From: "Kristel S. Johns" <kjohns@mail2.alliance.net>
Date: Tue, 23 Apr 1996 18:05:21 +0000
Subject: (Fwd) Nightscape 7a


NIGHTSCAPE
Kristel S. Oxley-Johns

Please send all questions, suggestions and comments to
the author at kjohns@mail2.alliance.net

The characters and situations of the X-Files television program
are the creations and property of Chris Carter, Fox
Broadcasting, DD, GA, et cetera, and are used without
permission.  No infringement is intended.  I just want to tell a
story.

Part Seven (1/2)

*  *  *  *  *

It was several days into her captivity before Scully felt 
confident enough to begin probing her captor for information.

The waiting hadn't been easy for her.  She felt each second tick by
with growing desperation, but she had to bide her time, gaining her
captor's trust before she decided upon a course of action.  Perhaps at
one time, she would have simply gone for broke and charged the guy,
maybe even pulling a leg off her rickety cot to use as a club, but
this time she simply couldn't risk it.  This time, it was not only her
own life she was putting on the line.

Her time was limited, though, she realized.  Even if her living 
conditions didn't adversely affect her pregnancy, then certainly the
anxiety and lack of fresh air and sunlight, and inactivity would begin
to wear on her.  She could only remain in her normal prime physical
condition for so long in these conditions.  Then she would begin to
weaken, she would lose her edge.  And then he truly would have her.

The waiting took its own toll.  She sat in the cell the first day with
nothing to do but stare at the cinder block walls.  Her body wanted to
sleep, but she knew it was a reaction to the drugs and the darkness
around her more than to any physical exhaustion.  She wouldn't allow
herself to take a nap, because to do so might be to allow him to come
upon her unprepared.  She wouldn't turn her back on him, in case his
compulsion to kill got too strong, and he took advantage of her
unconscious state, a time when she could not confuse his goals in his
own head, to do what he felt needed to be done.  She had to keep him
off balance, keep him uncertain of what it was he needed to do.  That
was her safety.

That first night, her uncommonly considerate captor brought 
her cleaning supplies and reading materials.  The cleaning 
supplies were eagerly greeted, since sitting in the semi-dark for
hours on end had left Scully with the distinct impression that that
the denizens of the cobwebs around her were crawling over her skin. 
The magazines, however, she quickly lost interest in.  They were
simple fashion journals and housekeeping periodicals.  She would have
been much happier with a medical journal.

Her second full, conscious day in captivity was spent trying to 
right what she could in her surroundings.  The cleaning 
supplies, she had realized, would be of no use to her in such an
unventilated space.  The last thing she and her baby needed were
noxious fumes surrounding them.  In her dark little cell, air was let
in and out through cracks around the opening in the ceiling.  These
cracks also allowed slivers of sunlight in during the daylight hours,
which brought her a great deal of comfort, being reminded of how close
to the surface she actually was.  She had begun to discover in herself
a case of claustrophobia she had not suspected before.

Not to mention arachnophobia.  She did what she could to ease 
her plight by wiping down every surface she could reach with a 
cloth dampened with her own precious drinking water, but she 
could not reach many of the corners where the cobwebs hung 
in the greatest profusion.  She found herself having a hard 
time sleeping, since each time she turned the kerosene lantern 
off, she began to imagine small, eight-legged creatures all over her. 
She took care, however, not to air her complaints to her captor.  If
she wanted his trust, she could not let him see her as a nag.

Her captor, for his part, seemed very eager to please.  In 
addition to the cleaning supplies and magazines, he brought her 
several sets of hospital scrubs so that she might have a change 
of clothing.  When he noticed that she didn't appear to be 
reading the magazines he brought, he also provided several 
medical texts.  It was this way that Scully learned the general 
area of where she was being held.  Stamped into the covers of 
the books were the words, "Property of Claremont Memorial 
Hospital, Claremont, VA."

Virginia, Scully thought.  Spitting distance from home, and 
right smack in the middle of the eastern seaboard.  There was 
no place in the coastal states that he couldn't reach in less than a
day, and the entire area was rife with MUFON chapters.  Strange that
the highest concentration of acknowledged abductees should be in the
east.  Certainly the anonymity of the mid-west would be more of a draw
for those wishing to conduct their activities without fear of
discovery.  But then, maybe the east was the most logical choice for
the abductees to congregate.  After all, the inhabitants of
middle-America could be slightly more closed minded than those of the
more populated eastern states.  Here, the abductees would be less
likely to be shunned or institutionalized for telling their tales. 
Here, people were so jaded that they rarely gave the extraordinary a
second glance.  If they wanted freaks, they could drive to New York
for the weekend.

Why MUFON, anyway?  The Mutual UFO Network was not 
the only UFO watch group that had a contingent of abductees.  
There was NICAP, among others.  The concentration of 
abductees did seem to be higher in MUFON than in any of the 
other groups, but certainly it was not exclusive.  The 
unpleasant idea that MUFON had been chosen because it was 
there that she and Mulder had done their research surfaced in 
Scully's mind, but she dismissed it.  After all, how would this 
man have access to her and Mulder's research?

She wondered what her captor planned to do during the 
months in which he thought he would be keeping her here.  Did 
he still plan to take more victims?  Or would his compulsion be 
appeased so long as he had her in his custody?  If he took more 
victims, what would he do with them?  Surely he couldn't still 
bring them here.

The idea of being closeted with another woman whose fate she 
could do nothing to offset made Scully shiver.  But perhaps, if 
he brought another captive, they could help each other 
escape...

As the days passed, Scully began to feel ready to climb the 
walls.  It didn't help that several of the books that her captor had
provided her with were obstetrics texts, so that she would be able to
read up.  She was concerned that the longer she remained captive, the
longer she would be unable to seek prenatal care.  Knowing that her
pregnancy, no matter what the appearances, should by all rights be
treated as a potential high- risk situation, she was in constant fear
of being in no position to seek medical help should it become
necessary.

Then there was the constant discomfort of the cell.  In the 
night, it grew chilly and damp, a situation that her captor tried to
alleviate by bringing her several blankets.  What he didn't realized,
however, was that during the daylight, the cell became equally,
unbearably hot.  The heat from the sweltering July afternoons seeped
into the ground and surrounded her in her airless tomb.  She sat for
hours on end on her cot, trying not to think of it, trying to imagine
herself anywhere else but in this oven.  Years spent in air
conditioned work-places and cars and apartments had spoiled her
without her realizing it.

How else have you gotten soft, Scully?  She asked herself.

Sweat poured off her body in rivulets, soaking her light scrubs 
so that she was forced to change at least twice a day, and she 
had to wash them with her supply of drinking water.  She had 
never felt so filthy in her entire life.  She had discovered her purse
tucked carelessly under the cot, its contents scattered and
conspicuously missing one handgun and a key-chain complete with a
personal can of pepper gas.  In the clutter, she found several small
bottles of shampoo and bars of soap that she had scavenged from the
hotels she and Mulder stayed at while out in the field.  She used
another portion of her water each day, thanking her captor for the
continued contributions of milk and orange juice to supplement her
diet, to wash with, and every few days, she made an effort to clean
her hair.  She was unable to rinse properly, so her skin felt itchy
all the time, and her scalp felt coated in grime.  She began to worry
about the effect these conditions might have upon her baby, and was
not entirely reassured when the obstetrics texts claimed that 
unhealthy living conditions alone were not likely to be detrimental to
a pregnancy.

Her meals were also irregular, as she was forced to eat the 
majority of the food that her captor brought within the first 
hours that it arrived.  Otherwise, the ice pack would melt and 
the sandwiches and milk would go bad.  The remaining hours, 
she ate the semi-fresh fruit and granola snack bars.  Her 
stomach constantly rumbled its hunger, and she was painfully 
aware that she should be eating more for her baby.

Then, at the end of her second week of captivity, she began to
experience morning sickness.

Except it's not morning sickness, Scully thought, lying huddled
miserably on her cot at midnight.  It's twenty four hours a day,
morning, noon, evening, and night sickness.

It was a late time to be starting morning sickness.  In most 
pregnancies, it started several weeks earlier.  But for Scully, 
when it hit, it hit with a vengeance.  She brought up over half 
of what she managed to get down, and what moments she 
didn't spend retching, she was prostrate on the cot, 
overwhelmed by fatigue.  No cover for her bucket or air 
freshener that her captor provided could rid the dank little cell of
the stench of vomit, which only served to worsen her condition.

A glance in the mirror of the compact she found in her purse 
revealed that she looked like hell.  Her hair was lank and 
straggling about her face, her skin was pale and clammy, and to 
her dismay, breaking out in the acne she thought she had 
abandoned to her adolescence.  Dark smudges stained her eyes, 
and her cheeks looked gaunt.  She was also never without a 
frown of pain from the headache she had developed due to the 
poor lighting.  She began to realize the effects that the non-
activity was having upon her body, leaving her weak and 
lethargic.  She did what she could to compensate for this by 
performing light calisthenics when she was able, hoping to 
maintain some muscle tone.  She knew that when she made a 
run for it, she was going to have to be ready.

Over the weeks, she began an insidious invasion into her 
captor's mind, beginning on the day, five days after she was 
taken, that she asked his name.

His eyes widened in surprise.  Scully knew she had taken him
completely off guard.

"Look," she said quietly, "this is pretty awkward.  We're going 
of be here for a while like this, several months even, so don't 
you think it might be easier if I knew what to call you?"

He shifted from one foot to the other.  "You want to know my 
name? Even though--?"

Even though you plan to kill me?  Sure.  Why not?  Then I'll 
know who to hunt down when I get out of this hell hole.  And 
believe me, if this little scheme has hurt my baby, there won't 
be any place for you to hide.

"Whatever the outcome," she answered with a gentle smile that 
no one but Mulder would have seen through, "you have been 
kind to me up until now.  And I do need something to call you 
by."

"My name is Steven Morris."

Scully smiled beatifically at him and filed that little piece of
information in the back of her brain.  She noticed that he looked
relieved.

Relieved?  Why?  Because I don't appear to be the slightest bit 
offended by the fact that you have every intention of murdering 
me eventually?  Oh, you just wait.  Trust no one, pal.

She diligently kept her serene smile in place.  What a skillful 
little liar your forthright Scully has become, Mulder, she 
though bitterly.

"What is this place?" she asked with phony interest on another 
occasion, resting from her latest bout of vomiting.  She 
gestured around the cubicle.

"I don't know," he answered with a perplexed frown.  "I don't 
even remember taking a walk into the woods on the night I 
found it.  But when I realized the work I had to do, I knew it 
would be here."

Her eyes widened at that.  He never really spoke of "his work."  She
had the feeling he found any reminder of his purpose for bringing her
hear grotesquely unpleasant.  But then again, she didn't really like
to think of it either.  

She didn't mean to rush, but the next question slipped out 
unwittingly.  "Where are we?"

"In the woods behind my house," he answered, and then 
snapped his mouth closed as mental warning bells went off.

Think you've given away too much?  Scully thought her sweet 
smile would crack on her face.  I wasn't even trying.  Yet.

*  *  *  *  *


===========================================================================

From: "Kristel S. Johns" <kjohns@mail2.alliance.net>
Date: Tue, 23 Apr 1996 18:05:18 +0000
Subject: (Fwd) Nightscape 7b


NIGHTSCAPE
Kristel S. Oxley-Johns

Please send all questions, suggestions and comments to
the author at kjohns@mail2.alliance.net

The characters and situations of the X-Files television program
are the creations and property of Chris Carter, Fox
Broadcasting, DD, GA, et cetera, and are used without
permission.  No infringement is intended.  I just want to tell a
story.

Part Seven (2/2)

*  *  *  *  *

He only visited her an hour or so a day, so her chances to 
question him were limited, and her time alone great.  She began 
to develop an empathy for prisoners in solitary confinement.  
With so much time on her hands, she decided to attack the 
confusing ambivalence she was feeling towards her captor.  
She alternated between near-sympathy for his gentle, child-like 
ways to utter loathing.  It was the intensity of her animosity 
towards him that surprised her most.  She was not a spiteful 
person, and in other circumstances, she would have found 
herself feeling sorry for him.  But each time she felt in herself a
softening towards him, the survivalist part of her reminded her of the
danger being posed to her and her baby by being here, and that she
would never have found herself in this situation were it not for him. 
She could forgive him his confusion.  She could forgive him his
obsession.  She could forgive him his psychosis, but she could not
forgive him for endangering her baby.  She knew that if it came to it,
she would kill him to save her baby.

And yet, at the same time, she did not want to cause him undue 
pain, which left her options for escaping extremely narrow.  
Having already ruled out a physical confrontation, a decision 
that was reinforced by memories of being slammed belly-first 
against the trunk of her car, she was left with more brutal, 
devious options that were too gruesome for her suddenly 
tender stomach to tolerate for long.  She couldn't endanger her 
baby, she couldn't risk angering him, she couldn't risk being 
captured again, and she didn't want to hurt him.  Where exactly 
did that leave her?

He began to share personal details with her over the weeks as 
her ploy to gain his trust succeeded.  She soon learned that he 
lived alone.  His parents had been killed in an accident shortly after
he graduated high school, leaving their house to him, their only son. 
He got a job as an orderly in a local hospital and never bothered with
a college education.  His only advantage in life appeared to be his
size, which was a definite asset in a job which often required the
lifting of large objects, including people.  His intelligence was not
terribly high, and he seemed to struggle with simple logic.  Scully
wondered if he might have mild case of arrested development, so simple
and childish did he seem at times.  But as she thought about it, she
was also reminded of other grown men she had encountered in her
investigations with Mulder--sharp, intelligent men who were rendered
mindless and simple after disappearing for a prolonged length of time.

Did Steven Morris fit the profile of an abductee?  Most 
certainly.  He lived alone, with no one who would care if he 
dropped off the face of the earth for a while, no friends or 
family to miss him or file a missing persons report..  His lapses in
memory and logic seemed reminiscent of the test pilots they had seen
whom had worked on Ellen's Air Force Base, but his lifestyle matched
more to that of the abductees of MUFON.

So was he also an abductee?  She wondered to herself.  Only 
one way to find out.

His eyes widened when she asked him.  "Me?  No.  Why on 
earth would they take me?"

"I don't know," she replied calmly.  "Why would they take any 
of us?  Because we were in the wrong place at the wrong time?  
Or because they hand-picked us, sought us each out for a 
reason?  And if you weren't taken, how is it that you know all 
that you know?"

He looked puzzled.  "I don't know."

"None of us remembers much about our abduction 
experiences," she said softly.  "Maybe it's possible that you 
were actually taken and repressed it?"

"No!" he said vehemently, looking appalled.  "I wasn't taken!  
That would make me--"

"One of us," she finished for him, letting him feel the bite of the
trap she had sprung.  "And doesn't it follow that if we have to die
because of what was done to us, so do you?"

He glared at her.  "I wasn't taken," he insisted.

Scully began to feel herself grow desperate, even as her 
stomach started to churn angrily.  She was aware that in just a 
few short moments, she would lose all semblance of dignity 
before him, and it was so very crucial that she keep his respect for
now.  It would be harder for him to kill her if he respected her.  She
scrambled for the box of soda crackers that she had asked him to
provide.  If only she could get through to that childish mind beneath
the man's brawn and simply convince him to let her go...

She had to.  For the sake of her baby.

In her spare time, her thoughts were ever on her baby.  In 
moments when she thought that despair might overwhelm her, 
the idea of the life growing inside her was all that kept her from
succumbing.  Quickly, this baby had come to mean more than life to
her.

Strange that only a few short months ago, she had felt so 
differently.

The decision that she and Mulder had made had not been easy, 
but in her heart, she had known that it was the right thing to 
do.  The frightening possibilities that lay before them had 
simply been too much to contemplate.

"Mulder," she had said, laying beside him in bed, where they 
seemed to have their most meaningful talks, "I am as happy in 
my life with you--in OUR LIFE together--as I had ever hoped 
that I could be.  If this is the best it ever gets, I will die a happy
woman.  I don't need anything, even a baby, to make what I have now
complete."

He had held her close, stroking her softly.  "But don't you want a
child of your own?"

"Of course I do.  But not at any cost.  Not if it means 
squandering the joy we have now agonizing over what we 
don't have, what we might never have."

"Do you ever feel like we're taking the coward's way out with 
this decision?" he had asked.

She lifted her head and looked into his eyes, frowning.  "Maybe 
we are.  But I've seen the damage that infertility can do to a 
marriage.  I want no part of it.  I keep thinking about Mark and
Missy, and what losing their baby did to them...I'm afraid, Mulder. 
I'm afraid that we won't be strong enough to survive such a thing, no
matter what we may think to the contrary."

Mulder had not replied to that, and Scully had gotten the vague
suspicion that he was sublimating his own desires for the sake 
of what he felt was best for her.  He had sworn that there was 
nothing more important to him than her well-being, and she 
knew he meant it.  And yet--

Scully jerked back to the present, realizing that Morris had 
fallen silent and was watching her curiously.

Her wave of nausea had passed for the moment, and without 
the distress it generated, she was able to return to the primary
source of her anxiety--her need to be free of here, to be with Mulder,
someplace where her baby was safe--

Her time was running short.  She had to get out of here before 
her baby began to suffer from the conditions.  She felt a surge
of panic at the thought that her child might already be 
suffering.

"Let me go," she pleaded in a whisper.

He looked tormented.  "I can't."

"Why?" The anguished cry came from the bottom of her soul.  
"Why must you do this?  We didn't ask to be taken!  It's not 
our fault!"

"But it has to stop!" he insisted.  "You said that you don't 
remember what they did to you.  How do you know that 
something horrible wasn't created using you, something that 
could kill the world if they wanted it to?"

"Does that make it my fault?" she demanded.  "If they did 
create some super-weapon or drug or disease using me in their 
experiments, then when it is unleashed, I'm as dead as the next 
guy.  How is killing me going to prevent that?"

"What if you are the weapon, or disease, or drug, and you just 
don't know it yet?" he asked softly.

His words cut into the heart of Scully's fears that had 
developed when she had learned that in those months she had 
been missing, she had been used for experimentation.  She 
would never know if some day, her body might turn against her 
or even the people she loved.  She especially worried about 
Mulder at these times, that she might be used as the instrument 
of his destruction.  Mulder had shushed her, insisting that he 
would never allow them to use her against him, but sometimes, 
the fear threatened to overwhelm her.  She and Mulder had 
become so dependent upon each other that it was unlikely that 
either of them could survive long without the other.  In her 
more paranoid, Mulderesque moments, she wondered if that 
hadn't been, as Mulder had joked, the intention of those whom 
had thrown them together all along, that they would become so 
deeply ingrained in one another that to kill one would be to 
destroy the other.  These were fears that she knew she could 
never confide in Mulder, because she knew that, if he 
suspected that his presence in her life was a source of constant
threat to her well-being, he would try to push her away, would try to
leave for her own good.  And that she couldn't allow.

She bowed her head, having no rebuttal for Steven Morris' 
arguments.  Somewhere in her mind, there was just the tiniest 
smidgen of fear that he just might be right.

"Look," he said softly, "I promised you that I would try to let 
you live until your baby came, but I can't do more than that.  
You have to be destroyed."

Her eyes darted sharply to his face.  Something in the way he 
said the word "you" gave her pause.  The emphasis on the 
word had been unmistakable.  He hadn't been speaking of her 
as being part of a group, such as one of the many MUFON 
abductees.  No, he had been speaking of her specifically.  
Something was telling him that, while all the abductees need to 
be killed, she especially had to die.

Why?  Was he being coerced?  That would certainly explain his
reluctance to do this deed.  Was this just some plot to kill her
specifically, maybe even to get to Mulder, engineered by outside
forces, using this man?

In her heart, Scully rebelled against the idea, quailing at the 
thought that she might be used against the man that she loved.  
It was a very Mulder-like thought by virtue of its sheer 
paranoia.  And yet--

--And yet, she had seen stranger things, things that left her 
logical mind screaming in protest.

Was it probable?  No.  But since when did probabilities have 
anything to do with the events which often befell her and 
Mulder?

Steven Morris left her alone with her doubts then, as she so 
often found herself these days.  Over the four weeks of her 
captivity, she sometimes felt that she might go mad with the 
worry, the tedium.  She felt the walls closing in on her again, 
stealing the breath from her.  She had never realized just how 
terrifying claustrophobia could be.  Morris had refused her 
request to be allowed out of the cell if only for a couple of 
minutes to get a breath of fresh air.

Strange, she thought, that for someone who seemed so 
reluctant to do her harm, he was certainly fastidious about 
keeping her in a position where his end goal might be met.

Her thoughts turned to Mulder again.  She knew exactly what 
he would be doing and thinking at this point in time.  His 
mother and sister would have traveled to D.C., no doubt, to be 
with him, and he would be putting on a brave front for them 
all.  He might even have returned to work by now if Skinner 
would allow it.  He would be comforting her mother, just like 
he had before, buoying her spirits in the face of flagging hope.  And
then, in his moments alone, he would tear his gut out searching for
something, anything, he might have overlooked  before, any clue as to
whom had taken her, and where, and why.  He would have taken to
sleeping on the sofa again, finding their bed too lonely without her. 
He would wake often and prowl their apartment restlessly, his
helplessness closing in on him as her walls closed in on her.  He
would lay awake with some object of hers, her nightgown, or her
pillow, clutched tightly in his hands, pressed against his face...

She knew him so well.

The problem with knowing someone better than you know 
yourself, Scully thought, loving someone better than you love 
yourself, is that when they're hurt, or frightened, or unhappy, 
you feel their pain, or fear, or misery as though it were your 
own, and then some.

Even now, she knew that Mulder was alone in the dark, as she 
was, imagining her in a cold, lifeless place, scared and alone 
and needing him.  His tortured mind would rebel against his 
inability to find her.  He would toss and turn at night, thinking of
how he had failed her, failed again.

NO!  She wanted to reach out to him, to comfort him, to tell 
him to release himself from the blame he was inflicting upon 
himself.  But she knew that she couldn't.  His mind, 
conditioned to guilt over the years, would come up with a 
million reasons why she should never have been taken, would 
never have been taken, if only...

...If only he had been more insistent upon following her home 
that night...

...If only he had been more watchful, knowing that it was 
always a possibility that the abductions weren't truly over...

...If only he hadn't married her, putting her in the line of fire for
those who would see him brought low...

...If only he had sent her packing that first day she had come to him,
and never gotten her involved in the first place...

And he would never realize just how truly wrong he was, that 
she didn't blame him for any of this, had never thought of it.  
He could not control what befell her any more now than he 
could have controlled the event which had started him upon his 
roller-coaster-trip-from-hell of guilt in the first place, the night
his sister was taken.

Scully knew that Mulder would not have won their argument 
about his waiting for her at work the night that Morris had 
kidnapped her.  She had been much too determined to take 
time to herself to get her fears under control before she came 
home and told him about the baby.  And they had truly 
believed, correctly, that the abductions were over.  They had 
seen the leftovers of the project which had caused her first 
abduction, the sterile rail cars, the pit full of bodies...

Nothing in the world could have prevented her from marrying 
Fox Mulder once they had admitted their love for each other, 
and even if they hadn't married, it still would have been known 
by those that made it their business to know such things about 
Mulder that she had become the most important aspect of his 
life.  Indeed, she had found herself feeling guilty that she had
fallen into a position where she could be used to bring Mulder to
heel.

And as for sending her packing...After his cocky performance 
at their first meeting, she would have liked to have seen him try it.

She knew that Mulder thought that she was the strong one of 
the two of them, emotionally speaking.  And it was true that 
she had obtained more stability in her relatively normal lifetime than
he had.  He depended on her to keep him grounded, to steady him when
he threatened to fly off the handle into one of his wild, insane
ventures.

She enjoyed his need of her, his admiration.  She enjoyed 
taking care of him, but what he would never realize was that, if she
was his anchor, he was her sail, propelling her along into action when
she might have just stood by, rescuing her from her tendency to take
herself too seriously.  Before she had met Mulder, she had only
witnessed life, read about it in books.  Now, she lived it, holding
his hand and striding boldly into adventures that only the certifiably
insane would have believed.  He never realized that the very stability
he admired in her, depended on her for, would have kept her stagnating
her entire life without him to pull her from the mire.

To be stripped from his side like this was unbearable.  She felt as
though she'd been cut in half and left raw and bleeding.  And she knew
in her heart that he was feeling the same agony.  They were both lost
and adrift, and struggling to find their way back to each other.

How can I get back to you?  She asked the image of him that 
she always carried in her heart,  How can I get free of here 
without endangering our baby?  Even if I get out of this cell, 
where do I go?  How do I know that I won't wander lost in the 
woods for days, until I'm too weak to continue?  Oh, Mulder, 
I'm so afraid that I'll never see you again!  I try so hard to be
brave, to keep hope alive, but it's so hard, and each day, my hope
fades a little more.  I can't get to you.  You have to come to me. 
Come to me soon, please...

*  *  *  *  *

End of Part Seven


===========================================================================

From: "Kristel S. Johns" <kjohns@mail2.alliance.net>
Date: Tue, 23 Apr 1996 18:05:14 +0000
Subject: (Fwd) Nightscape 8a


NIGHTSCAPE
Kristel S. Oxley-Johns

Please send all questions, suggestions and comments to
the author at kjohns@mail2.alliance.net

The characters and situations of the X-Files television program
are the creations and property of Chris Carter, Fox
Broadcasting, DD, GA, et cetera, and are used without
permission.  No infringement is intended.  I just want to tell a
story.

Part Eight (1/2)

*  *  *  *  *

Monday morning, six weeks after Scully had been taken, 
Mulder returned to work.

Skinner could say nothing. Mulder had to return.  He'd been 
gone too long already.  In many ways, he was relieved to 
return, wondering how many times he could pace his and 
Scully's apartment empty apartment without going insane, but 
once he got into his office and looked through the window at 
Scully's empty desk, he realized what a mistake returning had 
been.  If there was anything that he associated with his wife as much
as their home, it was the X-Files.  Without her there across from him,
he could find no drive, no desire for his work.  When she had
disappeared before, he had kept with the X-Files in the hopes of
finding some clue pertaining to her disappearance.  Now, though, he
realized that the answers did not lie here.  Without her, there was
nothing to hold him here.

Once, he would have sworn he would do anything, sacrifice 
anything, to find the truth that he was convinced lay within 
those files.  But with the return of his sister and the miraculous
breakthrough in he and Scully's relationship, he had realized that
there was more to life than constantly seeking answers.  The X-Files
had long since become secondary in his life, supplanted by the love of
Dana Scully.  Gone was the man who had told her on there first case
"Nothing else matters to me."  He had discovered that sometimes it was
okay to find a spot where you felt safe and let the answers to all of
life's little secrets find you.  Secrets he had never thought to
investigate before, such as why returning home alone had always been a
labor, but with Scully, it was a joy?  Why the sunset always looked
more lovely with her in his arms...

After the realization that he loved Scully, and she loved him in
return, he'd had a different motivation for wanting the X-Files.  Now
it was her questions that they were investigating, she who had lost so
much.  They were looking for those explanations she had demanded those
years ago when she had said to him, "I've heard the truth.  Now what I
want are the answers."

Answers to what had been done to her after she was taken by 
Duane Barry, answers to why her sister Melissa had been 
gunned down in her place, answers to why Mulder's father had 
also been ruthlessly murdered, just when he and Mulder were 
repairing the bridges that had collapsed between them on that 
night so many years ago when Samantha had been taken.

Suddenly, Mulder realized that he didn't give a damn about the 
answers if Scully wasn't beside him to discover them.

Mulder spent the day studiously avoiding looking in the 
direction of her office, even closing the window in the wall 
between them.  He sat at his desk paying absolutely no 
attention to the files he was pretending to look over.  He sent 
one of the agents working under him out on a field assignment 
the likes of which he usually pounced on himself to investigate.  For
the first time in what seemed to be forever, he noticed when five p.m.
rolled around.  Usually, Scully had to enter from her office and draw
him away from his work, coaxing him home with a come-hither smile.

He left the office gratefully, relieved to be away from it even 
though it meant returning home to another long, empty night of 
waiting.  There was no place that he could go that was not 
intimately associated in his heart with Scully, that didn't mock him
for his inability to find answers, to find HER.

That night, as usual, Margaret Scully, Caroline Mulder, and 
Samantha, the latter two having refused to return home despite 
Mulder's urgings, converged on his apartment bearing food.  
Again, he had to face the carefully masked look of 
disappointment in Maggie's eyes when he told her that there 
had been no news.  She already knew that, of course, from 
Skinner, but she asked him just the same.  It was always the 
first thing that she did as she came through the door.

After dinner, he suddenly found the presence of people around 
him oppressive.  What he really wanted was to be alone with 
his anguish.  Maybe that would give him the drive to look 
harder than he had before, however impossible that might 
seem.  He had already damned near alienated Bartel with his 
feverish need for answers.  It was only Bartel's sympathy for 
Mulder's plight that had kept the man from lashing back.  As 
soon as the possibility presented itself, Mulder left the 
concerned women in the living room and sought refuge on the 
balcony.

The late evening August heat was terrible.  They were 
predicting a heat wave the like of which had not hit D.C. in 
decades before the summer ended.  Mulder was painfully aware 
that, wherever she was, his beautiful wife, pregnant with his 
child, might be suffering from this heat, too.

Scully's pregnancy was constantly in his thoughts since that day he
had learned about it.  Wherever she was, she was without prenatal
care.  With all the uncertainties involved in her pregnancy, it should
have been treated as high-risk.  Instead, she was no doubt someplace
miles from where help might be found should complications arise.

He had truly thought that they would never have a child of 
their own.  Scully had even gone so far as to mention 
adoption...

"I am not so desperate to have a child of my own gene pool 
running around the planet that I'm willing to take the risks 
involved, but there is no reason why we can't look to other 
children out there who could benefit from our love.  There are 
certainly plenty of them, and I don't need to see my own hair or your
eyes to make the child my own."

It had been a noble sentiment, but Mulder now wondered how 
much of what she had said was for his benefit alone.

They had discussed the options and had decided to wait a while 
before looking into the matter.  The only thing they had 
decided was that they did not want an infant if they adopted.  
They felt that was simply too selfish when there were so many 
older children in need of homes.  Mulder had also wondered 
about all those people out there who would spend half their 
lives and their entire personal fortunes in the effort to conceive a
child of their own.  It seemed so bizarre when there were so many
unwanted children.  But with the news of Scully's pregnancy, he had
begun to understand why it was that people would do anything to
fulfill that primal urge to procreate.  No matter how many children
existed in need of homes that he and Scully could love, there was none
he wanted more than the precious life growing within his wife right
now.

What would Scully be doing if she were here, he wondered. 

Would she be camped out on the sofa, the air conditioning 
cranked, demanding iced tea from him (decaffeinated, no 
doubt, in deference to her condition.)  Or would she be 
determined to remain as active as possible, until her size began to
hinder her.  Would she get back aches?  Nausea?  Fatigue?  Mood
swings?  Would she whine over the loss of her shape just to get him to
tell her how beautiful he found her?

They would have started looking for another place to live by 
now, he realized.  Someplace larger, maybe a house even.  
They would be reading parenting manuals and wonder how 
they were going to reconcile this new addition to their lives.  
They would be deciding whether or not to breast feed, argue 
over if they would use cloth diapers or disposable, and set a 
schedule as to whose turn it was to handle the three a.m. 
feeding on any given morning.

How far along was she, anyway?  He hadn't been able to call 
the doctor and inquire, knowing some explanation for her 
absence would be required if he did so.

He stared out at the last vestiges of the sunset, realizing that the
last sight he had seen with Scully before she had been taken from him
had been a similar panorama.  There was nothing beautiful in this
sunset, though.  Nothing in his life seemed to have purpose, or
beauty, or meaning any longer.  Food was bland and tasteless, the soft
satin of the nightgown she had worn when they were last together had
felt course and stiff when he had held it to him, detecting her
fragrance upon it.  Their bed offered no welcome to him, and instead
he sought the couch when he was too weary to continue.  The entire
world, it seemed, was empty without her presence in his life.

"Fox?"  Samantha's voice came from behind him, and Mulder 
realized that he hadn't heard the door slide open nor felt her 
approach.

"Yes?"

"How long will they continue to search for Dana?"

Mulder's heart clenched in his chest, a familiar ache spreading 
through him.  "I don't know.  They stopped investigating 
Melissa's murder six months after they ran out of leads.  But 
since there is no evidence that she is--"

"You don't have to say it," Samantha interrupted him quickly.

"She's not, you know," he said softly.

"I believe you."

"My worst fear is that they will stop searching for her now, 
while I know that she is still alive, and then time will run out,
after they've given up the opportunity to save her."  His voice was
tortured, choking in his throat.

Tears filled Samantha's eyes.  "Walter won't allow that," she 
reassured him.  "Oh, Fox, I want so badly to be able to comfort 
you, but I know there is nothing that I can say or do to help 
you right now."

He continued to stare out at the darkening sky.  "Friday will be our
first anniversary, you know."

The tears slipped down her cheeks.  "I know."

"One year." He shook his head.  "I promised to protect her for 
the rest of my lie, and I couldn't even last one godda--" he 
halted with an apologetic glance at his sister--"A single year," he
finished softly, sighing.

"Fox, don't do this!  I know you're angry, I know you're 
hurting, but Dana wouldn't want you to do this to yourself!  
She knows it's not your fault! If you're going to blame 
someone, blame the monster that is doing these things!  There's 
nothing you could have done!"

"I know," he cried, his voice carrying over the fields behind the
building. "Logically, I know that.  I know she doesn't blame me. 
There's nothing to blame, but God, I feel like I've let her down, like
if I had only tried a little harder..."

"Oh, Fox," Samantha wrapped her arms around him, pressing 
her face against his shoulder.  He stood there drawing comfort 
from her.  Then, he gently eased her away.

"Sam, I think that you should go home.  You have a husband, a 
family, and you need to be with them."

"I won't leave you here like this, Fox.  Preston understands."

He smirked.  "Like I understand that none of this is my fault?  
Sure, his head understands, but in his heart, he wants his wife 
with him.  You've been gone six weeks, Sam, only returning 
for one weekend for your own anniversary.  That's not right, 
and you know it."

"But still..."

"Look, I have all the support here that I need.  I won't ask 
Mom to go, since I think she's helping Mrs. Scully more than 
she's helping even me.  And if anything is going to happen, 
Sam, it'll happen whether you're here for it or not.  So get out of
here.  Go home to your husband and make some babies of your own."

He saw Samantha smile.  He had told her about Scully's 
pregnancy, and she knew how much it was in his thoughts that 
Scully was out there alone, trying to protect not only herself 
but her unborn child as well.  Samantha had confided in him 
that she and her husband were starting to consider the idea of a
family themselves.  At thirty four years old, she figured it was about
time.

She hugged him again.  "I'll go.  But only because you want me 
to.  And if you need anything--anything at all--"

"Then I'll call you," he finished for her.  "Or Mom will call you, or
Mrs. Scully--"

"And if you find anything--"

"Same applies.  Now go home to your husband, kid," he said in 
his best big-brother voice.

She kissed his cheek gently.  "I have faith that she'll return to
you," she said softly.  "There are some things in this life that are
meant to be, and some people who are destined to be together. 
Remember that."

He was silent as he watched her step back into the apartment 
and close the door behind her, cutting off the brief, merciful 
puff of cool air that came from inside.

Beyond, the sky was getting dark, and stars were beginning to 
appear, hazy through the waves of heat rising off the ground.  
He wondered if Scully was seeing this sky, this nightscape 
before him.  Could she see the stars, or was she cut off from 
their light?

God, Scully, I'm so sorry...I want to be with you so badly it 
hurts.  Please forgive me that I can't be there...

*  *  *  *  *


===========================================================================

From: "Kristel S. Johns" <kjohns@mail2.alliance.net>
Date: Tue, 23 Apr 1996 18:05:10 +0000
Subject: (Fwd) Nightscape 8b


NIGHTSCAPE
Kristel S. Oxley-Johns

Please send all questions, suggestions and comments to
the author at kjohns@mail2.alliance.net

The characters and situations of the X-Files television program
are the creations and property of Chris Carter, Fox
Broadcasting, DD, GA, et cetera, and are used without
permission.  No infringement is intended.  I just want to tell a
story.

Part Eight (2/2)

*  *  *  *  *

The next morning he went to Skinner's office and handed in the 
paper work requesting an extended leave of absence.

"I think that is a wise idea," Skinner said, a concerned frown 
on his face.

"It's no good being here without her," Mulder confessed 
tensely.  "I'm not doing anyone any good, so I might as well 
stay out of the way.  Bartel's good.  He can run things while 
I'm gone.  I don't plan to stop looking, though.  And I feel it is
only fair to warn you that I might step on a few toes while I do so."

"Mulder, at this point, I'm willing to give you leave to do just about
anything necessary to get her back."

"With all due respect, sir, I wouldn't stop to ask your 
permission if that became necessary."

Skinner sighed.  "I know.  Same rules apply, okay?  If you can, 
give what you find to us.  If you don't have time, though, well, I'll
take the heat." Skinner rubbed his forehead.  He hadn't gotten any
sleep last night.  He'd been comforting Maggie, who had finally broken
down and released some of the sorrow and worry she was feeling after
Caroline Mulder had gone to bed and Samantha Powell had caught her
late flight to Boston.  It had been a rocky, emotional night, and
while he was relieved that Maggie had finally released all of that, it
had left him drained, seeing the woman he loved in such pain.

Mulder left Skinner's office and went home.

At home, Scully's car was still in the same spot in which she 
had parked it the night she had been taken.  Mulder cast a 
baleful glare to the security cameras that had been installed a 
few weeks ago, after an emergency meeting of the tenants had 
agreed upon the measure.  Always it seemed a little too little, a
little too late.

Mulder entered the apartment and sat down at his computer, 
turning it on

Thus began the discouraging litany he had been repeating since 
the day after he had returned from Allentown.  He had started 
with the information Penny Northern and Lottie Holloway had 
provided on his initial visit to Allentown.  A week later, Penny
Northern had e-mailed him the rest of her database for MUFON, giving
him permission to look where he saw fit.  Then, Mulder had begun to
make the calls.

It was how he had spent most of his time since Scully had 
disappeared.  His first attempts at selectivity with the list of male
MUFON members had produced nothing, so he had decided to go back to
the beginning an leave no avenue unexplored.  He'd started at the top
of the list and began to call the MUFON members, both those claiming
to be abductees and those who were simply UFO watchers and devotees. 
It was a time consuming process, staring out by introducing himself
and explaining why he was bothering them, and how he had gotten their
number...

"...Hello, Ms. Dennis?  This is Special Agent Fox Mulder with 
the FBI.  I got your number...Ms. Dennis?  Hello..."

"...Hello, Mr. Gerenger?  This is Special Agent Fox Mulder 
with the FBI, and I got your number through the MUFON 
database...I'm investigating the disappearance of my partner, in what
appears to be a series of kidnappings and murders with members of
MUFON as targets...No, sir, you are not being accused of
anything...No, you do not need a lawyer to speak with me...Hello..."

"...I'm investigating the disappearance of my partner, Ms. 
Johannes, in what appears to be a series of kidnappings and 
murders with members of MUFON as targets...Yes, like the 
woman just found a few weeks ago in West Virginia...I was 
wondering if you might be able to provide me with any 
information as to odd or erratic behavior from the members of 
your chapter of MUFON...Yes, the suspect is probably 
male...He said your story of abduction was a hysterical 
delusion?  No, ma'am, I'm sorry, I was looking for a different 
sort of behavior...Another woman in a different chapter thinks 
that Elvis was actually an abductee and is a member of her 
chapter...?  No, that's not quite what I was thinking of 
either...Is there anyone you may be able to point me toward 
that might have some helpful information?  Well, thank you 
very much, Ms. Johannes.  Have a nice day."

He imagined from the reactions of the women he spoke with 
that there was going to be quite a gender gap filled with 
suspicion within MUFON for a while, with all the females 
viewing the males as a potential danger.  Paranoia was bound 
to spring up, and Mulder felt guilty for having been the cause 
of it, but if his warning prevented one previously unsuspecting 
woman from becoming the next victim, he felt it was worth it.

The work entailed long hours each day on his phone.  His ear 
and shoulder grew sore from the constant pressure of holding 
the phone.  It took several tries to get a hold of some of the 
members, and then there were those who would not speak with 
him once they heard the word FBI...The only moment of 
humor in the entire process was when Mulder told Bartel he 
might actually look into that "Elvis" MUFON sighting when 
the danger was past them.

When he had gone through the list once, he went back to the 
top and started again.

In was in his second pass through that Mulder received a 
phone call himself.

"Agent Mulder?" asked a female voice.

"This is Agent Mulder.  Can I help you?"

"Hello.  My name is Jennifer Mossey.  I received a message on 
my machine from you yesterday...?"

"Yes.  Hello, Ms. Mossey.  Thank you for calling me back."

"My friends at MUFON say that you are investigating some 
new abductions?"

"Actually, Ms. Mossey, they're kidnappings..." (potayto, 
potahto...his mind whispered, and he saw Scully's smile.) 
"Kidnappings belonging in a string of serial murders involving 
MUFON members."

"They say your wife is the latest victim..."

Mulder felt a pang in his chest, and wondered briefly how she 
knew that.  It wasn't a detail he had revealed to many people.  
"Yes, Ms. Mossey.  We're still looking for her."

"Look," her voice sounded hesitant as she spoke, "I don't know 
if this will help you at all, but I'm in New Jersey, and I have a
friend in a Virginia chapter who says that they've got a disturbing
situation down there."

"What kind of situation?"  Mulder asked.

"She says that there is a man who has been attending some 
meetings who is making a lot of the members nervous.  He 
hasn't actually shared his story, so he wouldn't be in the 
database, but he keeps talking about the possibility that we 
were used to create horrible things, diseases and the like, that could
be used to destroy humanity.  It's nothing that hasn't been said
before, but people got a little upset when he started suggesting
suicide for all of us would be the only way to  prevent that from
happening.  He said that we're abominations now that they've done what
they've done to us.  Like I said, that made people nervous.  After
all, we didn't survive this long to destroy ourselves."

"Do you have a name?" Mulder asked, trying to keep the 
quaver from his voice.  Her description of this man's views 
could not have been more perfectly matched to the profile he 
had come up with in his head.  "A physical description?"

"I have never seen him," she answered.  "But I've been told 
that he goes by the name Steven Morris.  He's a nurse or 
something like that.  I'm not sure how much that should 
provide you with, though.  A lot of us use pseudonyms until 
we've been around long enough to begin to trust."

"At least it's something," Mulder said.  "One other thing--do 
you know if he has been to meetings of other chapters besides 
Virginia?  Say, somewhere in New England, or New Jersey, or 
West Virginia?"

"No, I'm sorry, I don't.  I just know that when my friend told 
me about this, I thought of what I had heard of you and your 
wife, about the others that were murdered..."

"Thank you, Ms. Mossey.  At this point, any little bit could 
help."

"You're welcome, Agent Mulder.  I hope that you find your 
wife--safe."

"I hope so, too," he murmured.  "Good bye."

Mulder sat there for several minutes staring at the phone, 
trying to calm his racing heart.  It was too easy.  He couldn't 
dare hope that after so much long, heartbreaking effort, the 
answers would simply be dropped into his lap like this.  But it 
fit so well--a person hanging out at MUFON gatherings, 
sharing the opinion that the abductees needed to be destroyed.  
It was the same profile he and Skinner had created.

He had to check it out.  Their hopes of finding Scully were slim to
none, and each day, the "slim" part faded a little more.  The chances
were too rare to let this one slide by, and each day he could feel
Scully calling to him to come to her, to save her before it was too
late.

He dialed Skinner and told him what he knew.  Skinner told 
him to stay put while he and the investigating team looked into 
the lead.

For once in his life, Mulder did what he was asked.  He stayed 
put.  It was, perhaps, the hardest thing he had ever done in his life,
but he sat and waited for the phone to ring.

The day crept on and no call came.  Several times, Mulder had 
to fight down the urge to contact Skinner and ask him what 
had been found.  Maggie Scully called, and Mulder told her 
that they had a very vague lead, not waiting to get her hopes 
up pointlessly.  She agreed to wait for him to call her back with
whatever news was to be had.  The afternoon wore on into evening, and
then night fell.  Mulder forgot to eat, staring at the phone intently
for hours, willing it to ring.  Darkness  descended and no call came.

Heart weary, he lay on the couch.  Obviously, the lead had 
turned up nothing, and no one had the heart to call him and 
disappoint him.  He could understand their reasoning, even if it was
in actuality more cruel to leave him hanging.  They had no way of
knowing that.  They probably wanted to allow him his moments of hope
before he came crashing down to earth again.

And crash he did.  The moment he realized, truly realized, that 
he might be facing life without Dana Scully.

He hadn't allowed himself to really even consider the idea 
before.  As bereft as he felt without her, he had not stopped 
thinking of it as a temporary arrangement.  He had mouthed all 
the right words to make others think that he was not in denial, 
spouted an appropriate quantity of doubtful what-ifs.  But in 
his heart, there had been no doubt.  There was no question of 
IF Scully would be returned to him.  It had always been 
WHEN.

And now he simply could not pretend anymore.  With hope 
nearer than ever, he had to admit to himself that his hope might just
be the desperate illusions of a grasping, panicked mind.  The lead
Jennifer Mossey had provided him with had been the thinnest, frailest
straw at which to clutch.  He couldn't blame anyone but himself when
it crumbled to dust in his fingers.

There might not be any more Scully to look at him as though 
he were a god incarnate.  No Scully to ease his tension, to 
make him feel as though he were eleven feet tall and made of 
steel, invincible while she was beside him.  No Scully to hold in his
arms, to inhale her fresh, sweet fragrance, no satiny skin to touch,
no gentle voice murmuring her love to him in his ear.  No Scully to
argue with, to annoy and amuse in a thousand little ways, to try to
bring a smile to her face despite her most determined efforts at
solemnity.  No Scully to hold at night beside him, feeling her warmth,
the movements of their baby growing inside her.  No Scully to wake up
to in the morning, no bright smile to haul him out of his doldrums...

In a million different, subtle ways, she had woven herself into 
the fabric of his life until he wasn't sure where she began and he
ended.  Without her, everything around him unraveled.  To be without
her forever would be to live a lifetime with absolutely nothing.

For the first time in his life, Fox Mulder seriously contemplated
suicide.  It would be so easy.  He saw himself doing it from a
distance.  To walk  into the bedroom and retrieve his gun from where
it lay on the dresser from when he had undressed last, to sit on the
white bed where he had spent so many hours with his wife, to bring it
to his head, the weight of it familiar in his hand, the pressure of
the trigger against his finger as he pulled, squeezed...

But he would never be able to do it, he realized, finding himself
staring in the direction of the bedroom, aware that he had actually
stood an began moving in that direction.  If Scully was anything to
him, she was hope.  For him to abandon all the hopes she had worked so
diligently to reconstruct within him would be the ultimate betrayal of
her love.  He loved her enough to die for her.  He had to love her
enough to live for her.

Mulder lay his head back on the sofa and sobbed like a lost 
child.  It was in this way that he fell into a haunted slumber.

*  *  *  *  *

Wednesday morning, Scully awoke with tears pouring down 
her face.  She had dreamed of Mulder in the night, sitting alone in
their apartment, crying for her, needing her.  She had seen him
sobbing brokenly, but though her heart yearned desperately to reach
out and comfort him, she could do nothing to ease his sorrow.

Something is not right, she realized as she sat up.  Around her, the
air seemed charged, expectant.

I have to get out of here.  Something is going to happen.  
Today.

The decision was made before she was conscious of it.  Her 
morning nausea was curiously absent, and her fatigue faded 
away as though it had never been.  She would escape today.  
She would be free before night fell.  The longer she waited, the less
her chances were.  She grew weaker by the day, and she would begin to
show her pregnancy any day now.  This was her final chance.  It was
now or never.

She made her plan as she waited, knowing Morris would be by 
that night to see to her welfare.  Her desire not to harm him 
still existed, but it no longer mattered.  She would do what she must
to get free.  She used her covered bucket, which had been emptied the
previous night, to mix half a gallon of her water with an entire
bottle of pine cleanser.  Then she thought, and just to be certain,
she added some of the bleach he had brought her to clean with.  She
placed the lid on the bucket to keep the fumes out of the air, and so
that the scent would not alert him to anything unusual.  When he
arrived, she would loosen the lid on the bucket and have it ready.  It
was a vicious plan of attack, but she could not wait for an
opportunity to be merciful.  At this point in her pregnancy, she was
running out of time.

After she sealed the bucket, Scully dug a nail file out of her 
purse and began to loosen one of the legs of her cot from 
where it was screwed loosely together.  That accomplished, 
she sat down with all but one of her sets of scrubs he had 
brought her and began to tear them into long strips.  As she did so,
unpleasant memories of Eugene Victor Tooms surfaced in her mind, only
to be staunchly shoved back out of the way.  She forced her breathing
to still, her heart to cease its erratic beating.  She tied the strips
of cloth into ropes using strong knots her father had taught her as a
child.

And then she waited.

In the afternoon, her sense of unease grew, accompanied by a 
tightening in her belly that she couldn't shrug off as being 
tension.  Nervousness and lack of food were more than ample 
cause for a stomach ache, she realized, and yet her distressing 
sense of predestination would not be appeased.  In the late 
afternoon, she realized why.  She felt the first hint of moisture on
her thighs.  An inspection revealed that she was only spotting, but
the idea sent a spear of panic into her heart.  Her texts said that
ninety percent of women who experienced spotting during the early
months of their pregnancies went on to delivery healthy full-term
babies, and with that logic as her shield, she forced her worry to the
back of her mind.  She would seek medical attention as soon as she was
free of this place.  Indeed, it was just one more motivation to escape
now--no matter how light the bleeding, the texts had warned that it
was unwise to let it go unchecked by a doctor.

Her weapons ready, her resolve hardened, she continued to 
wait.

*  *  *  *  *

Mulder awoke Wednesday morning with a headache from 
crying himself to sleep and his cell phone ringing in his ear.  He
answered it groggily.  "Mulder..."

"Mulder, it's Skinner.  I need you down here immediately."

He was alert in an instant.  "What have you got?"

"We ran a check on the name Steven Morris and came up with 
one in the region of Virginia that you stated.  He matches the 
profile we came up with exactly.  Six foot seven, two-hundred-
seventy pounds, works as an orderly at Claremont Memorial 
Hospital, Claremont, Virginia, which provides him with access 
to the drugs we found, if he knows the right way to go about 
getting them.  He lives alone, his parents having died ten years ago
and leaving him their house.  Then, last year, he stopped coming to
work for a period of five months without any warning or request for
leave.  After five months, he simply returned to his job as though he
had never left."

"An abduction victim?"

"Possibly," Skinner mused.  "We got a court order for the 
results of his latest blood tests, which we are currently 
screening to see if we can match his DNA up to that in the 
saliva found near Dana's car.  It's a slim chance, but if it works, we
can place him at the scene of the crime.  I've also got everything
prepared to receive the warrant to search his house if the match comes
up."

Mulder bolted up off the sofa.  "I'll shower and change and be 
right there," he told Skinner, and disconnected.

If Skinner noticed the fact that Mulder's clothing hadn't been 
pressed, or that he had barely taken time to comb his hair after his
rushed shower, the man said nothing.  "It will be a few hours yet
before we have the DNA results," he announced without preamble.

"I can wait," Mulder replied.  "Have you told Mrs. Scully?"

Skinner shook his head with a frown.  "I don't want to get her 
hopes up needlessly.  What we have now is too circumstantial.  
We'll never be able to make it stick if the DNA doesn't match 
up."

Mulder nodded.  "You're probably right.  She's hurting 
enough."

Mulder sat in the corner of Skinner's office as the Director 
went on with business as usual.  Skinner had his assistant hold 
all but the most pressing calls, but Mulder found it frustrating to
watch the man go about his work coolly, as though he had nothing
extraneous on his mind.  He jumped each time Skinner's phone rang,
hoping it would be the call that they were waiting for.  When the news
arrived, however, it was in the form of a breathless James Bartel
being ushered into Skinner's office.

"We've got a match!" he announced triumphantly, his eyes on 
Mulder's face.  "Steven Morris was definitely in that parking lot the
night Agent Scully disappeared."

"We've got motive, and opportunity," Skinner said, some hint 
of his own relief breaking through his composed voice.  "That's 
enough to move on.."

Mulder closed his eyes while Skinner began calling to obtain 
the warrant to search Steven Morris's house.  It wasn't hard to 
do.  When the Director of the FBI requested such a thing, 
people moved heaven and earth to get it for him.

An hour later, Mulder and Skinner were on a helicopter headed 
for Claremont, Virginia.

*  *  *  *  *

End of Part Eight


===========================================================================

From: "Kristel S. Johns" <kjohns@mail2.alliance.net>
Date: Tue, 23 Apr 1996 18:05:06 +0000
Subject: (Fwd) Nightscape 9a


NIGHTSCAPE
Kristel S. Oxley-Johns

Please send all questions, suggestions and comments to
the author at kjohns@mail2.alliance.net

The characters and situations of the X-Files television program
are the creations and property of Chris Carter, Fox
Broadcasting, DD, GA, et cetera, and are used without
permission.  No infringement is intended.  I just want to tell a
story.

Part Nine (1/2)

*  *  *  *  *

The late afternoon turned the underground cell into what 
seemed to be an oven as the promised heat wave crashed over 
them with a vengeance.  Scully felt herself growing faint with 
heat and exhaustion and pain.  The cramping in her abdomen 
had gotten worse as the hours passed, and now she was not at 
all certain that she would be physically capable of escaping 
when her opportunity came.  She wasn't at all sure of what she 
might expect in the hours to come.

My baby...Dear God, not my baby!

The thought was unbidden and filled with fear, and Scully 
pushed it away determinedly.  It could only be counter-
productive to worry about that now, when there was nothing 
that she could do.  Best to focus now on the task at hand, and 
when she was free, she could get the help that she needed.  So 
she kept her bucket close at hand and refused to allow herself 
to dwell on the brutality of what she had planned.  She would 
do anything to save her baby.  Anything at all.

Her heart began to pound in her chest when she heard the 
familiar scraping noises above her head.  He was here.  But he 
was early!  He didn't usually visit her until much later in the 
day...Something was wrong...

Scully began to pry the lid off her bucket with trembling 
fingers.

The door above her head swung open, and the sunshine, rarely 
seen and precious to her, filled the far side of her chamber.  
She had moved the cot away from the opening in the ceiling 
weeks ago, seeing a strategic advantage to not being blinded 
each time the door was opened.  She longed to go stand in the 
sunlight, to soak it up, but she knew that she was better off 
remaining hidden, where she could see him, but he would have 
to search the shadows for her.

He descended the ladder.  "I have to get you out of here," he 
announced, looking for her in the darkness.  His eyes were 
wide and panicked.  Scully knew that something had indeed 
gone wrong.

Another cramping pain shot through her belly as she asked, 
"Why?  Are you letting me go?"

"No!"  the response was vicious.  "The FBI was at the hospital 
today looking for me.  I barely made it out without them seeing 
me.  I have to find someplace else for us to hide."

The FBI!  Mulder!

"No, please!  You go.  Let them find me here!"

"I CAN'T!" he cried, a sob in his voice.  "Don't you 
understand?  I don't WANT to do this, I HAVE to!"

Best not to agitate him, Scully thought, her moment of 
excitement passing.  "Where will you take me?"

Her voice was amazingly calm, even to her own ears, despite 
the fact that her heart had picked up its pace the moment the 
lid of the bucket came free.  She felt the adrenaline pouring 
into her bloodstream, and a deathly calm took over.  Her vision 
snapped into focus.  All the colors became more vibrant, the 
shapes more defined.  Each movement Morris made seemed to 
be in slow motion.  Suddenly, this had ceased to be a effort 
simply to exist and had become a battle of survival for herself 
and her baby.  She responded with every animal instinct within 
her.  Unconsciously, she knew that if she lived a hundred more 
years, she would never again feel this alert, this primitive.

"Where will you hide?  How long will you run away?"

"I don't know.  I'll find someplace," he answered.

"Then you'll have to help me," she murmured.  "I need to 
gather my things."

The moment it took him to turn around and face her fully was 
the longest of her life.  She waited until he stepped so that the
light from above fell fully on his face.  Then, she let fly with the
contents of the pail, directly onto his face and shoulders.

There was a moment of stunned silence, followed by a wail of 
agony as the mixture made its way into his eyes and began to 
burn.  I might well have blinded him, Scully thought abstractly,
grabbing the cot leg she had pried off.  She rushed him as he began to
flail about.  She was struck by a swinging arm across her middle as
she pushed him away from the ladder and into the wall.  The pain from
the blow was nauseating, but she followed through with her charge and
with one well-placed blow of her make-shift club, rendered him
unconscious.

Scully grabbed the cloth ropes she had made and bound his 
hand behind his back.  Then, in a brief display of mercy, she 
used the last of her drinking water, which she had been 
planning to take with her, to flush some of the chemicals out of
Morris' eyes.

She felt herself beginning to grow faint with the fumes and the 
pain from the blow he had struck her.  She scrambled up the 
ladder, almost falling off.  The pain in her abdomen surged, 
striking her full force as she reached the top and stood, free, in the
blinding sunlight.  The light tore into her eyes, piercing her, and
she closed them tightly.  She completed the task of removing the
ladder from the cell blind.  Below, she could hear Morris beginning to
moan beneath his gag.

Another pain sent her to her knees, and she echoed that moan, 
her arms clasped around her belly.  She sat in the sunlight 
panting with heat and pain.  She felt dizzy and realized that,
despite the heat, she was not perspiring--an indication of heat
stroke.

She considered her options, going over what Morris had told
her in her mind. 

The FBI had been at the hospital!  Mulder had found her!  She 
quickly debated remaining here until he came for her, but then 
she realized that they might not ever consider looking in the 
woods beyond Morris' house.  He had said his house was 
nearby...If she could get there, get anywhere, to a phone...

Slowly, she lurched to her feet, scanning the tree line 
surrounding the clearing that she found herself in.  The pain of
straightening when she wanted to curl into a ball and never move again
was terrible.  She looked for some clue as to which direction Morris
might have come from, cursing her near- blindness and inability to
think clearly, so overwhelmed by pain and heat was she.  She thought
she detected the faint traces of a trail and staggered towards it into
the trees.

*  *  *  *  *

Both Mulder and Skinner were grim and painfully aware that 
precious time had been wasted searching the hospital for 
Morris.  Their intention had been to get him into custody, 
where he could do no harm, before attempting to retrieve 
Scully from wherever he was holding her.  It hadn't been a plan 
that Mulder had liked, but he saw the sense in it.  Now, it was 
obvious that Morris had somehow gotten word that they were 
looking for him, and had slipped away.

Had he taken Scully with him?  Or was he intent upon doing 
her harm before he was taken?

Mulder met Skinner's eyes in the rear-view mirror from where 
he sat in the back of the car belonging to the local ASAC, who 
was driving.  Skinner was in the passenger seat.  It was by 
unspoken agreement that neither man commented on the fact 
that technically, Mulder was on leave, and even more, that he 
was not supposed to be a part of this investigation, or on the 
fact that leading operations like this was not exactly the 
responsibility of the Director of the FBI.  As Director, Skinner had
the ability to make things happen.  No one was going to question his
or Mulder's presence.

It was a breakneck race to Morris's house on the outside of the 
city.  An old style farm house on a large plot of uncared-for 
land, it was secluded on three sides by the woods and the 
mountains beyond them.  It was the perfect place to hold a 
hostage.  There was no way to covertly approach, being 
situated on ten acres of land.  The nearest neighbor was half a 
mile away.

Skinner, Mulder and the local agents had donned Kevlar vests 
against the possibility of an armed stand-off, but though 
Morris' car sat in the driveway, its engine still warm, there was no
sign of life within the house.

Skinner and Mulder led the way, creeping cautiously toward 
the house, trying to remain out of sight of the windows while a 
warning to Morris was called out over the megaphone.  There 
was no answer.  They stood with the guns at the ready at either 
side of the front door and waited to know if they could see or 
hear any signs of covert activity within the house.  The 
doorknob was tested, proving the door to be unlocked, and 
Mulder glanced at Skinner, his heart in his throat.  The other 
agents filed in behind them as Skinner held up three fingers and
silently counted down.  On zero, they burst through the door, followed
by the local agents.

The house was deathly still, a thought that almost froze 
Mulder's heart.  He watched the rest of the agents sweep 
through the rooms on the first and second floors.  
Remembering his visions of Scully in a cool, damp place, he 
headed for the basement, followed by an equally grim Skinner.  
He would not allow himself to consider that he might be 
making his way down the stairs to Scully's lifeless body.

The basement was empty with the exception of an ancient 
washer/dryer set and shelves that were lined with home-
preserved foodstuffs that appeared to be decades old.  Mulder 
had an uncomfortable flashback of finding hair and fingers in 
such everyday places in another place, another time--a time 
when Scully had been in danger and afraid also.  He pushed the 
memory aside.  They would not find her beautiful fingers 
severed, or locks of her soft hair lying around.  If they found 
her at all, she would be whole and hale.  WHEN they found 
her, he amended.

He searched the walls for doors or exits leading off, but none 
were to be found.  He lowered his gun and faced Skinner.  
"She's not here.," hesitated, surprised by the ambiguity of his 
feelings.  He was disappointed to not have found her, but he 
was also relieved to not be standing over her dead body.  He 
was not comforted by Skinner's sympathetic nod.

Skinner appeared about to say something when one of the local 
agents stuck his head through the doorway at the top of the 
stairs.  "We've found something, sirs."

Mulder tore up the stairs, taking them three at a time, and 
entered the old Formica-surfaced kitchen to see a hand-gun 
lying on the table.  The Sig Sauer was unmistakable.  He'd seen 
it a thousand times.  It had saved his ass more than once.  "It's
hers," he said to Skinner.  Scully had been here!

Skinner turned and began to give orders.  "Everybody spread 
out and search the entire premises, the lands, the outbuildings, and
the surrounding woods.  Hodgeson, Doyle, question the nearest
neighbors and see if they can shed any light on Morris' activities. 
Remember: we are working under the presumption that if his car is
here, he can't be far. Note that he is to be considered armed and
dangerous, and that hostage protocol does apply!  Now, move!"

Mulder sank down into a chair at the table, his head in his 
hands.  For once, he didn't give a royal damn who saw him fall 
apart.  Skinner switched on the hand-held radio he had with 
him.  "I'm sorry, Mulder," he said softly.

Mulder acknowledged his words and the sentiment with a nod 
of his head.  To come this close--and nothing...  How much 
longer could this go on, playing a cat and mouse game with 
this madman who had his wife?

They sat silently for several minutes before Skinner's radio 
crackled, and the announcement was heard: "We've found a 
footpath leading into the woods, sir!  It appears to have recent
footprints on it."

"We'll be right there!" Skinner barked into the radio, and 
followed Mulder whom had bolted from the room, knocking 
his chair over in the process.  They raced to the spot where the group
of agents had gathered, studying the path into the woods.  In his
mind, Mulder could feel the need to find Scully growing more
desperate, knowing her peril and pain increased with every moment that
passed.  The thought made him stop.  Yes.  She was in pain.  He knew
that as surely as he knew that she was alive.

"We'd better get an ambulance out here," he told Skinner, who 
wisely did not press for an explanation.

The trail that led them into the woods was uneven and 
winding, an obstacle course of low tree branches and roots that 
threatened to trip them up every step that they took.  The 
group spread out to search through the trees by the side of the 
trail until the burst through a bunch of bushes into a small 
clearing in the woods.  Mulder stopped breathing as he espied 
the rectangular opening in the ground and the rusty ladder 
tossed carelessly beside it.

"Scully!" he yelled, running towards the hole.  He looked down 
and could see the vague shape of a human being in the 
shadows, writhing and groaning in agony.  The groans were 
not female, he realized.

"There's a man down here," he said, rising from where he had 
knelt by the opening.  "Scully is gone. I'm willing to bet that's
Morris, and she's escaped.  She's probably in the woods right now,
trying to find her way out."

"We'll start forming search parties--" Skinner said.

"There isn't time!"  Mulder exclaimed.   "She needs our help 
now.  I'm going to look for her."

Before Skinner could answer, Mulder ran for the other side of 
the clearing, breaking through the bushes there and 
disappearing into the woods, yelling Scully's name as he went.

*  *  *  *  *


===========================================================================

From: "Kristel S. Johns" <kjohns@mail2.alliance.net>
Date: Thu, 25 Apr 1996 18:00:12 +0000
Subject: (Fwd) Nightscape 9b


NIGHTSCAPE
Kristel S. Oxley-Johns

Please send all questions, suggestions and comments to
the author at kjohns@mail2.alliance.net

The characters and situations of the X-Files television program
are the creations and property of Chris Carter, Fox
Broadcasting, DD, GA, et cetera, and are used without
permission.  No infringement is intended.  I just want to tell a
story.

Part Nine (2/2)

*  *  *  *  *

Scully staggered against a tree and looked down to see the 
blood running down her legs in small rivulets.  She closed her 
eyes against the sight and sank to her knees, the rough bark of 
the tree scraping her skin as she did so.  She was losing her 
baby.

"Mulder..." she whispered..."Our baby...help me, please..."

Losing her baby.  The one thing that had given her the strength 
to hold on for six weeks in that hell-hole, her baby that had 
saved her life by sheer virtue of its existence...gone.  She 
couldn't fight anymore, couldn't lift her head or find the will to
keep going.  She would never have the strength to make it anywhere but
a little deeper into the wood, where she would die with no one
knowing.  She curled into a little ball and lay next to the tree.  The
pains rocked her, and the blood stuck to the skin on the dry, fevered
skin of her legs.  In her mind, she thought that she heard voices in
the distance, but she realized that was only a fantasy.  It was too
late now...

She closed her eyes and willed it to be over...

There was a thrashing in the woods in the distance, and then 
she heard his voice, "Scully!" it screamed.

"Mulder!" she gasped.  It hadn't been a fantasy.  He was here 
for her.  She wasn't going to die here alone.  "I'm here!" she 
called, and the realized that she had no hope of being heard.  It
seemed that the thrashing in the foliage was receding, going in the
other direction, but then it came nearer.

She saw him as though through a haze, running towards
her, calling her name.  She lay there trembling, too weak to
hold her head up, her breathing whistling in her throat,
whispering his name.

She was aware of him falling to the ground beside her, 
reaching for her.  She extended one hand to him with its
blood-stained fingers and whispered, "Mulder, help me,
please..."

"I'll help you," he sobbed, gathering her up into her arms.  She
heard him call out to unseen others, felt him running through
the woods, branched whipping them both, stumbling over 
roots and stones.  They entered the clearing where she had 
been held and she heard a familiar voice--Skinner?--barking 
commands for everyone to clear the way, and then they were
back in the trees again.

"Mulder," she whispered from where her head rolled weakly
against his shoulder.  Another cramp threatened to rob her
of her breath.  "Our baby..."

He looked down at her, stunned realization in his eyes.  They 
burst out of the trees again, and she was laid tenderly on a 
waiting gurney.  She heard Mulder gasp, "She's miscarrying, I 
think..." before a strangers face, framed by a paramedic's 
uniform appeared above her.  Then, the light faded and she 
slipped into unconsciousness.

*  *  *  *  *

Mulder paced the waiting room outside emergency at 
Claremont Memorial Hospital.  Inside, Scully was being 
undergoing a D and C to remove all build-up in her uterus that 
had not been shed during the miscarriage.  She was also being 
treated for dehydration and heat stroke.

Skinner found him there and asked for what news he had, and 
Mulder explained what he knew.

"She lost the baby," he said, his eyes hollow.  "And she 
suffered a mild case of heat-stroke.  They're stopping her 
bleeding right now, but it doesn't appear she lost a dangerous 
amount of blood.  Her largest problem was dehydration."

Skinner placed a hand on Mulder's shoulder.  "I'm sorry, 
Mulder."

"Have you called Mrs. Scully yet?"

"She and your mother are on their way.  I arranged for them to 
be driven in.  They should arrive within an hour or so."

"What about Morris?"  Mulder's voice took on a chilly edge.

"He's being treated for chemical burns all over his face and 
neck.  They don't know how much of his eyesight he'll be able 
to retain.  That mixture she threw on him had chlorine bleach in it."

Mulder made no comment, but inwardly he cheered grimly that 
Scully had gotten her digs in.

It was an hour before Mulder was called in to see her.  He was 
surprised to find her conscious.  There was an IV tube in one 
arm, feeding her nutrients and fluids to cure her dehydration.  
The sight of her so pale in the hospital bed brought back 
memories he would have rather left long buried, memories of a 
another time when he had faced the bleak, black possibility of 
life without her.  He shook them away.  This was not the same.  
He would not sit by her bedside and watch her slip away.  She 
was back to stay.

Tears welled up in Scully's eyes when he walked through the 
door and sat on the edge of the bed.  She struggled to sit up 
and weakly fell into his arms.

"Mulder--our baby..." she moaned, pressing her face against his 
shoulder.  He tucked her head under his chin as he'd done a 
million times before and stroked her hair, noting how coarse it 
felt beneath his hand.

"Shh, it's okay..."

Finally, he drew back and eased her gently down onto her 
pillows.  She reached for him again, and he took her hands.  
"Relax.  I'm not going anywhere."

"Hold me..." she whispered.  With the greatest care, he eased 
himself down to lay beside her, taking her into his arms, noting how
thin she felt against him.  Rage boiled inside him at the thought that
anyone could do this to her.

She lay in his arms without moving for a long, silent time, and 
when she finally spoke, she asked, "How did you find me?"

He released a trembling sigh.  "I was given a tip from a 
MUFON member who had heard of Morris."

"How is he?"

Mulder drew back, surprised that she should ask.  "He's got 
second degree chemical burns all over his face and neck, and 
he's lost about sixty percent of his eyesight.  He's being held for
observation before being released into custody."

"If I'm not able to, I would like you to see that he gets 
incarcerated at a mental institution, not a prison," she 
murmured.

"What?" Mulder stared at her, not certain he'd heard correctly. 
"After what he did to you?"

"He was kind to me," she said softly.  "At least, as kind as he 
could be under the circumstances.  He's not evil.  He's just 
sick..  He kept saying that it wasn't what he wanted to do, it 
was what he HAD to do."

Mulder sighed.  "If that's what you want, I'll see what I can 
do."

She lay silent again, and Mulder thought for a moment that she 
might have fallen asleep.  Then, she murmured, "Mulder, about 
the baby..."

"Shh," he cut her off.  "We'll talk about that another time.  You
don't have to explain now."

"I wanted you to be happy about the baby," she whispered, her 
voice slurring as she got drowsier and drowsier.  "I wanted the 
baby so much..."

Mulder couldn't speak of it right now when it was so new and 
painful.  "Skinner is here to see you," he told her, and her eyes
opened again. "And your mother should be arriving any moment now."

"Let them in," she answered.  "I'm not going to be able to stay 
awake much longer."

Reluctantly, he left the bed and returned to the waiting room.  
As he approached from one direction, he saw Maggie Scully 
and his mother running in from the other.  Mrs. Scully 
approached Skinner, pulling back when he reached out to her.

"How could you not have told me where you were going?!" 
she demanded, tears in her eyes.  "All day long I have been 
waiting for word from you or Mulder, and there was nothing!  
I couldn't reach either of you.  I should have been told!"

Mulder watched mutely as Skinner reached to her again, and 
this time, she allowed herself to be drawn into his arms.  She 
began to cry.

"Is she all right?  Is she truly all right?"

Mulder stepped forward into the waiting room.  "She's going 
to be fine, Mrs. Scully," he said softly.  "She lost the baby, but
she'll be okay.  The doctors say that she'll recover in no time."

Maggie left Skinner's arms to embrace Mulder.  "Can I see 
her?"

He nodded.  "She's expecting you," he replied, and led them 
down the hall.

He eased the door gently open, looking inside.  Then he turned 
to the others with a chagrined smile.  "She's asleep," he 
whispered.

"Then don't wake her," Mrs. Scully replied, shushing him.  
"Just let me look in on her, then we'll go."  Mulder nodded and 
stood aside as she crept silently into the room.  Skinner and his
mother entered behind him, looking toward Scully's still form on the
bed.  With the gentle touch of a mother, Mrs. Scully tucked the sheet
and blanket around her daughter and kissed her forehead.  Scully
stirred in her sleep and sighed.

Silently, they all stepped out into the corridor.  Mrs. Scully 
pressed a hand against her trembling lips.

"She looks so much like she did before--" she whimpered.  
Skinner drew her to his side, his arm around her shoulders.

Mulder shook his head.  "It's not like before at all," he said 
quickly.  "She's awake.  She spoke to me.  We're not going to 
sit here forever wondering if she'll pull through this.  She's 
going to be all right."

Mrs. Scully nodded bravely and allowed Skinner to escort her 
back to the waiting room.  Mulder hung back with his mother.  
"Did you call Sam?" he asked quietly.

She nodded.  "First thing when I heard the news.  She sends all 
her love."

"Good.  When you get back to the hotel, call her and let her 
know what happened.  Tell her Scully is fine.  I'm going to be 
staying here tonight, whether they want to let me or not," he 
scowled.

"Of course," she replied.  "Here is where you belong.  Why 
don't you go back inside with her?  We'll be here bright and 
early tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay," he sighed, and she kissed his cheek.  He made his 
good-byes to Mrs. Scully and Skinner once again and watched 
as they left.  He was about to go back into the room when he 
realized that he had one more call to make.  He pulled out his 
cell phone and hauled the number out of his photographic 
memory.

"Mossey residence," the female voice answered on the other 
end.

"Ms. Mossey?" he queried, not recognizing the voice.

"This is she."

He frowned.  "Hello, this is Agent Mulder with the FBI."

She paused.  "Oh, yes, I remember.  Hello."

"I just wanted to let you know that we captured the man 
responsible for the murders, and we found Agent Scully, my 
wife.  She's going to be fine."

She sounded perplexed.  "I'm please to hear that, Agent 
Mulder, but--"

"Well, I just wanted to thank you for your tip.  We wouldn't 
have found them if you hadn't called me."

Another long pause filled with uncomfortable silence.  Mulder 
heard her draw in a sharp breath.  "Agent Mulder, I'm afraid 
that there has been some sort of mistake.  I haven't spoken to 
you ever.  I received your message on my machine two days 
ago and haven't had the chance to call you back yet.  I never 
called you with any tip..."

*  *  *  *  *

End of Part Nine


===========================================================================