From: sonny <sonny@webspin.org>
Date: Tue, 28 Sep 99 06:20:15 +1000
Subject: xfc: NEW Mind Games 4; The Engineer 1 of 7
Source: xfc

From: sonny <sonny@webspin.org>

Title: MIND GAMES: Book 4:The Engineer 1 of 7
Disclaimers: See Part 1
Author/Feedback: YES please! spider@webspin.org.
All parts can be found at www.webspin.org/xfic.htm

*********************
This section rated PG 
*********************

CHAPTER 1

Day 12 - Wednesday
Seattle
7:50 a.m.
 

"...just like that old movie," West continued, "Remember
the look on Charlton Heston's face when he came down from
Mount Sinai? Enrapturement is the best way I can describe
it. Although Mulder had a tan and he didn't say anything
about burning bushes," she added dryly.

Smith shook his head and glanced sideways at his agnostic
partner as she ate. "You're kidding, right?"

West spread her toast.

"You're not kidding..."

West just shook her head. "Wait till you see him for
yourself. I tell you, I always shook off those spooky
stories. Even after the other night on the roof, I could
come to grips with it, but this morning?"

She shook her head again.

"So did he say what had happened to him?"

"Nope, just sat there with the biggest shit-eating grin
you can imagine and told Scully he'd tell her later."

"And she just accepted that?"

"When I picked her up from the airport the other day, she
said he had a whole repertoire of ditches. I think that one
is a heretofore unknown species."

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

He placed his hands on her shoulder, grinned beatifically
in her face and replied, "Look Scully...I promise, I'll talk
about it later, right now, I've got an idea about their
location."

"Mulder, you just disappeared for fifteen hours...we've
got Seattle P.D. out looking for you, we've got agents..."

"All right, well pull them in! Scully, we don't have time
for this! They're going to take another kid today or
tomorrow. Have they come up with a name yet?"

Scully sucked in a deep breath, tucked her chin in and
glared at her ridiculously healthy-looking partner. While
she looked disheveled and baggy-eyed from lack of sleep and
worry, he looked like he'd just stepped out of an
advertisement for a two week cruise to the Caribbean. And
for crying out loud, he looked...happy! How in hell did he
do it? But Mulder at his most obtuse was a lost cause.
Scully knew there were certain times in her partnership
when she had to concede defeat to him. And this was one of
them. But she *was* going to get some answers out of him.
Eventually.

"Okay, Mulder, let's go across to the operations room.
They've covered a lot of territory and we've an 8 a.m. with 
the team leaders."

Scully pulled her lips to one side in annoyance as he gave
her one last million dollar smile and strode jauntily...yep, 
that was definitely the word, she thought, out the door.

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


Day 13 - Thursday
Central Hotel, Seattle

 
>From the journal of Crystal Palmer

 

Dad's on top of the moon, but he's also feeling somewhat
guilty. I keep telling him its not blood money, but he's a
bit manic-depressive over it. The mortgage was paid off
last week and the hotel and, well, everything, right down
to the plate warmers, is finally his and his alone. It's
due mostly to having the FBI here for so long. As Dad said,
even if they solved the crime and all checked out tomorrow,
the contract states two months notice. Being a
businessman's hotel, we'll be up to our usual seventy to
eighty percent capacity within two weeks, despite being off
line for so long. 

Anyway, Dad has always kept the hotel in top condition,
that's why it's run so well for so long. But now he can
afford to get in another manager and additional staff.
He'll do it once the FBI leave. We could do it now, of
course, but they'd have to run background checks and, well,
with just the nine of us it's okay. And I really think
Dulcie should be put out to pasture. She won't know what to
do with herself so she'll want to work, but Dad agrees with
me, she deserves a rest.

Dad's talking about taking time off himself, too. I'd like
that. I'd like him to meet a nice woman and have a fling. I
know that sounds odd coming from a daughter, but he is only
fifty four and he looks a lot younger. Of course he laughs
when I tell him that, and I see the pain in his eyes
because he sure as hell misses Mom, even after seven years. 

I'm still not certain which way I want to jump on this. I
had numerous companies ready to take me on, but didn't
feel willing to make a hard commitment until my doctorate
was official. I'd pretty well decided pure research is not
my forte, at least for the moment, nor is academia, so that
cuts out the various teaching, post doctoral and research
positions. That narrowed the field by about sixty percent.
Big multinational corporations don't really grab me either.

Dad is keen to have me stay close, of course. At the same
time he pointed out that I was about to begin my life
again, after having it derailed seven years ago, well,
twelve years ago if you count one failed marriage. But I
don't really think that way. They were periods in my life
and I enjoyed them even if they ended badly. After seeing
some of the victims' families here, and seeing the
harshness of lives and learning about the marriage break-ups
of these guys, my life hasn't been bad, just interesting.

Dad told me I should seriously consider moving to a
different part of the country and start fresh, really
fresh. Make new friends, start a new career, take up a
safer sport than cycling -- as if! And find a man to keep my
bed warm. That's my Dad, he might be Greek, but he's a
pragmatist.

So I made the appointments in Chicago, D.C. and New York.
They looked the best, by far. They're crammed into less
than a week but that suits my budget fine. I'd like the
chance to look around and see if I'd like living east, but
I don't think I'll have that luxury. I was reluctant to
leave until the FBI finished here. I suppose it's because
I've come this far with them, it's like going to a ball
game and leaving ten minutes before the final. And because
it leaves Dad short staffed by one. But he was keen to see
me get moving on the offers, so I'm off tomorrow. I don't
owe anything to the finance companies anymore, but I also
own little except a few leftover mementos from our
marriage, a couple of good bikes and some average clothes.
It will be nice to start afresh, with money of my own. And
the offers on the table are financially attractive, to say
the least. 

Mulder and Scully came in for lunch on Tuesday, but she
didn't stay. She was on her mobile phone just as I came
down to take over from Gemma. The place was pretty well
deserted, and Gemma told me most of them had asked for
lunch to be delivered to their work stations. Something big
was obviously afoot. 

Mulder came over to the bar and had his lunch there. He
actually ate a decent meal for once. In fact he looked
better than I'd seen him in days. That...thing...that
happened to him the previous night seemed to have left him
for now. We talked for a bit, then he mentioned that idiot
newspaper headline. I was surprised, but by the way he
talked, got the feeling he wanted to hear my take on it. I
couldn't say, of course, that I was the last person to ask
because I'd been made privy to what really happened to him,
so I told him the other truth.

"I read Skinner's press release and I think it effectively
squashes anyone stupid enough to lend weight to it. Right
about now I think Freddie Baxter will be on paper clip duty."

He looked at me blankly.

"Fred Baxter is the idiot that wrote that byline. How he
convinced even his boss to a front page headline as asinine
and ignorant as that I can only speculate, but the
afternoon papers will be so full of that stuff you've given
them, this," I gestured to a copy of the paper under the
bar, "Will be relegated to page 183 of the National
Enquirer."

"The National Enquirer is not that thick."

"Exactly."

He grinned at me. Boy, I would do a lot to see that grin
more often. 

We talked for a bit and he asked me the weirdest
questions. Did I know anything about mythological creatures
like, for example, flying horses and where could he buy a
map of the eastern parts of Seattle? I wasn't going to even
try and speculate how those two items fitted in that
convoluted mind of his, so I rummaged around and gave him a
couple of online addresses. They've got big printers
across the road so he could print out reasonable scale maps
there. 

About 4 p.m. I heard he'd gone missing. There was something 
close to panic around here. I think after the press leaked his name, 
there was a feeling that the suspects might have killed him. Skinner 
spent a good part of the night in and out of here. I can't honestly
remember what we talked about, but it covered a lot of ground. I 
think he just needed to get his mind off Mulder's disappearance. 

I had a lot of trouble figuring out what I should call him. A.D. 
didn't quite cut it and sir might have worked if I'd remained just a 
hotel staff member. But we'd developed something a little beyond 
that. Walt reminded me of Disney and Walter, or heaven forbid, 
Wally?...No, no way. Mr. Skinner? Nobody called him that and 
it seemed as formal as sir. In the end I settled on Skinner. He 
looked like a Skinner. Well, more than he looked like a Wally. 
What the hell, most of the agents around here call each other by
their last names, it didn't seem out of place.

Next morning, Mulder shows up looking like he'd been on
vacation in Bermuda for about two weeks. Goddamned spooky,
really! He looked fit and healthy and sported a tan! But
the weirdest of all was that he just appeared. I mean, just
seemed to appear out of thin air. Scully and West were
parked at a gas station out east. They'd found his car
abandoned the night before in the same area. Scully had
this idea he had gone off searching for particular kind of
barn. This was after I'd told them what he'd asked me.
Anyway, next thing, poof, Mulder's in the back seat, a bit
dazed and no memory of how he'd gotten there.

Their first thought was that he had hared out again and
just lost track of time, saw the car and wandered across
and got in. But West insists nobody got in the car. She had
not had her back turned as she pumped gas. Scully had gone
to the ladies' room, so Scully's convinced West she must 
have missed it when she was paying the bill. 

But I don't buy it. I can't see West making a mistake like
that. Besides, he looked far too healthy. 

I was cleaning the rooms opposite Skinner's that morning.
I hate being privy to someone's private conversation, but
Skinner just about tore strips off Mulder for his Houdini
act. He demanded a full explanation of where in hell Mulder
had been. I didn't catch much of Mulder's reply because he
was a lot calmer than Skinner, but he said something about
being unable to fully recall. Skinner answered that Mulder
had gotten away with far too many unexplained disappearing
acts and breaches of protocol in the past, taking up FBI
and SPD manpower that were desperately overworked as it
was, and so on. I wanted to leave the room and come back
later, but I'm ashamed to admit, I was just as curious as
everyone else over Mulder's disappearance. 

After a few minutes of this tirade, I could tell Skinner
wasn't so much angry as frustrated...and relieved and the
conversation, by necessity, turned to the profiling aspects
of the case. 

The whole thing sure as hell enhanced Mulder's Spooky
reputation. I'm pretty certain the matter would have been
examined more thoroughly, but the fact was, it blew over
fast because by then, they had a very, very short list of
suspects and had started pulling in the net. And that's
when things really began to heat up.

Later that morning I helped the technicians flown in from
D.C. to work through some of the bugs in their antiquated
systems. They complained that this was nothing like the
stuff they had to work with at home, then spent most of the
time sending stuff back to D.C. That made sense, sheesh. I
spent most of mine making sure no glitches held up the
transfer of data. It was scud work, I know 12-year-olds
who could do it, but the point was, I had the time now, and
these guys had more important things to do. The tension had
gone through the roof, although everyone was happier now
Mulder was back. I'm not so sure if it was because they
were glad to see him, or thankful they could walk anywhere
within fifty feet of Scully without having their balls
retreat into their throats.

They continued to talk freely around me. I know they
weren't supposed to, but I would never betray their trust.
They were narrowing the field down and it all seemed to be
coming to a head, so I didn't feel so bad when I told them
I was off the next day. I think it suddenly hit a few of
the techs who'd been there a while that I was an unpaid
volunteer, so they bought me a farewell bottle of champagne
and all signed a card. They made me promise I'd visit them
if I was still in the D.C. area when they got home. It was
nice, really nice of them and for the first time, I thought
I'd miss them. 

Skinner came down about midnight. I had only started my
shift a few minutes before and it crossed my mind that his
arrival might have been planned. It always seemed to work
that way. But I shook that off as plain silly. None of them
have time to scratch themselves at the moment, certainly
not the A.D. 

I'd come to enjoy these late night sessions with him. By
then, we were like old friends. He asked me if he could get
something to eat, so I handed him the menu and told him he
could have anything he wanted. He ordered a steak with heaps of
mushrooms and onions and black pepper and garlic sauce and a
big salad. He followed me to the kitchen and we talked all
over the place while I made him dinner. Very casual, very
domestic. It was easy to forget for a while why he was there.

I broke my own rules and agreed to share a half bottle of
red wine with him while he ate. The restaurant was
surprisingly empty and he said it was because things were
getting very close and everyone had been told to get a good
night's sleep. I asked what about him and he replied he
never followed his own rules. Besides, he'd manage to get
five straight hours that afternoon. 

A few nights back I found myself talking about career
options. I hadn't meant to, but he's a good cop. He asked a
few questions and next thing you know, I'm spilling it all.
I said detectives probably made the best lovers because
they knew how to listen. He laughed then. Honestly laughed.
I'd never seen him do that before and he looked fantastic.
His whole face just came alive and his cheeks actually
reddened. It was just wonderful. Best of all, the laughter
stayed in his eyes for a long time.

I suppose I'd taken for granted he knew I was leaving for
D.C. in a few hours. But of course he didn't. Stupid
assumption on my behalf. It's not like he discusses such
things with the technicians and other agents. But I was a
bit taken back by the look on his face when I said
something about catching up with sleep on the plane.

"You're flying somewhere?"

"D.C., job interviews."

He actually stopped chewing and blinked at me. "I didn't
realize." 

I chuckled, hiding my own surprise. "Why would you?" I went
on to tell him how the guys across the road had given me
the champagne and how sweet I thought they were. He had
pretty well finished by then and pushed his plate aside.

"How long are you going down for?"

"A week. I'm stopping in Chicago on the way, I have five
interviews there late today and Friday, then on to D.C. I'd
like to stay two or three weeks, to get a feel for the
area, but I can't afford to live in hotels, even at
industry rates, until I'm a wage earner again." I grinned.

He asked me where I was staying and I replied. He sort of
grimaced and I said, well, that was my budget. Then he
looked thoughtful for a moment and promptly floored me.

"You can stay in my apartment if you like. I won't be
getting back to D.C. until this is over and as much as I'd
like to think that will be within a week, I doubt it. Even
if I do, it's a big place and I'm rarely there."

I must have looked as shocked as I felt so he added
"Frankly, you'd be doing me a favor. It's a secure building
but I don't like leaving the place empty for long and after
ten days, the plants start dying."

I really didn't know what to say. I was a perfect stranger
and here he was offering me his apartment. Okay, sure, he
knew my background and that I was circumspect, but still,
it was his home and he was an assistant director with the
FBI. Oh, boy, how do I say no?

Then I thought, why should I say no? He was just a man,
someone I might have called a friend if the circumstances
had differed. Then it struck me that for someone like this,
when would the circumstances be different? When he was out
dinner partying and playing politics? Were those people
friends or necessary professional acquaintances?

I had, over the course of a short, intense and painful
week, developed a friendship with this man. And to be
honest, felt more than a little attracted to him.

The silence stretched a bit but before it became
embarrassing I replied "That's very generous of you, but
you really don't know me that well and I..."

"I know you."

That's it. That's all he said, but I could see it in his
eyes. He trusted me. And for the second time that week I
felt both humbled and honored. By saying no I would be
throwing something far more than just the offer of a clean
bed back in his face, I would be repudiating his trust.

I smiled and said "I'd be very grateful...but you may have
to kick me out because if I decide anything while I'm
there, negotiations may drag out."

He grinned. It was almost as good as his laugh. I'm sure
few if any of the agents had ever seen that grin and I
found myself with one more reason to hope this case
finished soon.

"I'll call my building manager and get him to let you in.
There are spare keys and security codes with him. What time
does your flight get in?"

"Five thirty tomorrow evening."

"Fine, I'll have a car pick you up and..."

"Whoa!" I put my hand up and laughed, "You don't have to
do that! I can catch a cab."

He looked at me with a peculiar expression then said in an
uncompromising voice "I believe the FBI owes you
considerably more than a cab fare for the assistance you
have given us."

I think my face must have dropped a little because
suddenly his offer seemed less personal. And I don't know
why it should have but it saddened me. Before I could
comment, he put his hand on mine and added gently, "But the
apartment is mine, not the FBI's."

And so help me I actually blushed. When I thought about it
later, my reaction had been pretty stupid because Skinner
*was* the FBI. Everything he did and said and touched and
breathed was as much FBI as Skinner. There was no
distinction and if I was to respect that friendship, I had
to reconcile that right now.

Fortunately, he didn't see the blush because Mulder
interrupted us. Skinner nodded a good night and left with
him. Mulder smiled at me in recognition, said good morning
and wished me luck in D.C.

That floored me. Floored Skinner, too.

"Thanks," I replied. "And good luck to you guys...Not that
you'll need it. The way you're going you'll have them
nailed before I get back."

Mulder smiled. "I wish!" 

I often think about Mulder when I make a wish now.

******************************
End Chapter 1 The Engineer

Title: MIND GAMES: Book 4:The Engineer 2 of 7
Disclaimers: See Part 1
Author/Feedback: YES please! spider@webspin.org.
All parts can be found at www.webspin.org/xfic.htm

*********************
This section rated R 
*********************

CHAPTER 2

Day 14 - Friday
FBI Headquarters - Seattle
11:50 p.m.


Mulder bit a sunflower seed between his teeth as he half-
listened to the briefing. Scully stood close to him, her
hip touching his upper thigh. She leaned more heavily into
him as two additional men entered, crowing a room already
overflowing with bodies, tension and excitement. None of
them had expected the situation to develop this rapidly,
but now, with a child's life at stake, they had no choice. 

Mulder normally took his partner's proximity for granted,
but as his senses were heightened for the coming raid, so
he became acutely aware of the press of her body, her
unique scent, the texture of her soft hair. The new kevlar
jacket bulked her out disproportionately. Although they
came in various sizes, the manufacturers had not considered
frames as small as Scully's. 

He glanced down at her affectionately as she nudged him in
the ribs for his constant, irritable cracking. He found one
of her hands with his and tried to pour some of the seeds
in, but she rolled her eyes in displeasure. God, he loved
teasing her, she was so easily baited in a nice, Scully way. 

Skinner finished up quickly and agents and SWAT team
members exited the room. 

Six hours previously they had names, a possible location
and what they'd hoped would be at least three or four days
to verify and cross check everything. They wanted the
entire team caught up in one net. By then, Mulder was
certain of five perpetrators. They had the names of two --
Sarah Jefferson and Steve Baxter. Their known associates --
Adam James and Jacob Milner -- were also high on the list of 
suspects,. James was a definite hit. He was known as
dickless by those who'd known him in San Diego, because he
lacked certain physical attributes. He also fitted Mulder's
profile like a glove. These then, were their four primary
suspects involved in the abduction, rape, murder and
dismemberment of dozens of children. Mulder had written an
in-depth profile on what he said was the fifth man, the
wealthy client who liked to watch. At this stage, Mulder's
biggest fear was that the net would close too soon to
capture this fifth man.

"Mulder..." Skinner made the younger agent wait up. "You 
know we can't risk leaving it any longer. Another day, another few
hours..."

Skinner did not have to elaborate. The child, a 10-year-old 
boy name Geoff Murphy, had not arrived home from school
that afternoon. In what amounted to a real break, one of
his friends told them that about a week before he'd seen
Geoff talking to a woman with some fingers missing from one
of her hands. When shown a picture of Sarah, the witness'
eyes had lit up. Yep, that was the woman.

It was not definite that their suspects had abducted
Geoff, but the coincidence was too chilling to ignore.

Mulder had flown across the farm in a helicopter just
after dark. Night vision goggles limited his perception,
but he knew. Christ, he knew. The minute the chopper flew
across the trees he'd ordered the pilot to veer away.
Although the chopper, at 3,000 feet at 8:30 p.m., was unlikely
to alert the suspects, Mulder was taking no chances. That
was the farm. There was the barn he had almost leaped from
in his empathic mirroring with Rod Fowler, whose
dismembered body had been discovered that morning. 

It was tearing at Mulder, and Skinner knew it. Mulder
wanted then to wait. He was convinced the fifth man, the
client, would arrive before...shit... Mulder also knew that
if Adam James was at the farm, once the boy arrived, he
wouldn't wait. It was possible, no, more than possible --
likely -- that James had already sexually assaulted the boy.
Only Sarah could control James and there was no guarantees
she was at the farm, either.

"Sir, this is a wild pig shoot. We're going in blind. All
we know is that the farm is occupied by an unknown number
of suspects who may be armed to the teeth. For all we know
the entire place is booby trapped. We don't even know for
sure they have the boy there!"

Scully touched her partner's arm, sympathizing with his
plight.

Skinner nodded his agreement. "Yet, we can't wait."

Mulder sighed and nodded. Shit.

They approached in teams of four. Three teams had been
designated around the perimeter, searching for possible
entrances to underground bunkers. There had been momentary
panic when a dog began barking. A silenced bullet ceased
the animal's alarm and Mulder cursed. Fuck it! They had
needed time to find all this shit out! Dogs! How many?
Goddamn the unanswered questions starting to pile up in his
brain as he approached the barn with his team. 

He knew this building. He'd been inside before. Would they
keep young Geoff in here half frozen to death as they had
Rod Fowler? Had Geoff already been sodomized by that
bastard and now lay huddling in a corner, terrified as well
as freezing? Or would he take Rod's way out and try to kill
himself after the first assault, knowing the second would
be more brutal, wondering if he, too, would be cut into
small pieces?

Scully motioned her side was clear. He waved for Murdoch
to go ahead. In moments they were hidden among the
shadows along the side of the barn. But if someone in the
house threw on an outdoor light, their footprints would be
clearly visible in the fresh snow.

Fuck it, they had to get in fast. He could just make out a
dark shape, then another near the back door of the large
farmhouse.

Scully motioned again; they'd gained entrance to the barn.

Circle, cover, watch your back. Yeah, he knew this place.
He could recall the smell now. Acidic, caustic like
industrial strength detergents. Bleach. He blinked,
clearing away the memories. Stop, listen.

A whimper?

Motion to Murdoch, yeah, he heard it too. Where was
Scully? Okay, yep, up the ladder but it exposes her to
strong moonlight. Of all the fucking times for the weather
to be clear, and an almost full moon hanging two thirds the
way up the sky.

Yeah, yeah, that was definitely a whimper.

Gunshots echoed from a hundred meters away. He caught
Henderson's eye in the dark. No. Stay. We find the boy first.

A scream "No..! Please, I promise...I'll do whatever you
want, just don't...don't cut me."

"Team leader, this is Mulder," he whispered quietly, "We
have at least one, repeat one, suspect holding the boy inside
the barn."

"Copy, Mulder."

Some miles away, an intrepid police groupie had been
listening avidly to what the Seattle P.D. jokingly thought
was a secure radio channel. He picked up his telephone and
dialed the local news service. The 200-buck finder
fee would be a nice little bonus for the weekend's fun.

Scully froze on the ladder, then dropped quietly back down
and moved into the shadows as a second voice echoed through
the barn.

"Shut the fuck up! Something's wrong and we're gonna see
what it is." 

But Jacob Milner had caught sight of movement on the
ladder. And it sure weren't no rat, it was too big for that.

"Who's there? Is that you, Steve? What's going on?"

No answer, although Scully roundly cursed herself for
being seen. 

Mulder pointed to Henderson to cover the main doors. He
remembered the barn had a second entrance on the far side
and he motioned for Murdoch to cover the back part of the
huge barn, indicating with his hands a second door.

The two men separated and became invisible in the dark as
a passing cloud briefly covered the moon. More gunshots
sounded from the house, now followed by shouts and screams.

Scully stood in shadow beneath the ladder.

"What the fuck is going on?" Milner cried, "Who's there?"

Silence. Mulder glanced at his watch, it was almost dawn.

"Fuck it! Answer me or I'll slit the kids throat!"

"Noooo...please mista!"

Sounds of squirming and crying and grunting, a heavy slap
"No shut up, ya little shit, before I use this to shut ya
up!"

Wracking sobs, slowing.

"Now answer me! I know ya down there! I want to know what
the fuck's going on or I'll pig stick him!"

Mulder motioned for Scully to answer. Then he took off
into the shadows. She looked at him mutely, but there was
no time for an explanation now. 

"This is the FBI, sir, please leave the boy and come on
down."

"Fuck! Fucking cunt! What do you mean, what the fuck do
you want?"

"We'd just like you to come down so we can talk to you!"

"Yeah? So you and your buddies can shoot me? Fuck, what's
going on over in the house, what's all the shooting?"

Mulder heard his partner's gentle voice try to pacify the
man he was sure was Milner, but he knew he had only
minutes, perhaps less, before Milner panicked and killed
Geoff. Jacob Milner was weak, like Adam James. He would
need Steve Baxter to guide him. As if to emphasize Mulder's
thought, Milner asked where Steve was. Scully tried to tell
him if he's just come down, she'd take him to Steve. 

By now, Scully would have heard through her ear implant, as
Mulder had, that Sarah Jefferson, Adam James and Steve
Baxter were dead. Two agents were down, Jawolski and Myers
and an unnamed SPD officer. And the barn was being
surrounded by dozens of law enforcement officers.

Mulder moved out the door and caught Skinner's bulky shape
in the pre-dawn light.

"Sir!"

"Talk to me."

"He's in the loft, holding the boy. Scully's trying to
talk him down but she won't do any good. Delay at best...I
have to get up there."

"We'll send a couple of the SWAT guys,"

"Sir, I know the layout, I'm the only one who knows
exactly how to get in and stay hidden."

Skinner glared at him. He might be FBI, but in unarmed
combat, the SWAT team members were better. 

"Sir there is no more *time*!"

Skinner nodded and explained the situation in his mike. It
would be relayed to the backup teams and EMT's on standby.
Mulder glanced up at the window. All he needed was a boost
up.

"Sir?"

Skinner cupped his hands and hoisted the much lighter man.
Mulder stepped on his shoulder while four or five agents
and SWAT team members came around, keeping to the shadows.
Skinner cursed lightly and Mulder apologized, thinking he
might have kicked his A.D. in the head, but as he looked
down, he heard in his earpiece.

"Media's here." 

Shit! How did they find out?

Mulder ignored it and reaching up with both hands, grasped
the window frame and pulled himself up until he could look
inside. No sign of Milner. Okay. He lowered himself down
for a moment then used momentum to pull himself all the way
up onto the ledge. Fragments of glass stick stuck out from
the long broken window, but Mulder eased quietly over them
and inside.

Scully was telling Milner she would go outside and find
Steve and bring him back.

"Don't you trick me you cunt! I'm giving you two minutes
and that's it! I wanna know what all the shooting was
about!" He all but screamed the last words.

Good. It gave Mulder a location. Around there in the next
corner. Excellent. Milner had his back to Mulder, but he
held the boy in front of him. Not good. If Mulder shot him
without warning, the bullet would likely go through him and
into the boy. He had to get them separated.

Mulder kept to the wall and approached closer, but his
foot caught on a piece of machinery buried amongst the
accumulated filth.

Milner turned, "What the fuck! Who are you?"

In his stupid fear he had let the boy go, swung on Mulder
and dived at the agent. Mulder still could not fire his
weapon because the boy, tall for his age remained directly
behind the Milner, now only a few feet away. A bullet to
the torso would go right through them both. A bullet to the
head then, but Mulder couldn't see in the dark shadows. He
simply could not risk the shot.

Mulder blocked the tackle, but it was too late. Jacob
Milner was a big man, bigger than Skinner and just as
muscular. He knew he was dead and he lashed out at Mulder,
a blood lust overtaking him, determined to kill. Determined
to see and touch and taste blood one last time. He lunged
past Mulder's defenses, slamming the blade into the agent's
throat.

Mulder thought he'd been punched and fell back with it, to
lessen the blow. If he hadn't, the knife would have plunged
through into his spinal column. As it was he simply
staggered backwards then countered with a violet twisting
kick that should have felled the bigger man. In his
peripheral vision Mulder could see shapes swarming up the
ladder, but he was too busy trying to avoid the flashing
blade of the knife. He was also slightly annoyed that he
couldn't seem to breathe properly and his throat seemed
oddly congested. The pain of the punch had not yet
registered but a small part of his brain wondered if his
throat had been damaged from the blow. 

"Freeze!" The oddly powerful voice of his partner
penetrated the loud scuffles and shouts from down below.

But Milner was incapable of anything but completing the
kill. He lashed out at Mulder, who, stepping back, tripped
on a bundled rope. As he fell, he saw the blade slash at
him and this time he felt the sharp sting and well of
blood. But the fall, moving him out of effective range,
saved his life. Scully fired an instant later, splattering
Mulder with blood and bone and gray matter as Miller's body
hit the floor with a resounding thunk.

Mulder went to curse in pain, but his mouth filled with
blood. Panic clawed at him as he found he could not draw
air. Scully was by his side in an instant, telling him to
lie still while the EMT's came.

"They're just outside, they'll be here in a sec, Mulder
are you injured anywhere else?"

As compared to what? He thought. My fucking throat's cut
and I can't breathe, isn't that enough?

Scully's eyes widened at his frantic motion to stand. He
pushed her out of the way and staggered into the dawn light
now shining through the window. A small part of his mind
thought well, at least if you're gonna die, it's a pretty
nice sunrise to take with you.

Scully immediately grasped what the problem was, "Mulder
sit down! Your trachea's probably damaged, we need to get
your airway open!"

No shit, Dr. Watson.

He put his hands to his throat as he staggered and sat,
trying to find what he knew must be happening, life blood
pumping out through his carotid.

Scully brushed his hands aside. "It's not that bad Mulder,
stop fighting me! You're not going to bleed to death but
you may pass out from lack of oxygen before we can clear
the passageway. Now just lay down and let me have a look!"

Easy for you to say. His body was panicking now. 

What drives us to breathe is not, as most people assume,
the need for oxygen, it is the need to clear our bodies of
poisonous carbon dioxide. Additionally, lack of breathing
will eventually lead to oxygen starvation, causing the
victim to pass out. However in the time frame between CO2
buildup ordering the body to breathe and oxygen-deprived
fainting, the human body will flail about desperately, seeking
a way to breathe. Mulder knew that he had to lie still in
order for Scully to save him, but it fought against every
human instinct in him to...to what? His logical brain asked
him.

The EMTs arrived in seconds. He heard Scully telling them
what to do, but his brain screamed at him so loudly he
could hardly hear. Then intense pain as someone pulled the
grotesque lips of his wounded neck and trachea apart and
plunged a tube down his throat.

Oh God! Blessed air! They connected him to on oxygen unit
immediately. He really didn't need it, just the mere fact
of being able to breathe again was the most phenomenal
sensation he could imagine. He closed his eyes a moment,
then opened them as Scully asked if he was hurt anywhere
else. He blinked as he realized the back of his head
actually hurt more than his throat. So he tried a small
grin and winked at his partner.

Scully allowed herself to calm down. He would be all
right. This time. But, Jesus, how many lives did he have left?

****************************************
End Chapter 2 The Engineer

Title: MIND GAMES: Book 4:The Engineer 3 of 7
Disclaimers: See Part 1
Author/Feedback: YES please! spider@webspin.org.
All parts can be found at www.webspin.org/xfic.htm

*********************
This section rated R 
*********************

CHAPTER 3

DAY 15 - Saturday
Crystal City, Virginia

>From the journal of Crystal Palmer


I really had no idea what to expect in a successful
professional Washington bachelor's apartment.

Being chauffeured from the airport by a FBI driver was one
thing, then the building manager's polite, downright
gracious treatment was something else again. But when I
stepped foot into Skinner's apartment I was not pleasantly
surprised. I was delighted.

I suppose one's expectations are bound to be clichd, even
if I hadn't decided what a cliche would look like.
Certainly neat and modern, but light, airy and casually
comfortable was not it. No dark walnut roll top desks, no
black leather lounges. Nope, Skinner had elegant and
practical taste. And not a bargain basement piece in sight. 

The building manager had been in earlier and made sure the
heat was on, so I stripped off my overcoat and explored.
After a quick once over I went upstairs. Two bedrooms, one
clearly his and the other clearly unprepared for guests.
That made me feel better. Everything about him was just a
little too neat and tidy for a bachelor. The guest room was
not exactly a mess, but would need twenty minutes work to
make tidy and make livable.

I had to go through his bedroom closet to find spare
sheets, although there were plenty of pillows and blankets
in the guest room. I have absolutely no inclination to
rummage through people's closets. It's one thing I really
hated about cleaning in the hotel. You're invading the
personal space of strangers and it makes you feel
unpleasantly voyeuristic. But I couldn't stop peeking a bit
at Skinner's things. I told myself if he had anything
serious to hide, he would never have invited me to stay.
Anyway, it was just a quick look, just to see the man
beneath the suit.

Yep, there was. Casual jeans, some pretty old and worn.
Pure wool sweaters and expensive, casual shirts. He had
simple, good taste. I closed the door quickly, already
feeling a little guilty for lingering.

Chicago had been a nightmare. No way could I live there or
work with those people. But timing my arrival in D.C. on a
Friday night, at the same time as every other damned
inbound and outbound commuter flight, was a major blunder.
Baggage collection had been the usual interminable
nightmare and I reminded myself to thank Skinner big time,
for having a car waiting. Cabs were like hens teeth.

My prospective employees worked seven day weeks, so I'd
organized interviews over the weekend. I had a few more on
Monday in D.C., then the remainder in N.Y. on Tuesday and
Wednesday. It was a tight schedule but I'd planned it that
way to get my head inside the whole thing and make a
decision without vacillating. If all went well, I'd be down
to two or three choices and could go home, let them rummage
around in my mind and one would pop out the clear winner. 

I hadn't had much sleep the previous night. Lumpy
mattress, neon lights outside the window and disappointment
that once promising jobs turned out to be flops. By the
time I'd stacked a few files and cases out of the way and
made the bed in Skinner's spare room, all I wanted was to
shower and sleep. 

There was only one bathroom and it was fairly neat and
tidy. Not so clean as to inspire paranoia, but a hell of a
lot better than most bachelor bathrooms I'd been in. For
starters, apart from one sorry looking fern, there were no
undiscovered life forms peeking through insalubrious
cracks. I cheered up the plant by producing lots of nice
steam, then hit the bed for an amazing, at least for me,
ten hours straight sleep.

The following two days were a blur of hand shakes and
artificial smiles, endless cups of coffee and getting to
know you interviews. I got lost. Twice. And splurged huge
amounts of money on cabs to the far reaches of rural
Columbia. Staying at Skinner's meant the budget was well
under track, so I stopped berating myself and took in some
of the scenery. One good thing, D.C. seems to understand
cyclists' needs better than Seattle. Not exactly the number
one reason for living somewhere, but high on my priority
list.

By Saturday night, I had smiled myself out and sat tiredly
curled up on Skinner's cream-colored couch with a thick
company prospectus in hand. I'd managed to find a gym on
the way home, having carried some stuff with me, just in
case. I'm the sort of person that gets very antsy after a
few days, especially days like the last three, unless I can
work it out. A lot of the agents back in Seattle couldn't
figure out why Mulder needed to run in all weather. Despite
the odd hours, I knew, I get the same way unless I can
ride. And no bike means running -- not an attractive
prospect in a strange city at night, so I'd settled on a gym.

So there I was post shower, wrapped in Skinner's
unbelievably comfortable bathrobe, turbaned hair and not a
scrap of makeup, when I heard the front door open. I just
about jumped out of my skin as two big burly black clad
figures came in.

I'm not a small person. I stand five ten in bare feet and
weigh one hundred and thirty. I'm no Barbie doll, that's
for sure. Well, yeah, my legs are long, but I'm essentially
an athlete. That's how I put myself through college as an
undergraduate. I just missed out on the Olympic cycling
team way back when, and have never given it up. But these
guys were big, muscle and bone big, not overweight big and
I felt very vulnerable and small in my undressed state
until I saw who it was. Then I just felt like an idiot.

The only saving grace was the priceless look on the other
agent's face. If I hadn't been so embarrassed myself, I
would have laughed. As it was, all I wanted to do was
explain why in hell I was wearing Skinner's bathrobe. Not
much you can really say in a situation like that, but I
managed to compound my idiocy with an utterly brilliant
observation.

"You're back!"

Skinner offered me a quick smile and hello, turned to the
other agent and thanked him for helping with his bags. He
introduced us but offered no explanation, then simply said
to the other man, "I'll see you in the morning."

"Yes, sir, good night sir, good night Dr. Palmer, nice to
meet you." Make no mistake, those "sirs" were quite
emphatic.

"Good night, Agent Rostler." 

Then he was gone.

Meanwhile, Skinner had pulled off his coat and loosened
his tie. He looked like a man who desperately needed a drink.

"Scotch or tequila?" was all I could think to say as I
stood up and headed for the kitchen.

He snorted a dry laugh and looked up at me. "That obvious,
huh?"

"I bought some Cointreau and limes. I might be of Greek
descent but I make a mean margarita."

"As long as it comes in an 8-ounce glass."

"That bad, huh?"

He shrugged, sat down heavily and laid his head back.

A few minutes later I handed him a large, salt-rimmed
brandy glass. I made a much smaller one for myself. He must
have heard me coming because he sat up, opened his eyes and
took the drink from me. I wasn't sure what to say, so
started by apologizing for pilfering his bath robe.

"It's just so much thicker and warmer than mine. See what
you let yourself in for when you have house guests like me?"

His face screwed up as he took a long sip of his drink
and he replied. "Keep making margaritas like than and you
can be my house guest anytime." 

He twisted the rim slightly to lick the salt, took another
drink, closed his eyes and let it slide down his throat. I
make a mean belly-warming brain-numbing drink and if he
hadn't eaten on the plane, I knew it would already be
having an effect.

He opened his eyes, looked at me then said, "It's over."

"What?" I was stunned. I mean I'd been on the hop for
three days and hadn't heard a scrap of news or seen a
headline. I glanced at my watch, looked across at the
television and flicked my eyes to him. His eyebrows
indicated yes, so I turned it on, channel-surfed until I
found a news cast and lo and behold, there was Skinner
giving a press briefing. Before I had a chance to adjust
the volume, the image changed to a scene outside a
farmhouse with a barn in the background. There were
flashing lights and paramedic vehicles and police cars and
SWAT teams and FBI jackets crawling all over the place.

"In a dawn raid on a farmhouse just outside Seattle SWAT
teams and FBI combined with local police, swooped in on..."

Swooped in on? I thought, who writes this crap?

"...the house of the primary suspects in what has become
know as the Seattle Line Killings. Following the arrival of
one of the FBI's crack profilers on the case, Special
Agent Fox Mulder," here they inserted a photo of Mulder
that would have had top modeling agencies vying for him,
"...and forensic pathologist Special Agent Dana Scully,"
another modeling agency photo "...a case that had become
all but deadlocked until two weeks ago was cracked wide
open. The dawn raid led to a shootout resulting in the
deaths of all four suspects..." 

"Oh, shit..." I muttered as I watched the controlled
pandemonium on screen.

"Yep, a real rat fuck." Skinner muttered.

"...two FBI agents and a police officer were killed and
three injured, including the FBI's profiler Fox Mulder..."

"Oh, no..." I put my hand to my mouth as FBI agents and 
paramedics carried a stretcher towards the camera. A
saline drip and a flash of Scully's distinctive red hair
came into view, then her anguished face, then Mulder's
face, neck swaddled in bandages with a tube sticking out.
They carried him past the camera and into the ambulance. 

I kept watching the unfolding scene but turned the volume
down and looked at Skinner, suddenly fearful of what he was
going to say. He saw my face and knew immediately.

"He's okay. Caught a knife in the throat. Won't be able to
talk for a couple of weeks but I don't know that's a
bad thing, keep him out of trouble."

I closed my eyes, feeling tears prick them. It wasn't like
I'd known them that well. I think part of it was me feeling
guilty at how much I'd resented their presence when they'd
been prepared to put themselves on the line to protect us
from such monsters. And now three of them were dead. Shit.
It hurt. The only saving grace was that Mulder would be all
right.

Skinner's eyes were still closed so I turned off the
television and sat quietly for a few minutes. He'd finished
the drink, so I reached for his glass to top it up. Our
hands touched and his eyes flew open and pierced me.

There are certain moments in time we are destined never to
forget. Profound moments when words are useless, but
meaning is thick and heavy in the air. At that moment I saw
in Skinner a raw need, a desire that was almost staggering
in its intensity. My own emotions were more than a little
raw and I knew, we both knew, that all it would take would
be a blink to set it off. An intense wave of desire flooded
me, a need to give and also take solace in this mans arms.

Despite every nerve in me screaming, I knew it was wrong.
Oh I'm not against a roll in the hay for fun, or in this
case because two human beings just needed a little comfort
in one another. But just because you desire someone
intensely, almost painfully, does not mean getting into bed
with them should automatically result, despite the
circumstances. People like Mulder and Scully for example.
God only knows they would have felt a much more powerful
need than what we felt that night, but professional
restraint both binds them and keeps them at arm's length.
That they can sublimate natural, raw desire for each other
and focus it into their work and dedication for one another
is a testimony to that professionalism. Even if I
personally thought their denial was folly, I knew it was
not folly denying myself. At least not for now.

I think Skinner realized it the moment I did. He suddenly
looked away. I swallowed and asked if he wanted another
drink and he nodded wordlessly.

When I returned from the kitchen, I asked him to tell me
what had happened.

"Pretty much what you saw."

I sat on the couch beside him. Given what had passed
between us a few moments before, the proximity was risky,
but I sensed him closing down behind professional walls and
wanted to get inside.

"Skinner, don't shut me out of this, I'm already part of
it. Hell, I was part of before you and I think, under the
circumstances, I deserve to know."

He breathed deeply and replied "ABC covered it pretty well."

"Hey," I risked touching his arm "I'm no psychologist, but
you refused to talk about this to your wife and family and
friends because by blocking it off, you kept them in a
safe, clean place. You wanted to come home to that safe
place and ease your soul. But that's not who you are. You
are FBI and it never leaves you. Shutting it out meant
shutting yourself out from those around you. Skinner, you
learned that mistake once. Don't shut me out, it's too late
for that because I am already a part of it. I have an
emotional investment in it and I need closure just as much
as you."

He looked at me oddly, his head turned to one side, then
he abruptly nodded and began. 


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


CHAPTER 4

Day 17 - Monday
Harborview Medical Center
 

Mulder spent the following forty eight hours in
considerable discomfort from the throat surgery. Although
Scully would have preferred to remain in Seattle, at least
until her partner was more alert, it was deemed more
important for her to return to D.C. to tidy up the loose
forensic ends. 

A small collection of videotapes, the gruesome trophies,
and the statement from the last boy, Geoff Murphy, were
sufficiently damning evidence to lay the blame for the
Seattle Line Killings on the four dead suspects. 

The mercurial press hailed the agents, particularly
Mulder, as heroes. For once Mulder was not ungrateful for
being wounded, especially in the throat. It was the perfect
foil for nosy reporters. He did, however, have another
form of communication -- his laptop computer and a phone line. 

After two days communicating with his partner by a semi-
continuous stream of e-mail, his thoughts and notes
faltered from the case and became increasingly
introspective and personal. At other times he would have
confined such thoughts to his personal journal, but his
inability to talk with her, and the revelations by the
Meta, dissolved many of the boundaries they normally kept
in place. What he had learned, what he had experienced had
changed him, in ways he would never have believed. And now
it was time to discover if his partner could face his new
truths or if this was truly to become his solitary journey
once more.

 

Seattle the To: D_Scully@fbi.gov

From: F_Mulder@fbi.gov

1:15 p.m. local time

 

I know it frustrates the hell out of you that you I have
not answered your question as to what happened to me last
Tuesday. In truth, with the events thereafter, it has taken
me some time to consider what I have learned. After our
debriefing of the morgue incident, I believed I slept, but
the incident on the rooftop overshadowed what I would
naturally have ascribed to a dream. In retrospect it
predicted my later disappearance. 

Scully, I have at times been less than empathic with your
religious convictions. I could not take faith in that which
might in any way negate my ability to control my own fate.
Perhaps my inability to trust a so called higher authority
comes in part from being manipulated so long by lesser
beings. Perverse, isn't it, considering my thoughts on fate
versus free will?

I once asked you if you could prove the existence of God,
would you not seek to do so? At that time you seemed
content to accept faith alone was sufficient but I believe
your cancer had necessarily impacted on your world view.

I know you have taken great comfort in your faith. I both
respected and in many ways envied that. Forgive me, but I
could never reconcile this with your inability to accept
the existence of extraterrestrials. The evidence for this
has been considerably more tangible than that of God,
despite that physical evidence once eluded me. 

As you have indulged and respected my journey for so long,
I too have respected your need for your faith in a God. But
what I learned during the time of my absence has led me to
believe that perhaps the two are one and the same. And
therefore I must ask you once more, now that the
circumstances of the question differ, if you could prove
the existence of God, would you not seek to do so?

M.

 

To: F_Mulder@fbi.gov

From: D_Scully@fbi.gov

9:30 p.m. local time 

You have led me on a journey that has been both
enlightening and mystifying. You have challenged my beliefs
in science and pushed the barriers of my thinking. And for
that, despite my often seeming antagonistic, I am grateful.

The tenets of faith are such that it is faith by which we
believe. You cannot prove the existence of God to me any
more or less than that which I believe now. I cannot follow
you on such a journey Mulder, for it leads nowhere.

What happened to you that day? Are you trying to tell me
that your suntan and good health was in some way and act of
God and thus offer it as proof of His existence? If so,
Mulder, then I would remind you that my proof of God lies
all around me. Our very existence is evidence of God. I
have no need for such an explanation. I would, however,
suggest this theological discussion be postponed until your
medication is terminated.

S.

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

Day 18 - Tuesday

Harborview Medical Center
 

He smiled broadly at her e-mail. He had stopped taking
anything stronger than aspirin. The damage to his throat
was, although debilitating, not as painful as he might have
expected. Ah, how typically Scully! If he offered the
evidence of his own body as proof that extraterrestrials
existed, she would hmm and haw and demand an alternative
explanation. If he offered her this as proof of God, she
would necessarily deny that proof could be found. Another
explanation must suffice. He smiled a little sadly, knowing
that she would never truly accept his world, no matter what
proof he could give her. And now that his depth of
understanding had broadened beyond his wildest dreams, he
felt a deep melancholy that she could not share it with
him. At least while she lived. But in other ways his heart 
was lightened for he had begun to suspect a truth only hinted 
at by the Meta.

 

To: D_Scully@fbi.gov 8:15 a.m. local time

From: F_Mulder@fbi.gov

Ah, Scully! If I tell you the truth, that I was abducted by
aliens, it would in fact be a lie. For as we suspected we
are all, in part, alien. Do me a favor, would you, and do a
background check on a Navy Seal named Nicholas Page? I
can't access the database.

I've been reworking the profile of the last UNSUB, the man
I suspect was the orchestrator.

I no longer fear mirroring as I once did. In that time
away I learned the true nature of evil and feel assured
that even should it bring me death, I will never succumb to
that particular form of madness. 

Of course that does not prevent other forms from taking me
<g>.

One final indulgence if you would. Did Clyde Bruckman ever
tell you how you would die? I phrase the question lightly
because I can assure you after this wound, autoerotic
asphyxiation will most definitely not be a factor leading
to my own demise.

M.

 

 

To: F_Mulder@fbi.gov 6:15 p.m. local time

From: D_Scully@fbi.gov

 

I've attached Nicholas Page's file. The Gunmen lifted most
of it. He's listed as MIA during a raid in the Gulf War.
Top class honors, brilliant strategist. He had a nickname...
okay, I see the connection. His success rate was so high they 
called him Spooky. Who was he Mulder, a long-lost cousin? 
What does he have to do with this case?

I'm finishing up all my reports and will have them copied
to you tomorrow.

I'm not sure how to answer you about Clyde Bruckman. I
confess I did ask, but his answer made no sense. He
replied, "You don't." Why do you ask?

S.

 

Mulder read his partner's e-mail, sat back and closed his
eyes. It all fell into place now. Scully was destined for 
a very different path than his. He typed a quick reply, 
hoping she would still be online.

 

To: D_Scully@fbi.gov 3:30 p.m. local time

From: F_Mulder@fbi.gov

You still there? Can you check Page's religious
affiliations? Was he an active church or synagogue 
attendee?

M.

 

To: F_Mulder@fbi.gov 6:30 p.m. local time

From: D_Scully@fbi.gov

 

Yeah, I'm still here. There is nothing in his background
check except the annotation that he was agnostic. Mulder,
who is this guy? I'm logging off now, I need to get some
shopping done, then get back to these reports.

S.

 

It made sense, he thought. Religion did not make one
righteous, or worthy. Scully needed to believe. That she
was a doctor, that she was a practicing Catholic, did not
stop her from putting a bullet in a man. Because it was the
necessary thing to do. She did not need her religion to
tell her it was right, or wrong, although he knew certain
priests who would have said she should not have fired, but
let God play it out as He saw fit. Scully never allowed her
religious beliefs to cloud her moral convictions.

He glanced through the attached documents on Nicholas
Page. Here, to, was an honorable man. A man who had not
died, but had become...a Meta.

Now, Mulder, too, had something more to believe in. He sat
and thought for a long time, wondering at the strange fate
that had brought them together. He had made a pact with
himself that he would not love her in a more physical sense
if he could just retain her as a partner. But, now, he began
to recognize that his need for her was undeniably selfish.
He had been given something by Page, and that something was
a renewed faith in his own ability to go on, alone if necessary.

And yet, it pained him. How could he reconcile the conflict
within him? Let her go...beg her to stay. But he knew there 
was only one answer, she must accept the truth or abandon the 
journey.

 

To: D_Scully@fbi.gov 8:10 p.m. local time

From: F_Mulder@fbi.gov

Thanks for the information on Page. No, he has nothing to
do with the case. I met him while I was...away. Don't ask
me to explain that one, Scully, until you think I'm well
enough to hold a theological conversation with you.

And to answer your other question, I can only tell you that
as sure as I have been of anything in my life, I am sure
Bruckman was right.

Webster from SPD came in today. Scully, I can't get it
through to these trilobites that he's still out there. He's
not going to let this stop him. The videos will keep him
going for a while, but he'll pick up a new team to begin
again. 

I've attached my reports for your perusal. Should we give
Skinner heart failure by signing off on the same one?

M.

*****************************
End Chapter 4 The Engineer

Title: MIND GAMES: Book 4:The Engineer 4 of 7
Disclaimers: See Part 1
Author/Feedback: YES please! spider@webspin.org.
All parts can be found at www.webspin.org/xfic.htm

*********************
This section rated R 
*********************

CHAPTER 5

DAY 20 - Thursday
Crystal City, Virginia

>From the journal of Crystal Palmer
 
The last few days were a blur of meetings and interviews.
I loved New York but decided I couldn't live there. Maybe I
could live further north and commute each day, nah...You'd
think all these years in Seattle I would have ridden a few
boats, but it took a trip to New York to find out I get
seasick, on a ferry no less!

He had warned me he was rarely home, so it came as no
surprise I'd hardly seen Skinner since Saturday night. He
came in late, usually after midnight and was gone before I
got up at five am. That pattern followed every day, I knew
he'd been home only because the shower had been used, the
toilet seat was invariably up and a glass might appear in
the sink.

He has a cleaning lady come twice weekly. I bumped into
her Monday and she apologized for the unprepared state of
the guest room. By the time I came back that night it had
virtually been redecorated. All the boxes and archive files
were neatly stacked in one half of the closet and a clock
radio sat on a bedside table. The bed sheets and cover
matched and cut flowers sat on the table. She'd washed and
dried my clothes and even started on the ironing. I was
beginning to feel spoiled. I should have told her not to
bother since I'd planned to leave on Friday.

Thursday night finally came. I skipped the gym and got
back to Skinner's place early, determined to leave him a
good, home cooked meal as a thank you before flying out
the next day. I really wanted to say goodbye personally but
given the little time he spent there, figured it might not
be possible. I'd decided on a large, easy to heat chicken curry, 
with all the trimmings diced and stirred in small containers. 
I was laying out the table for my own final meal there when 
Skinner came in. 

"Something smells good."

I turned in surprise. "Hey stranger! I was just about to
eat. You hungry?"

"With that aroma, who wouldn't be?" 

He went upstairs while I laid out a second setting and
placed the assorted side dishes in separate bowls. By the
time he returned, the chapattis were cooked and meal
ready. I'd taken the liberty of buying a couple of bottles
of wine to go with the curry, wondering if he would drink
them alone.

He was dressed in an old pair of jeans and casual sweater
and at my invitation, sat at the table. I made a brief but
solemn toast to Greggs, the SPD officer and Jawolski and
Myers, the agents who had died last Friday morning. He told
me the agents were to be buried in Arlington the next day.
I asked if it would be inappropriate for me to attend the
service. My flight wasn't due out until three.

"No, no it wouldn't be inappropriate. Where are you flying
to?"

"Seattle."

"You're leaving?" He looked surprised.

"I'd only budgeted to stay a week. The interviews are
finished."

"And you've made a decision?"

I finished serving and picked up a fork, not to eat, but
to give my hand something to do.

"No...no it's not that easy. I suppose I should stay on a
bit and spend time in the area, get a feel for what it
would be like to live here. Maybe that would help me make a
decision."

"Then why don't you?"

I looked up and smiled "I don't want to over stay my
welcome."

He looked at me, I suppose a little exasperated, and said,
"I can't say it's been a burden, I've hardly seen you, and
then only long enough to be fed deadly drinks and deadlier
curries."

"Too hot?" I frowned. He'd ordered hot curries in Seattle.

"No...I like them deadly. Seriously, you're welcome to
stay here as long as you like. I presumed you'd take a few
weeks to, as you said, look around."

I'm not one for being coy and the look on his face was
genuine, so I replied, "To be honest, I suppose I'm just not
feeling the enthusiasm I once thought I had for some of
these offers. I think I want to go back home and rethink
the entire thing." I sighed in frustration "I suppose if I
go back over their prospectuses and maybe drive around and
get a feel for living in the area, I might feel differently.
But I can't waver on this. I need to start earning a
living and if it's not going to be in D.C., I need to look
elsewhere."

"Why don't you at least stay 'til Monday. I can get away
for the weekend. How about letting me show you around?"

I grinned and replied, "Please don't tell me that includes
the Lincoln Memorial and the White House tour."

He laughed. "No, no I mean the parts of D.C. that long time
residents know about and keep very secret from the tourists
and foreign diplomats."

"Ooh, that sound more my style. Okay, I'd be crazy to pass
an offer like that up, I'd love to stay on a few days."

"So the places you're looking at, they big corporations?"

"Mostly. A couple of research institutes, but my side of
it is more practical applications. But...I don't know, none
of them are really grabbing me."

"Do you want me to run a background check run on them?"

I blinked. "You can do that?"

His eyebrow just raised and I chuckled. "Well...I've gone
into them pretty thoroughly, but if the FBI knows of any
skeletons, I'd like to know just so I can scratch them off
my list permanently."

The long and short of it was, I ended up agreeing to
accompany Skinner back to the Hoover building after the
service at Arlington. He'd get the lab boys to take me
through some of the technical areas, a prospect that rather
thrilled me given the sorts of things they'd talked about
in Seattle, and he'd have someone check out my prospective
employees.

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



CHAPTER 6

DAY 20 - Thursday

 

To: F_Mulder@fbi.gov 7:45 p.m. local time 

From: D_Scully@fbi.gov 

 

I've finished my own report and attached a copy. I'm
meeting with Skinner tomorrow afternoon with certain
recommendations. Mulder, without further evidence there can
be no justification in keeping this file open. All the
evidence points to the four deceased murderers, nothing
except the absence of film equipment indicates a fifth. I
am by no means disagreeing with you, nor do I think Skinner
disagrees, but you know as well as me, better than me, the
necessity of closure. We have nothing to go on except your
word to indicate a fifth person. That your profiles so
accurately defined these four should give weight to your
prediction, however it is no longer in the hands of the
bureau. Mulder the case is closed. We can only hope that,
as horrific as such a thought might be, videos may suffice
to keep him at bay.

The director came down to the basement this morning to
offer congratulations. He wants to see you when you get
back. He looked...he looked like he wanted to apologize. I
suppose I can best sum up my reaction to that by an old
maxim my father taught me. If you can't say something nice,
say, "Yes, sir."

Mulder, I am reluctant to tell you this by e-mail, but I
will not risk a telephone call that you will necessarily
wish to turn into a conversation. And I do not want for you
to learn of it only after your return to D.C. on Monday,
for I feel you need the weekend to consider it.

As the supervisory agent in charge of the X-files, you
will be notified officially by Skinner that the director
has offered me a new position. A newly restructured D.C.-
based forensics and pathology team is being seriously
considered in the budget. Should it come to pass, I have
been offered a supervisory role. It would elevate me to
just one step below A.D., in fact in some ways on the same
level with an A.D. It will mean a pay raise and more 
responsibility. The money, of course, is not the issue,
but the position and status would give me access to a much
broader scope that currently available in the X-files. As
you will see by the attached proposed structuring, the X-
files will be in a far more advantageous position with
instant uncluttered access to facilities it currently has
to wait in line for. 

Mulder, I know you will see this as another conspiracy to
break us up. But if you closely examine the proposal, you
will see this opens the X-files into the main stream,
giving it credibility and thus ensuring its future where
once it was considered a mere indulgence. With an
increasing number of unresolved cases, the X-files would 
be allocated the more *mainstream* unusual as well as
out and out X-files, a larger budget, a clerk/typist as
well as two agents under you. They're not attempting to
desk jockey you by any means, but it will give you certain
freedoms to pick and chose what cases you personally
handle, leaving the more mainstream ones to the agents
under you. 

My only regret, of course, is that we will no longer be
partnered, however it will still mean you can consult me
here in D.C. and I will have the discretion of giving you
priority treatment. The benefits of having a forensic
pathologist in the field as an active agent have not been
lost on the hierarchy. Part of my job will be to supervise
agents under me and let them loose with you in the field. 

With any luck, I'll be able to get away occasionally and
accompany you on some of your more interesting excursions.

Please Mulder, look this over carefully, and I believe you
will agree it will benefit you greatly. We both know there
is no such thing as maintaining the status quo in the FBI.
Better this than dissolution. 

The offer is not yet conclusive, it has yet to be budgeted
and the director has said he will personally listen to your 
opinions on the matter before a final decision is made.

S. 



Mulder read her e-mail twice, then absorbed the proposal. 

He pushed the laptop aside and got out of bed. The
various leads and machinery had long since been removed.
The four walls crowded him as a numbing pain filled his
soul. The Meta told him Scully understood and accepted him
and his abilities. He needed to get out, to run it out of
his system to run his mind into oblivion and let the pain
sooth him in mindless pounding. The decision was no longer
his. He stood and closed his eyes momentarily. Had it ever
been?

He rummaged through the closet for the sweats and running
shoes Scully had left him as casual hospital attire. 

Scully.

She was leaving him.

Donning them, he was out the door of his room and the
hospital before anyone considered stopping him.

Pound, pound, thump, thump, but this time it was his own
blood in his own ears. The Meta had shown him the truth.
Not just about the consortium, about evil and good, but
about himself. He had to find a way to control this ability.

The cold brought tears to his eyes and tried to freeze
them in place. He rubbed his hand over his face and told
himself it was only the cold. Nothing else.

Why?

It made complete sense. In fact why they hadn't thought of
it before amazed him. Entice her from him with a stunningly-
wrapped package of logic. An expanded forensics department,
assistance and expansion of the X-files division.
Everything they could ever asked for.

Except the one thing he wanted.

Scully.

He stumbled once and grabbed on to the cold metal of a
street sign. His bare fingers pulled away, leaving remnants
of skin. He glanced down at his hand as he ran. Pound,
pound see the blood flow, see the blood run.

This was who and what he was. Patterson was right, always
right. Men like Mulder didn't marry pretty women and come
home to warm smells and loving embraces. He would never
know a woman's love because...

Shit, what was he thinking? He knew at the outset this
would destroy their partnership. Why was it every time he
thought he'd escaped the frying pan and the fucking fire,
he turned around to see hell itself bearing down on him?

And life without Scully by his side would be the greatest
hell of all.

Pound, pound, feel the beat of the ground, the solid thump
as each foot contacts the earth. Solid, complete, whole, as
pure as the act of running.

Oh, God, it was so much more than he had ever imagined. He
was not a man, he was a weapon. A weapon forged to fight
the future. He had no right thinking he could drag her into
this fray.

Run, run, pound, pound.

He snorted a short laugh. Scully was right after all, he
*was* like Ahab. His disability was not a physical loss,
not a pegleg, but something metaphysical he had gained,
through pain and guilt and horror. 

The images of his childhood assailed him. His father knew.
All this time his father knew and could never tell him, for
it was the journey itself that shaped the weapon that was
Fox William Mulder. The very fact that he had never been
told the entire truth should have been a clue in itself.

Scully.

She would never believe what had happened to him. And as
much as his heart ached and he despaired for the loss, he
knew this must be the way it was.

For him. For Lucy and God help him perhaps for Gibson.

Pound, pound, feel the numbness, comfortable numbness of
grief and pain. Lucy had been too broken inside and chose
the only way out. But he did not have that luxury, at least
not yet. There was too much at stake. 

And there was still Samantha. 

That journey had never ceased.

He ran back into the hospital, to his room, stripped and
showered.

It now seemed an inevitability that they should separate.
Scully deserved this, Christ she deserved every bit of it.
It really didn't matter what happened to him. He wasn't a
normal man anymore. Perhaps he never had been. All that
mattered was that he stop hurting her. God, he loved her and
he would take pleasure in the knowledge that letting her go
could be his greatest gift.

He felt a warmth seep through his heart, the same warmth
that encompassed his soul when Nik let him go. It was not
like Scully, never like that all too human embrace. But
this warmth, this truth allowed him to smile, almost
without regret, as he opened the laptop and reread her
thoughts. 

Perhaps she might accompany him in the field...It would
never happen, of course. They would each climb separate
pyramids. Hers would grow tall and strong and his, well, he
no longer feared the effect mirroring had on him, except it
had become clear to him now that it would be while
undertaking one such journey that Clyde Bruckman's prophesy
would come to pass. He had not lied to Scully, for it would
not be him with the rope around his neck. 

He would continue to profile. And he would mirror and
attempt to hone his skills. That he would fall seemed
inevitable without Scully. But she would be safe and warm.
And perhaps his small efforts in this raging war would be
sufficient to hold the wolves at bay until someone
stronger, perhaps Gibson Praise, took up the reigns.

He picked up the telephone to call her. His vocal cords
had not been as damaged as first thought and he was now
capable of holding a limited, carefully modulated
conversation. But he had always found the written word a
more eloquent medium to formulate his thoughts. Besides,
Scully would spend half the conversation berating him for
talking and this way, he could not give in to the
overwhelming desire to beg. 

Scully had made her decision and for once in his sorry son
of a bitch life, he was going to do the right thing.

He pulled the laptop closer and began to type. Oddly
enough, the warmth spread through him and a catharsis that
had begun on a beach on the other side of the planet only a
week before, continued its metamorphosis of Fox William
Mulder. 
 

To: D_Scully@fbi.gov 5:30 PM local time

From: F_Mulder@fbi.gov 

"Your news comes as no surprise. I am both delighted and
in no small part relieved. 

"Since El Rico and our reassignment to the X-files, I, in
my usually blinkered manner, have been unmindful of the
effects upon you. This enforced hospital stay has allowed
me to consider much that has happened in the past few
months. Your news has consolidated my thoughts and I trust
you will bear with my necessarily lengthy diatribe one last
time, as I answer some of your unspoken questions.

"I have come to understand at least in part, something of
which motivated my father and I thus regret his passing
even more. I would like to add, and forgive him, but there
is nothing to forgive.

"After his death and my discovery of his apparently
willing role in Samantha's abduction, I found the burden of
guilt he placed upon me incomprehensible. That engendered
in me a hatred for him beyond measure. The months following
Samantha's disappearance were a parody; the police
investigations, the accusations, the taunts and suspicious
looks by neighbors and erstwhile friends, the unspoken
loathing of my mother all served to enforce in me that I
alone was responsible for my sister's loss and our family's
destruction. 

"That my father allowed this sick farce to play out, that
he allowed me to take the burden of guilt and carry it into
my adult years, I now know must have been as agonizing to
him as Samantha's loss. I recall times he looked at me,
drowning in his scotch, his eyes rheumy from pain and
alcohol. I thought he despised me. I feared those looks
because they bored into my soul and said I was weak,
worthless, despicable. 

"I have now come to understand his bitterness was not from
my failure, but from his own. Were I in his place, as much
as I might hope my decisions would have been wiser, age has
necessarily taught me otherwise. For on my journey I too,
have made countless errors, painful mistakes that have
risked your life, your health and destroyed what happiness
you might have known with a whole family and children. 

"What I learned from El Rico gave me more than pause,
Scully. What I learned on Tuesday gave me even greater
understanding. I have learned a painful and bitter truth,
that my naive search for a greater truth was more
destructive than my father's efforts to hide it.

"I'm not martyring myself here, Scully. As I have come to
understand my father, so, too, I accept it is only the
clarity of twenty-twenty hindsight that allows me to see my
own errors. I cannot go on with you in this way. Our
journeys joined early in our time together and became one,
but they have once more parted. Melissa was right, those
who did this to you and in turn murdered her, suffered a
greater horror. Your journey is complete, your truths
understood from your perspective, your answers given and
accepted. It brings no joy to you, I know, but it brings
closure. Take it, Scully, take it and get on with your life.

"I perforce, am on a different journey. I hold a different
truth than yours and thus I must continue the journey alone,
for in one thing it has never wavered -- to find Samantha. I
know the truth now, but it is not enough. Like you, now I
want answers, I want her returned. And even were that to
come to pass, my truths tell me the world is in an even
greater danger than I once believed. I cannot conscionably
walk away from that.

"You see, my father allowed this burden upon me because he
knew he could not take it upon himself. He forged me, with
the bitter tools of guilt and remorse and regret. He shaped
my spirit, creating a vengeful tool within me to fight a
future he feared beyond all else. In a very real sense,
Kritschgau was right, I am an artifact. Not a pawn as
Kritschgau would have had me believe, but a weapon."

Mulder stopped writing for a moment. In the cool darkness
of the early evening night, the sounds of the hospital
seemed to be magnified. Food carts, footsteps and voices
filled the halls outside. But it all faded into white noise
and the complexity of his life took on a surprising
simplicity. The way before him lay very clear.

Three years previously when they'd found the alien body in
the Canadian Rockies, he had been so close to the truth,
the real truth. They had employed a brilliant and complex
diversionary tactic, an almost universally effective
brainwashing technique. 

They sent Kritschgau to cut his belief system from beneath
him, to artfully destroy the entire construct by which his
very existence depended -- his belief in extraterrestrials
and his life quest search for his sister. Kritschgau
convinced Mulder that his entire life was a fabrication of
false memories and half truths, that Mulder had been
created as a pawn to hide and in fact further a government
sponsored agenda of heinous crimes against humanity. The
perversion was compounded, Kritschgau implied, because they
used Mulder's extraordinary sense of honor and justice to
cover their gross crimes with a blanket fantasy of little
green men. 

The void created in Mulder left him floundering and guilt-
ridden. Then they severed his final lifeline by convincing
Scully, and in turn him, that she'd been given the cancer
in order to make him believe the fabricated alien stories.
The destruction of Fox Mulder was so effective he'd
seriously contemplated suicide.

Worse was yet to come. They finally tried to tear out his
soul by having him believe his sister was not simply
returned, but that she had been fathered by the one human
he despised most of all, a man that might in fact be his
real father. 

The first stage of the brainwashing completed, they
introduced a new belief system to fill the void, to create
for him a new world view of things. In this incarnation
they incorporated his still intact paranoia and suspicion
into new truths that encapsulated a lie made ridiculously
easy to swallow. They had him believing an evil but very
human government experimented on civilians in order to
develop hybrids immune to radiation and biological weapons. 

And he'd bought it, hook line and sinker...until Ruskin Dam.

He shook his head. When that lie dissolved in the face of
things learned after Ruskin, they tried a less subtle
psychological destruction; the burning of his office, the
removal of the X-files and his support structure -- Scully.
C.G.B. Spender should really have learned his mistake when
he'd tried to buy Mulder's soul as Scully lay dying of
cancer. True, Mulder bought the lie for a time, but he
remained an honorable man. And after Ruskin his recovered
beliefs were forged even stronger by his experience
recovering Scully in Antarctica. 

Yet, perversely, the whole truth, when finally given to him,
left him empty-handed. CGB Spender gave him that truth in
Diana's apartment and within hours, no thanks to Mulder, the
alien rebels had destroyed the Consortium. Yes, he had his
truth, but he did not have his quest. He did not have
Samantha.

Then, the Meta changed it all again. He gave Mulder focus
and a foundation upon which to work, while simultaneously
rocking the very foundations of all religious beliefs. And
this time he had been left with undeniable proof. That
Scully would refuse to accept his truth somehow no longer
mattered in the face of the greater war raging. It was no
surprise that she could no longer follow him, but chose to
step back into the mainstream of life.

He would not reveal to her what he had learned, what a
Meta who had once been a man had taught him about the true
nature of evil. Let Scully keep her philosophical crutch,
her belief in a God, for he now knew it was not without
foundation. While a part of him sincerely hoped that she
might have opened her mind to this new reality, that the
heavenly hosts were a benevolent alien force and that evil
was as real as her God, he smiled regretfully and knew she
was safer without such knowledge. One day, she would be
called upon to fight that greater evil. What she had
learned in this life would serve her well. He chuckled,
yeah, she'd make a pretty impressive avenging angel.

He began typing again:

"I continue on this journey, Scully, with the albatross of
guilt over Samantha now gone. But the absence of guilt does
not reduce my need to find her, it simply hones my focus.
And having divested myself of that one guilt, the burden of
your losses weighed yet more heavily. 

"Your news gives me hope and lightens that burden. As a
friend, a fellow traveler on a journey that was once mine
alone, I ask of you now to leave without regret and let me
continue on my way. By taking up this newly-offered journey
along roads you once hoped to tread, you give me some
measure of peace and happiness in the knowledge that you
will continue with your life as it should have been, after
a seven-year detour. I know you will take that which you
have learned in your time with me and use it to good
measure. Take also this new offer with my blessing and
thanks and yes, my love, and know that this makes me far
happier than to have you stay by my side.

M.

 

He sat back, spiritually tired, emotionally exhausted, yet
somehow also freed, knowing she would be safe from the evil
to come. He sent the e-mail, made one reservation, unplugged
the cords and got up from the bed. Time now to put many
things to rest.


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



CHAPTER 7

Day 20 - Thursday

Georgetown

11:31 p.m.

Scully read the e-mail twice before blinking back the
tears. Goddamned the man for doing this! She was *not*
leaving him, couldn't he see that? Had he not read the
proposal before answering her e-mail? She sighed. Of course
he had. And he read what she had not written. 

Damn him! It was always about him! How dare he wax so
poetic, so damned formal, yet lyrical, and drive her to tears
this way? I'm not martyring myself, he said. Huh, not much!

She sat curled on the couch with her head in her arms,
worrying over the proposal yet again. It was an opportunity
of a life time and it *would* benefit him! It wasn't as if
they wouldn't be spending time together. Dammit! She had a
right to her life, to what she wanted in her life! And this
was the best of both worlds; the challenge and stimulation
of the X-files and the opportunity to progress in the FBI
hierarchy. 

Then why did she feel like he had already left her behind,
like he had ditched her and gone off by himself, when it
was the other way around?

No dammit, it was *not* a ditch, at least not on her
behalf. It was a way of giving further credibility to his
work! But she knew him, oh, God, help her she knew him. In
his mind, she was gone to him. And she remembered his eyes
after the morgue. His eyes said it then, that what might
have been never should. He had begun to close off from her
then. Oh it was subtle, so subtle, so *let's just be
partners* friendly that it made her ill.

Then on the rooftop, as she'd told him she needed him,
only that had dragged him back from the abyss.

God, she could kick herself. Of course, she should have
known this is how he would react! She'd made it abundantly
clear she no longer felt his journey had any meaning. She
had been offered something to boost her career and thank
you very much, Mulder, but I've found my answers, it's been
an interesting ride and goodbye but yeah, we'll keep in
touch, exchange Christmas cards and all.

Fuck it! It wasn't that way at all!

Damn him!

Was this is how it would end, not with a bang, not even
with a whimper, but a simple e-mail? Couldn't it equally be
a beginning? Since they would no longer exactly be
partners, couldn't they then be more than simple friends? 

But Mulder didn't think like that. With him, it was all or
nothing, you're either with me, or ag'in' me. You're either
his partner and...whatever, or you are an acquaintance, a
fellow worker who might be of some use to his precious
damned quest!

His sister...Samantha...*nothing else matters to me* ...it
was all, all in that phrase. Here she sat seven years later
and she had forgotten, somehow that those words still drove
him. She had been thrust into orbit around his whirlwind
journey and circumstance had thrust that same journey upon
her shoulders. Circumstance had allowed her to complete her
journey, to find resolution, but it left him still barren
and wanting.

He had always expected that she would leave, as every
other woman in his life left. First, Samantha, then his
mother's emotional withdrawal, then Phoebe's betrayal and
Diana's departure. And, God help him, his wife. And now, of
course, it was her turn.

What's it to be, Dana? If she left, he would never follow.
If she remained in his shadow she would not be true unto
herself. Is this the way Diana had felt? 

Betray him, or betray yourself?

Hadn't she promised to continue on this journey with him?

No, she had regretted leaving him before it was complete.
Now that it was complete, now the consortium was dead, so
was the journey.

But what about Samantha?

The wheel hath come full circle, and it has left us both
barren and empty.

Tears drowning her pillow, she finally slept.

*********************************
End Chapter 7 The Engineer

Title: MIND GAMES: Book 4:The Engineer 5 of 7
Disclaimers: See Part 1

*********************
This section rated PG

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

CHAPTER 8

DAY 21 - Friday
Crystal City, Virginia

>From the journal of Crystal Palmer
 

I was up at 5 a.m., wishing like hell I could go for a
ride. Skinner's bedroom light was on and his door half
open. I had to pass his room to get to the bathroom and
couldn't help but notice him sitting on the end of his bed
tying the laces on his runners.

The words were out of my mouth before I realized it. "You
run?" 

He looked up. "Not as much as I should. This is the first
chance in a few weeks."

I almost bounced up and down on my heels. "Don't suppose I
could join you, could I? I've wanted to since I got here,
but...strange city and all."

He blinked in surprise. "Sure."

I'm not much of a runner, really, my knees can't take the
pounding, but it's better than going to a gym. I'd started
to regret my outburst almost before we were out the front
door. Most male runners are faster than women. My ex hated
me slowing him down. But maybe Skinner was more of a jogger.
No such luck, but he admitted to being out of condition and
it seemed to slow him enough for me to keep pace. After
about a mile I realized the bulge under his sweatsuit was
probably a gun.

"D'you always carry that?"

He saw the direction of my eyes and nodded. "And I.D.,
never hurts."

I thought about that for a mile or two then added, "Because
it's D.C., or because you're a paranoid cop?"

He grinned and replied, "Both."

That kept me quiet for another couple of miles then I
asked, "Ever needed it on a run?"

"Twice. Both times on someone assailing somebody else.
Does it bother you?"

"What are the statistics of gun owners in D.C.? Highest in
the country, isn't it?"

He nodded and I could tell he was tiring.

"No," I added. "I'm just an idealist. I'd like to live in a
world where only law enforcement officers and the military
were allowed to own and carry them."

He looked at me oddly and slowed slightly, then said in a
carefully neutral voice, "And yet you showed no hesitation
in using one when it was necessary."

I pulled up suddenly. Oh, shit. Of course he would have
known. He ran a few paces before realizing I'd stopped. I
guess we'd done about eight miles and my knees were feeling
it. As I said, I'm not much of a runner, the impact gets to
me where cycling doesn't. He walked back to me, but said
nothing, waiting for my reaction.

"How much do you know?"

"That you were given a commendation for bravery for saving
a police officer."

"You know I killed him?"

"The assailant? Yeah."

By mutual consent we started walking back to his
apartment. It was only a block or so away. 

"How do you feel about that?" He asked me.

"Killing him? Honestly? I was horrified at the damage one
bullet, one soft little squeeze of a trigger could do. I'm
sure the average person just does not think about that tiny
little piece of metal shredding its way through flesh
and organs and bone and causing such incalculable havoc on
a human being. I know all I wanted to do was stop him and I
knew there was no other way. Even if I could have pulled
myself out from my bike and tackled him, it wouldn't have
been soon enough. So although I was horrified, although I
felt bad he died, I never felt guilty, never lost any sleep
over it. I was just...sad that it had happened and
unbelievably grateful Johns lived.

"I upchucked in the gutter afterwards, and got a bad case
of the shakes, but only for a few minutes. But I can't
honestly say how much of that was just an overall reaction.
I mean I thought about it again after the FBI took over the
hotel and I saw the photos. I was so sick the first time I
refused to clean the rooms. But that...that was different,
that was...evil, beyond comprehension. Casey was a dog gone
mad, although I felt guilty for a while for not feeling
guilty. Can you understand that?"

He looked at me and nodded. "You know he was on his way to
kill his ex-girlfriend and her boyfriend?"

"Yeah, I found out later. I suppose, thinking back, I was
upset for a while. But it was mostly because I felt I had
no right to decide he should die. And anyone who pulls a
trigger should always have that in the back of their mind,
that they may be killing someone and they had better make
damned certain there really is no alternative."

"Would you do the same thing again?"

I wasn't sure how he wanted me to answer, but I could only
be honest. "Without batting an eyelid. I'd never given guns
much thought, never wanted to own one or fire one, but in
that moment, I knew there was no alternative. I made the
right decision and I do not regret that. I only regret the
circumstances that brought him to that point and that he
died as a result. Look, no one wants a police state, but
our justice system works to give offenders a second chance.
I've often thought it would be fairer to give an innocent
potential victim a first chance and there are at least
three people alive today because Casey is dead."

I knew I was rambling and probably sounded overly defensive.
We'd reached his apartment building and he turned to face
me and said, "Crystal, I'm not suggesting you should feel
anything different. Killing someone, no matter how
justifiable the reason, will always have an effect on you.
Hopefully, you can accept it like you have. How did you end
up with the gun?"

"Fluke, pure and simple. You know his car hit me while I
was riding, don't you?"

"Mm, and you were knocked into the gutter, directly behind
an unmarked detective's car."

"Traffic was heavy, so Casey couldn't drive out of there,
even if he'd wanted to. Detective Johns got out of his
vehicle and leaned over me and asked if I was okay. Next
thing I knew, Casey had tackled him and was hitting him
over the head with this flashlight. Johns said later he saw
movement out of the corner of his eye and started pulling
his gun. It was so fast I couldn't tell, but it makes sense
because all I can remember is this painful whack in my
face, seeing stars, then the gun in my lap and I'm
screaming at Casey to stop or I'll shoot him.

"I expected someone to tackle Casey, you know? But
everyone just froze. And that's what I mean about no
choice. I was angry that no one was trying to help Johns.
Until then I would have said that no one who calls
themselves human could sit by and watch a man beaten to
death."

"Happens every day in this city," he replied as we stepped
into the elevator. 

"Well, that may be, but its wrong. I'm no police groupie,
I avoid trouble like the plague, but in a situation like
that, well, I'm not going to apologize to anyone for doing
what was morally right."

I paused as the lift doors opened. It had never crossed my
mind to consider it. Just because he was FBI didn't mean
he'd ever used his gun, let alone shot anyone. But I
already knew the answer because...because of his eyes, the
way he carried himself. I asked anyway, "Have you ever
killed anyone?"

He nodded as he opened his apartment door. "First time
when I was 18. A 10-year-old Vietnamese boy, booby-
trapped."

"Oh, Jesus..." 

I felt my stomach lurch, not in horror but in sympathy at
such a moral dilemma. I put my hand on his arm and he
smiled at me without humor.

"And no," he added, "it doesn't get any easier with time.
But you either learn to deal with it, to believe you can
make a difference, even if only a slight one, or you become
indifferent and stand by and do nothing while people,
civilians as well as detectives, are beaten to death."

I had the feeling he was telling me something more than
just that. But let it slide. 

I showered first, while Skinner made eggs for breakfast.
He was just getting off the phone when I came downstairs.

"All right, Scully, call me back if you hear anything more.
I'll be leaving in an hour."

As we ate I asked how Mulder was. His nose twitched in
annoyance. "He checked himself out last night, then checked
out of the hotel. I'm betting he's on a flight."

"Can he talk yet?"

Hid lips curled. "Not much, which just might keep him out of
trouble."

Skinner showered while I changed. The phone rang and the
machine didn't get it, I suppose he'd forgotten to put it
back on after talking to Scully. I let it go for a moment,
thinking Skinner might hear it, but he didn't so I went to
his room and answered the cordless extension sitting on his
bedside table.

"Hello?"

"Oh...I'm sorry, is this Walter Skinner's residence?"

"Yes, just a minute,"

I went back in to the hallway and knocked on the bathroom
door. "Phone!" 

The shower turned off and he called, "Who is it?"

"It sounds like Agent Scully, hang on." I asked who was
calling and she confirmed it. But she didn't sound too
happy to tell me, in fact I don't think she would have,
except I'd already guessed.

"He won't be long..."

The bathroom door opened and Skinner took the phone from
me with a mouthed thanks. I turned to go back into my room
to give him some privacy, but not before noticing how he
looked in a skimpy white towel and nothing else.

Oh...the temptation to ogle was almost overwhelming.

Well, what did you expect? I'm only human.

 

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

 

Arlington National Cemetery

Arlington, Virginia

>From the Journal of Crystal Palmer

 
Thank God for waterproof mascara. I didn't gush buckets,
but I couldn't help tears. I'd hardly known these men, but
felt their loss in the stone faced-solemnity of their
colleagues, at the loss of a comrade in arms. Their wives
stood proud and tall and I wondered if I could have been so
dignified in the face of such loss. To be honest, I've
never liked funerals because they seem artificial. A
minister or priest or rabbi saying artificial words of
supposed comfort over a person he'd never known. But as I
stood there that bleak morning, in a cemetery that honored
the bravery of its dead, I felt an overwhelming respect for
not only these two men, but all who rested by their side.
These men knew they might one day be called to give up
their lives to protect others. 

To protect us. 

I wished that I might have such courage, such strength of
spirit and I was, once more, humbled.

Scully stood very close to Mulder during the service. As I
said before, they were like two parts of a whole. Now, their
contact seemed like a form of solidarity. There but for the
grace of God lay Mulder, I thought. I could see it in the
eyes of those who surrounded us. They thought the same. For
all many of them might belittle him and his beliefs, I saw
also a respect bordering on awe. 

He'd arrived just as the service began. Scully hadn't seen
him at first, but I noticed him walk up behind her. She
turned to see who it was and the look of sheer relief on
her face was almost palpable. He'd lost his strange tan and
his face was marked and bruised in places, but the bandage
at his throat was flesh colored. From ten feet away he
looked almost normal. Although their coats only brushed, it
seemed they were one.

Scully wasn't surprised to see me. After the morning's
phone call, she must have put two and two together.
Although I could tell by the quizzical look, she wondered
if the numbers were meant to add up higher. Mulder just
grinned at me, looked me over and rocked his head to one
side in a gesture of delighted approval. He had definitely
added up the numbers. I stayed poker-faced, but was
secretly pleased, even if he had guessed wrong. The man
could send whole paragraphs of conversation with his body
language and eyes. He didn't need vocal cords.

I had felt strangely out of place until then, not
unwelcome but undeserving of being there. A few moments
later, the light drizzle turned to rain. Skinner put his arm
about me, gently pulling me close to share his umbrella as
the rain set in. 

At the end of the service, I glanced at Scully. She seemed
to be looking up at Mulder as if she had lost something and
was trying to find it in his face. Afterwards, he left
without her. I don't know, but something about their
bearing sent a shiver down my spine. I had a bad feeling
about it.

Skinner left me for a few minutes to talk to the wives.
Scully came up and spoke to me. We talked for a bit, but it
was superficial. She looked distracted, upset, yet it
didn't seem to stem from the service. I asked her if
everything was okay and she said she was fine and turned on
an artificial smile. I really was at a loss because Mulder
looked, well, happy was not the right word because it was a
funeral. But he seemed to have been freed of a burden. I
suppose it was the case being closed. So why was Scully so
concerned? 

A driver chauffeured Skinner and I to the Hoover building.
The flag was flying at half mast. I didn't say anything.
Skinner saw me frown and look down at my hands. It was not
melancholy that I felt, but solemnity. We are so hardened
in our society, so indifferent, so cynical, especially in
this singularly cynical city of politicians and bureaucrats. 
I don't think I could have explained that to anyone, but I also 
felt guilt, for having disliked, even hated these men and women 
when they first came to our home. Now I felt wanting in the face 
of such honor.

In strange contrast, perhaps in part because of the
funeral, the hours that followed were more than uplifting,
they were exhilarating. For the first time since coming to
D.C., I felt alive. These men and women were really
achieving something. For all most of it was technical dog
work, they were really making a difference. I lusted after
their equipment, longing for the sort of lengthy jam
sessions we used to have in our offices at university. This
was so far removed from the dry corporate worlds I'd been
mindlessly wandering through this past week, it touched
something in me. I did not know what, exactly, but I
suddenly knew that I could never work in any of the places
I had prospectuses for.

Skinner told me to call him at lunch, after leaving me
with a technician named Sam Peaton, but to be honest, I'd
forgotten. He eventually tracked me down in one of the
photo labs at about 5:30. I was starving and exuberant and 
practically fell over myself telling him what I had seen and 
what could be done to improve certain things. He ended up 
practically dragging me out of there by the elbow. About a 
mile of halls and elevators later, I was in his office and he 
was telling Kimberly, his assistant, that she could go home 
for the night. Scully was there with him and that's when he 
dropped the bomb shell.

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

End Chapter 8 the Engineer

Title: MIND GAMES: Book 4:The Engineer 6 of 7
Disclaimers: See Part 1

*********************
This section rated PG

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

CHAPTER 9

DAY 21 - Friday
Washington, D.C.

 
>From the journal of Crystal Palmer

 
When he said he wanted to take me out for dinner I warned
him it had to be casual because I had no evening clothes.
He smiled and replied it was just around the corner at a
pub and we could go there straight from his office. I
relaxed a bit because for all we had developed a closeness,
I felt nervous about the direction things were going. In
fact, I was now at a loss to know what direction that was.

"Is this standard FBI recruiting protocol?" I asked after
my first sip of wine.

He had the grace to chuckle. "No." He wanted to say more
but he looked me up and down, evaluating me, but in a nice
way, a way I would have said was part seduction except that
he managed to look chagrined at the same time.

"When did you decide to make this offer?" 

He looked thoughtful, then sipped his drink and replied, "I
think I'd subconsciously been considering it since last
Thursday, but it took me until yesterday to wade through
the paperwork. Among it were three recommendations that
you be recruited as an FBI candidate."

"So, why didn't you say something last night?"

"I wanted to let you see where you'd be working, meet the
people you'd be working with."

"How long before I have to make a decision?"

"It's an open offer, but if you do decide quickly, we can
get the preliminary interviews and medicals over and done
with by the end of next week. The background checks have
already thoroughly been covered. A little paper-shuffling,
but there's a new class due to start at Quantico three
weeks after that I can get you in. You should stay in D.C.,
meanwhile, because there will likely be routine follow ups."

"Mm, three weeks in D.C. Kind of expensive." 

"Crystal, you can stay as my guest as long as you like, you
know that."

"Do you think that's a very good idea, under the
circumstances?"

He played dumb. "What circumstances?"

I pulled my lips in and frowned. Had I imagined things?
Was Skinner so far into the FBI that this seduction was
purely professional? I felt a little adrift, so stabbed
another oyster and swallowed before answering. "I mean you
are an A.D. Isn't there some sort of protocol?"

He tossed his head back and grinned broadly, then looked
at me with amazingly bright eyes. "The FBI is a political
bureaucracy. A good many have secured their position in the
agency at least in part due to...sponsorship." He shook his
head. "You're not the sort of person to use an...association
to your advantage. And even if you were, in the initial
stages, no one has any sway over an entire board of doctors
and psychologists who'll screen you. As an agent, you would
never be placed under my command because your expertise
lies in a completely different area. When you undergo
training at Quantico, you will pass or fail on your merits
alone. And if you fail, you should not be ashamed, because
the process is designed to filter only those who can meet
its unique demands. Not meeting those demands does not make
you a lesser person. Not everyone is suited for the FBI. Not
everyone should be."

He stopped for moment then added, "But you won't fail. You
have all the qualities of an excellent agent. You have
integrity and honesty, you've been offered money, good
money to betray unspoken confidences. You could have taken
that money in all good conscience for you signed nothing to
prevent you from doing so. You've shown an ability to work
independently and yet you work well on a team in less than
ideal conditions."

"I threw up when I first saw those photos in Seattle." I
grimaced.

"So you should have. But you adjusted. You are sensible
enough to avoid violence, but when confronted with it, you
display courage and cool thinking. You didn't tell me your
ankle was broken by Casey when he sideswiped your bike."

I frowned at him. "Why did you ask about it when you knew?"

"I wanted to feel your reaction, especially to killing a
man." 

I looked away again. A cop, a typical cop.

"Crystal, I'm sorry if you think I deceived you, I didn't.
It's just that..." He looked uncomfortable. "I...The FBI is
not for everyone. You need to rapidly adjust to...circumstances. 
You might go twenty years and never have to pull a gun. But 
if you're ever put in that situation again, I needed to know you 
wouldn't hesitate. Sure, the psych screening will pick that up, 
but *I* needed to know before recommending you.

"You warned Casey three times before pulling that trigger.
And if you'd hesitated any longer, Johns would be dead. I
also know that despite the pain, you hobbled to his car and
called officer down, then sat with him and staunched the
blood flow and talked with him until the paramedics
arrived. I've seen trained agents lose it and have to
retire after killing a man. Yet while you fully comprehend
and regret the consequences of shooting a man, you would do
so again if the situation called for it."

And as I sat there, I realized that yes, this is what I
wanted. This felt right. But it didn't answer a second
question. Could I have both?


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


Scully parked her car just outside his apartment building.
She counted her blessings that she hadn't had to walk half
a mile in the drizzling, half-formed snow. Her heart thudded
in keeping with her short, sharp footsteps. The only good
thing about the conversation she was about to have was that
it would be completely one-sided. Finally, a chance to tell
Mulder exactly what she thought without him somehow
arguing...oh, shit. She pulled up short outside of his
elevator. Who was she kidding? What exactly did she want,
anyway? For him to beg and grovel and ask her not to leave?
Was that it?

No, damn him! She wanted him to accept a future where they
could work together, albeit not as closely...Oh, what was
the point? He wouldn't listen, he never listened to
her... She sighed deeply. No, that was just plain wrong. The
truth was, he always listened. He fed her reasoning into
that great dumb genius brain of his and processed it into
the most improbable reasoning. But he had always respected
her and her opinions. He always listened even if he did not
agree. As she had always listened to him...Well, no she
hadn't. Sometimes she outright refused.

Oh, hell, what was the point trying to talk to him when he
couldn't respond?

Scully decided to leave, but his apartment door opened 
and he came out with a bag of trash in hand. He looked 
up and the genuine delight on his face at seeing her 
tore down her wallsentirely. She had rarely seen that 
totally carefree smile. It made his face look so damned 
funny. His nose sort of flattened out and his cheeks 
edged up to his eyes and oh...her own face couldn't help 
smiling in return.

"Hey, FBI woman."

"Mulder!" her face dropped. "You shouldn't be talking!"

He took her by the arm and kissed her cheek in welcome,
then motioned her to wait in his apartment while he took out
the trash. Scully stared at the elevator doors, dumbfounded. 
He *never* kissed her unless she was half-dead in a hospital 
bed. Could she have been mistaken? Was this new affection 
a sign that they could pick up exactly where they'd left off 
three weeks before?

Her brows knitted in confusion, she walked slowly into his
apartment, pulled off her coat and made herself comfortable
on the couch.

Mulder reappeared in minutes. He rubbed his hands
together as he entered the apartment, trying to ward off
the chill from outside. 

"Want some coffee?" He asked in a soft voice.

"Mulder, why are you talking?"

"Scully, I'm fine. Not as much damage as they first
thought. I can't shout or sing, but apart from that, I'm
fine."

Scully stood, wanting to get a closer look at the dressing
on his throat. "Have you changed that since you checked
yourself out last night?" Her accusation was on many levels.

He shrugged, but kept grinning at her. 

God, what had gotten in to him? "I thought as much. Okay
Mulder, come here, I want to have a look."

"Wait till I put the coffee on." 

In his typically manic style, he bounded into the kitchen,
started the brew, then dutifully placed himself on the couch
while Scully raided her medical kit kept in her spare
travel bag in his hall closet.

Scully gently eased the dressing from his throat. The
second cut had been relatively long, the leading and
tapering edges however were quite shallow. They had healed
to bright pink skin. She was delighted to see the initial
stab had completely sealed, the stitches having already
been removed. But she could see why he'd kept the skin
colored dressing in place. The livid purple color of the
scar stood out like a beacon. It would take some weeks to
fade and it was likely the scar would be permanent. Then
she was suddenly reminded that he said he no longer
scarred.

"Mulder, what happened to you when you disappeared?" 

It was not what she had come by to discuss, but that
seemed to be the best place to start.

He held his hand up for her to wait, then disappeared into
the kitchen to make the coffee. When he returned, he sat
down next to her on the couch, turned slightly to face her.
He placed the mugs on his coffee table and picked up one of
her hands in his. His untroubled face continued to bother
her. As much as she should have been grateful he seemed
happy, it just didn't fit. Could he really, genuinely want
her to accept the director's offer?

She closed her eyes again, distracted by the feel of his
thumb stroking her hand. Why in hell couldn't she be happy
if he was? What was wrong with her?

"Scully," he began in a soft voice, "I asked if I could
prove to you the existence of God, would you let me? You
said you could not follow me on that journey. Then when you
told me about the offer, it became clear to me that you
were right. You have your own journeys to make, your own
beliefs and I have no right to challenge your convictions.
I once thought if I could prove to you the existence of
estraterrestrials, I would be able to convince the world.
But I have come to believe that there are in fact some
truths best left alone. What I learned, what was shown to
me on that Tuesday, was that truth." 

He reached across and tucked a wayward lock of hair behind
her ear. She leaned into his hand a little, but then an
awful feeling hit her again. As it had since this case
began, his gestures were tender, but lacked any hidden
passion. So often in the past his fleeting touches were hot
fire wrapped in gentleness, harnessed only by professional
constraints. But this time, she felt a coldness creep up
her spine. He had shut her out. 

She sucked her breath in. She did not have the courage to
face this and desperately scrambled to pull all her
professional walls around her. 

Betray him, or betray herself? His gesture said it all. He
was giving her freedom. She would not betray him, she
could be true to herself and it was okay, really okay,

Then why did she feel like her heart and soul had been
ripped out? 

Why, goddamn it, what had happened to him? Was this still
part of his fear for her witnessing his mirroring? If she
could just understand what he had seen that Tuesday, she
might be able to sort one from the other.

"Then Mulder, tell me that truth, tell me what you found?
I'm not saying I can or will accept it, but at least give
me some understanding of why you are pulling away like this!"

His head turned to one side in mild confusion. "I'm not
pulling away from you, Scully."

"Yes you are, goddamn it! The director gives you, us, an
opportunity to change the direction of the X-files and your
answer implies I'm leaving you and by the way, have a nice
life!"

He frowned. He knew he could be singularly dense
sometimes, especially trying to decipher Scully language.
He was absolutely sure that when it came to interpreting
meanings, she used a completely different thesaurus than him.

"Scully, you ask me what I saw and in order to explain it
to you, I asked you about proving God's existence. You tell
me you don't want to hear that...so where does that leave
me? I can't tell you what happened unless you let me prove
that which you do not want proved."

"Mulder, are you trying to tell me you had some sort
of...of religious experience on Tuesday?"

He chuckled, released her hand and reached for his coffee
cup. "Or would you prefer the abduction by aliens take on it?"

To give herself time to think, Scully reached for her
coffee and sipped.

"Okay, Mulder, I'm listening. What happened?"

He stood, pulled off his sweater and T shirt, then
unbuttoned his jeans.

"Mulder..?" Scully's eyes widened in surprise.

He grinned disarmingly as he pulled his pants down, "Don't
worry Scully, I'm not coming on to you, I just want to show
you something. Besides, it's not like you haven't seen it
all before, right?"

Her instinct was to turn away, but as he bent over, her
eyes glanced across his shoulder. 

It wasn't there.

It had to be, it must have faded, that's all.

Then her eyes cornered the area. There had been some
scarring from the Jersey Devil and mothmen attack. Thin
dark lines and puckering that had never quite faded.

They were gone.

Her brows now knitted in disbelief, she looked down at his
left thigh, to the distinctive thick scarring of the bullet
wound.

Gone.

Scully deposited her coffee cup on the table and leaned
forward, oblivious now of her proximity to Mulder's groin.
She reached her physician's hands to his thigh and moved
the muscle back and forth. There was absolutely no sign of
the slight thickening of muscle around where the scar
should have been. She stood, baffled, scouring every inch
of his body, searching for a dozen small scars she knew he
had.

Nothing.

The entry and much larger exit hole in his shoulder, where
she herself had shot him.

Gone.

She kept poking and prodding at him, turning his body this
way and that, determined to find a cause. Then it dawned on
her and she gasped in horror, pulled away, withdrew her
weapon and aimed it at him. It all made sense now. It all
fell into place.

"Who the fuck are you and where is Mulder?"

Mulder grinned. "I wondered when you'd come to that
conclusion, but this time, Scully, you're wrong."

Scully's eyes narrowed "Bullshit. It's the one explanation
that *does* make sense."

Mulder cocked his head to one side. "Oh, sure, if you
believed like me, it would all make sense. But you *don't*
believe in shape-shifting aliens or clones, do you Scully?
Any time you see one you consign it to a blow to the head,
or some other *scientific* explanation!"

Scully's eyebrows furrowed at the edge of bitterness in
his voice. But it disappeared as he continued.

"C'mon, Scully, use that patented logic of yours. If I was
replaced on Tuesday, how come I ended up in the hospital  
Friday with my head half off? I bled *red* blood and I would
have *died* if I hadn't been ventilated in time.

"Then...then it happened in hospital, or on the way
here..." But her frown deepened.

"Okay, let's say you're right... If I am a clone, or an
alien, I must have been right about everything, all
along...here, look," he snatched the pocket knife from his
computer table and flicked it open. Scully repositioned
herself in case he lunged at her, but before she could stop
him he sliced a shallow cut across the back of his hand.
Her eyes widened but he lifted the blade to his torso and
made a further knick just under his ribs. Red blood welled
up and a single drop fell.

"You pick a place at random, Scully, anywhere on my body
to prove it's no elaborate trick. Don't worry, I won't
scar." He grinned.

Her face screwed up in confusion and she reluctantly
lowered her weapon. But her eyes continued to travel his
body, searching for a clue.

"Can I get dressed now Scully? It's kind of cold in
here...or do you just want to keep leering at me?"

She pulled her lips to one side, replaced her weapon, then
picked up the mug and drank the contents, a thoughtful look
on her face.

"Mulder, what happened to you?"

"I'm not an alien, or a clone, but it still begs the question. 
When convention and science offer us no answers, might 
we not finally turn to the fantastic as a plausibility?"

She glared at him with her patented look but refused to be
baited.

"Scully, unless you can give me a scientific explanation,
or concede that you cannot, I can't...I won't answer you.
I'm not going to allow you to make that journey unless you
are really prepared to concede to other...possibilities."

So he'd finally called her on it. A part of her knew that
he would one day. She'd seen far too much to not admit
science did not have all the answers. And hadn't her
inability to admit to the fantastic caused him such pain
after the mirroring in the morgue? Hadn't she castigated
herself then for refusing to admit the possibility? Could
she not, just once, concede the point? What was she so
frightened of. The truth?

"Okay, Mulder, I concede I have no explanation for the
absence of scar tissue on your body."

"Nuh uh." Mulder shook his head. "Not good enough,
 Scully."

"You're really going to force this, aren't you?"

He had accepted that she must be left behind but oh, God, he
hoped, like a man holding a lottery ticket, that he might yet
have it all. Yet it must be for the right reasons. It must
be real and honest and if it meant pushing her away to keep
her safe in her world, so be it. "I want you to be truthful
to yourself, Scully because if you can't be that, you are
not ready for this journey and I can't take you along."

"So, give in to your point of view or get ditched, is that
it, Mulder? Whatever happened to that trite little speech
you gave me, not fifty feet away, about me saving you,
making you a whole person with my rationalism?"

"Scully, in this case you have proof and denying it is
irrational. I'm asking for the same rationalism again. *I*
am the proof, the hard core proof that science cannot give
you all our answers. Unless you can concede that, you need
to stick to your own safe world."

He downed the last of his coffee, collected her cup and
took them back into the kitchen. He berated himself for
trying. He was pushing her beyond her limits when there
really was no point. She would be leaving him soon, it was
for the best. But could he have one thing, please, just one
thing, that they depart as friends, not antagonists? In the
long term, she would come to know the truth. One day, she
would disappear just as Nicholas Page had and then she
would know. Whether he lived to see that day, the day she
disappeared for good, he didn't know. 

Oh, hell, it didn't matter. Really. He hurt like shit but
he would not succumb to a lie. He needed to put some
distance between them now.

"Scully, it's getting late, maybe you should go home."

She stood rooted to the spot. He had never, ever asked her
to leave. Betray him or betray herself. That's what it came
down to. But what was it about herself that was she
betraying? Those damned scars had *gone*! She had no
rational explanation for that! Couldn't she concede that
point! Her face started to crumble, not in tears, she could
not let herself concede that, but in loss, confusion. 

"Hey, Scully." He came back out of the kitchen, more than
a little surprised to see her lost, confused look. He pulled
her to him and held her. "Scully, you don't...hm," He sighed.
"You don't have to go, I didn't mean it like that." 

He lifted her chin and peered into her eyes, a smile
tugging at the corner of his lips. "I just thought that, I
think that you are better off living with your own belief
systems intact. God knows I've had mine strung up and spat
out enough times to wonder what the hell the truth really
was."

"And you think that hasn't happened to me, Mulder? You
think you're the only one who CGB Spender played his little
mind games on?"

"No, no, I don't. You've lost a great deal more than me in
this damned quest. He's tried everything possible to drive
you from me and yet you stayed. Beyond all logic and
reasoning, you stayed with me. You're finally applying that
logic to leave, and I respect that. But in this instance,
in this one thing, I'm not asking you to abandon logic. I'm
asking you to apply it. What logic explains the absence of
these scars? You agree there is none. But you are a
scientist, you must concede that an answer exists. I'm
telling you I have the answer but you can't hear it if you
have no ears to listen. Only when you accept that
possibility that another explanation, outside of science,
exists, can I give you your answer."

"Mulder, all I have outside my science is my faith in a
higher order."

"Then there's your answer."

She pulled back from him and looked at him and the
calmness of his face. Had he really had some sort of
religious experience? Could she accept that? "Are you
trying to tell me that...God did this to you?"

He dropped his hands to his side and smiled at her so
gently, in that moment she could believe it.

"God is an idea, a totality. You were right, all of us,
everything in the universe is the sum total of God. But I
can also tell you there are beings...forces that exist on a
higher plane. There are also...lesser minions of this
force, that fight raw evil. I guess you might call
them...angels, but they call themselves Metas." 

She blinked at him and sat down on the corner of the
couch. Could she deal with this? Could she accept a proof
of spirituality? 

"Mulder, I still can't promise I'll accept what you tell
me but...I admit I have...I have to admit that...that my
science cannot explain what happened to you. My faith,
perhaps, is the only thing that might."

His smile lit his face again. "Then sit back, Scully,
because I'm going to tell you a story that will knock your
socks off."

*********************
End Chapter 9 The Enginner

Title: MIND GAMES: Book 4:The Engineer 7 of 7
Disclaimers: See Part 1

*********************
This section rated NC17 for sexual situations

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

CHAPTER 10

DAY 21 - Friday
Crystal City

>From the journal of Crystal Palmer


We were back at his apartment before ten. I'd had enough
to drink to lose any hesitancy I might feel, but I was
certainly not drunk. It was dark inside. Only the residual
illumination of the city lights peeked in through the
balcony doors. Skinner closed and dead-bolted the front
door, then helped me off with my coat. He turned and hung
his own overcoat on the rack, but I didn't move. Instead, I
reached my palm to his chest, just where his jacket parted.
He was firm and warm beneath my hand. 

"I...I'm a little lost here."

He didn't move away. In fact, by turning to face me he
seemed to move closer. The darkness emphasized the smell of
cologne and maleness, a scent that had become arousing by
its recent familiarity. But I really was lost. Was I
mistaken in his attraction to me? Was this...association,
could I go so far as to say friendship, based on attributes
he saw in me as a potential agent, or potential lover -- or
both?

I wore low heels and he stood about two inches taller than
me. He slowly reached his right arm behind me, but did not
pull me closer as he leaned across to kiss me. It was soft,
at first, enough to tell me its intent was not chaste, but
allowing me plenty of room to draw away.

Oh, my...one kiss should not be sufficient to arouse me
like that. His tongue hesitated at the edge of my lips, and
I slowly slid my palm around his chest to his back,
pulling myself closer to him. He moaned softly and I knew
he was just as moved as me, but for all his power, perhaps
because of his size and strength, he was being very, very
careful. But I didn't want careful and controlled, I wanted
to feel his strength. 

He broke off the kiss and pulled away slowly. Jesus, trust
me to find an honorable man when all I wanted was to throw
him on the floor and...but I considered the circumstances.
I was his house guest, a guest of an FBI assistant director
and someone he had recommended be taken into the fold.
Whatever happened between us must be with my unequivocal
agreement. 

I put my other hand to his face and leaned up to touch his
lips with mine again. This time he didn't hesitate and his
tongue reached in confidently, exploring me, sending warmth
through my belly. As the kiss intensified his arms
encompassed me and his grip became more possessive. I tried
to pull him closer, to feel him against me, but he broke
away, burying his face in my neck, trying to control his
breathing. 

His reluctance bothered me, it was as if he feared letting
me feel his arousal. What, did he think I'd want to take
things slower? That I was some teenager on a first date? We
both knew this was coming last Saturday night. I was not
going to make him second guess this. He had to know now
that I wanted him. 

"Skinner..." I whispered as his cheek slid across mine and
his tongue stroked my earlobe. "I'm not a game player, I
don't do things in half measure." Then I very deliberately
reached in front of me until my palm rested on his thigh,
and carefully brought it up to cup his groin.

Oh, boy...all my birthdays come at once. They say that big
men are less well endowed than smaller ones. Maybe. But
that package waiting for me included something long and
thick and very hard. I moaned, it felt sooo nice. Honestly,
just the feel of him was so damned good, I was creaming. He
groaned and all but attacked my neck. There would be a
hickey there in the morning, absolutely no doubt of that.

"Crystal..." It came out ragged but I stroked and cupped
him in reply, unable to take my hands off that nice hard,
soft bundle. Mine, all mine...

He took my face in his hands and very carefully pulled me
away to look at me. I remember thinking the first time I
saw his eyes I could have drowned in them. 

I wasn't wrong.

He took me by the hand and pulled me towards the stairs.
Oh, you have no idea how good that felt. If he'd just
thrown me down on the floor, or maybe the couch, I wouldn't
have objected, but this was a very possessive move to take
me to his bed. 

His bed.

That required time to get up the stairs, giving me a
chance to consider what was happening. Did I ever mention
that anticipation is almost as good as the event itself?
Well, maybe not that good, but very titillating. Okay,
okay, so it was only a set of stairs to negotiate, but it
was the determined way in which he did it. 

He reached across and knocked the phone off the hook,
giving me a chance to divest myself of my shoes. He had his
tie and coat jacket off by the bottom step and I'd also
lost my jacket. About three steps up he had me pinned
against the wall and finally, at long last, let me pull him
against me. Oh God I almost came as he very slowly, very
deliberately thrust his hips into mine once, twice and then
again. I'm not sure what was more erotic, that or the
tongue in my left ear. 

By the time we got moving again, I was soaked and both my
panty hose and panties had been discarded. I heard a
double clunk as his shoes fell down the stairs. How had he
managed to use his tongue and hips while easing his shoes
and my panties off? Ah, the famous executive level multi-
tasking skills coming into play. Mm, I wondered what other
multi tasks he was good at. About five steps later I found
out.

This time it was me pushing him into the wall. His tongue
was very carefully exploring the continuous erogenous zone
along my chin. Mind you, every square inch of my body had
become an erogenous zone, so location was not a factor. Lo
and behold, I found he'd divested me of my skirt and his
socks. How does he do it?

Just as we reach the turn, his trousers dropped and
draped down a couple of steps. Proudly displaying my own
temporarily lost undressing ability, I had single handedly
undone my shirt buttons and managed to get the thing off.
Now I know that sounds like a pretty basic maneuver, but at
the time I felt proud of achieving something other than
mindless groping.

By the time we reached the top of the stairs, there was
not much left except his underwear, and that found its way
to the floor before we'd reached his bedroom. The biggest
problem I could see was that we were both so over the top,
this was bound to be over with all too soon. 

I wasn't wrong. 

I know he had all good intentions of making it last, but I
wrapped my legs around him when we fell onto the bed,
pulled him on top of me and thrust myself downward, impaling
myself in the process. Common sense took over for about
fifteen seconds while he held me absolutely rigidly. Squirm
as I might, he was so powerful I could hardly move.

"Crystal...sh,"

"Wha..?"

But some higher function in my brain took over and told me
he was fumbling in the bedside drawer. What in hell...?

Oh, oh, yeah. 

Jesus I hate condoms! I wondered how fast we could get
blood tests. I knew I was okay because I'm a blood donor.
And I figured he was too, given his position. And I was on
the pill, but I wasn't about to turn this into a discussion, I 
was far too gone for that.

Give him his due, he had it on in no time flat. Before he
could settle back down on me I'd arched back up again and
reimpaled myself. 

I'm sure I lasted at least four strokes, but maybe it was
less, I really wasn't counting. But that was it, I was gone
and naturally enough, my legs wrapped around his back and
groaning his and God's name all at once, Skinner lost it as
well.

"Jesus...Jesus, you are so beautiful," he managed to croak
out between thrusts and groans.

We gently pulled away from one another and I looked into
his face. There was enough light coming from the street to
see the grin quivering on his lips. I couldn't help it, the
sight of it sent me off and I burst out laughing. He lost
it as well and hung his head on my shoulder as his body
quivered with laughter. I mean, it was funny. Here we are,
two mature people and we can't get it on longer than a
couple of 16-year-olds! 

We both tried to apologize at once and of course that set
us off laughing again. And then a more thoughtful part of
my mind finally clicked in and I realized I had never seen
him this relaxed. Okay, under the circumstances that may
sound a little odd, of course he'd be relaxed. But this man
carried around with him an extraordinary presence of power
and strength and dignity. Mulder, for instance, had bedroom
eyes and a soulful face. You could easily imagine him
making love. But Skinner was entirely different. I knew I'd
never really be able to look at him completely straight-
faced again. Something in those rich brown eyes would
always remind me of this moment. I suppose it just
surprised, and delighted me, that he could relax enough to
think sex could be funny.

He kissed me then, long and full and deep and I could feel
my arousal growing. I slowly bucked against him, sliding up
and down slightly, trying to get the right angle. He was
still hard enough to stay inside me and he knew exactly
what I was doing. He pulled back a little and cupped one of
my breasts in his hand, then licked and suckled the nipple.
I wrapped my legs around his thighs to hold him still,
telling him with my body that I needed control of this. His
mouth moved to the other breast and I continued in a
sliding motion, rubbing his pelvis across my clitoris until
the second orgasm started to hit me. He pulled away from my
breast and thrust his tongue in my mouth, mimicking the
thrust of his sex into mine and I exploded more powerfully
than the first time.

We slept then, for a time. I'm not sure who woke first but
by mutual consent we headed for the bathroom. I cannot tell
you how big I am on oral sex. I mean giving as well as
receiving. I adore it, but I suppose like most people I
like it clean. I cannot stand a man going down on me unless
I've just stepped out of a shower. Although in this case,
while still in the shower was even better. 

Oddly enough, I've never made love in the shower before,
either. It always sounds like a good idea, but the
practical difficulties generally outweigh the desire.
Anytime I'd started, we'd given up and headed to the
bedroom. But Skinner is so damned strong he can hold me
above himself and lower me on to him while maintaining a
good rhythm. I did wonder what would happen when he came,
but practicalities took over again. Damn those condoms! In
the end, though, he didn't climax, but held me gently until
I came down from mine.

Now, it was my turn for self-indulgence. I started to
remove the condom and he stopped me and looked at me, his
eyes questioning. I smiled and decided to tell him what I
had in mind. From my experience, most men are pretty turned
on when you give them a graphic description of what you are
about to do to them. Skinner was no exception.

"I am going wrap my tongue around *you* and to suck *you*
not some piece of latex. And I'm asking you now, please,
please come in my mouth. I want that very badly."

Oh yeah, that worked. His nostrils flared and his jaw
clamped and he went absolutely still. I teased and played
with him unmercifully for some minutes, the logical part of
my brain wondering when the hot water would run out. 

Skinner was gentle with me. Some men tend to lose it after
a while and start plunging in recklessly, or grabbing your
head and pulling you on to them. Skinner maintained a
reasonable semblance of control until the very end. Even
then, he only allowed himself to wrap his fingers through
my hair as he moaned my name over and over. 

The water started to lose its heat soon after. At about
the same time I could have sworn I heard a knocking sound.
Skinner turned the shower off and grabbed a towel. He
turned to face me, his eyes smiling as he systematically
dried me. Then I heard the knocking sound again. He heard
it this time as well. His brows knitted together and he
answered my unspoken question.

"Someone's at the door."

Without further ado, he grabbed his thick bathrobe and
wrapped it around himself as he headed out of the bathroom.
I couldn't help but admire his naked butt along the way.

I stood there toweling my hair, grinning like an idiot for
about ten seconds. Then I remembered the telephone was
off the hook and the trail of discarded clothing from the 
front door to the bedroom. I risked a glance outside. Oh, oh,
Skinner had not turned on the hall light. It would be a
miracle if he didn't trip and break his neck...on the other
hand the darkness hid the evidence from anyone standing at
the door.

I scrambled around, then ran naked back into the guest
room and found my own bathrobe. Definitely not as nice as
Skinner's. I rushed back out in time to hear voices. Oh,
shit, oh shit he's letting them in the front door! How in
hell...didn't he realize...? Had he had time to pick up...?
I ran down the first part of the stairs, clutching
discarded apparel and tossing it to the top. I figured I
could probably sneak down and grab the rest while Skinner
kept whoever in hell it was occupied...who the hell was it
anyway...? But the voices gave them away immediately.
Mulder and Scully. Then I saw the light go on and Skinner
called my name.

There are absolutely no etiquette books dealing with such
a situation, I'm sure. I tied my bathrobe, grabbed a towel
from the floor and wrapped it around my head as I went
downstairs. And there it all lay, the evidence of our lust,
a trail of clothes and shoes and oh God help me my panties
artfully draped across one of Skinner's shoes on the second
step. Well, that pretty much summed it up, I thought. Three
FBI agents in the living room, three pairs of eyes looking
up at me and I'm supposed to descend the stairs with some
dignity. 

Great, just fucking great.

The question, of course, was do I step on or over or
around the panty hose? The skirt and Skinner's jacket,
well, they were definitely step around, but panty hose just
don't rate, nor do men's socks, although in that regard I
was luckier. One of them was scrunched up against the wall,
somehow having wrapped itself in his tie.

I navigated my way around this stuff, pretending that it
was normal to ornament a stairway in this manner. The fact
that we were both sopping wet and wearing bathrobes kind of
added to the we-have-just-fucked-ourselves-silly ambiance. 

Oh, brother...I mean, he was their boss and it was just,
well...it just seemed tacky when I wanted to scream out
that tacky is far from what it had been. But something in
their eyes pulled me up short. Skinner's brows were knitted
and he stepped towards me and my heart just about burst out
of my rib cage.

"What's wrong?" was all I could manage.

Skinner glanced at his two agents. They shared a look and
I knew, God help me I knew.

"It's Jace, isn't it?"

My face must have turned white because Skinner suddenly
had me by the elbow.

"What...?" I tired to stammer out.

"Jace...Justin's been abducted." Scully said quietly.

"How...?" But as sure as I knew it was Jace, I guessed
why. I turned to Mulder, my face cracking. "It's him, isn't
it?"

He swallowed and nodded and I could see pain and sympathy
twist his face. He knew, perhaps more than anyone in that
room, he knew what I was feeling. I crumpled back into
Skinner's arms.

**********************
End Chapter 10 The Enginner