins ran out to pay
for the call.

On the bed, he sighed, rubbed at his eyes again.  The news ended and
he turned off the television, letting silence come over the room. The
water went off in the shower, and a few moments later Scully emerged,
wrapped in a towel, her hair dried to damp.

She crossed the room silently, went to her suitcase.  Her back
turned toward him, she rooted around in her suitcase for underwear, a
t-shirt.  Then she dropped the towel as she put them on.

He watched her from the bed.  Her skin was pale where the sun had
not touched it.  Too pale.  He could see the outline of her spine
stark beneath the skin.

"You've got to eat more, Scully," he said quietly, trying not to
sound reproachful.  He'd been watching her pick at her food for weeks
now.  "You can't afford to lose any more weight."

"I know," she said, slipping the t-shirt over her head and then
turning to face him.  She could not meet his gaze, though.  "I'm
sorry.  I just don't feel like eating...I think it's still a holdover
from the drug...something..."

He nodded, but knew she was avoiding the real reason.  Her sadness
and grief.  Over what had happened to her.  Over what it appeared
they were losing or had already lost.

He understood the feelings.  Despite the kiss they'd shared before
she went into the shower, sometimes he felt like she were simply
drifting away from him along with the rest of his life.

"I'll try to eat more," she said, coming toward the bed now, going
to the other side and pulling back the pilled, faded coverlet and
sheets and slipped beneath them.  She turned on her side, facing him.
He was relieved when she touched his forearm, which was draped across
his belly.

He reached for her hand, pulling his arm down from behind his head,
lifted her hand  to his mouth, kissed her knuckles gently, rubbed
them against lips.  She made a soft sound in response, though he
could not tell if she intended it or not.

"I'm going to go shower real fast," he said, curved his arm over her
head, fingering the damp red strands of her hair.  "You go ahead and
go to sleep.  Don't wait for me."

She nodded, her eyelids drooping already.  "Mm...okay," she mumbled
softly.  He leaned over and kissed her forehead, then rose, pulling
his toiletries bag out of his suitcase and throwing his pajama pants
and boxers over his shoulder.  He padded in his socks toward the
bathroom.

"Mulder?" she called from the bed, her voice edged with sleep.

He turned back to look at her.  "Yeah?"

She didn't move as she spoke.  "I love you, too."

He stood there for a few seconds, a faint smile coming to his face.
Then he headed for the bathroom, left the door open.


***********

END OF CHAPTER 1.  CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 2.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0.  This is Chapter 2.


*********

FBI HEADQUARTERS
WASHINGTON, D.C.
MARCH 19
9:16 a.m.


The tour group wound its way through the corridors of the massive
building, stopping here and there in front of glass display cases
with various exhibits on the history of the agency.  The tour guide
was a woman in her mid-thirties dressed in a formal suit, which
matched her tone and the general mood of the tour.

Among the smattering of young boys and their fathers, the tourist
couples -- some American, some not -- a young African-American man
stood hanging near the back, paying only passing attention to the
exhibit presently being shown to the group, one of J. Edgar Hoover
himself.

Sans tutu, the man thought wryly, enjoying his private joke, despite
the tension coursing through him.

They were on the right floor now.  It was just a matter of slipping
away.

The group began to move on down the hallway, the woman referring to
some of the more innocuous offices housed on the floor, promising
they'd pass the fingerprinting labs on the floor above.

Drifting back even farther, Paul Granger took a step into an open
doorway, an office presently unoccupied.  He stood at the door as he
heard the woman's voice receding down the hallway, the softening
footfalls of the group as they headed toward the elevator.  He heard
it ding as it arrived, then the woman's voice disappeared completely
behind the soft thud of the closing doors.

Relieved, he stepped out of the office, his hand going to pluck the
"Tour" badge off the collar of his coat.  He stuffed it in his pocket
as he looked at where he was on the floor, orienting himself.

The office he wanted was down that way, he decided, looking to the
right.  He turned and walked in that direction, his eyes darting at
the faces around him from behind his small silver spectacles.

He limped slightly as he went down the corridor, his newly healed
leg still hampering him.  It had come along more slowly than his arm
had, the shoulder responding to the physical therapy much better
since the injury he'd sustained there had been at a joint.  The break
in the leg was at the shin, held together with a plate, and the
healing was slower, the pain still nipping at him as his weight rose
and fell off it.

He got a few strange, vaguely suspicious looks as he went down the
corridor, though he did his best to appear as though he belonged
there.  The casual clothes he'd worn to the building to blend in with
the tour group were making him stick out now that he was among
nothing but FBI agents.

He fingered the CIA badge in his coat pocket, secure that it was
there should he need it.  He just hoped he didn't.  No one was
supposed to know he was there, and he didn't feel like advertising
it.

He reached the office he was looking for, went in, saw the secretary
look up with surprise as he entered.  She scanned him for a Visitor's
badge of some kind, and he spoke as her mouth opened to do the same.

"I'm here to see Assistant Director Skinner," he said.

"Do you have an appointment, Mister...?"  the woman, a redhead who
reminded him vaguely of Scully, asked.

"Granger,"  he replied.  "Paul Granger.  No, but he'll know who I
am."

The woman looked at him doubtfully for a few more seconds, taking in
his attire, his face, then she reached for the phone, pressed a
button.  He just hoped it wasn't the hot button for Security.

"Sir, there's a Mr. Granger to see you," she said, her eyes not
leaving Granger's face.  He could hear a voice in the receiver after
a beat of silence.

"Yes, sir, I'll send him in."  She hung up, looked toward the door.

"You can go on in, Mr. Granger," she said.

Granger thanked her, went to the door and opened it.  Skinner was
behind his desk, a pen in his hand, his jacket off.  He put the pen
down and stood as Granger closed the door, came forward.

Skinner did not reach out his hand.

"What are you doing here, Agent Granger?"  he asked by way of
greeting, his jaw tight.  He looked around as though there were
someone in the office who might see them, then leveled his gaze on
the younger man again.

Granger looked down, nodded. This was exactly the reaction he'd
expected.

"No one knows I'm here," he said, met Skinner's eyes.  "And no one
ever will."

"You signed in when you came in, didn't you?"  Skinner snapped.

"A Mr. Andreas signed in, with a tour group," Granger replied, and
Skinner looked at him a few seconds longer.  Finally, he seemed to
relax a little, though not much.  He gestured to a chair in front of
his desk.

"Have a seat," he said, though there was nothing warm in the
invitation. Skinner was on edge.  Very on edge.

"I'm not going to ask you where they are," Granger offered as he
sat.

Skinner hesitated, then returned behind his desk and sat down
himself, leaning on his elbows on the desk, as though he were poised
to leap up at any second.

"That's good, because I don't know where they are," Skinner bit out.
 "And frankly, if I did, I sure as hell wouldn't be telling you."

Granger nodded.  "I understand that.  I wouldn't want you to.  I
don't want them found either.  Not yet."

Skinner grunted. "How are you going to manage not to look for them
when you're the Chief Profiler on the case?  You can't play dumb and
fuck around forever."

"I don't plan to play dumb or fuck around," Granger replied evenly.
He leaned back in his chair.  "I'm going to be looking for them, but
not for Padden.  I want to find them myself.  When a few things are
in place.  And the resources of the task force are the best way to do
that."

Skinner's eyes narrowed behind his glasses.  "I'd like to believe
that, Agent Granger," he said, folding his hands in front of him.
"But frankly I'm having a hard time trusting you in all this."

"I'm sure you're having a hard time knowing who to trust at all at
this point, yes," Granger replied.  "I am, as well.  And I know I'm
not exactly at the top of your list because I've accepted this
assignment in the first place."

He met Skinner's eyes seriously.  "But you are at the top of mine."

Skinner looked to the side and shook his head.  "How do I know you
weren't sent here by Padden to scope me out, see how I'd react, to
see if I know anything? How can I trust that?"

"I can't make you believe me, except to give you my word,"  Granger
said, looking at him hard, trying to meet Skinner glare for glare,
something he couldn't have done a few months ago.

These days, he felt much older than his 33 years, like he'd aged ten
years in the past three months, in his body and his mind. The green
agent who had scuttled after Mulder across Richmond, nearly
scattering papers from folders in his wake, was all but gone now.  He
was much wiser, and not all the wisdom he'd gained was for the
better.

Skinner was looking at him, as though trying to decide whether to
believe him.  He didn't seem to come to any decision as he mirrored
Granger's action by leaning back in his chair.

"Then what is that you want from me?"  He asked it quietly, his eyes
still narrowed.

Granger drew in a deep breath, taking the plunge.  This was, after
all, what he'd risked coming here for in the first place.

"I wanted to tell you a theory about how it is they're going to get
caught." Granger leveled his eyes again.  "To reassure you as
Assistant Director that your fugitive agents will be found if they
keep doing what they're doing."

Skinner stared.

"All right," he said carefully.  "Tell me your theory."

"If they *didn't* want to get caught, they'd have to stop moving
around at some point," Granger said. "They think they're doing the
right thing, but they're not.  Not anymore. There have been a few
reports from places out west of couples vaguely meeting their
descriptions possibly passing through here and there.  Their moving
around constantly may keep them from Curran, but it's going to make
it easier for the task force to find them."

Skinner picked up his pen, suddenly fascinated by it.  His jaw
muscles were pulsing. Granger pressed on.

"Agencies in those areas have been fully briefed and are looking for
them, including the local police.  They're looking *hard,*
circulating pictures to motels, restaurants, gas stations.
Blanketing the area.  The more mobile Mulder and Scully seem, the
less settled they are, the more they're going to arouse suspicion.
And the greater the chance of them stopping at a motel where the
manager has a flyer with their faces on it taped to the desk.  Moving
is exposing them to more people.  Staying put somewhere will expose
them to less."

He lowered his voice to just above a whisper.  "You might want to
pass that along if you get the opportunity."

Skinner looked away again, dropped the pen.  "That's an interesting
theory you have about their activities, Agent Granger," he said
nonchalantly before glancing back.  "But seeing as how I have no
contact with them -- that having contact with them and not revealing
that information would cost me my career and probably my freedom for
aiding and abetting a Federal fugitive -- I don't know how I would
relay that information even if I were so inclined to do so."

Granger nodded.  "Of course, sir," he replied.

He rose, reached his hand across the desk now.

"You know I didn't say any of this," he said softly.

Skinner reached out and shook his hand now.  "I understand."

Granger nodded again and headed slowly for the door.

"Agent Granger," Skinner said to the younger man's back.  Granger
turned to face Skinner again, his eyes questioning.

"Be careful."  Skinner's tone was firm, his voice low.  "You're
standing with one foot on the dock and the other on the boat.  And
you know how that always ends up."

Granger quirked a smile.  "Not always, sir.  But thank you for the
warning."

**

9:50 a.m.

In the car now, fighting the late flex-time shift on the Teddy
Roosevelt Bridge, Granger drummed his fingers on the steering wheel,
not even reacting as a car swerved around him in the fast lane,
nearly cutting him off in its attempt to punish him for driving too
slowly.

His mind just wasn't on the road.

His heart was still thumping a little hard, the fear he'd had over
the risks he was taking still working in him.  He'd managed to hold
the feeling down until he'd returned to his car and taken off through
the city.

But then it had hit him, the reaction delayed by his need to seem
completely in control of the situation in front of Skinner.

What the hell am I doing? he thought, shaking his head.

His hand went to his forehead, wiping at the sheen of sweat that had
appeared there, despite the chill still in the air in the Washington
early spring.   He moved over into the right-hand lane as the sign
for the George Washington Parkway appeared, took the exit.

He would be at CIA Headquarters by 10:15 at the latest.  Late, but
then he'd only been back at work for a few days since coming off
medical leave.  They were going easy on him so far, giving him light
duty, not pressuring him too much, letting him leave early when he
got too tired.

But then he'd yet to see Padden.  And that was going to change this
morning.   That was why he'd chosen this particular morning to risk
going to see Skinner -- it was the last chance he'd have before he
had the NSA Director breathing down his neck, no doubt watching his
every move.

If he wasn't already.

They'd spoken on the phone several times over the course of
Granger's recuperation from his injuries sustained in the bombing,
mostly for Padden to ask him questions about his involvement with
Mulder while they were working together in Richmond.

Padden was slowly, methodically, building his case against Mulder,
doing everything he could to make every move Mulder had made in
Richmond seem suspect.

"So what you're saying, Agent Granger," Padden said during one such
phone call, "is that you actually have no idea where Mulder was
during that period of time on January twelfth to the thirteenth."

The day Mulder had gone to the mountains, needing "a day off," he'd
said.

Granger remembered sitting up quickly from where he was reclined on
his bed, the Flyers playing on the television, as he realized what
Padden was implying.

"I've told you where he was.  He was in D.C. on a personal matter.
Begging your pardon, sir, but how many times do you want me to tell
you the same thing?"

That had been the cover story he'd used that day when he did not, in
fact, know where Mulder had been.

"'A personal matter' could mean a lot of things, Agent Granger,"
Padden replied.  He'd sounded almost smug.

Granger sighed now, remembering the conversation, the car speeding
along the parkway, a view of the Potomac off to his right, the river
dark, surrounded by bare trees on the banks.

There had been nothing he could do for Mulder except, it seemed, dig
him in deeper.  When he held anything back, he could tell Padden knew
it; when he told the truth, Padden skewed it, finding the holes in
what Granger knew and filling them with his own agenda.

The truth of the matter was that Granger could prove nothing, had
nothing beyond his own unwavering trust in Mulder and his word.  So
many things he actually didn't know for certain.  Whether Mulder had
actually been at the airport that morning when John Fagan was killed.
Whether he'd really been in the mountains those two days in January
as he'd said.  What he'd done the day he'd gone into the Grey Mouse
after Fagan.

And though Granger had explained Mulder's reasoning about the
bombing, mapped out for Padden how Mulder had figured out that it
would be the Irish Embassy that was going to attacked and not the
British as Padden had insisted, Padden saw Mulder's tip-off as a last-
minute change of conscience of a man who had been in on the planning
of it all along.

And the fact that Mulder was running didn't help his case very much,
though Granger knew he was running for Scully's sake and not his own.
 He knew that Mulder would do anything to guarantee his partner's
safety.

His lover's safety, he thought sadly.

Though Mulder had never spoken of it, or even hinted at it, Granger
had spent enough time with him, and was interested enough in how he
ticked, to know this fact to be true.

He had, of course, told no one.

He took the Chain Bridge exit, and the sign for the George Bush
Center for Intelligence, the fairly new CIA headquarters where
Padden's multi-agency task force was based, came into view.  His hand
tightening on the steering wheel, he blew out another frustrated
breath.

What he needed was evidence of where Mulder had been.  Beyond what
had been said.  It was the only way to combat Padden and the frame he
was putting Mulder in.

That's what he'd meant when he'd told Skinner that he didn't want
Mulder and Scully found until "some things were in place."

A lot of things.

He didn't know what they were yet, these things he would need to
find.

But find them he would.


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

OATMAN, ARIZONA
ROUTE 66
11:38 a.m.


When Scully was a child and on the road in the back seat of her
parents' station wagon, she didn't watch the landscape, the trees
that crowded the highways, but rather she watched the road itself.

She watched the intermittent white lines that bisected the road they
drove on, speeding past, going in the opposite direction than the one
she was travelling.  In her child's mind, she imagined them as cars
on a train filled with passengers, all fleeing from where she was
headed, as though fleeing her unforeseeable future.

Here, the pavement was cracked and the lines faded somewhat from
sunlight and neglect.   She continued to watch them, the lines
fleeing beside her as Mulder aimed the truck down the highway from
the fast lane.  Her eyes hidden behind sunglasses, a black baseball
cap that Mulder had bought her in a truck stop weeks ago hiding her
still-red hair and blocking her face from the constant sun, she
leaned against the door.  Her gaze was fixed on the road, and she
felt the same feeling of dread she'd felt as a child wash over her at
what lay up ahead.

She'd had the same feeling for weeks, her life feeling like an
endless highway now, the moments of it like the hundreds of towns
they'd driven through in the past two months, each separate but
beginning to run together in a colored blur of light, neon lights
that beckoned to them from the road as they drove past late into the
many nights.

Mulder was humming tunelessly to a song she didn't know on the
radio.  One he clearly didn't know either.   His mind was obviously
elsewhere, put there by the quiet that had stretched between them for
50 miles or so now.

She wasn't much on talking these days, and the silence between them,
which he seemed to have reluctantly grown to accept, pained her.

Many times she would have a thought -- a memory of something they'd
done together, a story from childhood, a case they'd worked on -- and
she would open her mouth to speak, and the sound would simply fade
from her throat, her lips closing to the grim line they'd assumed
since they'd left Tennessee.

There was so much she both did and did not want to tell him.  The
unspoken things, all of them, building a wall between them, brick by
brick.  She knew he felt it, too.  She would feel him looking at her
as they lay spooned in the bed together, or see him watching her
sometimes from behind his sunglasses as they drove.

As he was doing now.

The familiar blue square of a roadsign signalling food and gas up
ahead came into view, riddled with shotgun pellet holes.  She
couldn't see over the next rise, but knew what she would find there.
A lonely restaurant and a three-pump gas station that made you pay
before you pumped.

"You hungry?"  Mulder asked from beside her, his voice sounding out
of place after so many miles of faint music and loud engine.

She glanced back at him, trying to ignore the concern that
constantly tugged at his gaze.  "Sure," she replied, forced a smile.

"Okay, we'll stop then," he said, clearly pleased, and shifted in
the seat as though his body were already anticipating leaving the
truck.

She returned her eyes to the road, nodding.

She really wasn't hungry.  She rarely was anymore, as though that
part of her connection to her body had gotten somehow crossed, the
signals that her body needed something rarely making it to her.

Only the ghost of longing reached her sometimes, Mulder's hand on
her leg, his legs twining with hers as he slept, their bodies pressed
together.

Sometimes even that was too much for her, and she would rise, sit on
the side of the bed, or retreat to a table in the motel room, wait
for him to roll over in his sleep, lose his contact with her
completely, before she slipped back into the bed, curled on the edge
like a comma as far away from him as she could get, hiding the tears
behind her hands.

She felt her eyes burning with the thought, and she pushed it away
hard, back down with the rest of the things she could not think
about.  Turning her head farther away from where Mulder might see the
suspicious shine of her eyes, she looked out over the desert,
squinting against the light reflecting off the sand.

Along the sides of the highway and stretching off into the distance,
yellow and orange poppies at the feet of the cacti and sagebrush,
purple stalks of lubine.  It had rained a lot in the past month -- a
lot for the desert -- and the hard husks of the seeds had been forced
open by the moisture, the flowers' tough heads coming up through the
sand to wash the tan earth with their colors.

At least that's what one of the motel managers had told her when
she'd asked about the flowers.   She had never thought of them being
in the desert before, and had said so.  The manager had beamed as he
spoke of them, clearly pleased with the development himself.

She smiled now as she remembered that, smiled at the colors that
stretched up onto the hillsides in patches.  After so many weeks of
the desolation, the tiny change thawed her a bit.

They reached the top of the rise and the restaurant and gas station
appeared off to the right.  The ubiquitous "Get Your Kicks On Route
66" sign was proudly displayed out front, the restaurant called the
Circle J.

Mulder slowed and pulled off into the dirt lot, parked the truck in
a space at the front of the ramshackle structure.  There were only a
few cars in the lot, a couple of hulks of RVs sitting parallel to the
road, encrusted with dust.

No one looked up as they entered, the place filled mostly with
tourists, it appeared, so they didn't stand out very much.  Scully
took her sunglasses off as a woman behind the counter, hippy with a
kind smile, gestured toward the wooden booths.

"Sit anywhere you like," she said, her smile touching her voice.
Scully smiled back, followed Mulder to a booth near the back, one
he'd clearly chosen because it was secluded from the rest of the
restaurant.

They slid in and Mulder removed his sunglasses, tossed them on the
table near the salt and pepper shakers in their cage and the half-
empty bottle of Heinz.

The same woman, "Sue," her nametag read, came up and laid two huge
menus in front of them both, still smiling kindly.  She took their
drink orders -- coffee for both of them.

"Where you all headed?  You look like you've been on the road for
days."

"Grand Canyon," Mulder replied immediately.

Scully stifled a smirk at that.  They'd been on their way to Grand
Canyon for two months now.  It was, to her, the most elusive place on
earth.

"Oh, you'll love it," Sue said expansively, putting the order pad to
her chest as she said it for effect.  "Take the mules down, though.
Don't try to walk it."

Scully smiled to her again, picturing she and Mulder on mules with
cameras dangling from their wrists.

"We'll remember that," she said.

Sue drifted off, and Scully watched her go until Mulder opened up
the menu in front of her.   She did the same out of sheer habit.

"No salads, okay?" Mulder said gently, looking at her earnestly over
the top of the menu.

She nodded, letting his nagging slide over her, if only because she
knew he was right that that was what she'd order.  It was what she
usually ordered.  They were easier to pick at for some reason, didn't
turn her stomach like most road fare did.

She would try.  She needed to try.

Her own body felt strange to her, her clothes beginning to hang from
the juts of her shoulders, her too-thin waist.  She was in another
one of Mulder's shirts today, this one blue, a white tank top beneath
it.  Wearing his clothes, which would seem too big to her anyway,
made her body feel not quite so changed.

It was also, she thought, like being close to him without actually
having to touch him.

The thought made her flustered, her eyes darting from the window
where'd she'd been staring back to the menu, as though she were
afraid he might read the her mind.  He was still watching her,
something pained in his eyes, and for an instant she thought he
really had.

Sue returned with two glasses of water filled with ice, two steaming
cups of coffee.  Dropping a handful of creamers in a little pile at
the edge of the table, she reached for her pad.

"What can I get you?"

Mulder ordered a pizza burger, a side of fries.  Scully looked down
at the menu as he did so until Sue turned to her.   The chicken
burrito seemed appealing in a vague sort of way.  She decided on
that.

Sue took the menus away, leaving them with nothing but the coffee
and creamers to tinker with.  Scully fingered a creamer, rolling the
cool plastic of it between her fingers.  She looked down at it, the
movement obscuring most of her face beneath the rim of the cap she
still wore.

As always, her hand shook slightly, sending the pale liquid inside
the container into ripples as she tore at the paper top with her good
hand.

"You okay?"  Mulder murmured.

She nodded, dumping the cream into the thin coffee.   "I'm all
right, Mulder," she replied.  "Really."  The last she said as she met
his gaze tiredly.

He shook his head, pursing his lips.  "I think we need to stop
somewhere for a few days again," he said.  "I think we could both use
a couple of days or so of not moving around."

"I'm really okay," she insisted quietly, picked up a spoon and
stirred, staring into her coffee as the light swirled into the dark.
"If you need to stop, it's fine, but--"

"I think we *both* need to stop," he replied, his voice just
slightly firmer now.  She looked back up at him as his tone shifted.

She set the spoon down.

"Look," he said, leaning closer.  "I know you're trying to tough
this out and pretend like what we're doing isn't affecting you, but I
can tell it is.  It has been for weeks now.  You're so pale and you
seem so exhausted--"

Instinctively, she pushed her damaged hand beneath the table, anger
coming over her at his insinuation, looked out the window, her jaw
set hard.

"And this isn't about your hand, either," Mulder said instantly,
clearly frustrated. "I'm talking about *you,* Scully."   His hand
reached across the table, gripped her right arm at the wrist.  "It's
like you're getting further and further away from me every day that
goes by."

"I'm just tired," she bit out, hating the defensiveness of her tone
as she looked at him sharply.  "You are, too.  What else do you
expect me to say?"

He didn't take the bait of her tone, but shook his head instead.

"Scully, you have to talk to me."  His voice was a little desperate
now, softer.

His hand went from her wrist to her hand, his fingers weaving into
hers.  She watched his fingers moving over hers, her hand looking and
feeling like that of a figure made of wax.

"You have to talk to someone about what happened in Richmond," he
pressed into the quiet.   "All of it.  If we were home, there would
be people you could talk to besides me, but I'm all you've got and I
want to be here for you."

She hesitated for a moment, her mouth opening and closing as it did
in the truck.  They were in dangerous territory now.  An unexplored
country.

She took in a breath, let it out slowly.

"There are some things I can't talk about with you, Mulder," she
said, her voice flat, monotone.

"I can take hearing them," he said, gave her hand a squeeze.

"But I can't take telling them," she replied immediately, implored
him with her eyes.  "And I'm not as sure as you are that you could
take hearing them, either.  Try to understand, please...."

"I'm trying to understand," he replied, that same tone of quiet
desperation in his voice.  "I *want* to understand.  But you won't
let me in, Scully.  I can feel you shutting me out."

He took a breath, seemed to hesitate for a beat, then spoke anyway.

"And it scares me."

"I'm sorry."  It was all she could think of to say after a moment.

"You don't have to be sorry," he replied.  "I just don't want you
any further away than you are already.  I feel like I can still get
to you sometimes...like last night.  But..."

The memory of the night before entered her mind, his mouth moving
over hers, her hands skimming across the flat, hard plane of his
chest.  For a moment she had felt like herself again.   Remembering
it cracked a door in her, something warm coming in.

"I'm not going anywhere, Mulder," she said, and now she did squeeze
his hand, met his gaze.   "Okay?"

He looked at her doubtfully for a few seconds, then nodded.  "Okay."

She pulled her hand away to pick up her coffee, and he did the same.
Despite what he'd said, she would not put her left hand back on the
table.

"And we can stop, if you want to," she added.  "We both could use
the rest.  And besides, we're getting low on money again.  It's time
for another phone call."

Sue returned, a plate in each hand, which she set down before them.
Her arrival halted his reply.

"There you go," Sue said, her cheerfulness now plucking Scully's
already taxed nerves as it contrasted too starkly against the
conversation they'd been having.  "Let me know if you need anything
else."

"We will, thank you," Mulder replied, forced a wan smile at her.  He
was feeling the same way, she could tell.

When she was gone, Scully stared down at her plate, the smell of the
burrito drifting up at her, thick and heavy.  Her mouth went dry as
she set down the mug, fingered her fork as if she wasn't sure how to
use it.  The rest of her was still.

"Scully," he said softly after a minute had passed.  "Please."

She looked up at him, at the worry in his face.  She wanted to make
that expression, the one that made him look so tired, so sad, go away
any way she could.

She did her best to eat.


***********


END OF CHAPTER 2.   CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 3.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0.  This is Chapter 3.

********

UNKNOWN LOCATION
NEAR ALDER CREEK, COLORADO
MARCH 20
6:13 a.m.


The sheet of blowing flakes outside the window and the quiet that
accompanied it were nothing new to the man as he rose in the rickety
bunk.  The wood stove crackled and hissed in the center of the tiny
cabin as a nearly spent log fell within it, sending out an answer of
red flakes that the man saw through the cracks of its ancient door.

He stretched, the sleeves of his thermal top sliding up his arms as
he reveled in the simple pleasure of the wave of heat coming from the
stove.  He could feel the cold wind pushing itself through the flimsy
windowpane, the flakes gathering on the sill, the heavy snow and its
wind pressing in around him.

It was something he'd grown used to, this endless view of white.
There was something lonely in it that appealed to him, the blankness
of it reminding him of nothing, the landscape like cold amnesia.

He was reminded of nothing by his surroundings, but this did not
mean he was in the practice of forgetting.  In fact, he forgot
nothing.  He never had.

Pushing his legs from beneath the blanket, he reached for his jeans,
which were thrown across the foot of the bed.  He pulled them on over
the long-john bottoms he wore, thick white cotton covering his legs,
the denim lined with flannel.   Standing, he pulled the pants up to
his trim waist, fumbled with the belt until it was fastened tight
around him.

He noticed that he had grown leaner as he tugged on his two shirts,
the clothes hanging on him despite the layers.  It was the travelling
he'd done, the time spent helping keep this place running, this small
outpost tucked in the remote crags of the Rockies.

He'd worked hard while he'd been here, proving himself, becoming one
of these people as best he could while he bided his time.

Waiting.   Waiting for word.

He went to the window, looked out over the main area of the compound
through the snow, the lazy smoke coming from the chimney of the mess
hall, the largest building on the compound.  Breakfast was already
on, the cooks usually up by five to start the meal for the 46
inhabitants of this place.

He went to the military locker in the corner of the small room,
fumbled through the few provisions he kept there for himself, his
small collection of personal effects.  On the top shelf, a tin of
Twinings Breakfast Tea, which he pried open, stuffing two of the soft
bags into his jeans pockets.

As he replaced the tin, his eyes fell on his wallet, which sat
against the far edge of the shelf.  There was no need for money where
he was, so he rarely carried the wallet, rarely looked at it.
Something made him want to this morning, some pang of feeling which
he usually kept buried, deep as the ground around him was buried in
snow.

The snap and crackle of the fire in the stove the only sound around
him, he drew the wallet out, flipped it open.

The picture was right there.  Tucked in its leather slot.  The boy
in the picture was laughing, his aunt, on whose lap he sat, having
tickled him to prompt the wide-open laugh captured there.

The man smiled despite himself as he looked at the boy's face, at
the conspiratorial look the woman gave the camera.

Then, beneath the heat of a dull rage, the smile melted away.

He replaced the photo in its slot, fingered the one behind it by the
corner, pulled it out halfway.

A woman.  The most beautiful smile he'd ever seen in his life.  Red
hair ruffled by the wind, her blue eyes looking at something just to
the side of the camera.  Her small body was leaning against the
doorway of a stone house, her dress a deep green, accentuating the
pale of her arms.

Unlike the boy's grin, this smile was prompted by nothing but him.

He was the person she'd been looking at when the picture was snapped
the morning of their wedding all those years ago, the layer of green
ivy curling up the side of the house and arching up around her over
the doorway to his parents' house.

He felt his eyes burning, which surprised him.  He thought he'd gone
beyond feeling anymore.  The picture grew distorted before he
blinked, distorted just enough to alter the face slightly in his
vision and in his mind's eye.

Another woman.  Beautiful.  Red hair and blue eyes.  Her small body
leaned across a table at a pub in Richmond, looking shyly into her
glass of beer as he studied her from across the crowded bar.  She had
always been aware when he was looking at her, it seemed, her guard
always up against him.

Now he knew why.

The rage in him swelled again.  He rubbed hard at his eyes just in
case any trace of sentiment still remained.

Tucking the picture back down and away, he put the wallet in the
locker, closed the metal door with a hollow sound.

The woman in the bar's was the face he carried with him now.  Not
his wife's, though Elisa's face had driven him for many years in the
things he had done.

Now he had a new one to take her place.  An FBI agent named Dana
Scully.  The woman his sister, Mae, had betrayed him for, helping
Scully escape and stealing his son away.

And leaving his best friend, John Fagan, missing in the process.
He'd waited for Fagan at the rendezvous point for over a day, a motel
on the outskirts of a town in western Virginia where they'd decided
to meet if they got separated.  Fagan had never shown.  And Fagan had
*always* shown.

Curran could only assume he was dead.

He hoped to God it was Dana Scully who was responsible for that and
not Mae.  But knowing how careful John had been, how much he would
have planned his approach on Scully, a part of him wondered if it was
Mae who had caught him by surprise, the attack he wouldn't have been
expecting.

Just thinking about it made him tremble with rage.

Revenge had always driven him, but it had never been as urgent as it
was now.  Elisa had died, after all.  Murdered by people he'd spent
the last five years planning on punishing.

His boy, Sean, was still alive out there somewhere, just beyond his
sight, his reach.

And without Sean, he felt completely lost.

Without Fagan, the feeling was made even worse.

And without punishing the people responsible for Sean and Fagan's
loss, he felt even more incomplete, like half the person he'd been
before.

Half a man.

And he wanted to be whole again.

Turning, Owen Curran went to the stove, tossing in a few more small
logs so that the cabin would still be warm when he reentered after
his meal.  Then, shouldering into his heavy army parka, he unlatched
the door and entered the world of blinding white.


**********

WHISTLE STOP INN
WILLIAMS, ARIZONA
8:34 a.m.


The bell on the door to the manager's office jangled loudly as
Mulder pushed his way through it with his shoulders, his arms full
with groceries he'd just purchased from the small market across the
main road.  He had a smaller bag filled with danishes in his teeth, a
cup of coffee in each hand, which he set down on the counter to free
them.  He put the bag of danishes in between them carefully, so as
not to topple the bags in his arms.

As he placed the groceries on the floor in front of the desk, the
manager -- an older man with a wisp of hair combed over his bald
spot, thick glasses, and a toothy, amiable smile -- came out from the
back office where'd he'd been stretched out in a green recliner,
watching a small black and white television.

"Help you with something, Mr. Garrett?"  he asked Mulder, putting
his hands on the counter, framing the cups of coffee in his arms.

Mulder was fingering a rack of pamphlets on the counter, all
advertising attractions in the Williams/Flagstaff area.  He smiled
faintly to the manager -- Barry, John Barry, Mulder remembered now --
as he did so.

"I'm just looking for some things to do around here," Mulder
replied.  "Some things to see."

"Oh, there's plenty to see around here,"   Barry said
enthusiastically.  "The biggest thing we've got here in Williams is
the train that goes all the way up to The Canyon.  Right to the South
Rim.  But if you want to go out a little further around Flagstaff,
there's some other things to see."

That sounded a little too touristy for Mulder's liking, a little too
public, though he would have loved to have finally seen Grand Canyon
after driving around it for so many weeks.  He thought they needed a
diversion, something to give he and Scully a sense of normalcy for
even a few hours, but the thought of piling into the old-fashioned
steam engine he saw on the front of the pamphlet with a dozen
families from Kansas to go see one of the most heavily visited
national parks in the country wasn't his idea of a diversion.

Being around so many people would probably cause them both more
stress -- and expose them to more risk of being recognized -- than it
could ever do them any good.

"Are there any Indian ruins around here?"  Mulder asked, his eyes
still on the pamphlets.  He remembered Scully always seemed to notice
when there were ruins nearby as they'd driven around, though they'd
had yet to stop at any.  He thought she might like that.

"Lemme see..."  Barry said, thinking for a beat.  "Well, there's
Wupatki outside Flagstaff, on the way to the Navajo Reservation,
going up Marble Canyon way.  It's not much to see, though I might be
a little prejudiced about that myself.  I don't get into them ruins
too much.  Just a pile of rocks in the middle of nowhere is what I
say."

Despite what Barry has said, Mulder was intrigued.  "Is it on the
map?"

"Yeah, it's on there all right.  Hardly nobody goes there, though.
It's 20 or so miles off the main road, and besides, there's snow
called for up there today.  Just saw it on the news a bit ago."
Barry glanced out into the parking lot.  "Though I reckon in that
truck of yours that wouldn't be a problem."

Mulder glanced up him, unnerved by the amount of interest Barry had
shown in him on some level -- remembering his name from the night
before, noticing what they were driving.  He forced the paranoia
down, knowing that Barry was probably just bored enough here in the
off-season to notice a lot about the people who did stop by.

He gave Barry a polite smile.  "No, it won't be a problem," he
replied, and began gathering up his things again, fitting the
danishes under his arm this time.  Barry hurried around the desk and
opened the door for Mulder, the bell clapping against the glass-paned
door again.

"Thank you, Mr. Barry," Mulder said as he went out the door with his
load.

"Not a problem, Mr. Garrett," Barry replied.  "Give my best to your
missus."

That got a wry smile out of Mulder as he turned and made his way
down the front of the motel, a rambling one-story affair with blue
shutters on the mostly blinded windows.  He could smell bacon cooking
as he passed by one door, a heavy smell that he had grown to
associate with their time on the road.  He could hear a television on
in another as he continued toward the end, to the small efficiency
where he and Scully had decided to spend the next few days to rest
and recuperate as much as they could.

Reaching the last door, he listened for any sound inside, heard
nothing but silence. He set the bags down on the sill, balancing them
with his hip as he dug in his pocket for the key.  He pushed the door
open quietly, gathered the bags up and slipped into the room, his
eyes immediately going to the bed.

Scully lay facing away from him, looking small beneath the covers,
her lengthening, more curly hair sprayed out behind her on the
pillow, her arms out in front of her across the other side of the
bed.  She gripped his pillow in one fist, the cotton case wrinkled
around her fingers.

Moving carefully, he went to the kitchenette at the back of the
room, set the coffee cups down, the bag of danishes.  Then he slid
the grocery bags onto the counter and began unpacking the contents,
his eyes darting to the bed every now and again, watching her face
for any sign that he was disturbing her.  He wanted her to sleep for
as long as she could.

He turned away and put the perishables in the tiny refrigerator,
having to get creative with the space.  When he stood again, he
glanced back at Scully and saw that her eyes were open now, watching
him.

"Good morning," he murmured, smiling gently.

Much to his relief, she returned the smile -- an easy smile -- and
rolled onto her back, the covers slipping to her hips, her t-shirt
bunched around her ribs.  She stretched languidly, her arms going
over her head as she yawned.

"I've got some coffee," he continued, trying not to stare as her t-
shirt slid up, exposing all the way up to the bottom curve of one
breast, the nipple peaking out for a second until she put her arms
down again.

"Coffee sounds good," she said, her eyes still closed, and her voice
was as easy as her smile had been.

He found his pervasive tension releasing some.  It was going to be
one of her good days, he realized, when she was able to relax, her
mind not as preoccupied as it often was.  He was glad, because his
was the same way.

There was something to be said for knowing you could stay in bed all
day if you wanted to, he thought, his lips curling into a smile as
she looked at him again, her eyes bright in the shuttered light
coming through the half-opened blinds.

Then she did something she rarely did anymore, and certainly not
when she wasn't in tears, awake from the grip of nightmare that had
shaken her in the dark.

She reached for him, then smoothed her hand across the mattress
beside her, a clear invitation.

He didn't have to be asked twice.

Pushing off his leather jacket, he came around the counter that
divided the two rooms, laying the jacket across the chair at the
table in the eat-in area of the kitchen.  He sat on the edge of the
bed, his back to her as he pulled his boots off.  He felt her hand on
his back already, her nails grazing him through his long-sleeved t-
shirt.

He slid beneath the covers in his jeans, easing an arm beneath her
neck as she rose and pillowed her head on his shoulder, her arm going
around his chest, her bare leg bending over his thigh.  He craned his
neck and kissed her forehead, curled his arm up so that he could
tunnel his fingers through her hair.

"You feel good today, don't you?"  he asked, pleased, rubbing his
lips against her hairline slowly.

He felt her smile against his shoulder, a small one, but a smile
nonetheless.

"Yeah, I do," she replied.  "I think I had a good dream."

"Oh yeah?  What about?"

She shook her head slightly.  "I don't remember," she said, leaning
in a bit so that her lips were against his throat.  "I just have this
feeling.  A good feeling."

He smiled at the ease in her voice, at the feeling of her warm
breath against his skin.  "I'm glad," he murmured.

They lay in a companionable silence for a long moment, Scully
tracing little patterns with her fingers on his chest.   He closed
his eyes, feeling contented, everything pushing away from him except
her.

"You want me to cook something?"  she said into the quiet.

He shook his head.  "No, I don't want you to move," he said softly,
and he meant it so much that he felt his eyes sting for a second.

She nuzzled into him, unaware of the emotions his confession had
stirred in him.

"Okay," she replied.

Another quiet few moments.  The television in the room next door
came on, a muffled voice reaching him.  The heavy sounds of someone
settling against the headboard just on the other side of the flimsy
wall.

He pulled Scully closer to him, willing the sounds away.  It was so
hard to feel like he was ever truly alone with her, people always
around them.  He longed for the privacy of his apartment, or hers --
any place where it could just be the two of them, no strangers just
outside the door, no sounds of cars, of televisions, of voices
carrying over from another room or table.

It was something he'd taken so much for granted before.

If they ever made it out of this  -- *when* they did, he corrected
himself sternly -- he would never take that for granted again.  He
would never take any part of her for granted, now that so much of her
had been taken away from him.

Reluctantly, feeling a funk coming over him and not wanting it to
continue, he broke the tenuous spell around them.  "I had an idea."

"What's that?"

"There are some Indian ruins not too far from here, apparently.  The
other side of Flagstaff.  I thought we could go see them today."

She leaned up, looking at him now, her brow creased.  "Mulder, don't
you think that would be a little risky?"

He shook his head.  "I think we're okay on this one.  They're pretty
remote, from what the manager said.  I don't think they'll be a big
tourist spot."

She chewed her lip, her expression clearly worried.

"Plus," he added quickly, not liking the change in her quicksilver
mood.  "It's supposed to snow today, so nobody will be out there.  I
thought we could just get out, pretend to be seeing something.  It'll
be better than being cooped up here all day watching television."

She looked at him, unconvinced still, he could tell.

"I know you've wanted to see a few of them," he said gently,
stroking her hair back from her face.  "We've passed a hundred or
more.  Stopping at one won't do any harm.  It's not like we're going
to the Canyon or something.  We could use a day of doing something
normal."

He could see her expression softening as he brushed at her hair, his
fingers tracing the curve of her ear as he did so.  He leaned his
head up and touched her lips with his for good measure, lingering
there, reassuring her.

When he pulled his face away, her eyes were closed.  When she opened
them, she gave him a tiny smile, nodded.   "Okay.  I'll get ready
then."

"Good," he said softly, and leaned in to kiss her once more as she
moved to slip out of the bed and away from him once again.


**********

UNKNOWN LOCATION
NEAR ALDER CREEK, COLORADO
12:38 p.m.


It was intricate work.

A bundle of multicolored wires, their connectors all having to find
their correct places before anything would work.  Curran took the
wire cutters in his hand, chose a wire out of the mass and separated
it, carefully stripping away the vinyl covering, exposing the copper
wire underneath.  Then, twisting its end to a connector, he screwed
the wire down onto the small panel, gently tightening the screw with
a tiny screwdriver made just for this kind of close-quartered work.

The midday light shone through the window, brighter with the snow,
which was still falling, though not as hard as before.  The kerosene
heater in his small workroom gave the place a thick, oily smell, but
he'd grown used to it after so many weeks bent over the workbench,
day in and day out.  He wore a pair of glasses on the end of his nose
which magnified the board he was working by several powers, making
finding the correct placement easier.

Pushing the glasses up, he sniffed, rubbed his nose, checked the
work.   Beside him, cigarette smoke rose lazily into the cold air, a
stream of grey gathering in the cup of the bright overhead desk lamp.
He took a drag, blew out a stream of smoke easily, replaced the
cigarette in the ashtray with care.

Four more wires to go and then he would be finished.  The bomb was
thin enough to be slipped into a padded mailer, the final wire taped
on the flap and designed to break away when the article was opened.

It was crude work for him, actually -- a thing he'd done since he
was a boy -- but it proved useful to the people around him, most of
whom didn't seem to have the technical skill necessary for such a
task.  Most of the people on the small compound busied themselves
with the running of the ranch itself, tending to the cattle and sheep
that roamed in the paddocks fenced in around the barns to the north
side of the encampment.  Others worked in the lumber mills in the
town below, only to return in the evenings to be with their families,
or to bunk up in the common bunkhouse like a bunch of ragged soldiers
just in from a war.

None of them wanted to be here.

But this was the place where Larry Kingston, the head of the Sons of
Liberty Militia, sent the people the law was most interested in, a
sort of gulag high up in the mountains where people who had a need to
be hidden stayed for their own protection.

Curran was himself such a person, secreted away by Kingston in this
place while the militia's various contacts searched out Mae and Sean
and Dana Scully for him, the repayment of a favor that Curran had
done Kingston years ago.  Kingston had needed explosives, plastics,
and Curran just happened to have a contact who could get him those.
They'd struck an uneasy truce over that, Curran knowing that if he
were going to survive in this country in the line of work he was in,
he'd better do his best to ingratiate himself to the like-minded
locals.

And American militias were the closest thing to the IRA and his
group The Path that he was going to find in this Godforsaken country.


That instinct to ingratiate was paying off now, he thought, trimming
the blue coating off another wire, his teeth catching his lip between
them in concentration as he tried not to fray the wire itself.  He'd
been hidden for over six weeks now, since his face had really hit the
news over the failed Embassy bombing in Washington, the manhunt for
him intensifying as pressure to solve the act of terrorism pressed
down on the U.S. government agencies like a giant hand.

But no one would find him here.  At least no one he didn't want to.

Once he'd stripped the tube off the wire, he reached up, rubbed the
scar along the side of his mouth absently, picking up another
connector with a pair of fine, long tweezers, settling it on the cork
of the work area in front of him.  He began twisting the wire
carefully once again.

Behind him, a knock at the door, the door coming open immediately,
an elderly woman peeking her head in.  It was Sarah James, the
defacto "mother" of the worn bunch of refugees of the camp.  She made
it her business to be into everyone else's.

"Mr. Curran?" she said, her hands on her hips.

"Aye, Sarah," he said, not looking up.  "What is it?"

"There are two men here to see you in the mess hall, just up the
side of the mountain.  Must be important.  They've got chains on
their tires as thick as my arms to get up here in weather like
this."

He laid the tools down, stubbed out the cigarette calmly.  Sarah
stayed at the door, watching him, as he pulled the glasses off his
face and set them down beside the tools.

"You shouldn't be smokin' in here with all these explosives and such
laying around, and certainly not with that kerosene heater so close
to you.  You're going to go up like a roman candle if you keep that
up."  Her voice was mild, but the rebuke was not lost on him.

He stood and turned, showed her his teeth in a stiff grin.  "I'm
very careful, Sarah," he said.  "Always have been."

She chuffed at that.  "Bullshit," she said.  To Curran's Irish ears
it sounded like "Bowl sheet."

"Begging your pardon?" he asked, not taking the bait but curious as
to what had prompted her laughter.

She appraised him with her big wet eyes.  They reminded him of those
of the cows that wandered around the snowy troughs, looking for bits
of grain.   "If you're so goddamn careful," she said, looking him up
and down.  "what the hell are you doing up here?"

He smiled mildly.  "Everyone has a run of bad luck, Sarah.  You of
all people should know that.  Yours must be stretching into the
decades at this point, eh?"

She harrumphed at that, turned and went out of the room, leaving the
door open as she disappeared down the hallway and out the front door
to the building.

He laughed quietly, satisfied, as he pulled on his parka.  The
people here barely tolerated his presence, him being one of the nasty
foreigners the militia spent so much of its propaganda railing
against.  But he still could hold his own against them.  He'd managed
to hammer out a little bit of begrudging respect from most of them.

Even Sarah, though she'd rather die than admit it.

And at least their contained animosity -- and Kingston's good favor -
- had bought him a private cabin.

He hit the ground outside at a trot, his hands jammed in his
pockets, the snow up over the ankles of his boots now.  People were
milling out of the mess hall across the compound, lunch still being
served.  If he was lucky, he'd still get a tray of something hot.

He recognized the newcomers immediately, two men seated near the end
of one of the long tables, heavy white cups of coffee in their hands.
There was rarely such a thing as a stranger here, all the faces
familiar.   They were looking around expectantly, clearly waiting for
him.

Going to the line, he picked up a tray, pure World War II surplus
with grooved areas dividing the battered surface, and had it loaded
down with what the cooks were offering today.  Pressed turkey on
bread with a floury gravy.  Green beans.  He stopped at the end of
the line and drew a cup of coffee from the large container, gathered
the dull silverware, then headed toward the two men.

They eyed him as he approached, both of them peering at him with
narrow, dark eyes.  One was taller than other, more strongly built,
bulky in his blue parka, which he'd yet to remove, as though he
didn't intend on staying long.

The other man, smaller than Curran with jet black hair he'd combed
straight back, had a vaguely blank and stupid look on his face, as
though nature hadn't quite finished with him before it had sent him
into the world.  He was sliding his coffee cup back and forth between
his hands on the table, running it along the slick surface as though
enjoying a private game.

"Mr. Curran?"  the larger man asked as Curran sat at the head of the
table between them, setting his tray down with care.

"Aye, I'm Curran," he said, taking a sip from his coffee
nonchalantly.

"My name is Tom Lantham.  This is Rudy Gray.  Larry Kingston sent us
up here to speak with you."

Curran nodded, digging into his meal.  "You've got word of some sort
then?"  he asked, trying to keep his voice neutral, as though they
were discussing the weather.

Lantham nodded, eyeing Curran as he ate.  "We have a couple of
possible sightings of the people you're looking for, yes.  We've been
sent out here to investigate the leads."

"You bounty hunters then?"  Curran asked, glancing at the two of
them.  Gray continued pushing the cup of coffee back and forth.  It
was starting to grate on Curran's nerves.

"In a manner of speaking," Lantham replied stiffly.  "We both worked
as bail bondsmen.  Developed a certain talent for finding people.
For a price, of course."

"More money to be had this way, I would imagine," Curran said,
chewing another mouthful of the mediocre meal.

"You could say that."  Lantham's voice was guarded.  He seemed eager
to get off the topic.  "Anyway, we'll be going down to Nogales in
Southern Arizona right away, see what we can find out.  It's not too
far from Tucson, right on the Mexican border."

Curran nodded.  "I'll tell you what it is I want you to do," he
said, put his fork down.  "You find any of them that I'm looking for,
and you give Kingston a call.  He'll get in touch with me and I'll
come down and meet you before you move in."

Lantham glared.  "I'd been told we'd be able to handle this our own
way," he said, his voice clipped.  "Mr. Gray and I have a method for
taking care of situations like this; we're perfectly capable of
bringing the people to you up here.  From what I  understand, it
would be better if you stayed up here, anyway."

Curran was shaking his head.  "We do this my way," he said simply.
"I have my reasons for making the request."

"Begging your pardon, Mr. Curran," Lantham said softly, leaning in.
"But you're not the one paying for this.  Kingston is.  I don't take
orders from anyone but him."

Curran looked up, met the challenge in Lantham's eyes.  The tension
between them had at least gotten Gray to stop with the coffee cup.
Curran could see Gray watching them from the corner of his eye,
still now, his beady, oily looking eyes first on one man, then the
other.   Gray'd had yet to say a word.

"This is my show," Curran said, his voice flattening as anger piqued
in him.  "Kingston's paying you as part of a favor he owes ME.  You
don't do as I ask and you don't get paid a cent.  I'll see to that."

He and Lantham stared at each other, neither willing to budge.  Gray
continued to watch them.

Finally, Lantham leaned back on the bench seat a little, put his
hands up in a gesture of acquiescence.

"All right, Mr. Curran," he said.  "We find any of them and we'll
get word to you.  Follow them until you get there before we move in."


Curran picked up his coffee cup, took a sip.  "Thank you, Mr.
Lantham," he said, his voice still a touch angry at being so openly
challenged.  It was not something he was accustomed to.  "I knew
you'd understand once it was made clear to you."

Lantham made a small sound in his throat at that, a grunt of
displeasure.  "Well," he said, standing.  Gray stood with him, like a
dog getting ready to follow its master.  "We'll be in touch."

Curran gestured with his coffee cup, dismissing them both
effectively.  "Safe travels to you," he said, then returned to his
meal as though they were already gone.

He could have sworn he heard Lantham mumble something under his
breath as he departed with Gray in tow.  Curran thought he heard the
word "fuck" in it and that made him smile with satisfaction.

Sighing, contented now that there was progress of some sort, he took
a sip of the coffee -- a thick, bitter liquid -- and wished for his
tea.


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


END OF CHAPTER 3.  CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 4.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0.  This is Chapter 4.


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

JOHN F. KENNEDY AIRPORT
NEW YORK, NEW YORK
1:30 p.m.


The old man blended in with the gathered crowd, funneled from the
baggage claim belts to the long lines of the U.S. Customs area,
pushing a cart in front of him easily.  On it sat three articles --
two ancient suitcases, carefully packed so as not to be the slightest
bit overburdened, and a long slender case made of hard plastic,
latched tightly closed and clamped with a small lock.

The old man walked slowly, but not because of his age.  He was
simply not in the habit of hurrying.

All of the lines leading to the Customs stations were the same
length, two or three large flights just in from Europe all descending
on the area at once.  Around him, people from every ethnicity, every
age group, every walk of life.  Families that were clearly refugees,
carrying everything they owned in crates crudely tied with rope.  The
businessmen already on their cell phones as they waited, smart-
looking matching luggage sets rolling behind them on silent plastic
wheels.  The American families in their separate line looking put-
upon at this, their last stop before they re-entered their home,
vacations finally coming to an end.

The old man was none of these.  He was simply a traveler, dressed in
comfortable clothes that hugged the contours of his still-vibrant
body.  He wore a touring cap on his head to hide his balding pate,
his wide white moustache neatly trimmed over his full lips.  His eyes
were bright and held a certain keen intelligence to them, the irises
the color of turquoise flecked with amber.  He did not wear glasses,
his eyesight still the same as it was when he was a boy.

A child in front of him, a young Indian boy wearing a long white
cotton shirt, held on to his father's leg and looked back at the old
man, who appraised the boy for a few seconds before offering a
kindly, closed mouth smile.  The boy smiled back shyly, then turned
and looked away.

As the line moved slowly forward, he pushed the cart in front of
him, finally reaching the blue line on the floor that signaled him as
the next person to enter the countered area.  His passport stuck out
of the pocket of his shirt, its crisp green cover having already been
scanned at Immigration.

He found himself whistling a soft tune as he waited.

Finally, the woman behind the counter, an African-American woman in
an ill-fitted uniform and short-cropped hair, dismissed the person in
front of him, signalled for the old man to come forward with his
things.  As he approached the counter, he removed his hat, smiled to
the woman.

He was in the "Nothing to Declare" line, but he did not expect to be
waved through.  He was right.

"Sir, could I see your passport, please?"  the woman asked, halting
him.  He continued to smile, tucked his touring cap under his arm as
he withdrew the passport, handed it to her.

"Mister...Shea,"  the woman said, reading his name off the inside
flap.

"Aye," he replied.  "That's me.  Jimmy Shea."

"You say you have nothing to declare?"  She said it incredulously.

"I've got a bottle of whiskey in that bag right there, but just the
one, just like I put on the little card they gave me on the plane."
He gestured to his top suitcase.

The woman glanced down at his things now, taking in the three bags.
As he expected, her eyes stopped on the long case, her eyes flicking
back to his.  He smiled again.

"Could you open that one for me, Mr. Shea?"  she asked, and her
voice had hardened.  She looked over at a security guard standing
nearby, gestured him forward.   The guard put his hand on his service
weapon and came over, standing beside her and eyeing Shea warily.

Shea reached down, picked up the case and set it on the counter in
front of them.  Fumbling in his pocket, he pulled out the tiny key to
the lock on its side, unlatched it.  Then, undoing the catches on the
case's side, he flipped it open so that the two Customs officials
could see the contents.

The woman looked at it, then back up into Shea's face, her lip
curling with a put-upon expression.  Beside her, the guard removed
his hand from his gun, relaxing.

Inside the case, a well kept fishing rod and reel, an assortment of
flies and tackle.  The reel gleamed silver in the fluorescent light.

"Are you always in the habit of carrying your fishing equipment in a
rifle case, Mr. Shea?" the woman asked, perturbed.

"Aye, that I am," he replied, the same amiable smile on his face.
"It's the only thing that it'll all fit in, and it's got the right
amount of padding.  I wouldn't want anything  happening to my rod on
the way over, you know."

The woman made a sound in her throat, a low "humph."  The guard
drifted away.

"I assume this is a pleasure trip for you then, Mr. Shea?"  she
asked flatly.

"Oh yes," he replied immediately, with enthusiasm.  "I plan on doing
a good bit of fishing.  But there's some business I'm here to attend
to, as well."

This last bit he added quietly, almost as an afterthought.

"Well, enjoy your visit, sir," she said, her voice bored and rote
now as she waved him through.  "I hope it's a productive one."

He reached down, closed up the case and replaced it on the cart.
"Oh, I'm sure it will be," he said, then drifted off through the rest
of the Customs station and out into the airport beyond.


*********


WUPATKI NATIONAL MONUMENT
OUTSIDE FLAGSTAFF, ARIZONA
3:34 p.m.



The heavy snow clouds hung over Doney Mountain, a grey-white blanket
moving across the peak led by small wisps and a cold wind that blew
down across Deadman Wash and over the flat top of Woodhouse Mesa to
the southeast.  Between the mesa and the mountain, Scully picked her
way along the pueblo ruin of Wupatki, bleak light bleeding through
the crumbled remains of windows and doorways.

Her dark coat, trailing down around her ankles, whipped around her
in the frozen wind, her black-gloved hands buried in her pockets for
extra warmth.  She walked the perimeter of the largest ruin in the
area, which stood on a high rise like a sentinal above the smaller
mounds of carefully carved bricks, the remnants of a hundred or more
rooms that had once housed a town of simple Sinaguan farmers almost
900 years ago.

Going through a low doorway, she stood in the middle of one of the
rooms, stared at the packed earth floor, the clouds moving high in
the ceilingless expanse above her, wind sighing through the windows
and the breaks in the walls.  The sight of all this, the loneliness
of it, made her slightly sad, more introspective than she had been
that morning, and she longed for the easy feelings she'd had when she
had first awoken.

After all, this had been Mulder's idea of a way to distract them
both from the troubles that followed them constantly along the
endless ribbon of highway they traveled on.

And she didn't want to become melancholy and disappoint him.

Disappoint him again.

The thought pained her, and she fled the room, returning to the
straight force of the wind as she left the interior of the ruin for
the wide lip of rock that jutted from one side.  From here, she could
look out over the smaller ruins stair-stepping down toward the desert
plain, a desolate landscape shrouded in fog as the storm approached.

Below her, a handful of tourists milled about, bundled up in their
coats, children darting in and out of the rooms and down the long
trail that led to the remnants of what the pamphlets called a "ball
court," a round structure with high walls and a single entrance
facing off to the south.

Mulder, ever the sports fan, had immediately gone down toward it to
have a look.  She'd chosen to remain on the upper levels, glad to
have some time to herself, if even for a few moments.

It wasn't that she didn't want to be with him.  She loved Mulder
more than anything.  There was no question about that.  But they had
been together 24 hours a day for over two months, and she found she
was craving the solitude she'd often relished in her apartment back
in Washington.  More than anything, she needed to be alone.  With
Mulder around all the time, she found herself expending more energy
hiding her feelings than actually feeling them.

And she couldn't afford to become to any more numb than she'd become
already.

The first flakes of snow began to fall as she sat carefully on the
rocky outcropping, the intricate brickwork of the pueblo behind her
and off to one side.  The wind ruffled her hair, sending streams of
red gently across her face and causing her eyes to tear from the
cold.  The flakes were large, heavy.  Her legs dangled over the side
of the ledge, and she hunkered into her coat, her eyes down in her
lap.

She drew in a deep breath, and let herself think of him.  Of Fagan
and what had happened in Mae's apartment in Richmond all those weeks
ago.

Though the images came easily to her, she couldn't access the
feelings that went along with them.  It was as though what she saw in
her mind were happening to someone else.

She closed her eyes, waiting to feel...something.  Anything.

Nothing would come.

As an investigator, she had seen this kind of reaction a dozen times
before from victims of violent crime.  It was all very studied to
her.

She knew that until she could feel what she needed to feel, until
she allowed herself to do that, she could not begin to come back from
the bleak land where she now dwelled, a self-imposed, if not
intentional, state of exile.

An image suddenly entered her mind, replacing those of Fagan in an
instant.  She and Mulder in her apartment, his hands bracketing her
head beneath the pillow as he moved, his lips moving over hers,
across her jaw, beneath her ear--

She choked on the sob, her gloved hand going to her mouth as the
strangled sound was trapped in her throat.  Her eyes welled.

The snow began to fall more heavily.

She closed her eyes, willing the sudden anguish away.

After a long moment, her eyes opened.

The mask was back in place.

She turned and looked down over the expanse of the ruins, saw Mulder
coming up the path below her, returning from the court at the base of
the hill.   He was looking up at her, his hands in the pockets of his
jeans, his strides long but unhurried.  She could see his gentle
smile even from this distance.

She tried to smile back, then looked away, across the plain toward
the wide shape of the mesa.  Snowflakes dotted her dark coat, light
on black.  She found herself mesmorized by them, staring at them as
they gathered there.

She almost did not hear the footsteps as he came up behind her.

"Mind if I join you?"  Mulder asked softly, his voice nearly lost in
a gust of wind.

She looked up him, gave him a small smile.  "Of course not," she
replied, and returned her gaze to her lap.  She shivered, her
shoulders trembling for an instant. Her teeth had begun to chatter.

He sat down behind her, scooted forward until his thighs framed
hers, his legs dangling over the edge with hers.   Sliding his arms
under hers, he tugged her gently until her back was against his ches,
and she closed her hands around his wrists.

He put his chin on her shoulder, turned to kiss her just in front of
her ear, lingering there.  She pressed her cheek into his lips,
closed her eyes at the feeling of safety she had, embraced by his
warm body, the snow falling on around them, steady, swirling now and
again in the hollow-sounding wind.

He returned his chin to her shoulder, breathed out a puff of white
into the air.  He sounded content.  Tired and content.  She squeezed
his hands tighter, running her thumb across the exposed skin on his
wrist.

For a long moment they both looked out over the wide expanse in
front of them, a desolate place they faced, the ruins behind them.

The tourists were beginning to withdraw to their cars, frightened
off by the weather as the storm moved in.   There were footsteps
around the pueblo behind them as people picked their way through the
bricks toward the parking lot.

Scully shut them out.  Neither she nor Mulder moved.

Then, close by, the sound of a camera shutter firing off, several
quick turns of a motor drive.

Now they both did turn quickly, saw a man standing there, camera
equipment slung over his shoulders and around his neck.  He was tall,
weathered looking, wearing a heavy parka, jeans, hiking boots.  He
held a 35 millimeter camera in his hand and was smiling kindly at
them.

"Sorry to intrude on you both like that," the man said.  "You're a
lovely couple, and you two just made such a nice shot with the
mountain behind you, in this light, with the snow and all."

Scully could feel Mulder tense up behind her.  She had, as well.

"You shouldn't take someone's picture without asking," Mulder said
to him angrily.  He let go of her, scrambled up so that he was
standing behind her, facing the man now.

Mulder reached out his hand.  "I'd like the roll of film, please."

The man's kind smile turned regretful.  "I'm sorry, but I can't do
that," he said, shaking his head.   "I'm a professional photographer
and I've got 20 shots of this place in various lightings I've been
here all day trying to catch.  I can't give you the film without
losing a whole day's work.  I'm very sorry if I've offended you,
though."

The man did look stricken, clearly realizing his misstep now.
Scully could see Mulder getting ready to argue, shifting his weight
to his other foot.

A dog trotted up the rise after the man, a black Lab with eyes like
a doe.  It stopped beside him, sat, its face turned up toward Mulder,
its tail moving uncertainly on the rocky ground.

Looking at the photographer, at the dog, Scully cringed inwardly.

She realized how strung out she and Mulder were, how suspicious
they'd become. Sometimes it was hard to remember the world was filled
with ordinary people, doing ordinary things, living ordinary lives.

She also realized that forcing the man to turn over the film might
draw more attention to them than the pictures he'd taken ever could.

Thinking this, she reached out, touched Mulder's calf lightly,
getting his attention.  He looked down at her, and she could see his
anger, borne of fear.

"It's okay," she murmured so that only he could hear.  "I think it's
okay."

Mulder looked from her to the man and back again.  She nodded, and
saw his shoulders fall slightly.  He nodded, and she could tell it
was reluctantly that he agreed with her.

"Look, if you give me your name and address, I'd love to send you a
copy of the shots," the man offered earnestly.  "I think you'll find
they're really nice.  I do good work."

Mulder shook his head, waving the man off, reached down as Scully
began to rise and helped her into a standing position.  She dusted
off her coat, tried to smile at the stranger, who still looked
stricken at Mulder's reaction.

"That's all right," Scully said to him.  "You just might consider
asking next time."

The man nodded.  "I will.  And I won't use the shots for anything.
Again, I'm sorry."

And with one final look at Mulder, as though afraid Mulder might
make some move toward him, he wandered away toward the lot down the
hill from the rise, his dog following a few steps behind.

Mulder watched them go, his hands still balled to fists at his side,
his jaw muscles still bunched with tension.  Scully reached out and
put her hand on his, worked his fingers apart until her gloved
fingers were pressed against his palm.

"Come on," she said softly, reaching up to brush at a large flake
that had caught in his hair.  "Let's go back to the motel.  I'll make
some dinner."

He looked down at her, something in his gaze softening.  Finally he
nodded, gripped her hand.

Walking slowly, they made their way around the pueblo, walked back
toward the battered truck as the light was muted by the clouds now
over the mountain, the snow continuing to fall.


***********


ST. MATTHEW'S CATHEDRAL
HIGHBRIDGE, THE BRONX
NEW YORK, NEW YORK
5:35 p.m.


Jimmy Shea dipped his right middle finger in the small bowl of holy
water, touched the cool water to his forehead as he took off his cap
and stuffed it in his coat pocket.  Then he made the sign of the
cross quickly and went forward into the cavernous building, his
footsteps echoing on the marble floor as he made his way slowly
toward the altar.

This time of night, there was no light coming through the elaborate
stained glass windows on either side of him, only faint dark outlines
of surrounding saints.  The light of a dozen random candles shone
before statues of Christ and the Virgin in alcoves to his left and
right, the candles sending up their bitter smoke prayers.  Shea
crossed himself again as he passed the statue of Mary, a habit since
childhood.

The cathedral was nearly empty and completely silent except for his
footsteps.  The only other people, a knot of dark-clad figures in the
front of the church, taking up the ends of two or three pews.  They
were leaned into each other, whispering, but Shea could not hear
their voices.

Coming to the rows they were in, he genuflected, his eyes on the
crucifix above the altar, then began walking sideways down the pew
toward the group.  They all turned as he did so, nodding.  A man,
tall and in his early forties, stood in the pew ahead.   The man
reached out his hand.

"Mr. Shea?"  he asked as Shea took his hand, gave it a single shake.

"You must be Conail Rutherford," the older man replied, smiling
kindly.  Around him, the others watched him intently, as though it
were important for them to get a good look.

"Aye," Rutherford said, smiled.  "How was the trip over?"  He
gestured for Shea to sit.

Shea waved his hand, remained standing.  "Ah, it was fine, fine.
Got to see that film about the little bloke who does ballet."

Rutherford's smile widened.  "That's good then," he said, then
cleared his throat.  He turned to the men around him.  "This is Joey
Sullivan..." he began, and introduced the entire group.  Shea nodded
to each of them, noting that he was the oldest of the group by at
least 20 years.

"An honor to meet you, Mr. Shea," Sullivan said when Rutherford was
finished.  "My father's told stories of you as long as I can
remember...what you did on Bloody Sunday, and up in Ballycastle--"

"No honor in doing what you can," Shea said quickly, his hand
raising again to stop the listing.  He offset his words with a small
smile.  Sullivan nodded, the words seeming to please him more.

"Fair enough," he said.

Shea turned to Rutherford.  "I take it my packages were delivered
without incident," he said, eager to get to business.

"Aye, we've got them in a suitcase here," Rutherford gestured to one
of the other men, who pulled a black soft bag from beneath the pew he
sat in and offered the heavy bundle to Shea.

"Fine, fine," Shea said, hefting the weight.  "Any idea of where I'm
headed first off?"

Rutherford nodded, reached into the seat and brought up a Rand
McNally atlas of the States.  He flipped through the pages until he
found the right one -- a map of Kentucky.

"This was the last place he was seen," he said, pointing to a small
town near the center of the state.  Shea leaned forward in the dim
light to look at it.  Tyner.  Just a speck on the map, he thought.
And a long way off.

"I see," he said, setting the bag down on the pew.  It made a
thumping sound, things bumping against each other inside it.  "I
suppose that's where I'll head off to in the morning then.  You've
got a mobile telephone for me?"

"Aye, just as you requested," Rutherford said, and handed Shea a
small cell phone.  "We'll be calling you with any information we're
able to find out.  Hopefully we won't send you criss-crossing too
much."

"You'll do what you can, I'm sure," Shea said, tucking the phone in
his coat pocket.  He then took the map from the younger man.  "It's a
big country, after all.  Not like back home, that's for sure."

Rutherford shifted uncomfortably for a moment as Shea closed up the
book, unzipped the suitcase and stuffed it inside.  The silence that
fell over the group was an awkward one.  One of the men cleared his
throat nervously.

"Are you sure we can't persuade you to take someone with you?"
Rutherford asked carefully.  "Any of these men would be happy to go,
even if it was just to share the driving.  A bit of company on the
road."

The men around him nodded, clearly eager to do as Rutherford
suggested.  Shea was flattered by their enthusiasm, warmed by it.
But he shook his head, smiling again.

"No, that won't be necessary," he said kindly.  "I like to go about
these things my own way.  And I always work alone, as I'm sure you
were told."

"I was, aye."  Rutherford said.  "It just might take some time.
It's a lot of time to be on your own in a strange place."

"Oh, I'll manage," Shea replied quickly.  "I've got plenty to keep
me busy.  I hear the fishing is good here.  I bought one of those
guidebooks to America so I could find some places to set a hook along
the way.  I'll be right as rain.  Not to worry."

"All right," Rutherford said, and reached into his pocket, brought
out a key on a ring.  "Here's your ride then.  It's out front.  The
black pickup with the camper top."

"That'll do me just fine," Shea said, and took the key.  He was
eager to go, to get back to his room and get some sleep.  He reached
his hand out to Rutherford again, who shook it.

"It really is an honor for us all to meet you, Mr. Shea," Rutherford
said softly.  "We appreciate your help with this...situation...a
great deal.  It's good to know it'll be done right."

Shea gave him a smaller smile.  "It'll get done right, aye," he
said, and there was something sad in his voice.  He lifted the bag
and slung the strap over his shoulder.

"I'll be in touch with any news," the younger man said, and Shea
nodded and, with a raised hand, withdrew, going back up to the main
aisle and out into the cold night.

He drove surely back to the house where he was being put up for the
night, having watched the street names in the cab ride on the way
over.  Driving on the right side of the road came more easily than he
imagined.

Once outside the small row house, he parked the truck carefully on
the street, climbed wearily from the cab and walked up to the front
door with his bundle.  He rang the bell.

The person who owned the house, a woman about his age named Mary,
answered immediately, wiping her hands on her apron.

"Oh, Mr. Shea, you didn't need to knock," she fussed, embarrassed.
"I left the door unlocked for you, of course!"

He took off his cap as she made room for him to enter.  "It's quite
all right," he soothed, putting a hand on her arm.   "I don't walk
into anyone's home without knocking but my own.  My Ruby would have
my head if I showed she hadn't trained me any better."

Mary laughed at that, a high-pitched trill.  "Well, I've got dinner
for you when you're ready for it."

He nodded.  "That's good.  I'm going to attend to a few things and
then I'll be right down."

"All right," Mary replied, and returned to the kitchen in the back
of the house.  The entire place smelled of bread and Shea inhaled the
scent deeply, reminded of home.

He climbed the stairs and made his way to his room in the back,
closing the door behind him.  He went to the window and pulled the
blinds slowly, closing out the New York City night.

Removing his coat, he laid it across the back of a chair in the
corner, went to the full sized bed against the far wall, set the
suitcase down on the quilt.  Then he pulled the rifle case from
beneath the bed, laid it out and opened it, exposing the pristine rod
and reel.

He gently took it and the tackle out of the case, set it aside.
Then he unzipped the suitcase, removed the map book, and then started
pulling out the other contents.

A rifle butt, dark wood, shining with years of care.

The muzzle, long and straight.

He pulled out the pieces, five of them in all, including the high-
powered scope that would fit on top once the rifle was assembled.

Opening his other suitcase on the bed, he drew out his tool kit  and
began to do just that, sliding the parts of the sniper's rifle into
place, oiling the moving parts as he did so, making sure everything
was lined up just so.  He worked carefully, slowly, but with an
assuredness that came with having done this task hundreds of times
before.

Finally, he screwed the scope on the top, set the bolt and raised
the gun toward the window, peering down the sights through the
crosshairs.

Everything seemed to be in order.  He gave the gun one more wipe
down with the cleaning cloth he kept in the tool kit, then carefully
laid the rifle in the case, which he'd had custom-made to fit it
decades ago.

Latching the case closed, he locked it with the tiny lock, then
placed it beneath the bed once again.  He replaced his tools, taking
the same care with them he'd taken with the rifle itself.

Then, taking the rod and tackle and placing them carefully in the
suitcase the rifle had been in, he zipped it closed and set it and
his other suitcase back on the floor.

He stood back, surveying the room for a sign of anything looking
amiss.  Nothing seemed out of the ordinary or out of place.

He let himself relax for the first time in hours.

That's when the image of the small boy came into his mind.  The boy
was hanging around his father's legs at the stone wall near a pasture
of pure green.  He was laughing as Shea -- a young man then --
squatted down, smiling back, urging him to come forward.

He pushed the thought away with a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping
with it.

That kind of thinking wasn't going to get him anywhere.

With that, he turned, went out the door, down the hallway to the
small bath to wash up for his meal.


*********


END OF CHAPTER 4.  CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 5.


Disclaimer in Chapter 0.  This is Chapter 5a.


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

PUERTO PENASCO, MEXICO
BAHIA DE ADAIR GULF OF CALIFORNIA
MARCH 21
11:38 a.m.


The sea stretched out a cobalt blue, small breakers on the
shoreline, the waves' hair blown back white.  The sea itself was
beautiful, but the woman could not fool herself into thinking the
beach was.  The blowing trash along the high dunes ruined any such
illusions, the sound of paper rustling lodged in the wind coming off
the ocean.

Around her, tourists lay out like beached fish on their towels,
their winter-white bodies soaking up the mid-day sun.  American music
competed with the sound of the waves, the tunes coming from a group
of what she assumed were college students down from the States.

She'd been seeing a lot of them the past few weeks as they came down
for Spring Break, venturing into Mexico for a cheap holiday on the
coast.  They were vibrant and carefree and laughed constantly on the
beach and in the ramshackle town behind her, and the influx of them
had made the woman more depressed than she was already.

It had been a long time since she had laughed -- or felt -- like
that.

If she'd ever felt like that.

She watched the young women's faces as they sat up in their bright
bikinis, looking at the young men playing volleyball and frisbee on
the sand.  They whispered to each other, giggling, planning...

It was all one huge game to them, she thought, then looked the other
way, squinting against the glaring sun.  She sighed.

Though she, too, didn't belong here, it was clear she was not on
holiday.  She was a solitary figure on the beach, a loose white
cotton shirt hiding her sensitive skin from the sun, jeans covering
her legs.  Her sandals sat beside her.  Her thick dark hair was
pulled into a loose ponytail that trailed down to the center of her
back, stray strands  ruffled by the wind around her face.  She wore
dark sunglasses to hide her pale blue eyes.

Besides her attire, there was a set to her that showed she was not
at ease.  A certain tension.  A wariness.  And a tired, careworn
expression on her face.

She sat silent, still, her knees drawn up, her arms crossed around
them, her shirt cuffed to the elbows.

Her eyes followed a figure moving along the shoreline down by the
rocky tidal pools at the edge of the water.  She watched the small
boy squat now and again, picking up things he found in the crevices
of the dark mazed stone.  The waves washed gently up in this area,
carrying small crabs, fish, into the shallow pools.

Playing in them was one of the boy's favorite pastimes here, and she
tried to indulge him by coming to the beach every day to let him
play.  The rest of their lives were so quiet, sheltered even from
most of the other people in the town.  She had to allow him this one
pleasure he'd found here.

After he'd lost so much.

After they both had lost so much.

Or was it that she had taken it all away?

That thought and a peal of laughter from the young women beside her
sent her to her feet.  She brushed at the sand on her clothes,
reached down for her sandals, began walking toward the boy at the
edge of the sea.

He was standing up now, facing the ocean, looking at something.  She
put her hand to her forehead to shield her eyes to try and see what
he saw.  He turned, caught sight of her approaching.

"Look!"  the boy shouted.  "Look!  A seal!"

Then she saw the dark shape curving through the water.  It stopped
to look at them curiously.

"Do you see it?"  the boy asked as she bent and put her sandals on
so that she could traverse the rocky terrain.

"Aye, Sean, I see him," she said, and walked until she stood beside
him.  He was clad in multicolored Guatemalan shorts she'd bought in
town, a white undershirt, his feet also in thick sandals.

The seal stayed where it was, bobbing slightly in the waves.

"He's looking at you, I think," she said, smoothed down the boy's
unruly hair.  He was badly in need of a cut.

"You think?"  he asked, seeming to consider the idea seriously.

"I do," she said, nodded as he turned his tanned face up toward
hers, then back to the seal.

The three of them regarded each other silently for a long moment.

Then the seal turned once, dipped below the surface and was gone.

Mae Curran looked down at her nephew now, his small hands fisted in
front of him.

"Let me see what you've found then," she said, and squatted down so
that her face was almost even with his.  He opened his hands and
showed her what he had.

Small round rocks, a tiny purple crab claw, small halves of white
and black shells.

"That's a good haul for one morning."  She smiled up at him.  "Go
ahead and put those in your pockets and we'll set them on the sill
with your other things."

"Okay," he said, and stuffed his hands in his pockets.  She could
hear the shells clinking softly against the stones.

"Let's go get something to eat," she said, and, taking his hand, she
led him up the beach.


**********

GEORGE BUSH CENTER FOR INTELLIGENCE
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
12:32 p.m.


"Here's another stack for you, Agent Granger."

The voice and the body attached to it appeared so suddenly in front
of Granger's desk that he nearly jumped, his head jerking up in
surprise.  Instinctively, he pressed the file he was reading -- one
on Mae Curran -- up against his chest, though he immediately reminded
himself that the file was actually *all right* for him to be looking
at.

He really didn't have the nerve for this kind of subterfuge.  He
hoped to get used to it soon.

"Well, do you want them or not?"

Agent Stiles, also assigned to the task force to find both Curran
and Mulder, gave Granger a put-out look as he shifted from one foot
to the other and hefted the stack of reports.  Though Stiles was
technically Granger's subordinate on the case, he was much older and
seemed to be having a difficult time mustering the respect his
superior deserved.

Granger, unaccustomed to the role himself, let it slide.

"Uh...sure.  Go ahead and set them down there."  He gestured to the
corner of the desk, the one spot not already covered with files and
yellow legal pads scribbled with notes in Granger's precise
handwriting.

Stiles set them down unceremoniously, smirked.   "Looks like a bunch
of red herrings to me, though these were the most promising of the
ones we've been through.  I think people are seeing Curran and Mulder
more than they're seeing Elvis this year."

Granger forced a smile.  "Thank you.  I'll have a look through
them."

Stiles turned and moved toward the door.  "Have fun looking for your
needles," he called over his shoulder, and disappeared into the busy
hallway outside Granger's quiet office.

Granger set the file he'd been looking at down, eyed the stack of
police reports wearily.  This would be the fifth stack he'd been
through in two days, the reports filtered to him if they seemed to
hold any hint of veracity.  He'd gotten good at flipping through
them, discarding the obvious still shots of johns and prostitutes
from motel security cameras, an endless collection of dark haired men
in sunglasses and garish, auburn haired women.

And Curran would be nearly impossible to pick out from the scratchy
photos.  It seemed any man who entered a motel with a facial scar was
flagged for the police.  It was his one identifying feature.
Otherwise, Curran could be any man in his late thirties.  He blended
in that well.

He'd made a lifetime out of blending in.

Sighing, Granger pulled the reports toward him, flipped through the
files.  Tuba City, Arizona.  Tombstone, Arizona.  Topeka, Kansas.
Oakland, California.  Durango, Colorado.  He looked at the photos
attached to each file, staring at the faces in front of the counters
of the motels and gas stations.

A dark haired man who looked like Mulder but who was not Mulder.

A nondescript man, too young to be Curran, probably paying for gas.

A woman, long red hair pulled back in a ponytail, buying a pack of
cigarettes.

In other words, a whole bunch of nothing.   He kept moving through
the stack.

Then, on the folder marked "El Centro, California," Granger froze,
pulled the black and white picture from the folder and held it up to
get it in better light.  He squinted at it through his glasses, his
head cocking to one side.

A youngish, very thin woman in a black baseball cap, sunglasses,
passing cash across the counter of a convenience store.  Behind her,
a man in profile, looking out the doorway they'd come.  Sunglasses.
Dark hair and beard.  Lean.  Strong nose.  His hand was on the
woman's shoulder as if to hasten her along in paying for the cups of
coffee that sat on the counter.

It was them.  It had to be, he thought.

He studied the picture for another long moment, frowning.  Scully
was so gaunt, her clothes swallowing her.  And Mulder, even in the
still photo, looked so on edge, looking behind him, his hand on her
shoulder protective, but like a warning.

The time on the road was taking its toll.   And he knew Scully had
been hurt the last time he'd talked to Mulder all those weeks ago
from his hospital bed.  He wondered how badly she'd been hurt now,
seeing her changed so much in the photo.

Granger shook his head sadly.  He could only imagine what they were
going through.  He would have to work more quickly to do what he
could to bring them home again.

Someone passed his office door and Granger's eyes darted up
instantly.  Though the person didn't even glance in, Granger stuffed
the photo back into the folder, closed it, reaching down to jerk open
a drawer in his desk, one with a lock.  He pushed the folder into it,
closed it quickly and reached into his pocket for his keys.  Choosing
the proper one, he locked the drawer with an audible "click."

When his phone beeped a second or two later, before he'd even
righted himself in his chair again, he nearly jumped out of his skin,
feeling caught.  Blowing out a breath, he pressed the button on the
phone.

"Granger."

"Agent Granger."

Shit.  Padden.

"Yes, Dr. Padden?"  He tried to sound formal and at ease at the same
time, only marginally succeeding.

"Would you mind joining me in my office for a few moments?" Padden
replied, his voice strangely friendly.  Light.

Granger frowned again.  He had a sudden vision of he and Padden
sitting across the desk from each other yukking it up over the
Letterman show or something.   His superior's tone was that casual.

His eyes narrowed as he looked at the phone, his guard coming up.

"Of course, sir," was what he said aloud.  "I'll be there
momentarily."

"Very good."  The light went off on the intercom button.

Five minutes later he was stiff in his dark suit jacket once again,
his tie straightened and knotted down tightly, walking into the
receiving area of Padden's temporary office, the one assigned to him
while the task force was based at the CIA.

The secretary smiled kindly to him.  He smiled back, though it was
hard.

"Go on in, Agent Granger," the woman said.

Granger pushed the door open and entered the office.  It was a huge
space, the vertical blinds all but drawn on the windows, obscuring
the view of the grounds.  What little light filtered into the
cavernous room was absorbed by the darkness of the office, all the
furniture black.  The bookshelves lining one whole wall.  The low
table beside the window covered with plants that Granger could tell
were fake even from where he stood.  Black leather chairs gathered at
the far end of the room, just in front of the wide, neat desk.

Robert Padden, Director of the NSA, sat behind that desk, just
beneath an oil portrait of someone Granger didn't recognize but whose
eyes seemed to follow him as he made his way across the forest green
oriental rug toward the desk.  The rug was expensive and so heavily
padded that Granger's footfalls didn't make a sound as he came
forward.  It was as if the office consumed even that.

"Agent Granger," Padden said as he stood, came around the desk, a
smile on his face, creasing his cheeks against the bottoms of his
reading glasses.  "It's a relief to see you up and around and back at
work again after the seriousness of your injuries."

Much to Granger's surprise, the other man reached out his hand,
which Granger shook uncertainly as he stood in front of one of the
chairs.  Gone was the man who had screamed at he and Skinner in his
hospital room.  Gone was the man who had firmly interrogated him on
the phone at home.  He didn't know what to make of this person in
front of him.

"Thank you, sir," he replied cautiously.  "I'm feeling fine now."

"Just that limp to deal with?"  Padden asked, and withdrew behind
the desk again, taking a seat in the high back chair.  "That's not
permanent, I hope."

"No," Granger said, feeling suddenly self-conscious about the limp.
"It shouldn't be permanent.  It just needs a little more time."  He
sat as Padden did, sitting in the stiff chair, which creaked beneath
him, being made out of something's hide.

"Good, good."  Padden leaned forward, folding his hands in front of
him on the desk, his expression still easy, friendly.  "I'm sorry I
didn't get to see you yesterday when I was in.  Trying to run this
level of a manhunt and keep the NSA running on its rails...you can
imagine it requires a great deal of my attention."

"Yes," Granger replied, smiling faintly.  "I imagine so."   He
watched the other man carefully, sizing him up.  If this was all an
act, Granger thought -- and he was almost certain it was -- Padden
was doing a hell of a job at it.   His guard came up a notch more.

"So."  Padden took off the reading glasses, setting them carefully
on the desk.

Here is comes, Granger thought.

"What are your initial thoughts on Owen Curran and Agent Mulder?"
he asked.  "I know you've only been back for a few days, but I wanted
to know your impressions."

"My impressions on what aspects of them, sir?"  Granger wanted to
know more about what specifically Padden was fishing for, lest he say
something that he shouldn't, something that could be slanted and
later used in a way he didn't intend.

Padden shrugged, leaned back in the chair.  "What you think is
motivating both of them at this juncture, what they might be up to.
If they're together, that sort of thing."

Granger felt a flare of anger, like a match being struck in his
head.  He snuffed it out instantly.

"No, sir, they're not together," he replied slowly.  "Agent Mulder
has had no dealings with Owen Curran.  He was not involved with any
conspiracy to bomb the embassy, as I believe I've mentioned before."

"Yes, so you've asserted," Padden replied.  "And though I do hope,
of course, that you are right about this, I don't share your
certainty about that fact.  Hence my question."

Granger's tie felt too tight.  "The only connection between Agent
Mulder and Owen Curran," he said quietly, "would be Agent Scully.
She is what is motivating both of them right now.  But for different
reasons, of course."

"How do you mean?"  Padden asked, his brows squinting down.

"Based on what I know of Owen Curran, I would say that Curran is
concentrating his energy on finding Agent Scully."   He neglected to
mention that everything he knew about Curran had come from Mulder's
profile in Richmond.  He didn't think Padden would appreciate that
knowledge very much, and kept it to himself.

"For what purpose?"  Padden asked incredulously.  "Surely he knows
that she would have relayed all of her information to us before her
cover was exposed.  It seems to me that killing her at this point
would be a futile use of his energy."

Again Padden smiled, this time almost apologetically.

"Because revenge is what motivates Owen Curran, sir," Granger
replied carefully.  "He feels, at the least, that Agent Scully was
responsible for his bombing being unsuccessful."

Padden said nothing, so Granger pressed on.

"I also believe that Agent Scully resembling Curran's wife so
closely allowed him to develop a level of attachment to her that
would make her betrayal of him even more of an insult.  He would have
trusted her, probably more than he does most people outside his
family, and he will not take kindly to that trust being abused."

"I see," Padden said after a beat.  "You sound quite certain of your
theories, Agent Granger.  That's good to hear."

Granger kept his face neutral, not rising to the compliment, knowing
there was something behind it.   Padden was doing everything he could
to put him at ease, to seem reasonable.

And Granger didn't like it one bit.

Padden leaned back a bit more in the posh leather chair, pushed at a
pen on the desk top absently.  "You said Agent Scully was motivating
Agent Mulder at this point, as well.  What do you mean by that?"

Granger shifted a bit in his seat, knowing he had to tread
particularly carefully in this terrain.  "Agent Mulder is protecting
Agent Scully from Curran," he said, his voice devoid or emotion or
inflection.

"But why is that necessary?"  Padden replied, and his voice now did
betray some frustration.  "Surely they both know that we could
protect Agent Scully much better in a safe house than they could
possibly be doing on their own."

Granger looked at Padden now, and felt anger flare in him again.
This time, he knew it made it to his face.  "Because I believe that
Agent Mulder doesn't trust you, sir," he said, his voice the same
monotone.  "I think he believes that you will do anything you can to
capture Owen Curran, even if it means sacrificing Agent Scully's life
to do it."

Padden chuckled bitterly.  "The famous Fox Mulder paranoia," he said
dismissively.  "Which he seems to have given to Agent Scully, as
well."

"Sir," Granger said as Padden's chuckle subsided.  "You must admit
that you *did,* in fact, suppress the information about Agent
Scully's resemblance to Elisa Curran, even though you must have
realized that likeness would place her at more risk, given Curran's
attachment to his wife and the circumstances of her death."

"That's nonsense," Padden replied, his voice peeved.  "Yes, we'd
noticed a slight resemblance but we didn't 'suppress' that
information.  We just didn't feel that it had any tactical
importance.  We still don't.  Agent Mulder overreacted to that
information.  Overreacted badly."

Granger watched his face, the profiler in him watching the
expressions that crossed it.  They were subtle -- Padden was clearly
used to hiding his feelings well -- but Granger saw them nonetheless.

Padden was, as Granger's mother used to say, "lying like a rug."

It was not, however, the time to call him on that.  Granger had too
much work to do and did not need to be in an openly antagonistic
relationship with his superior at this juncture.  There was too much
at stake.

"This...protectiveness...Agent Mulder has of Agent Scully," Padden
began, his eyes on the desk, on the shining gold pen he'd been toying
with before.  "What do you make of that?"

Granger became very still.  "I'm not sure what you mean, sir," he
said, and meant it.  He didn't like the turn of the conversation, the
probing tone in Padden's voice, the quietness of it.

"What do you make of their relationship?"  Padden pressed.
"Generally speaking."

Choosing his words with care, Granger shifted in his seat and
responded.  "Agents Mulder and Scully are two of the best matched
partners I've ever encountered.  Consummate professionals in their
work.  Loyal to each other.  Vigilant.  Balanced in their seemingly
contradictory views and methods.  I think the fact that the work
they've done on the X-Files for the past eight years has been under
so much ridicule and suspicion both inside and outside the Bureau has
given their partnership more importance to them both, since they seem
to have no one to rely on for affirmation of their work but each
other."

"An "Us Against Them" mentality, in other words?"  Padden asked.

"In a manner of speaking, yes," Granger replied, though he didn't
like the implied negative connotation of Padden's words.

Padden nodded, leaned forward, folding his hands in front of them.
"What about their personal relationship?" he asked, looking at
Granger over the flat-topped rims of his glasses.

Granger looked back, forcing his face to remain neutral.  "I have
very little information on that, sir.  I did not get the opportunity
to see them outside of their working relationship."

"Surely you must have gotten a sense of Mulder's feelings from
spending so much time with him in Richmond," Padden persisted.  He'd
had yet to move.

Now Granger did squirm a bit under the other man's intense scrutiny.
"He's very loyal to Agent Scully," he said noncommitedly, using the
most innocuous yet accurate word he could come up with.

Padden nodded thoughtfully, his lips pursing as he looked down.
Then he pinned Granger with his gaze once again.  "Could there be
more to it than that?"

Granger froze again, swallowed.  "How do you mean, sir?"

Padden leaned back again now.  "Frankly, I'm wondering if there's
something going on between them personally -- and by that I mean
sexually -- that is causing this behavior.  A level of attachment
that would cause Agent Mulder to ruin his career by avoiding coming
in and facing these charges against him, that would cause Agent
Scully to sully her reputation by running, as well."  He shook his
head.  "This behavior is very irregular.  You'd have to agree with me
on that point, Agent Granger."

"How would a romantic relationship of some kind contribute to that?"
Granger replied cautiously.   "I think their partnership -- their
level of commitment to that -- is enough to cause what we're
seeing."

"I don't think so, Paul."

Paul?  Granger chafed.

Padden sighed.  "I think, frankly, that they've compromised
themselves, gotten too involved with one another so that they've lost
their perspective.  Many of us noted it while Agent Scully was
undercover, Mulder's overly emotional reactions to things, his
protectiveness, his anger at being separated from her.  I think it's
this overreaction based on their attachment that is causing all this.
It's not anything I've done, or that the task force has done.  I
think that Mulder has used his personal relationship with Agent
Scully to fool her into sacrificing herself and her position to
protect him, to run with him.  I think she's being brainwashed by
him, to be honest.  I think she's believing his paranoia about me and
the task force to avoid facing the truth of his involvement with
Curran."

Granger's hands clenched down on the arms of the chair, the leather
squeaking in protest.

"You're wrong about all that, sir," he said, tight lipped.  "You're
wrong on so many levels.  Agent Scully could not be 'brainwashed' by
anyone, for starters.  She's the most professional, level-headed
agent I've ever met.  She sets a standard with her approach and
conduct."

"Not anymore."  Padden's face had hardened now to the craggy mask
that Granger had known in Richmond.  He was almost glad to see its
return, because it was, at least, familiar.

"Mulder would never do anything to compromise Agent Scully," Granger
continued, stoked now at the insinuations about Scully and Mulder's
manipulation of her.  "Quite the opposite, in fact.  He would do
anything he could to protect her.  And not because of any sort of
romantic involvement.  Because of their partnership."

Padden picked up the pen, pushed at a file on the desktop with the
blunt end of it, his eyes averted.   "I wonder if your feelings on
this matter are quite clear," he said softly.

"I'm not sure I understand what you mean," Granger replied stiffly.

"It was no secret here at the CIA, I'm told, that you are a great
admirer of Mulder's profiling work," Padden said, glancing up and
Granger and frowning.  "There are some on the task force who are
wondering how impartial you're able to be in your work on this case.
That concerns a great many people, to be quite honest."

Granger recognized the ploy -- the insinuation coming in punishment
for Granger's assertion that Padden was wrong.

"Who exactly is being profiled here, Dr. Padden?"  Granger replied
quietly.  "Me or Agent Mulder and Owen Curran?"

"All three of you, to some extent, Paul,"  Padden replied.  "Your
work is being closely watched on this.  Some of your past actions
have been somewhat... questionable... shall we say?  At least as far
as Agent Mulder is concerned.  There are those who don't think you're
up for the task of bring him in, that your heart isn't in it."

Granger stood then slowly, took the two steps toward the desk.  He
was fuming, but kept it simmering deep.

"I can promise you, Dr. Padden, that I will do everything in my
power to locate Agents Mulder and Scully and Owen Curran," he said
formally.

Again, Padden's face crimped with that strange, patronizing smile.
"I'm sure you will," he said.

There was a strange moment as the two of them regarded each other
silently.  Granger pulled himself up straighter.

"If there's nothing else, sir, I have some files to attend to."

"Of course," Padden replied, standing.  "I'll expect a full progress
report by the end of the week, and sooner if there are any major
developments."

Granger nodded, turned on his heel and left the room, closing the
door quietly behind him, the sunlight of the outer office assaulting
him.

Out in the bustle of the hallway, Granger made his way toward his
office, his teeth clenched in rage.  When he reached it, he closed
the door perhaps a little too hard, went behind the desk and stood
for a moment, facing the window.  He reached up, took off his
glasses, rubbed his eyes, exhaling slowly to calm his nerves.

After a moment, he replaced his glasses and glanced behind him, at
the locked drawer of his desk, the memory of the photo coming back to
him.

Mulder's hand on Scully's shoulder.  The thinness of her face and
arms.

He had to DO something.  Find something that could help clear
Mulder's -- and now Scully's, it would seem -- name.

He needed proof.  Of something.  Anything.

A picture of Mulder standing in the airport waiting for Scully to
show for her plane entered his mind, an imagining of Mulder tensely
watching the passengers board the plane bound for Boston.

Padden had stated on the phone weeks ago that he didn't really
believe that Mulder had ever been at the airport at all.

Surely someone would have seen Mulder there.  Surely there was
someone who could vouch for that.

It was a place to start, at least.

Turning, he picked up the phone, dialed the number for toll-free
directory assistance.

"What listing?"  the computerized voice prompted.

"Richmond International Airport," Granger said, watching the shadows
of people passing by beneath his office door.



***********

END OF CHAPTER 5a.  CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 5b.

Disclaimer in Chapter 0.  This is Chapter 5b.


**********


PUERTO PENASCO, MEXICO
12:35 p.m.


Mae and Sean drifted through the open-air market, past the stands
selling fireworks and firewood for the tourists on the beach, past
the stalls steaming with the heavy smell of heavy food, the garish
storefronts peddling Mexican blankets and sombreros so huge and
useless that only an American would buy them.

"It's the Movie Star," one of the storefront vendors called from his
stool.  "Seorita West, buenos d'as.  You are looking beautiful
today, as always."

"Thank you, Enrico," Mae replied, gave him a small smile.  It was a
near-daily ritual for her, the attention of the men in the center of
town.  It was impossible to be a woman -- and a foreign one,
particularly -- and really blend in, so she did her best to accept
the attention in stride, casually, so as not to draw suspicion.

Sean walked slowly just behind Mae, and she turned to make sure he
was still there.  He was looking down as he walked, appearing deep in
thought.

"Sean?"  she asked, and stopped to let him catch up, knelt down in
front of him and took his hand.  "Qu pasa, Seor West?"

She hoped to get a rise out of him, both with her Irish-accented
Spanish -- she was dreadful at the language -- and with the use of
their fake name, and did.  He looked up at her and a smile tugged at
the corners of his mouth.  She was glad to see it.  He'd become so
serious over the weeks.  Broody.  Quiet.  Much like his father that
way, and for many of the same reasons.

Loss seemed to cling to her family like a cobweb.  It always had.
And all of them had worn it on their faces, in the way they carried
themselves and moved through the world.   Her mother.  Her father
before he disappeared into prison and never returned.  Her brother
James.  Owen.  And now Sean, as well.

He said nothing in response to her question about what was the
matter, however.  Just looked at her as though he had something to
say and couldn't say it.  Mae felt sadness wash over her as she
looked at him.

"What do you want to eat?  Anything you want."  She stroked down his
hair again.

"I want one of Seora Mart'nez's burritos," Sean replied softly.

Her smile widened.  "And I bet you want to ride Seor Mart'nez's
burro while she makes it, as well, don't you?"

Now Sean broke into a wider, shy smile as he looked down, clearly
caught.  Mae reached out and tickled his middle and he squirmed and a
laugh chirped out of him.

"I know your game, little man," she said, and tickled him again.
"We'll see if Seor Mart'nez will let you today then."

She stood, still holding his hand, started toward the far end of
town where the Mart'nez family lived, selling food straight from
their own ramshackle kitchen.

The catcalls and greetings continued as she walked along, and she
ignored those from people she didn't know, said hello to the ones she
did.

Then she passed a stall and saw a familiar face.  The man -- an
American with sun bleached brown hair and brown eyes, lean with a
surfer's body and clad in jeans and a t-shirt that hugged his chest
just a touch -- turned as she approached, smiling kindly.

"Hello, Mr. Porter," Sean said, and the man came forward, put a hand
on Sean's head.

"Hello, Sean.  Katherine."

Mae smiled back at him shyly.  "How are you, Joe?  A good day on the
boat?"

Porter smiled back at her warmly, taking her in.  "Yes, we got a
good catch this morning."

"That's good then," she replied.  She hated that she had a hard time
meeting his eyes.  She wasn't accustomed to being so shy.  But
meeting up with him always made her feel awkward.

"Seor West!" a voice boomed from across the street.   "I have
something for you!"  It was Paco, the bone salesman, his storefront
stacked with cow skulls and stinking of bleach, even from where Mae
stood.

"Can I go?"  Sean asked, looking up at Mae, his expression excited
for once, and she nodded reluctantly.  She hated the thought of the
place.

"Go on, but hurry now."  She ushered him forward and he darted
across the dirt road.  Cars weren't allowed in the tourist market
area, so she let him go without a thought.

"You look tired," Porter said quietly.

"I'm all right," she said, brushing him off and looking down at his
sandalled feet.  Then she felt his finger on her chin, tilting her
face up.  His eyes probed hers for a long moment, though neither of
them said anything while he did so.

Finally, Mae broke the silence. "Tonight," she nearly whispered.
"Ten."

He dropped his hand, nodded, taking a step back as Sean returned,
carrying a stuffed armadillo under his arm like a football.

"Ach, Sean!"  Mae protested, her face screwing into a look of disgust.

"He said I could have it," Sean insisted, holding it up so Mae could
see.  Its stunned glass eyes stared up at her, its obscenely long
toes curled.

Joe laughed.  "Those go for $60," he said.  "Paco must be feeling
generous today."

"Can I keep it?"  Sean asked, and Mae could tell it meant something
to him, so she relented immediately.

"All right," she said, "But you're washing your hands at the
Mart'nez's.  And don't get it near me."

Sean smiled and replaced the animal beneath his arm, pleased to have
grossed her out.

Joe laughed again as he watched them, put his hand back on Sean's
head, tussling his hair.

"See you, Sean," he said, and nodded to Mae.  "Katherine."  And he
moved on through the crowd.  Mae watched his back through the thin
fabric of his shirt.

**

11:30 p.m.

Mae's nails dug into his back, her legs clenching his waist as his
movements shortened, quickened.  She gasped, turning  her head into
his throat, her mouth open against him, her breath fanning the hair
over his shoulder.

"Oh God, Joe..."  she whispered.  "God yes..."

Her words seemed to urge him on, his thrusting into her deepening,
and she pulled him to her tightly as she shuddered finally, stifling
a cry by biting down on his shoulder.  He was already trembling, as
well, his face in her hair, a quiet groan escaping him as his hips
slowed their movements and finally stopped.

They were both panting, drenched with sweat, as they rolled onto
their sides, Joe's lips finding hers as her legs relaxed and she
straightened them, their knees touching.  She let their lips touch
for a brief moment, then withdrew her face, pulling his down beneath
her chin.  His lips roamed her chest as his breathing began to even
out.

If he noticed the brush-off she'd just given him, he gave no
indication of it.

Stretching her arms over her head, Mae rolled over, so that her back
was to his front,  pillowing her head on her forearm.  He moved over
until he was pressed against her, his arm draped across her waist and
resting on her belly.  He leaned up and kissed her temple.

"You always turn away from me after we make love," he whispered.
"Why is that?"

The question took her by surprise.  It wasn't that what he said
wasn't true -- it was that after all these weeks she thought if it
bothered him he would have mentioned it sooner.

"Don't know," she murmured, keeping her voice low.  She didn't want
to wake Sean, asleep in the room across the hall on the other side of
her bedroom's locked door.  She started to roll back over, but he
stopped her.

"No, don't.  If it's what you want, it's all right."  He settled his
head on the pillow behind hers, his hand coming up and smoothing down
the curls in her long hair.  They were silent for a long moment.  Mae
closed her eyes, breathing out a long sigh.

"It's so strange to me," he said softly into the quiet.

She opened her eyes.  "What's strange?"

His hand continued to stroke her hair gently.  "That you'll sleep
with me, but you won't tell me anything about yourself.  Why you're
here."

"I've told you why I'm here," she replied softly.  "We're on
holiday."

He chuffed softly.  "Katherine, people don't come to this
Godforsaken place for more than a day or two.  If they're going on
vacation in Mexico, they go to Cancun or Acapulco.  Not this place.
Anybody who stays here for more than a few days has to be hiding from
something."

She looked down at the bend of his arm, the scars of needlemarks
still pink-going-to white against his tan skin.

"Just because you came here to run from something doesn't mean
everyone does," she said, her voice still pitched low.

He was quiet for a moment.  "I know you're not telling me the
truth," he said softly, but there was no anger, no accusation in his
voice.  Just a tired sadness.  "I hope someday that you'll trust me
enough that you will."

She said nothing to that.  His arm reached around her protectively,
pulling her against him more tightly as he settled down, going still
behind her.

Mae lay there, thinking about what he'd said.  It took her a long
time to fall asleep.


***********

END OF CHAPTER 5b.  CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 6.