----------

1989 - QUANTICO

Kurzman would be going to jail forever. A respectable outcome. 
After all, there were no actual witnesses to the deaths. Janet 
Hoddle had removed her gun from her holster. There was no proof 
that he knew that she was a Federal agent. Kurzman was bitterly 
remorseful.

In sudden rage and panic, Kurzman explained contritely, he'd 
opened the car door and pushed the girl out, not realizing how 
fast he was travelling. As soon as he understood the awful thing 
that he'd done he'd stopped the car and turned back to try and 
help. Hoddle had turned a gun on him, no mention of who she was. 
He'd fired first, before she hurt him.

The prosecution had picked at his story. Why hadn't he just walked 
away? Why did he have a gun in his hand anyway? And at such close 
range? 99 years for murder was a logical response.

Mulder read the report for lessons, but found it mostly 
uninspiring. Just a pity they'd failed at the first trial. Case 
closed and nothing more to be done.

Almost nothing more. Diana Fowley's furious outburst was now a 
fading memory. Fortunately. 

They'd become lovers that night. Mulder promising not to become 
Bill Patterson. Diana Fowley promising him that there was life 
before death as well as after it.

Mulder had laughed at her jokes and swooned under her body. And 
she'd returned the compliment. As of last week, she was officially 
working out of the Violent Crimes group in DC, he would be seeing 
a lot more of her. The plan labeled 'escape from the ISU' was in 
full swing and Reggie Purdue was pulling almost as hard as Mulder 
was pushing.

Life was good, relatively speaking. At any rate, life was life.

Even for Francine, life was life. The little bird was fully 
fledged and it was time for her to fly the nest. Surrogate brother 
or priest or whatever it was he'd become, it was his job to force 
her to make the move. He'd been weaning her off for weeks. Talking 
like a psychologist when she'd raised emotions, talking like a 
model FBI agent as he demanded a "strictly the facts ma'am" 
response to his questions about school and home and friends and 
hobbies.

As she'd become bolder, more aggressive in trying to provoke 
responses from him, so he'd become more compliant. Accepting 
criticism of everything from his taste in ties to his taste in 
women with a self-mocking docility that was just making her angry. 
At first, she'd seen it as teasing. So she'd upped the pressure, 
made sure that it was obvious that she was not a mere child to be 
teased and indulged.

Mulder had watched as she preened her feathers and checked out her 
wings, knowing that change would come soon.

It came on a hot, sticky evening. She'd asked him to attend the 
summer swimming gala at her school, he'd agreed when he realized 
that her father who had gone out of town on a case had failed to 
return in time. Surrogate brother duty he noted with grim clarity, 
angry that he'd made it so easy for Bill to slip out of his 
daughter's life. Scrub that, he corrected, he'd made it easy for 
Bill to avoid ever actually getting involved in Frankie's life.

He went straight from work, resplendent in neat gray suit and 
perfectly preened hair. Frankie had arrived in front of him in her 
dripping wet swimsuit, dark hair looking almost black with the 
water. A wet hug at his arrival, she'd stood on tiptoe to kiss 
him. Playing to the gallery behind her, perfect body in the arms 
of the perfect man. There were a few startled gasps as classmates, 
who'd never looked before, saw the beauty for the first time. 

Mulder took a step back, disentangling himself. "I can't believe 
you swim with your hair loose."

She sighed. "Like it?"

"I'm just amazed it doesn't go ratty."

She turned away, disgusted. 

When Bill Patterson arrived half an hour later, Francine was 
already on her way into three finals. Mulder contemplated leaving 
but decided that it might be too cruel and abrupt an action. 
Besides, as soon as Bill sat down he started interrogating him, 
catching up on the week's progress on the ISU's cases. Mulder 
tried to draw the line. "Bill, that's not even my case. Wiggins is 
the agent."

"Right, and you're telling me you he hasn't asked you for help?"

Mulder shrugged, irritated. "Yeah, OK, but."

"Get on with it."

Despite the fact they were sitting a reasonable distance away from 
the rest of the spectators, Mulder was conscious of the hush that 
had fallen over their section of the bleachers. He glared at Bill, 
picked his words like a code talker trying to avoid too much blood 
and guts.

Francine had been parading with enthusiasm. Smiling for the 
photographer of the yearbook. Giggling at the boy whose speedos 
were looking uncomfortably snug after she walked past. The fact 
that it had been a while since either Mulder or her father had 
looked in her direction with any more interest than a distracted 
wave was not lost on her.

On her next tour she found herself a companion. Tall and blond, a 
football playing Adonis oddly out of place in the pool. Not 
competing. He was there as a guard only, demonstrating his perfect 
pecs and an even more perfect tan. She had broken free, swimming 
costume had become fancy dress for the night, liberating Francine 
Patterson from the ghosts of Marie Curie or any other woman. She 
was almost drunk on the power it gave her. It was there in the 
swing of her hips and the smile on her face.

Even coming in third, fourth and second in her three finals did 
nothing to dampen her spirits. At the end of the night she made 
her way to the men in her life. 

Mulder looked down at her, politely offering congratulations and 
commiserations as required.

She tipped her head to one side, smiled winningly. "No hug? No 
kiss?"

He rose, squeezed her once and let his lips peck briefly at her 
forehead, then pulled back.

"You were more enthusiastic before Dad got here." She shuffled her 
weight between feet, angry at Mulder's lack of reaction, rapidly 
becoming furious at the indulgent smile in his eyes. "Was that a 
gun in your pocket, Agent Mulder?" She was boiling now. She 
exploded when the shine in his eyes brightened rather than dimmed 
at the assault. "I guess so. Presumably that woman keeps yours in 
a glass jar."

Mulder resisted the impulse to laugh, suspecting that the chlorine 
bath that might follow an assault by Frankie would be bad for the 
expensive suit as well as the actual gun in his pocket. 

She sounded angry, but more than anything she sounded 
disappointed. She turned to her father. "I guess he really is your 
punching bag. It's a shame, he would have made a nice man." One 
fast backward glance at Mulder and she was gone. 

Once he was confident that she wasn't coming back, Mulder let 
himself smile openly. The scene was not something he would have 
planned or wanted, but it was effective nonetheless. Francine had 
flown away, for an instant it felt like a triumph. He turned to 
his boss, ready to apologize, or defend himself, or whatever was 
required. But for once there was no reprimand in Bill Patterson's 
expression.

Just for the barest instant Bill's eyes looked at Mulder with 
unalloyed gratitude and respect. Proud of his daughter and proud 
of his protege. A good night's work.


------

1999 - LA

Fox Mulder was tired, but an awful long way from sleepy, too 
thoroughly nauseated by his own performance and too terrified by 
thoughts of tomorrow, to want to lose consciousness. Not enough 
time had passed since he'd watched his partner walk defeatedly 
into her bedroom, hating him with a passion that had made his 
stomach roll. Brilliant. He took a step back from his life and 
admired his handiwork. He was Bill Patterson.

His loving contribution to Frankie's childhood had helped deliver 
a serial killer. He'd never felt especially paternal, maybe this 
was a rather salutary lesson in why that was fortunate. Perhaps he 
should be feeling some sense of familial pride, certainly 
Frankie's ability to kill without even getting her hands dirty 
marked her down as something special. Nice to know he had a magic 
touch.

First task was to flick on the TV, the last thing he wanted was 
silence. He liked the noise even though he couldn't actually hear 
the words of the basketball commentary over the clamor in his 
head. His brain raced indignantly through its lists of self-
justification, it argued the case in legalese and Bureau speak, it 
claimed self-defense and justified use of force. 

Scully had attacked, all he'd done was protect himself. By 
switching off. Survival skills that good were hard to develop, he 
should be glad they were still available on demand. 

In terms of the professional balance sheet, it was even arguable 
that the day had gone well. The real reason he was here was to 
interview some of the team who'd worked the Kurzman case and 
determine which ones might be targets for Frankie's little 
project. Forewarned might be forearmed, if he did it right. Maybe. 
Though it might help more if he actually knew how she did it. 

The meeting with Kurzman had been merely window-dressing, 
necessary to create the right credibility for talking old times 
with the locals and an easy justification in the 302. As it 
happened, the sheer indifferent, impersonal malevolence of 
Mulder's performance had probably given them clues to the 
identities of four more victims and what might be four burial 
sites. Maybe he wouldn't have done so well if he'd not let Spooky 
run the show. Scully had just been in the wrong place at the wrong 
time. Her choice. She was a big bad Federal agent. What did she 
expect from a serial killer?

It sounded almost plausible. If he said it loud enough, often 
enough, he could almost believe it. Bottom line was, it wasn't 
true.

Scully was not a big bad Federal agent today. She was the victim 
of a sustained psychological assault by Francine Patterson. A 
woman so good at her task she'd already destroyed the minds of at 
least three people. Scully was here, at his side, for her own 
protection, not as a one hundred percent fit employee of the 
Department of Justice. The fact that he didn't have the nerve to 
tell her that she was in protective custody didn't mean that it 
wasn't true.

Protective custody? He winced from the implications. He'd 
protected her by ripping her to shreds when all she was doing was 
worrying about him. He'd then left her one step better off than 
catatonic during the meeting with Kurzman. With nurturing skills 
like these, he had a future operating torture chambers.

As for Kurzman scaring her. Hardly. The only person who'd scared 
Dana Scully in that interview room had been her own partner.

The ends justify the means. It had never been a slogan he'd liked, 
it had always hit a little too close to home. Hell, for all he 
knew, it might have been the family motto. He could make up for it 
tomorrow. He'd be a kinder, gentler Fox Mulder tomorrow. Yeah, and 
all the pigs were carrying extra fuel and cleared for take off.

A lot of things to do tomorrow. A body hunt to set in motion. 
Agents to interview for warning signs and insights. An explanation 
of Francine's methodology to develop. But Dana Scully was the 
priority. How the hell had he forgotten that?

The pizza congealed quicker than he could eat it. He hadn't even 
had the nerve to ask Scully if she wanted to go and get some food. 
He looked at the clock, it was far too late now.

The recriminations and the apologies would have to wait. He 
admired the way his fingers shivered at the idea, closed them into 
a tight curl, flexed them open. Sleep would be a really smart 
move. Maybe he could count sheep jumping fences, bodies in shallow 
graves. Something. What the hell was happening here? Since when 
had he reached ground zero on concentration as well as humanity. 
One or the other surely, but both at the same time? Talk about 
fucked up.

He rolled over and pretended to watch the TV.

The first sound was just a distant, indistinct scratch. Yet, it 
reached in, past the white noise of the TV and the clamor in his 
head. Scully. He rolled off the bed and stood at the connecting 
door. A low whine. He blocked out the noise of the TV and tuned 
into the sound of his partner's nightmare. Unsure if she'd locked 
the door or not, he tested it as an experiment and was surprised 
to find that she hadn't. 

Mulder. He heard his name as the scream got louder. Mulder. He 
didn't need to be tuned in now, she was drowning out the TV. 
Another few seconds and some neighbor on the other side of the 
paper-thin walls would be knocking in retaliation.

"Mulder!"

And this time he went to her as she screamed his name. 

He reached for her, glad that his fingers had stopped trembling. 
He rested his hand over hers, gently stroked his thumb over the 
back of her wrist. Spoke softly through the haze of her screams. 

He felt her sudden movement and kept on talking, his voice the 
only calm place in the storm of her panic. She sought him out, 
reached for him, he gave her his other hand and she found it, 
gripped it like a vice, clinging like it was the only thing 
keeping her from drowning.

Mulder hesitated, not sure what he was supposed to do. She'd gone 
to sleep hating him. What she would think when she woke up he 
didn't dare imagine. But when she'd called his name and he'd 
touched her, she'd moved towards him so easily. Then she'd put 
this death grip on his hand. He had a choice, pull away, wake her 
up, or just keep still.

Keeping still was easy. This was the closest he'd been to her 
since before she went to San Diego. The distance between them had 
been physical as well as emotional. The grip on his hand now was 
almost painful but at least it made him feel real. After days of 
feeling like nothing, he'd even cling to this as comfort. It 
seemed to be comforting her as well. Her breathing had steadied, 
her pulse was calming. He'd just stay crouched by her side until 
she was through with him. A guilty pleasure masquerading as a prop 
for her.

"Mulder?"

He wasn't quite sure how long she'd been awake before she spoke, 
he got to his feet quickly as Scully's words startled him from his 
daydream. "Yeah. You ok? You were... You called my name. I 
thought..." He stopped talking.

A few seconds of silence as she slowed her breathing, regained 
control. "You can go back to bed now."

He started to leave, grateful that at least she hadn't screamed or 
panicked or howled at him to get out. Better than he'd 
anticipated, or deserved for that matter. 

As he moved, he saw Scully's phone on the floor at the side of the 
bed, the recharger in its customary place on her bedside table. He 
moved automatically to plug it back in. Stopped. "When were you 
using the phone?"

She looked at the phone, not really fully awake, but recovering 
fast. "I wasn't."

He pushed the caller ID but it gave the last caller as 'number 
withheld'. "Who was the last person to call you?"

Fully awake now, but puzzled. "You, on the way to the airport."

He showed her the display and walked back to his own room. A few 
minutes later he had a DC phone number on his pad. "Do you 
recognize it?"

She shook her head.

He turned away, not ready to look her in the eye. "It's Bill's."

"Patterson's?"

"Have you spoken to either of them?"

"Not since his daughter visited my apartment, Sunday."

He paced, restless now, realized that his jeans weren't fastened, 
corrected that. Circled the room working on the implications, 
Frankie had visited her? "Tell me about the nightmare."

She was silent for too long. Mulder slowed down, finally stopped 
circling and sat down on the floor beside her bed. He rested his 
back against the mattress and looked straight ahead, eyes locked 
on a scar in the paint on the wall. His voice was a murmur. 
"Please."

He waited it out through the silence, heard the indistinct buzz of 
the TV still chattering to his empty bedroom and listened to Dana 
Scully trying to breathe.

She was tentative. "I was in that boxcar, on the operating table."

He shivered, closed his eyes to try to concentrate, sensing that 
he might only have one chance to hear this story.

"There were lights. They were so bright, I had to close my eyes. 
But I couldn't. And there was a noise, an alarm. And I screamed."

She paused and Mulder felt his breathing stop.

"And you were there."

He fidgeted, tried to find the dispassionate calm that was needed 
to conduct an interrogation, swallowed as he spoke, almost choking 
on the words. "How often have you had the dream?"

"Ever since... But you were never there, until.."

"Not until we started investigating Patterson?"

She sighed, a hiccup in her breathing.

Mulder tried to maintain the impersonal tone, sensing that his 
apparent calm might be the only thing stopping Scully from 
screaming. "We need to get their old telephone records. And we 
need to start taping any calls made to us. Whether we know about 
them or not."

"You said I was in the eye of the storm. You told that woman, 
Fowley, that I was in trouble."

He felt like screaming himself now, ready to howl the roof down 
about her spying on him and it was so hard not to scream at her 
and demand to know how she could have been so stupid and fall into 
Frankie's trap and why she'd rather trust Frankie and how dare she 
talk about Diana like she was the enemy when she was under attack 
and screwing up and putting damned surveillance gear in his home. 
In his home. Just like them.

He stayed quiet, stabbing his fingernails into the palms of his 
hands to see if it would remind him that some things are real and 
some things aren't. "I was talking about Frankie. She's in the eye 
of the storm."

Scully was silent and he wanted to open his eyes and turn around 
and hold her and tell her that everything was going to be fine. 
But even as he rehearsed the thought, it didn't work. If he looked 
at her, he was going to lose it. He'd demand to know if she'd 
enjoyed the shower scene that had been beamed back to her PC. He'd 
want to know what insight she'd received from the fact he'd fallen 
asleep watching the cartoon channel on Monday night. How could she 
do that to him?

Her voice rumbled with fear controlled, but not subdued. "We're 
under attack, aren't we?"

No, no, no. The angry voice shouted in his head. How dare she 
assume anything about him. She was under attack. He was fine. 
Suddenly exhausted, he tried to stop the thoughts racing through 
his brain. He wasn't fine, he was miles from fine. He couldn't 
think, couldn't concentrate. He'd only made it through the day by 
putting on the damned Spooky show for Scully and Kurzman. He paid 
attention to his breathing, caught the lull. "Yeah, I think we 
are."

-------------

Mulder was still on DC time, not that it really mattered. When you 
weren't actually asleep, the idea of it being time to wake up was 
pretty redundant. After a little debate in the middle of the 
night, they'd switched off both cell phones and unplugged the room 
phones. It was unlikely that anyone would need to contact them. If 
they did and it was really that urgent, then the caller would 
surely contact the motel and get someone to knock on the door.

Sticking to the code of conduct he'd agreed to with Scully, he 
didn't switch the cell phone back on. He did plug the hotel line 
back in to make his call to Bill Patterson. It had been hard to 
wait even for this long. He was just going to have to hope that 
Francine had left home to go to work on time.

"Hello."

"Bill. I need to talk to you."

"I can hear you."

Pleasantries duly disposed of, Mulder got down to business. "Fine. 
I need access to your phone records."

"And why would I give them to you?"

Mulder hissed out a breath, a little stunned at still being 
treated as Patterson's pet profiler despite the fact that Bill 
wasn't his boss any more and hadn't been for years. 'Testing 
assumptions and reasoning,' as Bill had always described it. He 
took a deep breath, this was not a good time to lose his temper 
and this wasn't a good enough reason. "Because you want me to stop 
Francine while there's some of her left."

"That's an interesting thought. But irrelevant. Francine's the 
person whose name appears on the account. You'll have to ask her. 
Should I get her for you?"

"I'll find another way." Mulder put down the phone without saying 
goodbye.

He turned when he heard the noise coming from behind him. Dana 
Scully was leaning on the frame of the connecting door, eyebrows 
raised in a look that might have been annoyed but was certainly 
full of disbelief that he'd made a mistake so basic.

Mulder folded his arms across his chest. "Yes. I screwed up. So?"

"You should have waited until we could discuss it."

"Whatever." He shook his head, paused for a moment, then a sudden 
slow smile. "No. It's fine. It's good that she knows. She'll come 
to us now."

----------

If there was one thing that Mulder and Scully could agree on when 
it came to interviewing the remaining members of the Kurzman Task 
Force, it was that no news was good news. A few had retired, a few 
had moved on, and some of them wouldn't be available today. But 
basically, all appeared to be well. No one seemed in immediate 
danger of catastrophic breakdown. 

Even Kieran Mallow, the agent who'd had the misfortune to be left 
behind at the baseball stadium when Janet Hoddle had chased 
Kurzman, was in good shape. Ten years was a long time to get over 
a personal and professional nightmare. The wounds had healed but 
Kieran had never forgotten Janet and never forgiven Kurzman. 
Offered one last chance to do something for Janet's memory, he 
leapt at the opportunity.

A conviction against Kurzman would close the book emotionally if 
not legally on all the crimes that he'd committed and would be 
welcomed by everyone. Kieran Mallow relished the opportunity, but 
was as puzzled as any of them about why suddenly Kurzman was back 
under investigation. "You interviewed him years ago. Why didn't 
you get this then?"

Mulder glared back, irritated. Why didn't any of them get this 
information back then? "I was focused on the convictions that we 
could get. He might not have wanted to talk about the others."

"Might not have wanted to? We could have made him. If we'd had any 
idea that there were more bodies. We could have."

"Yeah, like we could have got him on the five we did know about. I 
don't have time for this."

Mallow winced, raised a hand in apology as he realized what he had 
just said. "What do we need?"

"A small team. We'll go with them to the first site and see what 
we can do. The rest are all yours. If you get anything, someone 
will need to see Kurzman."

"You?"

Mulder started to say no, but Scully cut in first. "Us." 

Mulder shrugged. They were going to have to talk. Really talk. So 
far the only tactics on which they'd agreed were that they 
couldn't risk switching on the cell phones and they couldn't 
afford to be separated. Scully was still working on the Kurzman 
case. Mulder was rapidly losing interest in it, even as a cover 
story.

They got their chance to talk at a campsite in a forest. Too big 
and featureless an area to search, too old a possible crime scene 
to still be carrying obvious surface scars and too many tree roots 
in the best body-burying terrain to make it easy to use the ground 
survey equipment.

Mulder had almost despaired of the location. He wondered if they 
might have more luck by doing a visual analysis of the other ones, 
rather than just wasting hours to even get a partial inspection 
done here. Scully shook her head at the suggestion and kept on 
patrolling.

Arms folded, Mulder tried to will himself to look for a good place 
to bury a body but kept coming up with "everywhere." He tilted his 
head back and tried to refine the process, looking instead for a 
good place for Kurzman to bury a body.

Scully had to shout to get his attention even though she was only 
a few feet away. She was pointing at a fork in one of the trees. 
"The Plough."

Mulder looked as directed, winced at the sight. "She'll be under 
the North Star then."

They sent the forensics crew to start looking.

Mulder turned to Scully. "Good catch. I should have noticed, 
Kurzman kept throwing around all those constellations when he 
talked. I didn't connect."

"You've been too pre-occupied."

Mulder barely stopped himself from storming away to brood in 
peace. He couldn't keep the annoyance from his voice. "With my 
obsessions?"

"For God's sake, Mulder. I live with your obsessions, I've dug 
with my bare hands because of your obsessions. You, of all people 
should know how important this is. We're taking these girls home."

Stunned for an instant, then furious, he stood his ground. How 
dare she? "It's important. The question is whether we have to do 
it ourselves. Francine is killing people, that's urgent."

"It was urgent when you thought every corpse might be Samantha's. 
Then he gave her to you. Nothing's a big deal now, is it?"

What the fuck was she talking about? Mulder was ready to explode. 
First he was obsessed with the Pattersons, now he was supposed not 
to care because the Cancer Man had given him Samantha? How was 
that cocktail supposed to work? He looked towards the trees and 
noted that the search crew had gone into a silent huddle. They 
were obviously looking expectantly over a possible dig site. He 
ought to go and check. He looked down at Scully, her face was all 
fire and fury, he studied it. 

And saw Frankie.

Fuck. He replayed Scully's words. Scully would never say those 
things to him. Never. Yet, this Scully had not only said them, she 
seemed to believe them. He pointed towards the car. "We need to 
talk."

When she failed to move, he reached for her hand, pulling her with 
him, holding her wrist so tightly she was temporarily stunned into 
silence. Before she got chance to speak or scream or fight, he let 
go of her, whispered quietly but absolutely insistent. "You can 
report me to OPR, file charges, whatever you like. But right now, 
they," he waved his hand towards the forensics crew, "don't need 
the distraction of us fighting."

She refused to get in the car. Mulder decided that he didn't care. 
He preferred to sit down, it reduced the likelihood of a sudden 
impulse actually making him grab her again.

Scully leaned against the hood while Mulder spoke through the open 
door. "You said it yourself. We're under attack."

"Really. I don't see her, or hear her."

Mulder carried on. "I hear her every time you open your mouth. 
She's trying to get you so angry that you'll kill."

"She's trying to make me angry? And what are you trying to do?"

He took a deep breath, spoke with more despair than annoyance. 
"Just let me finish. Look at the MOs. Hayes, Irving, Samuels. They 
all killed in a sudden frenzy. A brainstorm so furious it wiped 
them out. Yet their choice of target was completely rational. They 
found someone they wanted to kill. They were in full control of 
their actions until the killing started." 

"Really. So, who do you think I've rationally chosen to kill?"

He shook his head, wasn't it self-evident? Perhaps not. "Me."


-----

Alan Kurzman was enjoying his sudden celebrity. His cellmate joked 
with him. "Go on. These guys sound desperate to talk to you. Maybe 
if you play your cards right they'll get you permission for a 
telescope and a cell with a skyview."

It was a dream, but it was such a nice dream. 

After all things were looking up. No visitors for months and then 
three had come to see him in a couple of days. First the two FBI 
agents and now this other one had come to visit. Another woman, a 
doctor who'd heard his story and who wanted to talk to him about 
the time he'd spent awaiting trial on the earlier case. She was 
interested in people whose lives had been blighted by wrongful 
arrests. People who'd gone through such hell in short prison stays 
that they'd come out changed for the worse.

She was waiting for him in the interview room. She had such 
beautiful hair, he could barely look at her. She was stunning and 
she smiled at him, she was playful and young and innocent and she 
had such fun in her eyes. 

The other one, the one who came with Mulder, she'd been beautiful, 
but she had looked so sad. He'd wanted to give her the stars, to 
see if they would make her happy.

Dr. Francine Patterson smiled, she already had stars in her eyes. 
She apologized for the fact that he was in irons for the visit. 
Maybe once they knew one another she could arrange for them to 
meet on more equal terms.

"At night?"

She ran her tongue across her lip. "I'd like that."

She told him about the shooting stars that she'd seen that week. 
She explained how it made her feel like she was part of something 
bigger and better.

At last he had found someone who understood. 

Then she wouldn't talk about the stars any more. She kept asking 
about that man, that Mulder. What was there to be said? He was 
just a man. 

So she asked about the woman but the woman was just a woman.

And Alan wanted to tell her about the telescope and the stars and 
the night and the way street lights killed the night and the smog 
made the Milky Way vanish and it wasn't right for people to live 
like that. If they'd just open their eyes to look they'd be able 
to see so much. But no, they just cared about men and women and 
girls and touching and who died.

The guard who dragged Alan Kurzman off Francine Patterson's 
unconscious body had never seen anything like it and never wanted 
to again. He thought he knew violence and violent men and he'd 
genuinely believed that Kurzman wasn't one of them. He'd always 
seemed the most placid of men; it had been hard to imagine Kurzman 
as some sort of monster. He could imagine it now.

Leg irons hadn't slowed him down, the ties at his wrists hadn't 
stopped his movement or thrown him off balance. Everything had 
become a weapon to Kurzman - his nose, his jaw. To the guard, it 
had all been a single swirl of madness as he hauled the prisoner 
off the woman. He'd thought, for a moment, after he slammed 
Kurzman back into the wall that even his colleague's stun gun 
might not do the job. Of course it did.

Francine was only out for a couple of minutes. The guard could 
only gabble apologies as the EMTs helped her to the ambulance.

Kurzman needed a lot of straps and a lot of drugs before he could 
be carried to his.

---------

DC

Walter Skinner had spent a lifetime trying to do the right thing. 
Whether that meant identifying between right and wrong in the 
grand scheme of things or making sure that his people got all the 
help that they needed, he always tried. He'd become a target for 
trying to help Mulder and Scully. Yet, he'd always felt as if he 
hadn't helped them enough.

Faced with the possibility that the X-Files agents couldn't help 
themselves at the moment, Skinner looked for the right thing to 
do. 

Whether he was chasing down UFOs in the Antarctic or mutants 
living in the pipework, Mulder threw body and soul into his work, 
his life. The thought of that kind of passion being controlled by 
someone as coldly manipulative as Bill Patterson had always 
bothered Skinner. Watching Mulder slide willingly into nightmares 
to follow Mostow and Patterson had sickened him. He had known that 
nothing good could come of exposing Mulder to Patterson again. He 
had tried to keep him away.

In retrospect that had been a mistake, it just wasn't possible for 
Mulder to stay away, not once he'd started. Mulder could write 
dispassionately in his report on Patterson about the losses that 
had destroyed the man's ability to distance himself from his work. 
Yet, for himself, Mulder had no concept of distance. He was his 
work. 

Skinner paced as he thought, his footsteps locked into a pattern 
of increasingly tight circles around his office. He should have 
given Mulder the case officially. He had known that Mulder was 
going to stay on it until satisfied that all was well. Skinner 
just hadn't wanted to believe it. If Mulder and Scully had been 
given the investigation officially, he could be monitoring it. He 
could demand reports; he could argue the tactics; he could judge 
their fitness to continue. Above all, he could make sure that 
backup was in place when they needed it.

Instead what he had was two agents on the wrong side of the 
country doing God knows what. Each agent was accusing the other of 
mental instability. The sickening thing was that, according to the 
evidence of his own eyes, both were right.

Scully had presented him with a list of breaches of direct orders 
made by Mulder together with a summary of his lies and omissions. 
Mulder had shown him the surveillance gear that Scully had 
installed in his apartment. 

He stopped pacing, rubbed at tired eyes and frowned. Mulder had 
shown him something. Whether it was something that Dana Scully had 
been using to spy on her partner was a rather different matter. He 
had no real evidence of that. Even if the prints were Scully's, it 
proved nothing. Her reasons for handling the cameras might have 
been entirely legitimate, nothing to do with covert monitoring of 
Mulder.

Scully might be nothing more than a concerned partner trying to 
force her best friend to get the help that he desperately needed. 
When it came right down to it, her agitation and distress was 
nothing that he hadn't seen before. Scully had been just as driven 
when Mulder went missing on that ghost ship and Scully knew that 
she had the power to save him.

It was just so difficult to believe Scully and ignore Mulder. Yet 
how had Mulder described Patterson? "An expert in people 
manipulation." All Mulder's known actions in this case suggested 
trouble. The only thing that hadn't was his breathtakingly cool 
performance in Skinner's office as he showed him the alleged 
surveillance cameras. Was that just another demonstration of 
people manipulation?

Skinner looked at the report that had arrived from the LA office. 
A body had been found and was believed to be another victim of 
Kurzman. They had a list of other sites to be investigated. 
Kurzman had become violent soon after his discussions with Mulder 
and Scully and was now too heavily medicated to be interviewed. 
There was no reason for them to stay in California. It was time 
for him to haul them back and settle this thing.

---------

LA

Fox Mulder hated secure psychiatric units. Hardly surprising, he 
had few fond memories of hospitals, psychiatrists or prisons. 
Throw them into the same brew and it was a pretty unappetizing 
combination. From the antiseptic smell to the peeling paint, it 
made him think of death, physical or mental, same thing really. 
The only redeeming feature was that he was just a visitor.

He looked toward Scully who was sitting on the other side of the 
empty waiting room. "I don't think we'll get anything here. You've 
seen his charts. He's going to be zoned for days on the drugs 
they've given him."

"Why don't you want me to see him?"

Mulder turned away, unable to think of a reply that wasn't an 
expletive. Knowing that they were under attack was one thing. 
Feeling it and making allowances for it was a different matter. 
They'd worked out a kind of stalemate solution. No one talked to 
the Pattersons. The phones stayed off. They didn't separate.

It meant that if Mulder did something out of line then Scully 
would be there to see it. The flip side was that she would not get 
the opportunity to imagine something worse.

The trouble with that kind of twenty-four hour surveillance was 
that the assault on personal space alone was enough to push every 
angry paranoid button they owned. Another few days of this and one 
of them really was going to crack and do Francine's job for her.

They waited as the doctors debated until they were finally given 
access to Kurzman with shrugged shoulders and comments that it 
couldn't do any harm. As Mulder had predicted, there was nothing 
to see. Scully went directly to Kurzman's bed and started checking 
out his charts, automatically testing his temperature with the 
back of her hand as she read.

Mulder didn't come all the way into the room, just hovered in the 
entrance and leaned back against the door. He let his mind absorb 
the images. He catalogued the restraints that held Kurzman to the 
bed. Wrists, ankles and chest. Old fashioned padded leather 
straps, heavy duty for someone who might fight hard. Velcro 
fastenings for ease of fixing and additional metal buckles for 
really bad days. It was hard to imagine a bad day on the quantity 
of thorazine that Kurzman had been given.

Maybe he should go and visit Gordon Hayes. Perhaps he could do 
that, once all this was over. Mulder noted the red blink below the 
camera; it was far too easy to spot one of those. He looked at his 
own arms and tried to recall how they'd looked with the straps 
pinning him down. Sucked in the reaction. He wondered what the 
response of the staff would be if he started crying for no reason.

What about Scully's reaction? 

He watched her as she smoothed Kurzman's hair and was suddenly 
horrified. "Leave him alone Scully. He's not your patient." His 
additional declaration of "and I'm not your patient either" stayed 
mercifully under wraps, confined to his own thoughts.

She pulled her hand away as if she'd suddenly encountered fire. 
She turned. "Why do you think Francine did this?"

Mulder shook his head, pointed towards the camera and then towards 
the door. She followed him from the room and past security. She 
waited impatiently as he signed them both out and retrieved their 
weapons. She resisted questioning him any further until they were 
safely out of the building. "So?"

Mulder stood at attention, voice like dry ice, allowing no room 
for argument. "Frustration. She wanted us; she had to have 
someone. Plus, she's showing off. She wanted to show me how good 
she is."

"Good at what?"

"I could only pick at the outer layers of Kurzman. She could go 
right in and bring out his heart. She showed him his true self. 
That's why he's in that bed."

"You think that's what she does? Make them face what's really 
there?"

"Have you ever wanted someone dead?"

"I don't."

Don't? He'd asked her about forever and she'd told him about right 
now. He let her off the hook for the slip. "Well, I have. Frankie 
doesn't have much to scare me with that I don't already know."

At that moment the doors of the reception area opened behind them. 
They turned in unison, tuned to read every sudden change as a 
danger sign. 

"Agents? Lucky we caught you. Phone call. An Assistant Director 
Skinner."

----------

DC

The flight back from LA was surprisingly less tense than the 
flight out had been. Possibly because so much of what had been 
kept hidden was now in the open. Maybe it was just that fatigue, 
emotional and physical, had washed most of the color and heat out 
of the situation.

It was Mulder who broached the subject that he knew would raise 
the temperature. He waited until they were about to pull out of 
the airport parking lot. "Where are we going?" Dealing with 
connecting rooms at the motel in LA had been one thing, but 
around-the-clock monitoring was difficult from across town. Except 
by using Scully's methods, of course.

Scully tried to huddle up into herself and hide away, but Mulder's 
eyes and her own conscience wouldn't allow it. "I'd prefer my 
place. If the couch is OK for you."

Mulder nodded and made sure that the car was pointing in the right 
direction.

The silence built fast, an oppressive blanket that even switching 
on the radio didn't dent. 

By the time they entered Scully's apartment, blood pressure and 
adrenaline levels were flying high. Mulder tried to escape. "I 
should go for a run."

"Mulder."

He tried to interpret her response. Yes. No. A question. A plea. A 
threat. His heart fluttered as he demanded that his famed 
profiling expertise should switch on and rescue him. He looked 
around the room and then back at her. "Where's your computer?"

She flinched. "I don't think."

"Don't think what? You don't think I'm entitled to see the 
recordings you made?"

"I'm sorry."

And Mulder froze for an instant, pawed the ground and waited 
expectantly for the excuse that always followed sorry. It didn't 
come. He allowed himself to breathe out. "I have to see them."

She shook her head, asking "why?" without saying a word.

Mulder turned away, looked into the mirror and counted the books 
that he saw reflected there, experimented with speech. "It's who I 
am. I have to look."

The slump of her shoulders conceded defeat. She led him to the 
machine and showed him the files.

A bit of him, a tiny, tiny fragment of his paranoia suggested that 
the camera in the living room was almost acceptable or at least 
tolerable. He'd shared his living room with spies before. In his 
more panicked moments, he'd even wished he had a camera on Scully. 
Just to check that she was ok; that she was in no danger and 
preferably that she was smiling because he wasn't around.

In a grim piece of self-mockery, he almost understood the view of 
the bedroom. He'd shared his bed with spies before. If Scully 
thought Diana... Best not to go there, he decided. Safer. He almost 
laughed at what she had actually recorded, a few images of him 
hanging up a suit in the closet. Maybe she had learned something. 
He could be tidy if it was worth it.

But the kitchen?

And the bathroom? 

Was she fucking insane?

He closed his eyes, rubbing them as he shook his head, shoulders 
hitching as he started to laugh.

They had to close this case.

--------

BUREAU - SKINNER'S OFFICE


The longer the discussion with Skinner continued, the more 
confident Scully became. Initially suspicious, she'd gradually 
seen that she had no reason for nervousness, Skinner had accepted 
her concerns as legitimate and asked her for clarification.

It was difficult, but then clarifying an X-File was never easy. It 
helped that Skinner didn't want to discuss the men that Mulder had 
referred to as "Francine's previous targets." Any attempt to 
deviate from the subject of the meeting was swiftly quashed. The 
topic was not the validity of the unassigned casework. The topic 
was why Mulder had disobeyed a direct order to leave it alone.

Scully knew. "Because Bill Patterson, with or without his 
daughter's assistance, won't let him."

Mulder attempted to butt in and was greeted with a swift, 
"enough," from their boss. "You either speak when spoken to, or 
you get out. Understood?"

Mulder slumped back into silence, his muscles tense from the 
effort to remain still.

Scully tried to carry on by arguing that Mulder's performance in 
LA showed the pressure that he was under.

Skinner just looked confused, he shook his head as he spoke. "The 
LA office was very pleased with your work."

Mulder bowed his head to hide the tight-lipped smile that formed.

Scully understood. "I found the burial site." Skinner looked back 
at her, puzzled. She continued. "Normally he'd catch those 
things."

Skinner shook his head. "You're an excellent agent. Why wouldn't 
you spot it?"

Why wouldn't she? She hesitated, why was it wrong for her to get 
there first. To get there first, you had to know Kurzman. She 
didn't want to.

Skinner gave up on that question. "Were you spying on Agent 
Mulder?"

"No." Her voice so firm that it had to be true.

Mulder lifted his head, still almost smiling. He ignored Skinner's 
attempt to shush him. "Did you install surveillance equipment in 
my apartment?"

"Yes."

Mulder looked away again, studied Walter Sergei Skinner's life 
history as told by the photos and certificates on the wall.

Skinner sat back, disbelief merging with anxiety as he thought 
about everything he'd heard. They were both in trouble and he was 
the one who was going to have to pull the plug. No cases out of 
town. No cases in town until they'd both visited the psychiatric 
services crew. 

This time, the warning on Mulder would be more strongly worded, 
drawing their attention to his skills in manipulating others and 
his awareness of what psychologists liked to hear. The request on 
Scully would make clear that to get the right answer from her, you 
needed to ask the right question.

--------

The standoff between the agents continued most of the day as they 
made each other, and everyone else they met, uncomfortable. The 
fact that Dana Scully hardly ever removed her eyes from her 
partner and the fact that he scarcely looked at her, did not go 
unnoticed. The occasional breaks in protocol caused by Mulder 
suddenly turning to look at her and her flinching away gave it an 
added twist.

Fortunately, only Mulder had noticed Scully's hand dropping to 
check her holster during a couple of these exchanges. It crossed 
his mind that things may now be so close to crisis point that they 
ought to have someone else around. A little backup in case things 
went too far. He thought about making another visit to see 
Skinner. Maybe alone this time.

What he didn't really understand was why things were still 
deteriorating. So long as they were meeting with Francine he could 
come up with ideas. She could be using hypnosis to soften her 
targets. Maybe it was a direct implantation of thoughts as Pusher 
had supplied. Perhaps it was by manipulating the dream state like 
Cole, the soldier who never slept. If they spoke to her by phone 
he could see how the feelings might get retriggered. But if not 
even her voice was required then what was the mechanism? What was 
the defense?

If it was astral projection then why did she follow them to LA? 
Just to show that it was her? As if he didn't already know.

The wear and tear on them was too great. Bodies and psyches were 
complaining about the strain of the last few days. They weren't 
going to be able to keep this up much longer. It had to be brought 
to a resolution quickly. Another week and they wouldn't be able to 
fight.

Mulder looked at his partner and immediately changed his mind. 
Scully was spoiling for a fight and if she kept this up much 
longer she was going to get one. Shit. He slumped forward in the 
chair, elbows resting on the table, simultaneously supporting and 
hiding his face. The shudder of hitched breaths could have been 
the start of laughter or tears and Mulder neither knew nor cared 
which it was going to be. 

Scully edged closer to his side and hunched down to whisper in his 
ear. He resisted the temptation to push her away. He pulled his 
breathing back under control, swallowed hard and told her he 
wasn't feeling too good. Maybe things were starting to catch up 
with him.

She pressed her fingers to his forehead, whether to soothe or to 
check for fever Mulder wasn't quite sure. He allowed the contact 
and took another, deep cleansing breath. He shivered into her 
touch. "I'm sorry. I know this isn't easy for you. And I'm not 
making it any easier."

Her voice fluttered as she replied. "It's OK. You'll be OK."

He closed his eyes. "I think maybe I've had as much as I can take 
today."

She rocked a little on her heels, her mouth falling open as she 
looked for the right response.

He ducked his head away from her touch, hiding his face from the 
full force of her gaze. 

She cooed. "Let me help."

He gave her a nervous laugh, apologetic and a little weak. "Sorry. 
I need... a minute." He swallowed, trying to clear his throat but 
still as dry after the motion as before. He shrugged, embarrassed. 

He tried to make a plan for her, it sounded so banal when said out 
loud. Maybe he could go and get a drink. Then perhaps, he should 
go home soon and get some sleep. He tried to clear his throat 
again, but first he could really, really use a drink. He started 
to stand but swallowed the lump in his throat as he rose, harsh 
and uncomfortable. He sat back down again.

She offered to get him a glass of water and then she would drive 
him home and everything would be all right.

He nodded, grateful but sheepish and still trying to smile.

She almost ran from the room, delighted to help.

Mulder quickly followed, locking the door as he went. 

By the time Scully started banging on the office door with a 
bottle of water in her hand Mulder had already reached his car.


-------

Scully's apartment was not the right place for a confrontation. 
Her mind had been violated and so had her home. Furthermore, 
Mulder was convinced that the battleground was his to choose and 
his choice was to play at home.

Scully would come looking for him. Francine would come looking for 
them both. This would make it easy for them to find one another.

Mulder was only mildly surprised to find that Francine was already 
waiting in his living room when he arrived home. His greeting to 
his uninvited guest was one of warmth and welcome. "Hi."

She responded in similar tones. "Hi."

He smiled at the perfect mirror. "You should let Scully go. This 
isn't her game."

She returned the smile. "On the contrary, you should let her go."

"I've tried. She comes back."

"That's so sweet. So she'll be here soon?"

He made no move to confirm or deny, simply breezing past her and 
into the bedroom. He hung up the suit and dressed for comfort, 
checking both the gun at his hip and the one in the ankle holster. 
Feeling a little unsteady as he looked in the mirror, he wondered 
who he saw. Dad? Patterson? Frankie? Fox fucking-chameleon Mulder? 

He felt giddy with it all, the stress and dread and indecision and 
suddenly he knew that he had to warn Scully. He tapped the numbers 
in on his phone but just got an automatic voice telling him about 
a switched off phone. She would have to go and stick to her end of 
the deal. He barked a message into her answering machine. 
Tiredness was sweeping through his spirit. He could smell defeat 
in the air. Frankie was winning. He was bringing Scully into her 
trap.

He ran away from the mirror, away from the bedroom, past Francine 
laughing on the couch and out of the apartment. Where? He looked 
along the street, felt the pack at his heels, the hot breath on 
the back of his neck and he heard her laughing. 

He ordered himself to think, but his mind insisted on betraying 
him. It kept skipping over little details like the route Scully 
would have to take to get to his apartment and how to plot an 
intercept course. It kept jumping straight to the meat. Scully 
destroyed and doped out of her head in some hygienically sterile 
hospital bed, smelling of stale milk and staler clothes. At least 
he wouldn't be alive to see it. 

Maybe if he just sat here then at least he could stop her going 
inside. Premonitions made his hand shaky as he checked the gun at 
his ankle. He could feel the reassuring weight of the hip holster, 
suddenly shivering as he remembered that he wasn't wearing a 
jacket and this wasn't really good little FBI agent conduct. 
Laughed at the thought. Good little FBI agents didn't have killers 
in their apartment lying in wait for another agent as part of a 
trap configured by their own partner.

Scully was driving too fast to park well. Mulder ran to her. He 
had the passenger door open before she could get out. "We've got 
to go. Frankie's here."

There was a ringing laughter in Francine's voice as it cut in from 
behind. "Absolutely right. I think we should talk this through. It 
has to end sometime. Agent Scully, I believe I've got the evidence 
that you need."

In an instant, Scully was out of the car and at Francine's side.

"Scully, don't."

Francine's wink told him that it was already too late to talk. She 
kept Scully carefully positioned as a shield and smiled as 
Mulder's hand moved up and away from the gun at his hip. "Good 
boy."

The apartment was a nice size for one, not too cramped but not a 
place that ever felt really empty. With the fish, the books, the 
TV, the files and the rest of it, the place looked alive. Right at 
this moment it looked more alive than Mulder felt. It also felt 
awfully claustrophobic for three.

Every muscle in his body was demanding action. Every neuron in his 
brain was asking `what?'

Maybe he should stand up and walk out of here. Call 911. And say 
what? That Francine Patterson was trying to talk Dana Scully into 
killing him? He could call Skinner. Get some backup here. Then 
what? Didn't matter. If he got Scully away from here then he could 
sort it out and go one-on-one with Frankie.

He tried to focus on what Francine was saying to Scully but kept 
getting distracted by the look of anger and anguish on Scully's 
face. Frankie had some photos. Of what? He could guess of who. 
Scully needed evidence and Frankie had promised. Scully looked 
toward him, her mouth working on the problem, she turned away. Her 
eyes widened, pushing her face into a dark frown of concentration, 
her gaze locked on the story Frankie was telling.

Hell, he couldn't think in here, couldn't even breathe. Frankie 
would not kill Scully. That wasn't how the game worked. Frankie 
found and revealed the murder in the heart and removed the rules 
that said it wasn't to be acted upon. Frankie didn't get her own 
hands dirty. He wondered if she got a kick out of playing 
surrogate victim for Kurzman?

For the second time that night he ran. Spun down the stairs as 
fast as he could until he could hide in the basement with the 
water filters and the washing machines. Just far enough away from 
the action to find a tiny shred of his brain that still understood 
how to do his job. He dabbed his fingers across the buttons on the 
cell phone, missing the numbers twice and having to start over. 

It was Skinner's answering machine that picked up. 

It had all taken too long. He had to get back up there. What if 
this was what Frankie wanted? He was running around down here when 
all the time Scully was up there on her own, needing him. What if 
Frankie took her and ran? Sure, he thought he knew her MO, but MOs 
change and Frankie could think on her feet. After all, the Kurzman 
thing was an anomaly. Just showing off, doing it because she 
could. She could change again.

When Mulder crashed back into his apartment Francine Patterson was 
all alone. "Where is she? What have you done to her?"

The gun was in his hand and then it was resting on Frankie's ear 
and Frankie just kept on smiling. The anger in his voice was 
overtaken by despair and disbelief. "Where is she?"

"The bathroom. She wanted a little privacy. Oh, don't worry, I 
cleaned up in there a little before you came home."

Mulder was already banging on the door. "Scully. Scully. Please. 
Answer me, Scully." The lack of response made his heart beat too 
fast. So fast he had to close his eyes to try and listen for 
sounds on the other side of the door. The damp from his eyes 
matted his eyelashes as he understood.

He tested the door and found it locked. "I'm coming in," he 
shouted it, even though he knew that no one was listening. 
Concentrating, he kicked hard and felt a little give the first 
time. The door opened at the second attempt. 

Scully was slightly crouched and rock steady, the gun held light 
but firm in her right hand, her left supporting her wrist. Ready.

Mulder dove straight at her feet, off-balancing her in an instant. 
She recovered in time to make a good landing, taking her weight 
neatly through the extended muscles of her left arm and her 
outstretched fingers. The gun had been retained and was still 
tightly locked in her clenched right fist.

He pushed forward, crawling over her to reach her gun arm.

She went limp for an instant. He hesitated, started to move more 
slowly and carefully. She coiled herself to get the timing right 
and raised a swift knee as he shifted. He yelped out a lungful of 
air at the contact then groaned at the pain. "Fuck."

Throwing her head back, she flailed and kicked and thrashed to get 
from under him, all the time trying to drag her right hand 
forward.

"Scully!"

He slammed his arm into hers, dislodging the gun from her fingers 
and pinning her down with his weight. "Scully. Please. Listen to 
me. This is Frankie's doing. Anything you've seen. I would never 
betray you. Never. Please."

And suddenly all was calm again. She went still. He started to 
ease his weight from her. Her left hand sprung out from below his 
chest. She swung and connected with his eye. He fell back and in 
an instant she had stretched away from his grasp, freed her right 
hand and had found the gun again.

Catching her by the hair, he slammed her back to the floor, 
removed the gun from her hand in the same swift movement and threw 
it behind him, comfortably away from her reach. She was so silent 
and so still. Mulder moved back hesitantly and knew that this time 
it was for real.

He edged forward again, panic-stricken now. He found her pulse at 
the third attempt. It took him a while to convince himself that 
she was breathing. He couldn't really see anything through the 
damp shine that was blocking his vision.

Not that it would have mattered. Frankie had a remarkably good 
record in her karate classes. It was something that had 
occasionally been useful to her hospital colleagues too, an extra 
pair of powerful hands on call for difficult patients. She had his 
hands cuffed behind his back in seconds. He kicked back but she'd 
anticipated that, stamped down a neat stiletto shoe into his calf 
muscle. 

He slumped forward. She didn't make the same mistake as Mulder had 
done with Scully; she just slipped a neat plastic restraint in 
place to lock his ankles together.

He slumped for real now and started to understand what had 
happened. As his breathing recovered he realized how he was lying 
and tried to get his weight off his still silent partner. He 
pressed himself sideways and managed to give her a little more 
space to breathe. He turned his attention back to their attacker. 
"Let her go, Frankie. Call 911. I'll come with you if you want. 
Whatever you want. But she needs help."

Scully groaned slightly and he knew that he was still crushing 
her, so he tried to pull himself further away. Francine assisted 
the process by dragging him backwards letting his head thump into 
the ground as he slipped off-balance. 

Scully groaned again as the last of his weight was removed from 
her. Francine helpfully pushed Mulder into a sitting position and 
let him rest against the doorframe. 

He glowered, more from anger with himself than with her. "Bondage 
fetish, Frankie?"

"Nothing matters to you, does it? You'd sooner kill her than give 
up."

He gave himself a few seconds to steady his voice and get his 
breathing back under control. "I couldn't let her kill me, she'd 
never have forgiven herself."

She shook her head, as if baffled by his stupidity. "I don't mean 
five minutes ago. Yesterday, last week. You had all the time in 
the world."

"We had nothing. You were attacking her."

"You switched off the damned phone."

"You're saying she was programmed to attack but you'd have called 
her off?"

"Are you really that stupid? You started where I left off."

He shook his head, confused and scared. "No."

"Why was she going to kill you?"

"You put me in her nightmares."

"She put you in them, I just helped her to see."

"You told her I was blinded by obsession."

"Do you think we'd be here now if you weren't?"

No. He mumbled into his chest, turning his head away, suddenly 
seeing it all clearly and wishing that Scully had shot him, just 
turned and opened fire with no regrets. She'd delayed for long 
enough to let him get control of the situation. He looked at his 
tied feet and tensed the cuffs behind his back. He dared to look 
at his partner's motionless body. He turned quickly away from the 
horror story in the bathroom, worried at his lip, studied the 
floor. Oh yeah, he'd certainly taken control of this situation. 

A sudden bite of adrenaline surged as he tensed his fingers 
against the metal at his back. He smiled, humorless and pale, like 
the ghost of a smile. "No. You wouldn't be here. You'd be busy 
destroying someone else."

She almost danced in the lamplight. "A stranger perhaps. Because 
strangers are more important than the people you love?"

He understood, empathy complete, understood it all so clearly now. 
And for the first time on the case he was truly terrified, because 
to know the truth was to know the dark. Angry and scared and the 
words he used were oh so bitter and so heartfelt. "You cheated, 
Frankie. Scully didn't want to kill me. She hasn't got it in her. 
You fucking cheated."

Francine was everything that was calm against his panic. "You're 
so wrong. I didn't cheat, you did. You scared her so she could see 
the bad. You even did your circus act for Alan Kurzman. He told me 
all about it."

"That was just work. Scully understood."

"And did she understand about Diana too? Or did that give her a 
little fuel for her nightmares? Perhaps it made you seem a little 
untrustworthy?"

He stalled, playing for time, even though he didn't know how time 
could help him. "You think I made myself a target?"

"She was your little experiment."

"And I used her to see if I could do to her what you did to people 
like Hayes and Irving?"

Francine's voice was all pride. "You'd need to practice. Even 
knowing your lab rat you still couldn't quite make it over the 
final hurdle. I had to help."

He pushed his head back against the wall. Tilted his eyes to look 
at the ceiling. "What did you tell her? What were you showing 
her?"

"Just photos. You and me, Diana, Marita, Krycek, others. You know 
what's odd about those pictures?"

He shook his head, still looking only at the paint above his head.

"You were smiling."

Only the hum of the fish tank and the occasional hitch of 
excitement in Francine's breathing broke the silence. Long moments 
passed as Mulder listened to the sea and tried not to drown. 
Francine watched him, content and expectant.

He shifted against the wall, hunting for a position that would 
reduce the numbness in his legs and maybe take a bit of the 
pressure off his arms. It was a task that at least contained a 
possibility of success. Trying to reduce the creeping paralysis 
that was working its way through his brain was a different matter.

Scully's tiny groan pushed his body to attention. He forced his 
eyes to focus in the vague hope that if they did, then his brain 
would follow. Francine looked happy, and Mulder wondered if he 
wanted to see anything after all. He swallowed the sigh, Frankie 
looked beautiful. He'd seen her like this before, cool and 
confident and ahead of the pack. He remembered a school swimming 
gala, where she'd turned heads and shone. He sniffed the air and 
filtered out the panic and nausea because he knew those were his. 
He finally identified the unfamiliar odor in the room: the sweet 
smell of success.

It was easy then. All he had to do was break her heart.

He found his voice and forced it to obey. He looked intently into 
Francine's eyes, tipped his head for an instant to point towards 
Dana Scully's silent body. "You might as well let her go. She won, 
we lost."

"Lost?"

"She's not like us, Frankie. She needs evidence."

"I gave her..."

"You gave her conjecture, speculation and innuendo and asked her 
to read between the lines. And she did. She's not stupid. She 
heard what we told her. But it wasn't evidence."

"I gave her evidence."

"You gave her nightmares and photographs of me smiling. Not enough 
for a death sentence."

"She tried to kill you."

"She could have fired before I got in the bathroom. She had time 
after I opened the door."

"She had the gun in her hand."

"And she didn't have her finger on the trigger."

"She fought. She hurt you."

"She was angry, she found evidence worth hurting me for."

"If she'd been able to free the gun...."

"She didn't even get close." And in that instant he knew the bluff 
he was feeding to Francine wasn't really that big a bluff at all. 
They'd worked together and they'd trained together. Scully had 
fought him like it was a training exercise, with no expectation of 
victory or, at least, no appetite for blood.

"So why did you knock her out?"

He was already braced for the question but it still made his 
stomach roll. He scrambled for an answer that would keep him in 
the game. "I hate when she can't believe."

Mulder knew from the mistimed blink of her eyes, not only that she 
liked that idea, but that she, like her father, had been reading 
the reports on X-Files, conflicting conclusions and all.

Mulder smiled. "We should go and see your dad."

Her eyes brightened and she licked her lips. Mulder swallowed as 
Francine's throat tightened.


------

SKINNER'S OFFICE

Slowly but inexorably, Walter Skinner found that he fully accepted 
Mulder's perspective on Bill Patterson. Actually, he now realized 
that he'd accepted Mulder's analysis right from the start of the 
case. It was his tactics and their implications that he hadn't 
approved of.

In retrospect, the Pattersons had been given an easy ride, 
courtesy of AD Skinner. The road to hell, he noted, was paved with 
good intentions. He had wanted to keep Mulder away from Patterson. 
He had planned on keeping Mulder out of the line of sight of 
Cassidy and the others who were still gunning for him. And he'd 
failed miserably in both objectives. He'd suspended Mulder, but 
all that had done was take the leash off. He'd blocked Mulder's 
attempts to handle the case officially, and that had just forced 
Mulder to cut all the safety lines.

He should have known better. Mulder might make mistakes, but if he 
pointed out a crime and a criminal then he was seldom wrong. It 
was just so hard to ignore Scully. Normally so loyal and 
supportive, it was almost impossible to imagine that she'd be 
wrong in her judgment of her partner's health or his decision 
making. 

Yet, she had been wrong before. She hadn't liked what she'd seen 
on the Mostow case. She'd been frightened enough to imagine that 
it was Mulder rather than Patterson who had fallen into the dark. 
Her stated determination not to encourage Mulder's delusions had 
led to her abandoning him during the Pinkus case. Skinner knew 
that story well, after all, he'd had to put Mulder into the 
hospital that time.

Her fear of insanity had forced her from Mulder's side. And 
Skinner had allowed her fear to block his judgment.

He looked down at the computer records in front of him knowing 
that he'd made a mistake and still uncertain how to correct it. It 
had taken a couple of days for his request for the computer 
security check to be done. But he now had a list of the people 
who'd downloaded the archive files on the Kurzman, Irving, Hayes 
and Samuels cases, and he'd thrown in a sampling of recent X-Files 
to act as a filter.

The list was short and, under the circumstances, rather poignant. 
Diana Fowley was there and so was Skinner himself. Mulder wasn't 
and neither was Dana Scully. The only oddity was finding the name 
of ASAC Karen Clark on the list. Skinner had politely asked her 
supervisor for permission to talk to her and naturally it had been 
instantly granted.

Skinner sensed from Clark's hesitation that she had something to 
hide, though he couldn't really see why. She was happy to talk 
about the file downloads. She hunted back through her own paper 
records to find Skinner the unusual request to create an archive 
of cases on CD-ROM. A selection of X-Files. A selection of ISU 
cases. The request had been signed by AD Jana Cassidy. It was the 
type of request only an AD could make or approve. Skinner didn't 
push Clark on whether she'd made extra copies of the disks. Karen 
was with Scully at Quantico and Skinner really didn't need to know 
how close their friendship ran. Besides, if Mulder had a copy of 
the files, then it was only something that he should have been 
able to get without subterfuge.

Mulder hadn't even set foot in Patterson's house when Cassidy 
started pulling Mulder's cases off the archives. Skinner couldn't 
believe that he'd let her set the agenda for the review of 
Mulder's report on Patterson. She'd only had to bark about meeting 
Mulder at the Pattersons, and Skinner had reacted by biting Mulder 
with a suspension.

Skinner walked into Cassidy's office knowing that he should be on 
the warpath. The trouble was that he was as annoyed by his conduct 
as he was by hers. Bitterly aware that he had failed to get to the 
heart of the Patterson problem, he concluded that Cassidy's 
ability to influence his handling of Mulder was just a symptom.

He didn't quite trust his voice to explain his sudden arrival in 
her office, so he handed her the computer report and copies of the 
requests she'd made to Karen Clark. While she took in their 
meaning, he spoke, careful to put the necessary authority into his 
tone. "Care to explain why you are monitoring one of my people?"

She looked dismayed, a response that didn't surprise Skinner. He'd 
been surprised that a computer check had a useful result too. She 
soon got back into her stride. "My committee removed Agent Mulder 
from the X-Files for good reason. When I hear that a deal has been 
done to bring him back, I'm interested in why. His work for AD 
Kersh was sub-standard, yet he's deemed crucial to the X-Files."

"The X-Files are mine. I decide what's crucial."

She didn't back down, stared pointedly back at Skinner. "You 
accepted Mulder's removal from them. As the chair of the 
management committee, I'm entitled to understand why you changed 
your mind."

Skinner couldn't actually believe her nerve, yet her words threw 
him off balance. He'd supplied the ammunition. He knew he should 
be demanding an apology but was too guiltily uncomfortable to 
hammer the point home. He put as much righteous indignation into 
his voice as he could muster. "Then you should have asked me."

"I was planning to. However, having read the files, it was clear 
that Mulder's performance has improved, so I didn't feel it 
necessary."

It was becoming hard to even sound indignant. "I should have been 
consulted."

"I recognize that, Walter. I'm sorry if it appears that I've gone 
over your head. That was not my intention."

Fine, he was losing the stomach for the fight. He decided to quit 
while he was relatively ahead and turn that apology into something 
tangible. "Where's the CD that was created?"

"I'll have my secretary drop it by your office."

He turned to the next sheet in the computer report and Mulder's 
work for Patterson. The color drained from her face. Skinner's 
voice fell an octave as he asked her simply. "Why?"

She nodded, recovering her balance. "Background."

"On what?"

"The X-Files unit may be under you, the ISU is not. The files were 
for research."

Skinner couldn't believe that she wasn't even going to do him the 
courtesy of finding an excuse. "Research for Bill Patterson's 
memoirs?"

She stiffened a little, her lips narrowing to angry lines. "That 
sounds like an accusation. You already have two agents operating a 
vendetta against Bill Patterson. There's no 302 covering their 
activity. I see that their refusal to drop that campaign of 
harassment has forced you to send them both for evaluation. I 
thought that was a positive sign."

Skinner's fist tightened. He'd provided all the ammo. He decided 
to get out of her office before frustration led him to say 
something else that he might regret later. His mind was racing as 
he made the short walk back to his own office. He was making too 
many mistakes, he needed to get his mind back on the job. He 
slumped back into his chair and took a few seconds to give himself 
the time and oxygen to think.

Easing a little, he rubbed at the tired muscles in his neck and 
slowly rotated his head to try to work the knots out of his 
shoulders. He'd been feeling his age a little more since he'd 
stopped boxing. He hadn't found a suitable substitute for that 
kind of mental and physical release. He hadn't really looked for 
one either. It seemed too much like planning for the future and he 
didn't see how he could. It was a mistake; even living day to day 
was no fun if your body started to ache from inaction.

Maybe that was why he'd been so off the pace with this case. 
Perhaps he'd just been so keen to make it through another day, 
without seeing Mulder and Scully get hurt, that he hadn't really 
thought about what was going to happen next. 

He was thinking about it now.

He called the basement, but there was no response. It was only 
just past seven, an early night for Mulder? Unlikely, he decided. 
Mulder simply wasn't working in his office and that meant that he 
was working somewhere else.

He tried Mulder's cell phone and then Scully's. They were switched 
off again. He'd known these two for years and they seldom switched 
off their phones, yet that seemed to have been the norm for days 
during this case. Another sign that things were difficult for 
them. 

He tried Mulder's apartment. When the answering machine didn't 
pick up, he decided that maybe Mulder was actually home and left 
it to ring a little longer.

The voice that finally answered sounded like it was fighting for 
words. "Hello."

Skinner ran quickly through the options. "Scully, is that you?"

She apparently recognized him without being told. "Yes, sir." She 
also knew what his next question would be without him asking. 
"Mulder's gone."

"Gone where?"

"With Francine."

Bill's daughter? Skinner tapped his hand impatiently on the desk. 
Why would Mulder go off with her and without Scully? He remembered 
how pale Scully's voice sounded. "Agent Scully, are you injured?"

"I'm. I'll be fine."

"Do you need a doctor?"

"No. We have to find Mulder."

He froze, then recalled the need for words. "Stay there, I'll be 
right with you."

-----------

Mulder was glad that Francine had let him drive, it gave him 
something to do with hands. At the moment it was about the only 
thing stopping him from strangling her. He sighed, self-conscious 
about the observation, and unwilling, for the moment, to lie to 
himself. Actually, the only thing stopping him from strangling her 
was the fact that humans were designed to operate as cooperative 
and socialized beings and he had already spent a few decades 
learning to act like a human.

Still, strangling her was a nice fantasy. He allowed himself that.

His breath caught in his throat, suddenly so very alone. 
He really didn't want to be here. It felt like. It felt like he 
was part of them, not part of the world where Scully lived. His 
fingers bit into the steering wheel and the car twitched in 
sympathy. He quickly caught the movement and straightened up. 
Francine gave a brief victory laugh. Mulder kept his eyes on the 
road.

Blanking his mind, he focused on the taillights of the car in 
front, allowing them to hypnotize him back to indifference. 
Scully, at least, was out of the game. He'd achieved something 
today.

He was still stunned by his capacity to get things wrong. He 
wondered if he could still recognize getting things right. 

---------

Skinner was prepared for the worst as he entered Mulder's 
apartment. In fact, he'd spent most of the drive over working 
through a list of worst case scenarios and wondering why the hell 
he hadn't sent an ambulance to check on Scully. 

The place in his conscience that supplied excuses offered him 
Scully's own statement that she didn't need a doctor. It extracted 
a banshee wail from the rest of his brain. Did he trust her 
judgment to be one hundred percent right now? This was the same 
woman who had worked through cancer until the day she'd needed to 
be carried unconscious from a meeting. And she always knew what 
was good for her? Or for Mulder?

The door to the apartment had been left unlocked and the 
implications of that made him wince. He raced into the room and 
saw Scully, huddled uncomfortably at one end of the couch. He was 
just relieved to find her still there and still conscious. She sat 
up soldier straight when she saw him, slumped back down again 
almost instantly, exhaling heavily, as if even that exertion had 
been too much. 

Skinner moved quickly across the room and crouched down in front 
of her. "Are you hurt?"

She shook her head and he looked at her in disbelief.

He looked at her eyes, the bloodshot rims, the way her nose 
twitched and her chin jutted as if she was ready and waiting to 
take his next, best shot. He noted the way her normally perfect 
make-up was smeared and damp with sweat and tears. 

Sensing that he was intruding on something private, he rose and 
went into the kitchen, returning with a glass of water and paper 
towels. Positioning them on the low table immediately in front of 
her, he pushed the table forward a little so that everything would 
be in easy reach. Soft spoken words, professionally impersonal. 
"What happened here?"

She tried to clear her throat and failed. Recovering slowly, she 
hesitantly reached out and took a sip of water, then blew her 
nose. She cleared her throat again. "I attacked Mulder."

Skinner sat down heavily on the opposite end of the couch. He 
studied her and recorded the disheveled clothes and makeup. He 
noted the angry red marks on her hands and wrists that looked like 
they were going to turn into finger bruises. If she had attacked 
Mulder, then it looked as if he had responded in kind. "Where's 
Mulder now?"

"With Francine."

"Bill's daughter? Why?"

"I don't know. I was," she faltered, the words sticking in her 
throat. "I was unconscious for a while."

Skinner's hand reached instantly into his pocket and pulled out 
his cell phone. She'd been unconscious, but she didn't think that 
was worth medical attention? He mumbled a silent prayer for 
someone to spare him from the self-diagnostic skills of doctors. 

She moved, faster than Skinner had thought she was capable of. She 
almost knocked the phone from his hand as she hissed out a, "no!"

He lifted his hands and the phone in a gesture of submission, or 
at least of hesitation, then shook his head to ask 'why the hell 
not?'

"I'm fine, sir," she mumbled quickly. "I checked. My eyes are not 
dilated, my vision is normal, I'm not dizzy, I don't feel 
nauseated." 

She shivered a little on the last word, an act that Skinner 
interpreted as meaning that she felt like being sick but denied 
that it had anything to do with her head injury. Skinner put the 
phone down on the table and waited for her next words.

She took a deep breath before continuing. "Mulder told her that he 
wanted to see Patterson. Then they left." She shifted 
uncomfortably. "They didn't know that I heard them."

"Who knocked you out?"

She turned away. "I should have stopped him from going. We have to 
find him. She's. She's dangerous."

"Scully. We can get backup here. You don't have to."

"I do. He needs me." Her voice rose in sudden anguish. "He needs 
me and I let him go."

Unsure of his ground, Skinner conceded, his desire to believe in 
her overriding his doubts. Once they actually found Mulder, then 
he'd call out reinforcements. 

--------

Bill Patterson smiled at his daughter. He'd come out into the 
hallway to welcome them as soon as he heard the car pull into the 
drive. He turned his attention to the man at her side. "Fox! Still 
looking over your shoulder?"

"I don't need to. I can see the danger now." His fingers jumped as 
he heard the quiet click of the front door locking. No more world. 
"Mind if I use the bathroom?"

Patterson waved him on. "We'll be in the kitchen."

Mulder pulled the door behind him and wondered how long he could 
get away with hiding in here. It felt disturbingly like refuge. 
The desire to run burned so brightly that it was almost 
overwhelming. He could run. He could just walk out of here, 
straight back out through the front door and into the night. He 
gripped the sides of the basin, pushing in until his back muscles 
protested at the futility of the action and his whitening knuckles 
finally took the hint that he should stop.

Frankie might have been in the eye of the storm until now, but it 
was time to force her out into the full blast of the gales. He 
hadn't even started work and he already hated himself, just 
knowing what he was about to do. But he had so little time left, 
so the recriminations would have to wait. If he couldn't end it 
tonight then he had no Plan B. Another few days of this and 
exhaustion would take him out of the game. He was just glad that 
Scully wasn't here to witness it.

He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror and decided 
that he looked like shit. He shrugged, at least he looked better 
than he felt. He washed his face and combed his hair. It was a 
shame that there wasn't a razor in here. One way or another, a 
razor might be useful. He tried to come up with an excuse not to 
leave the antiseptically clean haven and found that his body was 
disturbingly willing to oblige.  

Washing up again, he re-checked the reflection and was hit by a 
sudden wave of helplessness, cruel and intense as it swept through 
his brain. The crushing paralysis of indecision. He froze in 
place, his hands resting on the tiled wall, either side of the 
mirror. Focusing on the mundane details, he tried to breathe. 
Panic was not a pretty sight. The harsh little hitches in his 
breath were making his throat hurt and his chest was on fire. He'd 
come here without a real plan or even an ultimate objective. He 
couldn't even remember how to hope. He closed his eyes and let the 
tremors wear themselves out.

Using his forehead where it rested against the mirror's glass as a 
balance point, he pressed himself upright. Splashing cold water 
over his face, he carefully dabbed himself dry and combed his 
hair. He sucked in an uncomfortable lungful of air, suddenly 
embarrassed by the empty mechanical processes he was repeating. He 
knew that this time he had to go out quickly and face them or else 
the panic cycle would begin again. He cleared his throat, took a 
deep breath and opened the bathroom door. 

The hallway was mercifully deserted, and Mulder wasn't quite sure 
if he felt like screaming or laughing or crying, so he ordered 
himself to do nothing. Made a final slow scan of the front door as 
a reminder that he was in control here and that he was making his 
own choices. He held a long deep breath then relaxed, straightened 
his shoulders and walked into the kitchen.

Bill handed him a tomato juice. 

Mulder shrugged and accepted the glass. His eyes swept the room 
for escape routes and obstacles. He walked past Francine and 
around to the other side of the breakfast bar, sitting down on the 
stool next to Bill's. Best to be on this side, when the time came 
he might need Bill close by. He took a first sip of the juice and 
found it oddly soothing against the burning in his throat. He 
spoke softly to his over-attentive audience. "Why?"

"I thought you needed a drink."

Mulder laughed, a brief, desperate, humorless snort of a laugh. 
"Cute doesn't suit you, Bill. Why did you do it?"

"Is that really what you want to know?"

"OK. Why did you use your daughter? Why did you use me?"

"Ah." Patterson cooed contentedly. "What took you so long?"

Mulder sat back, sipped at the juice, grateful for the focus it 
offered. "I wanted to imagine that you were cured."

Bill laughed, unimpressed. "Of course, the irony. You, making the 
same mistake as those doctors." He shook his head. "Though 
actually, they were right. I am sane now. The targets deserved 
it."

"You drove them to kill, how could they deserve that?"

"I let them choose their victims. They didn't even let me have 
that."

Mulder's jaw tightened as he analyzed the words. An eye for an 
eye, the oldest motive in the book. Essential that he keep the 
ball rolling and his nerves under control. Fighting Bill demanded 
total concentration and he could already feel his thoughts 
slipping away. He threw out an easy question while he hunted for 
focus. "You're saying people like them drove you to kill 
Nemhauser?"

"YOU should have been there."

The venom of Patterson's answer surprised Mulder and taut muscles 
eased a little as he allowed himself to see hope in Bill's 
agitation. His heart skipped forward a half beat as he 
concentrated on the words and tried to see the nightmare from 
Patterson's perspective. He was grateful that he couldn't. Bill 
had spent a couple of years in near-isolation working on who was 
to blame for turning him into a killer. Mulder could see that.

He shivered, nauseated by how easy it was to visualize Bill 
sitting with paper and pen in his cell, cataloging the stressors 
and the precursors and turning it all into one big beautiful ball 
of cause and effect. He should have known, should have been able 
to help him. But he hadn't even visited Bill in the hospital. He 
shook the images from his brain and tried to see why he hadn't 
been Bill's first target. "And you think they drove me away?"

"Are you saying they didn't?"

Mulder shook his head, almost amused by Bill's naivete, wondering 
if it was for real. "I drove me away. I was becoming something I 
didn't want to be."

"Which was?"

"You."

Bill barked a laugh, then swallowed it back. When he continued, an 
edge of cold command had replaced the almost teasing tone his 
voice had been carrying up until then. "Why are you here?"

"To tell you that I've quit. I'm walking."

"You said you never walk away."

"I walked away from you last time."

"And you'll walk away from Francine? She's your creation."

Mulder was relieved that Bill had been the one to bring it up, he 
would never have had the guts to do it himself. Then again, Bill 
had always been quick to use guilt to deliver the knife to the 
heart. He glanced across the countertop at Francine and saw her 
dark, empty eyes. She was tired, too. It had to end tonight, for 
all their sakes. He needed that to be true. If he could just 
believe what he was doing was right, then he could pull this off. 
Maybe. He took a couple of soothing breaths to get him back in 
touch with his body and found concentration enough to attack. 

He gave a single shake of his head before turning dark angry eyes 
on Patterson. The words flew like daggers. "My creation? Lie to 
yourself, don't lie to me. What did I actually do? I talked to her 
for a few minutes a day, for a few months, when she wanted someone 
to talk to. She had a crush on me and I didn't return the 
interest."

Francine almost didn't have the breath to make her words coherent, 
she hissed them out. "You used me."

Mulder sighed, twisted back to face her, and fixed his eyes on her 
distress. "So what? So, I got something out of the relationship, 
too."

The knife twitched under her hand and Mulder tensed in 
anticipation of her next movement, at once accepting fate and 
ready to fight it. Bill caught her action too, and gave her a 
single shake of the head that seemed to induce instant calm.

Bill smiled, a look of sudden admiration as he turned back to 
Mulder. "I knew you wouldn't walk. Now, Frankie here, she thought 
that you wouldn't hurt Scully. I guess she must still have a crush 
on you."

Mulder felt the electric shivers race along his spine. One way or 
another, it would be over soon. "She's your daughter. How could 
you use her like this?"

"She needed it. That little whore who Matt Irving killed, you know 
what she did?"

"She fucked Frankie's husband. So what? They've brought in a death 
penalty for adultery?" Mulder kept his eyes averted from Francine 
and tried to tune his ears not to hear the catches in her breath.

"She also killed three hookers."

"And this is a holy war for justice and Matt Irving was cannon 
fodder? Come on, Bill. You set me and Frankie to work on Scully 
and if we'd succeeded, I'd have been dead. You tell me you aren't 
mad. So tell me, how fucked up are you?"

Bill's eyes brightened under attack. "Why target you and Scully?" 
He smiled, his fingers dancing on the table, enjoying his 
audience. "It was Frankie's first time, I wanted it to be with 
someone special."

Mulder ignored the innuendo. "Why the death sentence?"

"You killed Nemhauser."

"YOU ripped his face apart. You've ripped people's minds apart. 
You tried to do it to Scully. You're doing it to Frankie."

Francine reached forward, slamming tightly clenched fists onto the 
countertop. "Don't talk like I'm not here."

Mulder sat bolt upright, looked at Francine for an instant, then 
turned back to her father and brushed her off with a barked, 
"We're working."

-------

Bill's eyes shone bright and dark, all glacial intensity and 
sudden delight. As Bill studied Mulder, Mulder mirrored the cold 
back. They paused, locked in place, a shroud of silence protecting 
the moment. Mulder's mind flashed on an image of wild animals 
circling and posturing. He listened to the blood as it pulsed 
through his ears and tried not to get swept away, sensed lightning 
cracks of energy making the air crackle, despite the fact that 
neither man was moving a muscle.

A sudden smile from Bill sent a shiver cascading down Mulder's 
spine. He caught it and allowed himself to savor the adrenaline 
buzz that it provoked. 

Bill's forehead was lined in sudden concentration. 

Mulder took the next step. "Let's grab some food."

Patterson laughed and his daughter's throat tightened to stifle a 
scream. Bill shook his head. "Your timing sucks."

"What can I say? I get hungry." Mulder swallowed down the mouthful 
of bile that rose to burn his throat. "And some coffee? Maybe 
another juice too?"

They argued and debated as Bill prepared sandwiches. Francine 
stayed in place on her side of the breakfast bar, playing daintily 
with the knife, experimenting with the sharpness of its tip. 
Meanwhile, Mulder demanded a lesson from Bill in how to handle the 
filter coffee machine. Bill told him about his discussions with 
Irving and with Samuels. Both men already had targets in mind, it 
was just a matter of lowering inhibitions. 

Matthew Irving's relationship to Dawn Appleyard had been 
misunderstood, he had been a regular non-paying customer of one of 
Dawn's victims. Dawn and Matt? She was a hooker, what could be a 
more convenient way of getting her alone.

It was when the focus shifted to Gordon Hayes that Mulder felt 
inclined to set the record straight. Bill shook his head and told 
Mulder that he overestimated his role in this. Hayes wasn't 
punished for alleged crimes against Fox Mulder and his ongoing 
commitment to the ISU. Hayes had been punished for upsetting Bill. 
Mulder nodded, agreeing with Bill that maybe he felt a little 
easier about that.

They gossiped as they worked, Bill was happy at last to be 
understood. Mulder talked with an easy camaraderie that kept the 
emotional reality of the horror story at a safe distance from the 
banality of just how Bill had selected his targets and how easy 
people were to influence. Just choose the right people and find 
out what they have to do, then let them do it. A talent Bill had 
always possessed. Bill smiled as he recalled that he'd never had 
to actually order Mulder to work hundred-hour weeks in the ISU. A 
talent to influence that Bill had nurtured with care and attention 
during his period in the hospital. 

Bill was sure that Mulder could do the same, just a matter of 
setting his mind to it. After all, Mulder didn't have any qualms 
about believing in the hidden power of the human mind. And Mulder 
did have a head start. Otherwise would Scully have stuck around 
for all these years? Would the Bureau have indulged Mulder's 
paranormal passions?

Bravado was the only defense that Mulder had left. He didn't want 
to understand Bill. He already knew him too well.

And Francine Patterson's fists collided again with the countertop. 

Bill turned sharply. "We're working."

----------

From this location on the quiet street, Skinner could tell that 
the lights were on at the back of the house. From changes in the 
pattern of lights since they'd arrived almost half an hour 
earlier, they could tell that the house was occupied, probably by 
more than one person. 

Skinner couldn't stop himself from asking the impossible question. 
"Do you think he's in there?"

Scully nodded. Impossible question or not, the answer was easy.

Skinner continued. "Hostage?"

This answer was a little trickier, she frowned as she spoke. "No, 
at least not physically. When she released him, she just asked him 
to take off his spare gun. I didn't see her with a weapon."

"You said, 'not physically.' Do you think she has some power, like 
Modell had?"

Scully bit at her lip as she replied, trying not to think too far 
ahead. "She's hard to ignore. It's different. Modell pushed people 
to do things that they didn't want to do. She makes people do what 
they do want to do."

"You attacked Mulder." It was not quite a question and certainly 
not a rebuke. The words stood between them for an instant in the 
quiet cocoon of the car.

"We ought to go to the house."

"Is it wise? What if she makes you," he paused, unwilling to say 
the words, before finally trailing off with an, "again."

"I don't want to hurt him now."

Skinner nodded, acutely aware of their vulnerability and his own 
misgivings. He should get some support up here, he'd happily take 
the flak if it was false alarm. He started to push into his jacket 
to retrieve the phone. The sound of the first shot cut a sickening 
hole though his thoughts. He quickly grabbed the phone and pushed 
911. 

He tried to keep up with Scully as she ran toward the house. He 
screamed his message into the phone. Shots fired; FBI agents at 
the scene; possible hostage situation. He had to grab Scully's arm 
to stop her from running solo up to the front door. A sharp shake 
of the head as a reminder that cool heads were mandatory when 
lives were in danger. 

She accepted the rebuke. He made her pause at his side so that he 
could safely complete his call.

With backup on its way, they quickly agreed on a first campaign 
plan. First of all, a quiet easy circle of the house to try and 
work out who was in there and where the shot had come from.

------

Mulder recognized the gun in Francine Patterson's hand, it was 
his. A stupid mistake, he noted, recalling their time in his 
apartment. She'd made him take off the ankle holster and leave it 
on the table, but she'd already removed his main weapon in the 
same lightning strike that had seen him cuffed and bound. Watching 
her play with the knife had distracted him from the real threat. 
Funny how the brain conveniently ignored things too alarming to 
contemplate.

If he didn't make it out of here, no way was anyone going to piece 
together what had actually happened. Even if he did get out, there 
was a good chance that no one would believe him.

How many opportunities to walk away had he ignored? How hard had 
he worked at making Frankie explode? Would they know that it 
hadn't been her fault? Even Scully would assume that this was 
Frankie's game. He could even imagine some completely fucked-up 
reality in which Bill was absolved of all blame, he just wondered 
if it would be posthumously.  

Excruciatingly slowly he shifted along the counter, backing away 
from the breakfast bar, Frankie and his gun. He held his hands 
palms forward, submissively in front of his body. His eyes hunted 
for the first practical weapon. The combination of years in the 
ISU and even more years working on X-Files had affected his 
judgment. Everything looked like a weapon. Though how to persuade 
his attackers to stick their hands in the toaster was beyond him 
right now. Practical weapon, he reminded himself, worried by his 
brain's lapse of concentration.

A knife would be traditional, he supposed. After all he'd been 
attacked by people with knives in kitchens before, strange how 
some things never changed.

Bill was still alive and Frankie was still angry. There had been 
no frenzied attack following the failure of her first bullet to 
hit its target, there had been no attempt to deliver the coup de 
grace despite the near-ideal situation. On her feet, she was 
balanced and poised for action using the breakfast bar as a 
defense and its countertop to provide extra stability for the gun. 
Whether Mulder's role as Bill Patterson's human shield was 
relevant was not obvious. What was obvious was that the tears in 
Francine's eyes were spoiling her aim.

The knife in Bill's hand danced along Mulder's spine. Their slow 
drift away from Francine's fury paced by the point of Patterson's 
knife blade and Mulder's tiny steps back into its pressure. 
Knives, Mulder considered idly, the kitchen killer's weapon of 
choice. He wasn't convinced by Bill's performance and found it 
hard to believe that Bill would just stab him. It wasn't going to 
happen. Was it? Best not to test that theory.

He couldn't see much of Bill, just his left hand where it wrapped 
around his waist. Even there, Mulder had trouble seeing it purely 
as a restraining grip intended to block a sudden dive for freedom. 
It felt oddly calming, almost protective. He frowned at the idea 
and wondered if he was mistaking Bill for someone else. He could 
hear Bill though, breathing heavily and humming tiny, almost 
inaudible lullabies. 

Mulder looked down at their feet and had to gulp air to avoid the 
laughter that nearly erupted at the incongruity between the 
nightmare situation and the impossibly domestic setting. Bill was 
in carpet slippers and Mulder was still in stockinged feet having 
removed his trainers at the front door. A mark of respect for 
house rules and cream carpets.

He didn't laugh, he suspected that Francine Patterson would not be 
amused. Her face was regal in its pain, from the open tremble of 
her lips to the tiny tears that pooled in her eyes without ever 
falling. She was breathless, catching and releasing gasps of 
oxygen like she was drowning and then coming up for air. If she 
fired right now, it would be only be an accident if she hit 
anyone. 

The fact that she hadn't even tried was a relief yet not at all 
reassuring. Mulder would really have preferred her to have burned 
off a few more rounds. As it was, the breakfast bar ensured that 
she was well defended from a headlong dive, and Mulder's gun, with 
only one shot fired, meant that she well-armed.

Mulder ran through the permutations and possible outcomes. None of 
them looked favorable. The likeliest was that Frankie would run 
out of tears and open fire, a two for one shot. He felt a shudder 
of deja vu at that thought and hoped that no one asked Scully to 
do the autopsy. Ask her? He hoped that Skinner would stop her from 
doing the autopsy.

What if he dropped Bill? Obviously he could, he knew he could. 
Bill had indifference to inflicting pain on his side, but Mulder 
had age, fitness and training on his. Mulder could imagine the 
scene where he'd knocked Bill to the floor, taken the knife and 
was standing over him. What he couldn't imagine was what would 
happen next. Would Bill accept being disarmed as game-over and 
just stop fighting? And what would Frankie do then? 

He tried to think. He'd talked himself into this situation. Hell, 
in the car coming over here, he'd just about rehearsed the exact 
words that he would use to get them to this point. It was just 
that he hadn't dared hope that he'd succeed. So he hadn't really 
thought about how to escape. 

He'd just been too anxious for it to be over with. Before Scully 
got dragged back in, before any other innocents got hurt. He 
looked at Frankie. Poor Frankie. But it was OK. All he had to do 
was stop Frankie from killing anyone and Frankie could get past 
this. Just like Scully would. He hoped.
 
He edged back again, slowly away from the gun and into the 
welcoming knife point. The so-controlled, no-longer-insane Bill 
Patterson at his back and the slowly-regaining-control, suddenly-
insane Francine Patterson ahead of him. Both of them appearing 
frighteningly comfortable with their weapons. Having talked 
himself into it, there had to be a way to talk himself out of it. 
Surely? He looked at Frankie and doubted if she could even hear. 

He felt the tip of the knife play with his neck and leaned forward 
against Bill's restraining left hand. Bill took the hint and moved 
the knife back a little and down, so it was barely in contact with 
Mulder's shoulder blade. Mulder stood up straight again, taking 
comfort in the slow little dance they had just performed. Bill 
wasn't ready for a physical confrontation with him. The tickle of 
the knife had been a mere tease. Bill's real interest was still in 
Francine and the status of her aim.

The men edged back in tandem and Mulder studied the glass bubble 
of the coffeepot. A pot of near boiling coffee would certainly 
constitute a weapon against Bill. He tried to calculate the odds, 
and caught their reflections in the immaculately polished 
stainless steel and dark glass of the microwave. At least he now 
had an idea of knife position that wasn't dependent on him leaning 
against its pressure. He forced himself to look, repelled by the 
image but seeing its advantages. 

When he heard the sound of breaking glass, it took the decision 
away from him. He knew what he had to do. First, an elbow slammed 
low to Bill's ribs, left hand side so that the motion swiveled him 
away from the blade. Mulder hit the floor hoping that the breaking 
glass was the sound of the unasked-for cavalry arriving and not of 
some accident-prone cat.

Bill was instantly with him on the ground and battling, willing to 
make it hurt. Mulder was forced to offer his left arm as a shield. 
A little something for the autopsy, "defense wound number one," he 
mumbled as Bill drew blood. Or maybe Scully had left bruises. 
Patterson was heavy and it was that, rather than the blade, that 
was a problem right now as Mulder grabbed Bill's knife wielding 
wrist. There was a brief stalemate as Mulder tried to hold 
position, lacking both the space to twist and the necessary pivot 
points to push up against. 

The sudden voice was of a man in charge, someone who expected to 
be obeyed. "Federal agents, we're armed! Drop your weapons."

Cavalry. Mulder sighed as he heard Scully swiftly swapping notes 
with Skinner. He didn't try to decipher the words just found 
inspiration in the duos sudden and miraculous appearance. He 
squeezed his fingernails into Patterson's wrist and forced the 
heel of his other hand up into Bill's throat. In seconds he had 
pushed Bill far enough back to be able to slam the knife from his 
hand. 

Bill rolled away immediately, alert enough to know that he'd lost 
and sharp enough to surrender. Mulder heard Scully saying 
something that sounded like an order and he knew that it must have 
been, because Bill obeyed it and in an instant was ready to act 
defeated and compliant as Scully scooped his hands back into cuffs 
and told him to lie on his stomach. Perfect control, just as he'd 
claimed. And Mulder felt his stomach reel, because control meant 
that Bill had had a choice and Mulder didn't want to know that.

Shivering against cold fear and unwelcome knowledge, Mulder 
started to get back to his feet, froze again as he recognized the 
pressure on his ear. His fucking gun. 

And he heard Skinner. "Put down your weapon."

And he thought that maybe he heard Scully telling him something 
but wasn't sure if the words were for him or Frankie or Bill and 
couldn't even follow the words except that everything was going to 
be fine and there was no reason for blood to be shed.

And Mulder knew that they were talking to him. Skinner was telling 
him something about not moving and Scully was telling him that she 
was right with him and Frankie was breathing in heavy gasps and 
demanding that he look at her. He closed his eyes, unable to think 
straight with all the overloaded inputs feeding him too much data. 
He didn't need to hear his heartbeat being amplified by the gun 
pressed to his ear and he didn't want to feel the slippery warm 
dribble of blood that was snaking its way down his arm. He knew 
that he really ought to have his eyes open looking for 
opportunities to escape and signals from Skinner and Scully. But 
sight was the only sense he could switch off, so he did. 

He could still see the gun with his eyes closed. He could imagine 
Skinner and Scully with their eyes and guns locked on Frankie.

"You win, Frankie. Like Scully. Too good for us." Mulder recited 
it softly like a mantra. Pause and repeat. Pause and repeat.

He tried not to assume anything as the pressure on his ear eased 
fractionally, just continued with his whispered chant.

"Put the gun down, Francine. Nobody needs to get hurt."

And Mulder listened to Skinner's mantra and it merged with the one 
in his head, rolling and rolling and repeating until he heard 
Scully's voice too. "He doesn't deserve to die, Frankie. You win. 
You're better than them. But he doesn't deserve to die." And the 
merged chants continued until Mulder felt all his senses reduce to 
monitoring just their sound and their rhythm without even hearing 
the contents of the words. And then he realized that he was 
praying alone.

He opened his eyes as he heard the sudden footsteps behind him. 
The gun was on the floor and Skinner was coming forward to cuff 
Frankie. Mulder looked across the kitchen and saw Bill, not 
smiling, but serene, as if proud of his little girl and his 
protege. Patterson acknowledged Mulder with an approving nod and a 
light smile. If it was necessary to lose, then it was an honor to 
lose to his own young.

Mulder's hand was mercifully only a little shaky as Skinner gave 
him the gun that he'd picked up back in Mulder's apartment. 
Skinner, business-like and precise as he worked, dropped the 
weapon Francine had been using into an evidence bag. He left his 
agents to watch over their suddenly compliant prisoners. When he 
cautiously opened the front door, he kept his hands visible and 
empty so as not to cause alarm and was grateful to find that the 
first police car had already arrived. He thanked them for their 
swift response and canceled the request for a SWAT team and 
hostage negotiators. 

Skinner was all professional calm and stoic reassurance, the 
situation was under control and they had two prisoners to take in. 
High security. Assault on a Federal agent. The prisoners were to 
be held separately and for that matter, kept away from everyone 
else. Interviews could wait until Skinner supplied an agent to 
liaise and until the victim of the assault was available to make a 
statement.

--------

The EMT who patched up the knife wound in Mulder's arm talked 
about being lucky. Mulder just shrugged away, not quite listening 
to the advice to put ice on the bruising to his face. Logging it 
with all the other information that was of use to someone else.

When Dana Scully came back into his field of view, the first thing 
he saw were the bruises. He tried not to look, but every mark dug 
around in his memory until it hauled out the blow or hold that had 
caused it. He swallowed when he realized that she was no longer 
moving his way, that she had arrived and was standing directly 
ahead of him, touching distance close. "Sorry," he murmured.

Her eyes went wide. "How do you feel?"

He shrugged, a vaguely mystified ghost of a laugh instantly formed 
and faded. "I'm trying not to." He almost hiccuped a laugh at that 
thought too. "Frankie says that's my MO."

She shook her head and tried to force a smile. "Skinner says that 
you don't think she was involved in the other cases."

"No. She became an observer when Bill sent Irving after that 
woman."

"And liked what she saw?"

"She wanted to impress daddy." The words were hard to say. "She 
wanted to out-do me."

She let her hand slide forward to find his. He swallowed at the 
contact but welcomed it, slid a thumb over the back of her 
knuckles. She took another step and he stretched his arms around 
her. A warm, peaceful envelope in a cold, violent place. She 
mumbled words into his chest. "What I said in there. I just 
guessed what you were doing. Anything to talk her down, I didn't 
mean..."

"To tell her the truth," he finished, his nose nuzzling into her 
hair. 

She shivered, even in the warmth of his arms. "She had no excuse, 
Mulder. Neither did I."

He sniffed at her again and decided to save his excuses for tomorrow. 






The End
Past Imperfect  - Sept 99 
By Joann Humby - jhumby@iee.org
Thank you for coming along for the ride, I hope you enjoyed it.