From: Martha <marthalgm@yahoo.com>
Date: Mon, 17 Jul 2000 16:26:00 -0700 (PDT)
Subject: Drunk With Autumn by Martha and Erynn (1 of 4)
Source: direct

     
 Classific: SA
 Rating:    PG-13 (language)
 Spoilers:  Unusual Suspects (US5)
 Summary:   The return of Susanne Modeski into the lives    
 	    of the Gunmen.
 Time Line: Early Sixth Season - just after Drive.  The  	    
 	    rest of the season does not occur in this universe.
 
 All XF characters are the property of 1013 Productions and 
 FOX Broadcasting.  Lyrics quoted are from `Drunk With Autumn' 
 written by Rich Hill & Ron Rutherford, 1994, performed by 
 Keltoi.  Both the lyrics and characters are used here without 
 permission.
 
 With thanks to Deborah and Sally for beta duties.
 
 Martha's Notes:  This story started out a number of months 
 ago when Plausible Deniability asked if the Gunmen could play 
 dirty with Spender and then Erynn wanted the boys and CSM to 
 tangle.  Part 1 got written in a hurry . . . and then 
 stalled.  Being unable to come up with anything further, I 
 asked Erynn what she wanted to see.  Several days later, she 
 wrote back with a tale that took form during a fit of 
 insomnia.  What follows is basically that story.  I think 
 that she needs to lose sleep more often.
 
 Erynn's Scribblings:  The Divine Ms. Martha asked me what I 
 thought about a fic she'd started some while back, partially 
 at my request.  She suggested a couple of things, and I sent 
 her back a note;  but a few days later, my brain went 
 haywire, and I ended up sending her this several-page missive 
 outlining pretty much what you see here.  Then I sent her 
 more notes.  And a few more.  Finally, she says to me, "If 
 you want, you can write some scenes or a chapter or 
 something."
 
 I've never written fanfic before.  I've tried my hand at 
 fiction a couple of times, but everything I'd ever tried was 
 pure crap.  But that was years ago.  Since then, I'd been 
 working hard on writing in other genres - articles, essays, 
 poetry, and even a book.  I guess I got a little better with 
 practice.  Anyway, most of what's written here are Martha's 
 words, but I'll take credit for bits of Parts 2, 3, and 4.  
 (She should take credit for a *lot* of Part 4. -mwl)
 
 I give my heartfelt gratitude to Martha for letting me play 
 in her pool, and to Bruce, Tom, and Dean for being such 
 excellent people and bringing the Gunmen to life.  Without 
 them, who would inspire me?  Remember - There Ain't No Such 
 Thing As "Too Much Lone Gunmen".
   
 
 Drunk With Autumn
 by Martha and Erynn
 marthalgm@yahoo.com
 inisglas@seanet.com
 
 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 Drunk with autumn, will we meet in fields of truth?
 Drunk again on autumn wind, and I harvest all but you.
 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
 Lone Gunmen Headquarters
 early September, 1998
 
 "What have you guys done now?"
 
 For the past few minutes, Byers had listened to Langly and 
 Frohike behind a bank of monitors, alternately whispering 
 with the occasional guffaw.  The two had spent most of the 
 late afternoon out and about, and Byers had suspected that 
 they were again playing their new favorite game of Spender-
 baiting.  He sighed and shook his head, returning to the work 
 at hand, while the other two continued their free association 
 dance of the latest round in these events.
 
 "Sorry, man, it was just too funny," Langly finally 
 volunteered.  "We got little Jeffy somewhat miffed."
 
 "You've got to admit that, if nothing else, he at least looks 
 good holding a newspaper," Frohike added with a snicker.
 
 Byers continued typing at the computer keyboard, knowing that 
 he should not appear too eager to learn the latest details, 
 that they would be forthcoming eventually simply because the 
 other two could not stand it when he refused to play along.
 
 Langly caved in first.  "We got Spender to stand at the 
 bottom of the escalators of the Pentagon entrance, holding 
 today's Washington Times.  Told him that someone also 
 carrying that paper would meet up with him with some 
 `important family news'."  He slammed his hand against the 
 table top several times for emphasis.  "You should have seen 
 the looks he got from people he approached, thinking that 
 they had information about his mom."
 
 Frohike leaned back in his chair, arms folded, and joined in.  
 "I loved how he would unfold the newspaper at times and give 
 it a good shake for the other people to see what he was 
 reading.  Unfortunately, he's one of those types who can't 
 refold a road map together much less balance a multipart 
 newspaper.  He kept dropping various sections across the 
 floor."
 
 "Did you at least stay out of sight of the surveillance 
 cameras?" Byers asked.
 
 "Of course.  We're not Jeffrey Spender.  God, I hope someone 
 with access to those tapes gets a good laugh out of this."
 
 Byers again shook his head at the others and tried to 
 suppress a smile.  He did not want to appear to encourage 
 them, although he was getting a perverse thrill out of 
 hearing of these little practical jokes on the FBI agent.  Of 
 course, he reminded himself, the real culprit behind all of 
 this was Mulder.  He was the one who had mentioned to them, a 
 bit too eagerly it now seemed, that Spender was ripe for this 
 kind of treatment since he got handed the X-Files assignment.  
 And Mulder would call them in the middle of the night, 
 desperate for the latest updates.  
 
 "Don't you think you guys should give it a rest for a bit?" 
 Byers called out.  "He is bound to know that someone is 
 fooling with him."  
 
 "Not a chance," shot back Langly.
 
 Frohike slid his chair over to the next terminal to bring up 
 another database.  "Say, isn't it close to Diana Fowley's 
 birthday?"
 
 Langly followed suit.  "Yeah, at the end of this month, isn't 
 it?"
 
 "We could send some flowers, put Spender's name on the card."  
 Frohike winked and smiled.  "Use his Visa."
 
 "What kind?"  Langly was always game for something silly.  
 "Something really pretentious, you think?"
 
 "Hey, Byers," Frohike called out,  "you'd remember.  What 
 were her favorites again?"
 
 "White tea roses," Byers answered absentmindedly.  A few 
 seconds later, he sat up and peered over the computer 
 terminal.  "Wait a minute, guys, you're treading dangerously 
 here.  Playing with Spender's mind is one thing;  there's no 
 need to drag Diana into this."
 
 "I forgot.  You liked her."
 
 "And there's so much to like."  Langly emphasized this by 
 making a derogatory gesture with his hands at chest level.
 
 Byers got up to walk over towards them.  "Listen, that's got 
 nothing to do with it, and you know it.  Diana is not a 
 stupid woman.  You make her the butt of one of your jokes, 
 and she'll start tracking it down."  He leaned over one of 
 the monitors to emphasize his point.  "She knows who we are, 
 and she may know how to find us.  She could give us a lot of 
 trouble if we annoy her too much.  Just remember that."
 
 	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	
 
 X-Files Office
 next morning
 
 An elegant floral display on her desk greeted Diana Fowley as 
 she entered the basement office.  `They're lovely, but who 
 would . . . Fox.'  She searched for the accompanying card.  She
 pulled it out from the envelope and silently read.  
 `Thinking of you.  Jeffrey Spender.'

 Spender?
 
 "Hey, nice arrangement."  Spender entered the office with the 
 morning mail.  "Secret admirer?"
 
 "You should know," Fowley responded.  "The card says that you 
 sent them."
 
 "Me?  I didn't send you any flowers."  Spender continued 
 flipping through the interoffice envelopes.  "Why would I 
 send you flowers?"
 
 "Why indeed?"  Fowley walked over to his desk and held out 
 the card for him to see.
 
 Spender took the card and stared at it for a moment before 
 returning it to her.  "I don't understand.  They're not from 
 me."  He walked around his desk to his chair, threw the mail 
 into the `IN' tray, and sat down.  "This is very weird."
 
 "I have no doubt."  She crossed her arms and leaned back on 
 Spender's desk to await what she fully expected to be an 
 absurd explanation.
 
 "No, I mean, I've had a lot of odd things happen recently.  
 It's sort of embarrassing really."  He paused for a moment, 
 realigning his deskpad and wondering if he should continue.  
 
 "Some company that specializes in those 976 type calls has 
 got my phone number, and I've been getting these calls in the 
 middle of the night.  Last week, Prince Georges County 
 Sheriff's Department wanted to impound my car;  they said 
 that the license plate number had been reported in one of 
 those Neighborhood Watch programs as a suspicious vehicle 
 trawling through their area."  Spender leaned back in his 
 chair, gnawing at his thumbnail.  "Yesterday, I was supposed 
 to meet with someone who said that he had some information 
 about my mother's disappearance, but he never showed up."  
 
 Fowley walked back to her desk and gazed at the flowers.  "I 
 think someone may be pulling your chain here, Spender."
 
 His reply was flat and dripping in sarcasm.  "And we both 
 have a good idea as to who that might be, right?"
 
 "Fox wouldn't . . ."
 
 Spender roughly pushed himself away from his desk.  "Oh, yes, 
 he would.  It's just the sort of childishness that he'd go 
 for.  But to drag my mother into this . . . that is low."
 
 "I always got the feeling that he wanted to find your mother 
 just as much as you did."  Fowley straightened out a few of 
 the stems in the arrangement.  "You can't go around accusing 
 him without any proof."
 
 "Then I'll get it."
 
 Unknown to the office occupants was that a third party was 
 listening in on this conversation and had already made up his 
 mind to acquire the proof.
 
 	*	*	*	*	*	*	*
 
 Lone Gunmen Headquarters
 later that afternoon
 
 "Lone Gunmen."
 
 "Good evening, Mr. Langly."  The caller paused to light a 
 cigarette before continuing.  "Why don't you turn off that 
 tape recorder?  You won't be needing it."
 
 Langly hit the speakerphone button so that the others could 
 hear while he raced across the room to set the tracking 
 sequences in motion.  "Why not?" he yelled back towards the 
 phone.
 
 "Because this call never took place.  And you won't be able 
 to trace it, either, so why don't you and your colleagues 
 just listen for a moment?"
 
 Frohike approached the speaker.  "Who are you?"
 
 "Oh, I believe you already know the answer to your question, 
 Mr. Frohike."
 
 "Raul Bloodworth - as if that's your real name.  Why are you 
 calling us?"
 
 "Ah, a fan.  I'd like to ask a small favor.  These little . . 
 .. incidents . . . with Agent Jeffrey Spender need to cease 
 immediately."
 
 Langly rechecked the settings on his equipment.  "What 
 incidents?"
 
 "Oh, come, Mr. Langly.  You are quite good at covering your 
 tracks.  But I'm better at uncovering secrets.  A card that 
 bears the address of a local florist.  The email requisition 
 of said transaction from the ISP of that vendor.  Really, Mr. 
 Langly;  your software encryption is quite good but that 
 florist should really not accept such confidential 
 information through this avenue with only the shoddy 
 protection that it provides."
 
 Frohike shot a disappointed look at Langly.
 
 "So again, I am asking that you leave Agent Spender alone."
 
 Byers cleared his throat.  "You said as a favor.  What do we 
 get in return?"
 
 "Information about someone who used to be close to all of 
 you.  But especially you, Mr. Byers."
 
 The three Gunmen eyed each other warily, waiting for the 
 other shoe to drop.
 
 It did.
 
 "I know where she is.  I know where you can find Susanne 
 Modeski."
 
 end Part 1
 
   
 begin Part 2
 
 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 High overhead wild geese cry out, and I think I hear your   
 name
 Then the words are gone on autumn wind, I've lost you once 
 again.
 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
 
 Lone Gunmen Headquarters
 FROHIKE:
 
 //I know where you can find Susanne Modeski.//
 
 The caller had quietly hung up after dropping this bombshell, 
 though I could swear that a certain amount of smugness oozed 
 forth before the connection ended.  No one in the room, and I 
 mean no one, moved much less breathed for a few minutes.
 
 Byers became immobile upon hearing her name with that 
 patented deer-caught-in-the-headlights stare of his.  That 
 poor, dumb fucker.  He's reliving it again.  Hell, we had 
 even stopped mentioning her after all these years - as had 
 Mulder;  it was the kind thing to do.  And here we go again.
 
 How long has it been?  Nine years since we met her?  Since we 
 last saw her?  And what the hell does that cigarette smoking 
 bastard have to do with knowing where she is?  I don't like 
 this at all.
 
 We met the fair Susanne the week the three of us clicked as a 
 group.  She pulled some damsel in distress routine, batting 
 those eyes at Byers so often that he got tangled in the ebb, 
 and I let myself get dragged in by the residual effect.  
 
 So we all got caught up in helping the pretty lady only to 
 have her snatched away right in front of us.  Some help we 
 were.  Couldn't even stop a car.  And we were supposed to 
 expose the truth.  Yeah, right.  
 
 The next couple of weeks were kind of interesting.  The three 
 of us still didn't completely trust each other, but we had 
 some leads to track down.  The license plate from the car 
 that carried Susanne away, the warehouse manifest listings, 
 trying to find out what was really going on at Whitestone.  
 Not getting much of anywhere, even with Mulder's help.  
 Eventually, we dead-ended on leads and information.  
 
 And then she showed up again.  I thought it odd that she went 
 straight back to Byers, but she *had* been able to single him 
 out at the convention.  Sometimes I wonder if the poor guy 
 doesn't have `victim' plastered on his forehead in three-inch 
 neon lettering.  Langly and I were still getting our stuff 
 moved down to DC, setting up a central place for the three of 
 us to work.  She either wouldn't or couldn't tell us where 
 she had been, only that she had spent those last couple of 
 weeks undergoing questionings and debriefings about the 
 projects that she had been involved in.  It didn't sound 
 right at the time - Mulder had told us that her casefile had 
 been closed and that the investigation had been halted.  So     it had
to be some section of the shadow government that had 
 gotten to her.  Byers bought the story, and we had no real 
 reason or proof not to, either.
 
 And being so relieved that she was alive and had come back to 
 him, Byers promptly asked her to marry him.  And why not?  
 He'd already lost all reason by volunteering to help her in 
 the first place;  it was only certain that his heart would go 
 next.  
 
 They seemed happy together.  A happy Byers is a very unusual 
 creature, and Langly and I were glad to see it, but I was 
 worried that they had only fallen for the other due to the 
 extreme circumstances of fate.  There are worse reasons for 
 marrying, of course.  They honestly did seem happy though, 
 right up until the day, a few months later, when Susanne 
 disappeared for good.
 
 It was a Saturday, just about this time of year.  An early 
 autumn afternoon, filled with a crisp chill and the scent of 
 fallen leaves.  She had left to go shopping down at the 
 Pentagon City Mall and never came back.  There were no 
 reports of anything out of the usual at any of the Metro 
 stops or at the Mall itself.  No one could recall seeing her, 
 and it was never known for sure if she ever got to the Mall.  
 It was as if she stepped on the train and disappeared.  
 
 And Byers lost it.  Thoroughly and completely.  He was 
 already on shaky ground at his job, having been put on 
 probation for the events that happened in Baltimore.  He only 
 kept the job to be able to have some semblance of a normal 
 life with Susanne.  With her gone and no clues as to where to 
 turn next, he retreated to the Headquarters with Langly and 
 me, retreated into himself.  And, with few exceptions over 
 the years, never stuck his head - or his heart - out again.
 
 So all we can do now is wait.  Wait for a phone call that I'm 
 praying never comes.  Hoping beyond hope that this is all 
 some sick joke to get back at us.    
 
 	*	*	*	*	*	*	*
 
 Smithsonian Metro Exit
 One week later
 
 BYERS:
 
 I was told to come alone.
 
 I don't feel alone.  Every elementary school in the area must 
 have a class out here on a field trip, getting in that last 
 outing before the weather starts turning cold.  I have 
 already politely turned away those who were offering to show 
 me directions to the sights on the Mall.  Perhaps I was too 
 quick about dismissing them, but I could not take the chance 
 that anyone watching me would think that I was here with 
 someone else.  I know that Frohike is probably only a 
 heartbeat or two away, just to keep an eye on the situation, 
 but he is good about keeping himself hidden.  Langly, 
 however, would need to be all the way down at the Washington 
 Monument in order for me not to notice him.  I hope that the 
 thought of all this taking place in such a public venue has 
 kept him away.  After all this time, I do not want anything 
 to go wrong, for her not to come.  I could not take that.  I 
 could not live with the death of my hope.
 
 People are once again pouring out of the Metro exit onto the 
 pavement, some quickly dispersing to the left or to the right 
 towards the various museums.  Some just walk out onto the 
 grassy area where I am and take a gander at the buildings and 
 to get their bearings.  Others are drawn into the web of 
 those offering the `free' directions.  And I just stand here, 
 waiting.
 
 I am waiting for Susanne.  
 
 I train my eyes on every blonde woman stepping forth from the 
 staircases, wondering if time had changed her at all or if 
 she was still a blonde.  
 
 Not here.  She's still not here.
 
 I take a few steps, form a small tight circle.  To clear some 
 tension.  And as I turn back to the exit, I spy her.
 
 I can not tell if she notices me.  I have not changed that 
 much in appearance - perhaps a few pounds and some graying.  
 But she is there, waiting for someone.  Waiting for me.  
 Those bangs still hang in her eyes.  Her hair is longer now, 
 pulled back into a ponytail.  But it is her.    
 
 The late afternoon autumn sun is blinding me.  Or is it just 
 her radiance?  I still have such vivid memories of her from 
 years past - that first glance, those tears in Baltimore.  
 That serenity as she held my hand in the courthouse in 
 Arlington while we waited for a magistrate to marry us.  
 Holding her when the nightmares would unleash themselves 
 weeks after her release.  That last morning and the hurried 
 `good-bye'.  My own nightmares of spending the next few 
 months of not being able to identify the numerous bodies of 
 Jane Does.  There were times when I prayed that one would 
 turn out to be Susanne, just so that the phone calls would 
 stop.  
 
 Only seconds have passed with the panorama of the past, and 
 she is looking directly at me and smiling.  I am rooted to 
 this spot - I should take off running and pick her up and cry 
 with the happiness of finding her again.  But I can not move.  
 Perhaps it is a baser instinct in me that wants to see her 
 come to me.  Those long legs, the tilt of her face as she 
 tries to remember how to read my emotions.  It is my most 
 fervent dream come true.  I am drunk with the waning autumn 
 day, intoxicated by her as she moves swiftly toward me across 
 the green.
 
 She always comes back to me - she will always find me.  
 
 And I will never hide again.  
 
 	*	*	*	*	*	*	*
 
 Lone Gunmen Headquarters
 Three weeks later - early October, 1998
 
 Langly had been watching Mulder on the video monitors for 
 over a minute, debating with himself as to whether or not to 
 let him in.  As per Byers' instructions, he had said nothing 
 to the agent the one time that he had called them.  He did 
 not fully understand why Mulder couldn't be told;  `hell,' he 
 thought, `he's just as tied to this as we are'.  
 
 Mulder was not leaving without being given admittance and was 
 becoming quite vocal about it.  Langly snuck a peek around 
 the corner, hoping that the others would stay in the back 
 rooms for as long as it took to get rid of the guest, and got 
 up to unlock the door.
 
 "About time."  Mulder breezed by and turned back towards him 
 as he got about halfway into the room.  He glanced over at 
 the CRTs in Langly's `area'.  "Got a good game going, I 
 hope?"
 
 "Yeah, something like that.  What do you need, Mulder?"
 
 The agent dug a tape out of his inside jacket pocket and 
 walked back to hand it to the Gunman.  "There's some sounds 
 on here that I want to see if you guys can isolate and 
 identify.  I'm hoping that there are some residual waves or 
 patterns, but it could be a whole lot of nothing."
 
 "Sure, sure," Langly replied, turning the tape over and over 
 in one hand with the other on the door handle.  "Anything 
 else?"
 
 Mulder smirked.  "Trying to get rid of me?  I hope that 
 you're winning . . ."
 
 Footsteps and slight laughter echoed from the hallway in the 
 back of the room, closely followed by the appearance of 
 Susanne and Byers.  They both initially froze when they 
 noticed the agent at the door but quickly recovered and 
 headed for the stairs.     
 
 Mulder took about three seconds to process the scenario.  
 "Hey, wait.  Susanne Modeski?"  He quickly crossed the room 
 to cut off their exit path but found Byers' hand in the 
 middle of his chest, holding him off.  "Byers?  When . . ."
 
 "Long story, Mulder.  And for another time."
 
 "No, wait;  I've got some questions . . ."
 
 "Not now.  Susanne's in no condition for your line of 
 questioning."  Byers motioned for her to continue upstairs.  
 He waited until she turned at the top of the landing and then 
 grabbed Mulder by the elbow, steering him towards the common 
 work area.  "We found her a couple of weeks ago."
 
 "Is she OK?"
 
 "Physically, yes.  Still somewhat skittish with the new 
 surroundings, but she's coming around."  He glanced upwards 
 to be sure that she was out of listening range.  "She had 
 been kidnapped, again, that last time and taken back to 
 Whitestone.  She's also been at a few other labs over the 
 years, always under guard and being forced to work.  For 
 *them*."
 
 "So how did she end up here?"
 
 "She was let go, and she came back to find me."  Byers turned 
 a bit and noticed that Langly was still in the room and 
 corrected himself.  "Us."
 
 Mulder was somewhat incredulous.  "And you didn't think to 
 tell me?  After what happened to me in that warehouse with 
 that biological agent that she created?"
 
 "Why do you think that this has to be about you?"  Byers 
 suddenly did not like tone that the agent was taking.  He had 
 been correct in his thinking that Mulder would focus on that 
 business in Baltimore rather than the immediate situation - 
 that was why he wanted the guys to keep Susanne's appearance 
 under wraps.  "She wants protection, to feel safe after all 
 these years.  I'd like to work on that before we drag out the 
 unpleasantness of the past."
  
 "Byers, you don't get it."  He shrugged off the hand that was 
 guiding him back towards the front door.  "I got doused with 
 that chemical, and then I was seeing aliens.  You know that I 
 underwent regression hypnosis right after that and started 
 believing that my sister had been abducted.  That incident 
 got me started towards the X Files.  But now, I can't be sure 
 that it ever really happened.  Byers, I need to know more 
 about that compound.  We have to examine it . . . it might 
 lead us to . . ."
 
 "No, Mulder.  No.  She's not ready."
 
 Mulder eyed the Gunman.  "You said she was let go?  Just `let 
 go'?  And you *believe* her?"
 
 Byers met that gaze hard and whispered, "I don't like that 
 implication, Mulder."
 
 "I didn't think you would, but did you ever consider it?  
 Now, excuse me . . ."
 
 Byers grabbed Mulder's upper arm to prevent him from moving 
 towards the staircase.  "Not now."
 
 "What are you going to do, Byers?  Throw me out?"  
 
 "If I have to."
 
 "Exactly who was she working for, Byers?  Have you gotten 
 that out of her yet?"
 
 "Get out, Mulder.  Just go."
 
 "What other wonderful concoctions has she dreamed up?  What's 
 that phrase - Better Living Through Chemistry?  What has she 
 contributed to world enlightenment lately, huh?"  Mulder 
 watched as the usually calm and collected Byers grew visibly 
 agitated.  "Yeah, I know.  I'm going."  He shot a glance over 
 at Langly before leaving.  "I just hope you guys know what 
 you're doing."
 
 Seconds after the door closed shut, the Gunmen looked over at 
 the other.  
 
 Byers spoke first.  "This is for the best.  I know what I'm 
 doing."  He then turned to ascend the staircase and join 
 Susanne.
 
 Langly began resetting the locks and whispered under his 
 breath, "I sure hope so."
 
 	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	
 
 Lone Gunmen Headquarters
 Four weeks later - early November, 1998
 
 LANGLY:
 
 I don't trust her.
 
 I just don't trust that woman.  Frohike has even taken to 
 calling her Mata Hari, behind Byers' back.
 
 "Langly, have you been doing something screwy with the 
 databases?"
 
 This should have been my first clue, but I'm slow on the 
 uptake.  So I answer Frohike.  "No."
 
 "Reformatting?  Caching?"
 
 "No, why?"
 
 "It's almost as if there's a lot more available space here 
 than I remember."
 
 "I hadn't done any housecleaning in a while."  I check the 
 drives on the units I usually hoard over, but disk space is 
 usually not something that I worry about.  I've got plenty of 
 units here;  if one starts to run slow, I just jump on 
 another.  All of them look OK, until I get to the last one.  
 There's so much available space, it's like I never used it.  
 Not likely.
 
 So when did I think that something weird was going on?  When 
 I caught her at it.  
 
 Yeah, that's right.  I caught her with disks in one hand and 
 turning off a monitor with the other.  She didn't see me, but 
 I definitely got the impression that she didn't want to be 
 seen.  Sure, it could have been something completely 
 innocent.  I mean, she's a scientist.  She does research;  
 she hopefully knows more about computers than she did when we 
 first met.  And she's Byers' wife.
 
 But I'm still not clear on what she's been doing all these 
 years.  And it's like, me and Frohike aren't about to pry.  
 Oh, we're dying to, but they'll tell us, eventually.  We both 
 did some searching of private sites and government files for 
 her name but couldn't find her listed on anyone's payroll.  
 And they've got some catching up to do - like nine years 
 worth.  We leave them alone.  We've been sacking out 
 downstairs, didn't even have to ask us to - we're not totally 
 socially clueless.  
 
 I've been keeping my eye on her since Mulder's visit.  He and 
 Byers haven't been talking.  I mean, Mulder *has* a point - 
 if one of these guys had disappeared for a few years and then 
 showed up and wouldn't tell me every last detail pronto, I'd 
 be suspicious as hell.  I know that Byers feels like he's got 
 to protect her but still . . . 
 
 And then she comes downstairs in the middle of the night and 
 starts copying or something for a while.  I checked that hard 
 drive later on - didn't find anything wrong with the 
 directory.  Didn't think to check the other drives.  I 
 probably should have confronted her right then and there, but 
 what was I going to say to her?  If she was doing something 
 covert and sneaky, what would she have done to me?  I mean, 
 she'd survived these last years somehow.  We'd seen her use a 
 gun before.  Hell, she shot two guys right in front of us.  
 Did she willingly cooperate or did she fight back the whole 
 time?  
 
 And what would I have said to Byers?  `Hey, guy, by the way, 
 your wife is shuffling through our files'?  Who's he going to 
 believe - me or her?  And I'm wondering if last night was the 
 only time she's done this.  
 
 I don't like the odds.
 
 And I don't trust her.
 
 	*	*	*	*	*	*	*
 
 somewhere in downtown DC
 later that afternoon
 
 BYERS:
 
 I take a chance at the first stop light to glance over at my 
 passenger.  The afternoon light streams through the side 
 window, her profile providing a near eclipse of the setting 
 sun.  So far, there has only been silence between us two 
 since we got into the car, yet I hardly know where to begin.
 
 I just don't believe it.
 
 Not one word.
 
 There would be no reason for the guys to think that Susanne 
 is looking through our files with subversive intent.  She was 
 confused about the past few years, that's all;  that is what 
 she told me.  She had been in isolation, and there are just 
 some things that she wanted to verify for herself.  She 
 wasn't doing anything behind our backs.  I showed her how to 
 access some of the units;  I watched her catch up on the 
 news.  We've talked about things, and although she's been 
 evasive, she has been through hell, and I know how hard it 
 can be to talk about that kind of existence, about one's 
 deepest pains and terrors.
 
 She has been with me for two months now and, even though 
 speaking of her past is difficult, we have been happy 
 together.  We love each other, and being with her like this, 
 like we should have been together for all these years, has 
 been my joy.  My life has felt whole again for the first time 
 since that day in Baltimore so many years ago.  I am not 
 alone anymore, not afraid.  To be able to have her by my 
 side, to hold her in my arms at night . . .  I never want to 
 let go of her again.  I do not care how suspicious the guys 
 are.  Susanne is my wife, my lover, my beloved.  The people I 
 can truly trust can be counted on the fingers of one hand.  
 Susanne is one of them.  She is not doing anything wrong.  
 She can't be.  Why would she want to spy on us?  It is 
 impossible.  She is safe here.  She loves me.
 
 But then again . . .
 
 I have noticed that Susanne seems more on edge today.  Not 
 like when she first fell into my arms that autumn day two 
 months ago and begged me not to let her go.  Every muscle in 
 our bodies seemed to individually relax one right after the 
 other from the anticipation of the meeting, until we melded 
 as one with a kiss in the afternoon sun.  It was an endless, 
 perfect moment.  A moment I wanted to live in for the rest of 
 my life.  
 
 But today has been different.  And if the guys hadn't had 
 mentioned it, I probably would not be having these second 
 thoughts.  There *is* something odd - I just can't quite put 
 my finger on it.
 
 She arrived with the clothes on her back and whatever was in 
 her purse.  Either she did not know that she was being 
 released or she was unable to take any additional personal 
 effects with her.  
 
 I'm ashamed to admit that, after that little run-in with 
 Mulder, I grew curious about the authenticity of her 
 explanations and rummaged through her purse for any clues.  
 The first thing that I came across was her wallet.  She had 
 some money but only enough for a short period of time.  One 
 credit card with her name on it.  The driver's license and 
 Social Security card were new and official looking.  If they 
 had been fakes, they were good ones - I can usually tell.  So 
 maybe she was being prepared to be released.  Or so it 
 seemed.  She came back into the room before I could explore 
 more.  The purse was heavy enough and had several 
 compartments, but I never had another opportunity to check 
 the rest of it out.  
 
 We have spent most of this week bringing her up to speed on 
 some of the incidents that we've uncovered over the years of 
 government involvement and secret dealings with private 
 research companies, hoping that some of the names might click 
 with her.  She finally seemed ready, almost eager to talk 
 about these things.  But she had been checking her watch, as 
 if she was suddenly conscious of time.  And every few 
 minutes, her eyes sought out the clock overhead.  She tried 
 to hide it, and I don't think that she realized that I had 
 noticed.  
 
 She left the room at one point  The guys seized an 
 opportunity and pulled me aside, and Langly started giving me 
 the drill about what he saw yesterday.  Frohike chimed in 
 with his suspicions about her disappearances, but we were 
 interrupted with Susanne's entrance.  I do not know how much 
 she heard, if anything, and I noticed that she had brought 
 her purse downstairs.          
 
 She asked if I could take her for a drive, that she would 
 like to get out for some air.  I'd been so stupid.  I just 
 assumed that she would want to stay inside with us, away from 
 whomever or whatever may have been out there haunting her.  I 
 jumped at the chance to spend some time alone with her.  
 Maybe now she will open up about where she has been without 
 the likelihood of being overheard.  I know that the guys 
 would not purposefully eavesdrop - no wait, in light of 
 recent events, they probably would, but they seem to be 
 waiting to see if I have any apprehensions about her.
 
 If I can only get her to relax and open up to me.  Perhaps 
 the drive and the change of scenery will soothe her a bit.
 
 I just hope that I'm prepared to hear the truth.
 
 end Part 2
 

 begin Part 3
 
 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 But the mists of fall have hidden you, and the threshing 
 floor is clean
 Your laughter is an echo, and our kisses live in dreams.
 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
 
 Downtown DC - near the Potomac River
 Dusk, that evening
 
 Byers eased the car into one of the parking spaces that lined 
 Independence Avenue near West Potomac Park where she wanted 
 to stop.  Now near twilight, the tourists were retreating 
 back to their hotels and the after-work joggers were making 
 their way back to the offices.  Despite his efforts to get 
 her to open up about what was troubling her, Susanne had 
 remained silent during the drive, only to occasionally 
 whisper, `when we get there'.  
 
 He turned off the engine and shifted in his seat to turn 
 towards her.  "Tell me what's going on.  How can I help you 
 if you won't tell me?"
 
 "You don't understand, John.  *I* am helping *you* . . . by 
 keeping quiet."
 
 Byers grip on the steering wheel grew tighter.  "Is that why 
 I never heard from you?  Why you never tried to contact me?"  
 He could feel the anxiety growing in his chest with each 
 quickening heartbeat.  Had she consciously broken contact 
 with him?   Why?  "Did you even try?  Did you even *want* to 
 try?"  He heard the pitch of his voice rise.
 
 "Thousands of times.  Every day.  Every minute.  But I 
 couldn't.  If they knew . . . if they suspected that I had 
 spoken with you . . ."  Susanne broke eye contact with him 
 and looked out of the window, towards the river and the 
 bridge in the distance.   "You would be dead.  You and your 
 friends would be killed."
 
 "I'd have wanted to know.  Susanne, I *needed* to know.  I'd 
 have risked that . . ."
 
 She jerked her head back and cut him off.  "I wouldn't.  
 Don't you see?  It doesn't matter what they do to me.  
 Knowing that you are alive is all that matters."  She reached 
 over to cradle his jaw with her hand.  "I could have stayed 
 away, been missing for the rest of my life. . . as long as 
 you are alive and safe, John.  I love you.  I know what they 
 could do to you, to Mel and Langly.  I . . .  I just couldn't 
 .. . ."
 
 "Then, why?  Why did they release you?"
 
 Susanne outlined his lower lip with her thumb before 
 withdrawing her hand.  She had already decided that she would 
 tell him the truth - or at least, most of it.  "I was to 
 search your database systems and make copies of some files."
 
 "What files?"
 
 "I don't know what's on them," she replied, shaking her head.  "I only
know that if I agreed to this, then I would be 
 allowed to see you again . . . if only for a few weeks . . ."
 
 Byers was visibly startled at that last statement.  "Susanne, 
 what are you talking about?"
 
 "It's all been prearranged.  They're coming here . . . now . 
 .. . to pick me up and take me back."
 
 "No.  No, I can't lose you again."  He was having trouble 
 finding his voice, let alone trying to breathe, with what he 
 was hearing.  "No.  We've made plans, the guys and I . . . 
 well, just in case anything really bad should ever happen . . 
 ..  Listen to me.  We can leave, the four of us.  We can get 
 lost, and they'll never find us."  Susanne choked back a sob 
 as Byers reached out for her.  "No, they *won't* find us.  We 
 have bank accounts and safe houses - we can create new 
 identities.  You don't have to do this, Susanne;  we can 
 protect you."
 
 She peered back through her tears and her bangs at this man, 
 her husband.  He did not understand.  What she had done in 
 the past had been done willingly - she had cut herself off 
 from him with little protest once the alternative had been 
 laid out for her.  And she could do it again.  But they would 
 be back.  Back with another proposition.  Back with another 
 black ops biochemical weapons project.  Back again with the 
 threat of his safety, or even his life in question.  Her life 
 as a marionette was no longer worth protecting.  But his was.  
 The work that he and his friends were doing was too valuable 
 to endanger.  *He* was worth too much to her.
 
 "John, you have to stay in the car.  You can't go with me.  
 Don't make this any more difficult or dangerous than it 
 already is."  She leaned in and kissed him, quickly and 
 quietly like she had done on that Baltimore street.  "Always 
 know that I love you."  She exited the car and quickly 
 crossed the street, heading for the FDR Memorial.
 
 Byers allowed her the time to turn down the sidewalk towards 
 the granite murals before opening the car door and getting 
 out.   He looked around to be sure that no one else was 
 following her or waiting for her before he, too, crossed the 
 street and traced her steps.  He turned the corner and, true 
 to form, ran right into her.  
 
 "John," she whispered in hushed tones, "you have to go."
 
 "I can't let you . . . I won't let you go back to them."
 
 "John, leave.  Leave now."
 
 "No, I won't.  Not unless you come with me."
 
 "They'll kill you if they find you with me."
 
 Anger flared in Byers' blue eyes, and he raised his voice, 
 not caring if he was overheard.  "I don't care, Susanne.  I'm 
 not leaving without you.  I can't let you do this."  He 
 caught a sharp, pained breath, the pressure on his chest 
 making it difficult to speak.  "Please, Susanne," he 
 whispered, barely audible.  "Don't leave me like this.  Don't 
 let them take you away.  I would rather die than lose you 
 again."
 
 "John, don't do this.  You *have* to go.  These men are 
 serious, and they *will* kill you without hesitation.  Don't 
 get in their . . ."
 
 A lone figure approached from the steps that led down to the 
 Tidal Basin.  Alex Krycek surprised the two in mid-argument, 
 not just by sneaking up on them but also by slightly moving 
 his right arm and allowing them to view the pistol he was 
 carrying in his hand for effect.  Byers began to retrace his 
 steps backwards, reaching out to Susanne to make the retreat 
 with him, but she broke free from his grasp and took a few 
 steps towards the intruder.
 
 Susanne appeared puzzled.  "They sent *you*?"
 
 Krycek shook his head.  "No one sent me.  I'm just here for 
 the files."
 
 "I don't believe you."
 
 "Just give me the disks, Susanne, and then we can both 
 disappear."
 
 "It's true, damn it."  Without thinking, Byers whispered it 
 just loud enough for Susanne to turn toward him in surprise.  
 His stomach knotted hard and he gaped at her in disbelief.  
 "What the guys said was true."  
 
 Susanne looked from Krycek to Byers and then noticed that 
 Frohike and Langly were also standing just out of range.  She 
 had been followed on two separate fronts and had not even 
 caught on.  With one of the granite waterfalls depicting 
 FDR's contribution to the TVA program behind her, she was now 
 physically surrounded and grounded by panic.  This was not 
 going according to plan, she thought.  They were not supposed 
 to be here;  they were not supposed to see this;  they were 
 not to know.    
 
 Krycek broke the silence and raised his pistol.  "We don't 
 have any time, Susanne.  The disks."
 
 She realized that she had indeed run out of time.  She had 
 had her two months, her promised lifetime on the outside.  
 She felt for her purse, unzipping it while never taking her 
 eyes off of Byers.  Rummaging around, she found the object of 
 her search and paused to find her courage.  
 
 A silently mouthed `I love you'.  A quick turn away from the 
 men on the perimeter.  A gun shot.   A fallen body.
 
 "Susanne!"  Byers raced towards her, sliding those last few 
 feet on the concrete before dropping to his knees.  He lifted 
 up her shoulder and grimaced at the sight of her face;  
 blood, bone splinters, fragments of brain and hair 
 intermingling, some scattered on the pavement, some 
 splattered on his clothing.  Another unintelligible cry left 
 his lips as watched the blood spill over his fingers as he 
 cradled Susanne's head.  It was everywhere, more than he 
 could imagine she might contain.  He gently turned her over 
 onto her back, brushing the hair away from eyes and recovered 
 his voice.  "You've killed her."
 
 "I didn't shoot her."  Krycek pointed towards the weapon that 
 had fallen beside her.  "She did that herself."
 
 Byers had quickly passed by rational thinking.  This man had 
 killed her.  Maybe not with his own weapon, but if he had not 
 appeared, Susanne would have eventually agreed to come away 
 with him and his friends.  Byers rose to charge Krycek, 
 determined to kill the man with his bare hands, as though 
 this would somehow miraculously set things right again.  His 
 normally calm blue eyes iced over with rage and hate, and his 
 voice was shrill and shaking as he lunged, shouting,  "You 
 killed her, you sick bastard."
 
 Langly caught Byers first from behind and, with a chokehold, 
 dragged him backwards.  Frohike also rushed forward, placing 
 himself between his partners and Krycek, should the latter 
 decide to advance.  The threesome began a difficult retreat 
 from the immediate area, with Langly pulling and Frohike 
 pushing and Byers between them, cursing and squirming to 
 break free.  The awkwardness of Byers' struggle with his 
 friends and their efforts to restrain him without seriously 
 hurting him led to missteps, and the trio tumbled noisily to 
 the ground.  Byers cursed violently, spewing invective and 
 threats against Krycek as his friends held him down.
 
 Krycek aimed his weapon at the squirming men and walked over 
 to Susanne's purse lying open next to her body.  He tapped it 
 a few times with his foot, forcing a few items to spill out.  
 Glancing back at the Gunmen, he gambled and decided that they 
 would not advance on him too quickly even if they wanted to.  
 He reached down with his right hand still clenching the gun 
 and dumped the remaining contents out of the purse.  One DAT 
 backup tape and several disks were among her belongings, and 
 he scooped them up and jammed them into his jacket pocket.
 
 "They'll be here in a few minutes, you know."  Krycek eyed 
 the Gunmen who were still on the ground, still trying in 
 varying degrees to process what was happening around them, 
 Byers still shouting incoherently.  "To *sanitize*," he 
 emphasized.  "They won't be so forgiving a second time 
 around."
 
 The multiple closings of car doors were heard in the 
 distance, startling the men.  Byers continued to struggle and 
 shout, trying to get to Krycek.   The wild-card Russian 
 retreated back down the steps towards the Tidal Basin and 
 vanished from sight among the low-hanging trees along the 
 walkway, his echoing footsteps fading on the concrete.  
 
 Frohike rose first and then pulled Byers up, freeing Langly 
 from the pile up.  Byers, still screaming at the top of his 
 lungs, made an attempt to return to Susanne's side but his 
 two partners grabbed him again and dragged him away to the 
 van parked quite near his car.  None of them had any need to 
 look back to see what was going on;  they had seen a similar 
 crew in operation before.  They had managed to pile into the 
 vehicle and peel out, with Langly driving and Frohike pinning 
 a sobbing and still struggling Byers against the bench seat.  
 
 After turning down 15th Street and checking to see if anyone 
 may have followed them, Frohike eased his hold on Byers.  It 
 was then that he noticed that his partner had grown silent.  
 Upon closer examination, it appeared that Byers was going 
 into shock, and he urged Langly to drive faster.  "Get us 
 home, quick."      
 
 	*	*	*	*	*	*	*
 
 Lone Gunmen Headquarters
 late the next evening
 
 BYERS:
 
 I don't know how I got here.
 
 It is as if I have just woken up in my bed, curled up, but I 
 do not know how long I have been here like this.  Is it 
 evening still?  Daylight?  
 
 I throw the unruly bedsheets off of me and I notice that I am 
 still dressed, shoes and all.  What on earth did I do?  I 
 should have taken them off;  now I've dragged mud onto the 
 sheets.  
 
 And then I notice my hands.
 
 That is not mud.  It is dried blood.  
 
 Susanne's blood.
 
 I hear it.  I flinch at the sound.  
 
 Again.  And again, I hear that sound.  I see the blood.  
 
 The sound.  It does not even register with me as to what has 
 happened until I hear something scrape across the concrete.  
 I follow the object until it stops and note the form and the 
 metallic coloring.  A gun.  It's a gun.  I glance back up 
 just in time to see Susanne complete her slow-motion fall to 
 the ground.  The vision repeats itself obscenely, over and 
 over, and I can do nothing to stop it.  I can only cry out 
 helplessly in denial of this horror as it unfolds around me.  
 
 I twist my hands around in front of my face, noting the 
 staining of my palms and fingers, and I flash back to the 
 lifting of her shoulders and her mangled head . . . 
 
 It is her blood on my hands.  
 
 Any hope that I might have had that this has never happened 
 fades into the shadows of my room.  I look around for a trace 
 of her, a remembrance to cling to, anything to push the 
 horror of that scene away.  And then I notice, by the 
 lampbase, an envelope bearing my name.  Written by her hand.  
        
 I tear it open and find her wedding ring wrapped in paper.  
 And then I notice that the paper has writing on it.  
 
 //My love - This may be my only chance to tell you good-bye.  
 My time is running short.
 
 //My fate was determined long before today.  The woman who 
 was your wife died nine years ago when I chose to remain 
 hidden.  It was not a difficult choice - I could either stay 
 and work for them and never see you again, or you would be 
 killed.  There would be no point to my existence if you were 
 dead, so I willingly sacrificed myself.  And for this, I have 
 no regrets.
 
 //I was approached some months ago with an offer of release 
 for a short period of time.  I would be allowed to see you, 
 to live and be with you - but with strings attached.  And of 
 course, I would have to leave you again.  
 
 //Forgive me.  Forgive me, my love, for if I were to be 
 separated from you again, I could not bear it.  I know that I 
 would have to leave you to protect you from them, but I would 
 never be able to go back to where I was and what I was for 
 these past nine years.  I must leave you, but I will never 
 return to them.  
 
 //On the back is a list of files that I memorized as being 
 copied to the disks and then deleted.  I do not know their 
 need for this information, but I must make the attempt to 
 comply with their wishes if you are to remain alive.  I hope 
 that I can destroy these disks before they fall into the 
 wrong hands.
 
 //Forgive me, John.  And always remember that I love you.//
 
 Oh, my God.
 
 Susanne.        
 
 end Part 3
    
 begin Part 4
 
 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 Though the winter rain may wash away all the traces of this 
 time
 Your face is etched indelibly and still my heart roams blind.
 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
 Lone Gunmen Headquarters
 Three weeks later
 
 She knew the drill.  Press the buzzer three short times for 
 admittance.  But no one was answering, so she held down the 
 button.  "Guys?"  Scully looked straight into the overhead 
 camera monitoring the outer door.
 
 Frohike padded quickly across the floor.  He turned the seven 
 locks from bottom to top and held the door open for her.  
 "Good morning, Scully.  Sorry to keep you waiting."
 
 "You said it was an emergency."  She was somewhat ticked off 
 to be awakened so early on a Saturday morning, but Frohike's 
 manner on the phone had been quite sincere, if not evasive.  
 "Can you now tell me what's wrong?"  
 
 "It's Byers."  Frohike closed the door and went about 
 resetting all the locks.  "He's . . . well, he's not 
 himself."
 
 "So who is he today?"  Scully watched as Frohike turned 
 around, catching a look of dead seriousness on his face 
 coupled with exhaustion.  "You're not kidding, are you?"
 
 "I only wish I was.  Sit down.  This might take a few 
 minutes."
 
 Scully chose a stool and sat near one of the multitude of 
 computers.  "What happened?  Is he injured?"
 
 "Not physically;  not on the outside anyway."  Frohike took a 
 seat on the stool opposite her, ran his hand across his 
 unshaven jaw and began.  "I'm afraid that he might be 
 developing a bad case of post-traumatic stress disorder.  
 Langly and I are very concerned."
 
 "Frohike, my specialty is forensics.  Wouldn't this be more 
 down Mulder's line of expertise?"
 
 "Mulder is . . . not exactly on Byers' list of favorite 
 people right now.  Um, I'll explain that later.  My main 
 concern is his health.  If there's anything medically wrong 
 that you can diagnose . . ."
 
 "OK.  Give me the background.  What's wrong and how did he 
 get that way?"
 
 Frohike sighed and found it hard to maintain eye contact with 
 the agent.  "Byers . . . well, we all . . .   Several weeks 
 ago, somebody shot herself right in front of us."
 
 "Oh, my God."  These guys are serious, she thought.  
 "Suicide?"
 
 "Yes.  It was someone that we knew.  Someone who was very 
 close to Byers."
 
 "Who?"
 
 "Did Mulder ever tell you how we met him?  And about a woman 
 named Susanne Modeski?"
 
 Scully nodded.  "He considers it one the pivotal moments of 
 his career."  She noted the look of surprise on his face.  
 "Seriously," she reassured him.  "Didn't she disappear or 
 something?"
 
 "A couple of times actually.  But she resurfaced a little 
 while ago.  And we'd been trying to help her."
 
 Scully finished his train of thought.  "And she's the one who 
 killed herself.  She and Byers were close . . ."
 
 "Married.  Way back when."  
 
 Scully took a sharp breath and let it out slowly.  "That 
 would definitely explain your being worried about him."  She 
 suddenly realized that there might be more victims here than 
 met the eye.  She looked around for Langly but could not find 
 him among his familiar settings.  "What about the two of 
 you?"
 
 "I've seen worse.  Much worse."  Scully knew some of his 
 history;  he would not need to elaborate more on the subject.  
 "And Langly, well, he's not OK with it, but he can deal with 
 it.  He's not the one having nightmares and staying in his 
 room for the past three weeks."
 
 "Is Byers eating?"
 
 "Very little.  It's a fight to get anything into him, even 
 water or a little miso.  At first, right after it happened, I 
 thought he was going into shock.  His breathing was very 
 shallow.  Skin was real clammy.  He was shivering real badly 
 by the time we got him back here and up to bed.  Did the 
 basics - kept him warm, elevated his feet until his breathing 
 became regular."  Frohike had gotten up from the stool and 
 was pacing the floor.  "But he hasn't come around.  This is 
 more than just a simple case of mourning.  I think he's 
 giving up.  He won't talk to us, hasn't spoken an 
 intelligible word since that day, and he won't come out of 
 that damn room."  He paused by her side.  "You need to know 
 something else, Scully.  It's bad.  Very bad."
 
 Frohike took a steadying breath and then looked Scully in the 
 eye.  "Byers tried to kill himself this morning.  Thank God, 
 I was bringing up something to try to get him to eat, and I 
 was able to stop him before he actually hurt himself, but he 
 was trying to cut his wrists.  This isn't just grief, Scully.  
 Something else is at play here, and I would consider it a 
 personal favor if you would look in on him and give me your 
 professional opinion.  We're . . . we're afraid of what might 
 happen if he doesn't get some serious help;  we just don't 
 know what to do anymore.  I had to call you."
 
 She rose from her seat, concern on her face.  "He isn't alone 
 now, is he?  Please tell me he's not alone.  Where . . ."
 
 "Langly's with him.  Top of the stairs, first room to your 
 left.  And Scully?"  Frohike reached out to lay his hand on 
 her forearm.  "Anything that you can do for him, *anything* . 
 .. ."
 
 Scully squeezed his hand and nodded.
 
 	*	*	*	*	*	*	*
 
 "Byers?  Are you awake?"  She knocked a second time and then 
 tried the door knob.  "I'm coming in, OK?"
 
 She entered the small darkened room and found the bed shoved 
 into the corner.  Langly rose from a chair near the door, 
 nodded to her and left silently, a ghost of himself.  She let 
 her eyes adjust to the dimness and noticed the figure huddled 
 against the wall, grasping a pillow.  This was not the calm, 
 immaculate Byers she had always known.  The normally precise, 
 tidy man was in a state of utter disarray;  clothes, hair and 
 beard were unkempt and unwashed.  His eyes were red and 
 puffy, with dark purple circles under them and, even in this 
 light, he was obviously much thinner than the last time she 
 had seen him.  He was wearing pants and a shirt that appeared 
 to be stained with dried blood.  She closed the door behind 
 her and approached the bed.  "I understand that you have lost 
 someone very close to you."
 
 Byers pulled the pillow closer to his chest and closed his 
 eyes tight, with only a whisper of a moan escaping his lips.  
 He wanted to talk with Scully, to tell her what was wrong, to 
 tell her what had happened.  He knew that she would listen 
 and understand, but he was afraid to speak, to open his 
 mouth, afraid that he would start screaming again.  So he 
 answered her with his thoughts, hoping that somehow she would 
 pick up on them.  `Yeah, right.  That's what *he* said, too - 
 someone very close to all of you but especially *you*, Mr. 
 Byers.  That's what he said.  Of course, she was close;  
 she's my fucking wife.'
 
 Scully stood by the bed.  "Byers, can you tell me what 
 happened?"
 
 He looked up but did not meet her eyes.  `Can I?  Can I?  I'm 
 reliving that fucking scene over and over again.  You want to 
 come in and play, Scully?  Do you?  Do you really want that?  
 Well, let me hold open the door for you, Scully, but watch 
 that first step.  It's a doozy.'
 
 "Byers, please talk to me."  She put a gentle hand on his 
 shoulder, but he jerked away from her, pressing himself 
 closer against the wall, his breathing becoming more ragged 
 and more rapid.
 
 `I *am* talking.  Why don't you listen?  Why isn't anybody 
 listening?'
 
 "What's wrong?"
 
 `What's wrong? Everything.  We need to go back.  Go back and 
 get Susanne.  They wouldn't let me stay.  I should have 
 stayed with her.  She's my wife.  I should have stayed with 
 her.  But they took me away.  They took her away.  And 
 there's blood . . . so much blood . . .  It's everywhere.'
 
 Scully noted the escalating agitation in his facial features 
 and the shaking of his arms and shoulders as he curled up 
 into himself.  She wracked her brain to remember his first 
 name in an effort to try to make a more intimate connection 
 to him.  She sat down on the edge of the bed.  "John?  John, 
 please tell me what happened?"  
 
 `John?  I'm not John.  Susanne's the only one who calls me 
 that.  Now no one will call me that because Susanne's gone.  
 She's gone.  And there is only blood left . . . all over my 
 hands . . . all over me . . .  I'm kneeling beside her and 
 there's nothing I can do but watch the blood spill all over . 
 .. .  see fragments of her head all over me and the concrete 
 and . . .  He killed her.  He fucking killed her.
 
 `I'm kneeling.  I'm kneeling in that warehouse all those 
 years ago and that man, that man has a revolver to my head 
 and he pulls the trigger and there's this awful hollow click 
 that I've been hearing for years, and now *she's* dead.  I'm 
 alive, but she's dead.  God, it should have been me.  It 
 should have been me that day in the warehouse.  None of this 
 would have happened if I had died then.  She wouldn't have 
 been in danger because of me.  She wouldn't be dead now.  
 
 `That man.  That man in the jacket.  The one who came for the 
 disks.  For Susanne.  He pointed that weapon at her.  He 
 pointed and warned us and Susanne is on the ground and the 
 blood . . .  He killed her.  He shot her and took what he 
 wanted and then left her.
 
 `Why are they laughing?  There's nothing funny.  It's not 
 *funny*, guys.  Why do you waste your time entertaining 
 Mulder?  He killed her.  He and his warped sense of humor got 
 her killed.  It's not funny;  it's not.'
 
 Byers' agitation turned to sobs and then screams as his panic 
 increased.  He covered his face with his hands and buried it 
 in the pillow he had clutched earlier, trying to stifle the 
 sounds but not quite succeeding.  With an effort, he held his 
 breath behind clenched teeth trying hard to calm himself, to 
 no avail.
 
 A wall of images and shattering emotions tore through Byers 
 like a tidal wave, blinding him, shaking him hard and 
 overwhelming him to the point where he felt that his body 
 could no longer contain them.  He was just too frail and too 
 human to bear any more of it.  There wasn't enough of the old 
 Byers left to hold this much pain, this much guilt and fear 
 and loneliness.  They were starting to ooze from his pores.  
 He was dizzy and his ears were ringing.  If he cut himself 
 open, bled these horrors, this chaos out of his veins, then 
 maybe they would leave him at last.  Maybe the pain would 
 finally stop.  Maybe there would be peace and nothingness in 
 death, or perhaps, he thought, Susanne might be there waiting 
 for him, wherever `there' was.
 
 He'd tried to let them out earlier, but Frohike had stopped 
 him.  He could feel the heft of the knife in his hand, the 
 cold blade on his skin as the pounding agony swallowed him 
 whole.  He wanted it to end, to feel nothing but his life 
 falling away into echoless quiet and oblivion.  He screamed 
 again and the distant sound of his own strained and ragged 
 voice terrified him into silence.  Then in a brief, gasping 
 moment of near-clarity, he reached into his shirt pocket and 
 handed Scully a stained and crumpled sheet of paper without 
 looking up at her.  He leaned tentatively against her, 
 trembling, with tears running down his face.  She pocketed 
 the paper, ignoring it for the moment, taking Byers into her 
 arms in an attempt to comfort him as he sank into the final 
 stages of complete emotional disintegration.  He sobbed into 
 the pillow again and again but did not try to move away from 
 Scully.  
 
 `Why didn't I stop it?  Why didn't I make you guys stop 
 playing those games?  I could have stopped it;  I could have 
 stopped her.  I may as well have shot her.  She's dead 
 because I couldn't stop them.  I should have been able to 
 protect her.  I can't do anything right.  She's dead, and 
 this is all my fault.  My God, it should have been me 
 instead.  She should still be alive.  We could have run;  we 
 could have changed our identities, hidden where they couldn't 
 find us.  She should still be alive, but she isn't.  Why 
 couldn't I stop them?  What the hell is wrong with me that I 
 can't do this one thing right?  How could I let her die?  
 God, Scully, I just want to die.  I just want this horrible 
 nightmare to end.'
 
 Heavy footsteps raced up the staircase in response to the 
 anguished sobs coming from behind the closed door upstairs.  
 Frohike nearly ripped off the molding around the doorjamb 
 getting into that room and found Scully sitting on the bed 
 with her arms wrapped around Byers as his body shook 
 violently, holding him hard against her as though his life 
 depended upon it;  his weeping growing with the intensity of 
 his imaginary guilt over the death of his wife and his own 
 continued existence.  
 
 "Get him," Scully mouthed, "get him now."
 
 Frohike nodded, shouted for Langly and ran downstairs to call 
 Mulder.
 
 	*	*	*	*	*	*	*
 
 Scully watched as Langly came back downstairs, carrying a 
 bundle of bedsheets.  It was tossed into a corner of the room 
 as he hit the bottom landing.  "How's he doing?" she called 
 out as he headed towards the kitchen.
 
 "They got him into the shower," he replied as he stood in 
 front of the opened refrigerator door.  "Good thing, too.  
 The boy was beginning to offend even Frohike."
 
 Scully tried to suppress the smile that was growing in 
 reaction to this remark.  It seemed to her that all three had 
 had little time or concern for outward appearances lately.  
 "What are you looking for?"
 
 "Taking inventory."  Langly moved on to opening the cabinets.  
 "Mulder says that we've got to get something into his 
 stomach."
 
 "Make it light.  Toast, orange juice, soup."  She followed 
 him into the kitchen.  "Something along those lines.  If he 
 hasn't been eating, he's not going to be up for a full-course 
 meal right away."
 
 "Here it is."  Langly took out a can of Ore-Ida Instant 
 Potato Flakes.  "Byers' comfort food.  He loves this stuff."  
 He set the can down on the counter, found a small pot, and 
 went over to the sink.  Turning on the water, he added, "So 
 what brought him around?  Your doctoring skills or was it 
 simply a feminine presence?"
 
 "Neither, I think.  He must have just finally hit bottom."  
 Scully's hand brushed over her jacket pocket, and she 
 remembered the paper that Byers had handed to her earlier.  
 Taking the folded paper out of her pocket, she turned back 
 towards the lighting of the work area to read it.
 
 `My love - This may be my only chance to tell you good-bye . 
 .. .'
 
 Scully quickly glanced at the bottom of the letter and noted 
 the signature.  `Susanne's suicide note', she gasped and 
 returned to the top to slowly read it through.  It contained 
 the usual lines of love, of longing to be together but 
 knowing that it could never take place, and the begging of 
 forgiveness for leaving him once again.  It also detailed the 
 reasons for her `reappearance' and the files that she was 
 instructed to copy from their databanks.  As Scully turned 
 the paper over, she found that Susanne had left him one last 
 present:  a listing of companies and corporations that she 
 suspected were involved in her `research' over the years.  
 
 Langly had noticed her absorption in the note and walked up 
 behind her.  "What is that?"  He was handed the paper and 
 read, swearing under his breath every few minutes.  
 
 "Shit.  I knew that she was doing it.  I *knew* it.  And then 
 I had to go and open my big mouth and tell him that she was 
 spying on us.  Damn.  It never occurred to me that she was 
 being forced to do it.  No wonder he won't speak to me."
 
 Scully took the note back from his outstretched hand.  "It's 
 not you, Langly.  He's still trying to deal with her death.  
 Everything else will come later."  She noticed that he still 
 had not made a move back to the kitchen and was instead 
 staring at the top of the staircase.  "Langly, how are you 
 doing with this?"
  
 "Don't worry about me, Scully.  I'm not the one who's a 
 candidate for the padded room."  He retreated back to the 
 kitchen.  "Is there anything else that we should know, that 
 we should get?  I'm sure that Mulder will give us a laundry 
 list later."
 
 "I'm concerned about his immediate health."  She folded the 
 note and put it back into her pocket.  "He's severely 
 dehydrated, and he's going to need lots of fluids.  Of 
 course, the best thing would be to get him to a doctor today 
 for an IV.  Any chance of that happening?"
 
 "Sorry.  We don't exactly offer an HMO plan here at The Lone 
 Gunman, but if you write down what he needs, we can get it."
 
 I'll bet, she thought to herself.  "Only if you call me when 
 you do get the supplies, and let me insert the IV.  Unless, 
 of course, either you or Frohike are up to that."
 
 "Yeah, like he'd let us anywhere near him with that needle."
       
 	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	
 
 "He definitely has all the classic symptoms of PTSD - the 
 intrusion episodes, the nightmares, avoiding anyone who may 
 remind him of what happened.  Considering the circumstances, 
 I would have expected a suicide attempt earlier than this.  I 
 just wish that you'd called me three weeks ago."  Mulder 
 looked down at a dejected Frohike.  "It's not you personally, 
 Frohike, and not Langly.  But you were there.  And when he 
 sees you, he sees Susanne."
 
 "I know.  What should I do next?"
 
 "Byers needs to talk to someone.  A professional.  Someone 
 who specializes in this sort of thing.  You still have some 
 contacts there?"
 
 Frohike nodded and Mulder continued, "You should probably go 
 with him.  Let him know that he's not the only one who's been 
 through something like this."  He watched Frohike continue to 
 nod and then looked back upstairs in the direction of the 
 room.  "Langly's staying with him, I hope?"
 
 "For now.  He's finally cleaned up some with a little more 
 food in him, thank God," Frohike sighed.  "Thanks to you and 
 Scully.  Langly will stay with him until he can get some 
 sleep.  Some real sleep."
 
 "Good.  But look, don't leave him alone right now, not even 
 for a minute.  You really can't afford to take that chance.  
 Honestly, he should be in a hospital under supervision, but I 
 know none of you would allow that.  Even if you did, I'd want 
 guards at the door to his room the entire time, just in 
 case."
 
 Frohike nodded again.  "You're probably right, Mulder.  I 
 didn't want to think that . . .  Langly and I had talked 
 about taking him to see someone a few days ago, but we really 
 hoped he'd be OK if we just gave him enough time.  We didn't 
 know about Susanne's note.  He never showed it to us.  And 
 considering who's involved, it would be way too risky to 
 hospitalize him, even using our best deceptions.
 
 "Damn it, Mulder, we've been lucky so far that none of us has 
 gotten killed outright, like Kenneth, just for knowing what 
 we know.  This was way too close, and I'm sure that Langly's 
 still pretty shaken up by the whole thing.  I swear, I 
 thought that one-armed bastard was going to kill Byers right 
 there next to Susanne."  He shuddered at the memory.
 
 "You're sure that it was Krycek?"  Mulder was given an 
 affirmative nod.  "Well, that fits.  He's being doing the 
 dirty work for that smoking bastard for years."
 
 "And he'd probably have killed me and Langly, too.  We're 
 going to stay put for a while.  Byers would never agree to go 
 to a hospital.  He doesn't feel safe anywhere but in that 
 room right now.  I'm not even sure how safe we all are at 
 this point.  I feel like we're sitting ducks by staying here, 
 though."
 
 "Frohike, if they'd wanted to get rid of you, they'd have 
 done it by now.  They must have known about this place for a 
 couple of months."
 
 "Still doesn't change the fact that they *know*.  We'll just 
 have to move our timetable up a bit."  When he was met by a 
 puzzled gaze, Frohike continued to elaborate.  "We were 
 planning on vacating by mid-1999.  You know, getting out of 
 the city before New Year's . . .  Y2K and all."
 
 "I can't believe . . . well, I guess I can.  It'll be 
 something to see you guys haul all of this equipment out of 
 here.  I guess I shouldn't have to ask if you have backups to 
 all of this data, do I?"
 
 "You know better than that.  And Langly's restored the two 
 drives that we know were tampered with.  It might take us a 
 while to figure out what they were looking for and, when we 
 get Byers back into the land of the living, maybe he can tell 
 us what he and Susanne talked about that might give us a 
 clue." 
 
 Mulder sighed.  "Until he starts talking to a professional 
 and getting some help, you'll need to watch him constantly to 
 see that you don't get a repeat of his attempt this morning.  
 This is going to be a long, hard haul for you guys.  I'll 
 check in on him when I can, but I wish that I could do more 
 than this to help."  Mulder paused while he put on his 
 jacket, then quietly added,  "Listen, I'm sorry that I got 
 you guys into this.  You know that I would never want to see 
 any of you get hurt."
 
 "I know, and it's not your fault, Mulder.  If we weren't 
 having so much fun with it . . .   And Byers did warn us.  I 
 .. . . we . . .  sometimes forget just how dangerous it can 
 be, doing what we do.  Susanne said it herself."  Frohike 
 paused, looking down at the floor.  "`No matter how paranoid 
 you are, you're not paranoid enough.'  Amazingly, we're still 
 not paranoid enough.  I just hope that we all live long 
 enough to get that way."
 
 "None of us could have known, Frohike.  And, well, we know 
 who are really responsible here, and we're going to find out 
 just how involved they were with Susanne Modeski."
 
 Frohike turned all the locks after showing the agents out.  
 He knew that there was little chance of really finding out 
 the truth between the smoking man, Krycek, and Susanne.
     
 	*	*	*	*	*	*	*
 
 Frohike sat staring at his computer for a few moments after 
 Scully and Mulder had left and barely noticed the first few 
 rings of the phone.  "Lone Gunmen."
 
 "Good morning, Mr. Frohike.  And how are you and your 
 associates feeling today?"
 
 "What the fuck do you want, you black-lunged son of a bitch?"
 
 "Now that's no way for old friends to behave.  Especially for 
 one who did his friends a favor."
 
 "We're not friends, and I would hardly call what you did a 
 favor."
 
 "Really?  Well, I certainly would count it as one.  You see, 
 now Mr. Byers does not have to be concerned with the 
 whereabouts or the safety of his wife.  He knows what has 
 happened to her.  A pity that she took her own life that way, 
 but isn't that what the loved ones of those who have gone 
 missing always say?  That it's the `not knowing' that is the 
 hardest part of dealing with a disappearance?  Yes, I would 
 count that as a favor.  You should be thanking me . . ."
 
 Frohike slammed down the phone, ending the conversation.  
 Through the beginnings of tears for Byers' pain, he held one 
 hand over his mouth in an effort to fight back the bile that 
 was producing an unpleasant taste in the back of his throat.  
 Realizing that perhaps, somehow, this ending had already been 
 scripted in another circle, a frustrated Frohike grabbed the 
 receiver again, banging it wrathfully into the cradle several 
 more times, emphasizing his rejection of the call.  Then, 
 with a sigh, he walked away.     
 
 end