Date: 06 Feb 2001 15:54:22 GMT
Subject: NEW:  Secret World  (18b/25) by Bonetree

I did not write this.  Please send feedback to bonetree@gmail.com

Disclaimer in chapter 0.  This is chapter 18b.


***********

RICHMOND MARRIOTT 
9:49 a.m.


Mulder was combing his hair, his suit and tie smartly in place, when
Skinner knocked on the door. 

Granger let him in, only a few minutes after he'd let room service
enter with the food that they'd placed on the desk beside the
computer. The plates were still covered with their silver covers on
the platter, untouched. 

Mulder could hear the two men greeting each other as Skinner entered
the room, heard the door slam shut again. Then Skinner was in the
doorway behind him, his hands on his hips in the reflection in the
mirror. 

"Thank you for coming so soon," Mulder said, finishing cleaning
himself up. He glanced at himself in the mirror, saw that he looked
presentable for the first time in days. Then he turned to Skinner.

"Let's just get this over with, " Skinner said curtly. "The three of
us are supposed to be at a meeting with Padden at 10:30 to go over
Scully's extraction plans." 

"All right," Mulder said, left the bathroom, leading Skinner to the
computer. Skinner sat in the uncomfortable chair, scooted forward on
it slightly. Mulder and Granger stood behind him, one over each
shoulder. 

Skinner tapped on the keyboard, waited as the computer dialed up.
Then, once he'd gotten to the FBI's main screen, he entered the
database, logging in with his password. The screen lit up with a
graphic of the FBI shield, a search prompt glowing at the bottom in a
small rectangular box. 

"What am I looking for?" Skinner said tersely, his hands poised over
the keyboard. 

"Her name is Elisa Curran," Mulder volunteered, and then spelled her
name for Skinner. He tapped it in, hit enter. 

"Searching..." the computer flashed for a few seconds. 

Then the screen filled up with text. The three of them began reading
immediately, leaning close. A graphic was trying to load in the upper
right hand corner, the bar at the bottom of the screen stuck a
quarter of the way over as the computer requested the graphic file.
Ignoring it, they read. 

"She was IRA," Granger said, his eyes scanning the readout. 

"Or Path," Mulder added. "It's hard to tell which." He kept his eyes
on the screen, going over the material. 

"She was tied to several bombings...1984, 1986, 1992..." Skinner
read aloud. "Apparently pretty active in the organization. They could
never find her, though, to make anything stick." 

"What's it say about her death?" Mulder pressed, and Skinner
scrolled down the screen, skimming for the information. Mulder
stopped him about halfway down the page. 

"There it is," he said, pointing to the readout on the screen. He
read the information aloud. "She was killed in 1993 in Belfast. A
bombing in a marketplace filled with British soldiers. Twenty-seven
casualties, including her. She was blamed for it. A suicide bombing,
it was called." 

He shook his head, looked at Granger. 

"That doesn't make any sense," Granger said, reading Mulder's
thoughts. "Sean would have been a year old then. She wouldn't have
killed herself like that, I don't think." 

Mulder nodded, gnawed on his lip, deep in thought. 

Granger returned his gaze forward as Skinner continued scrolling
down the screen, hunting for information. "Maybe it was accidental,"
Granger said, shrugging. "She was supposed to leave the bomb
somewhere and it went off before she could get away from it." 

"That's unlikely," Mulder replied. "She'd been doing this for years.
She was Curran's wife. She would be much more careful than that." He
stared at the readout, noted absently that the graphic was still
loading. 

"Then why were they so willing to pin it on her?" Granger asked. 

Mulder shrugged. "She was there, she had a known background. She
seemed an easy place to pin it. That's my guess." He looked out the
window, standing, his arms crossing in front of his chest, deep in
thought. He shook his head again. 

"The only thing that makes sense is the thing that wouldn't make
sense, " he said cryptically. 

"What do you mean?" Skinner asked, looking up at him. 

Mulder was silent for a beat, thinking. It all suddenly made perfect
sense to him.

"She wasn't supposed to be there," he said with conviction, looking
at Skinner and Granger. "She was just in the wrong place at the wrong
time. I bet she didn't even know there was going to be a bombing at
all. I bet Curran didn't either." 

"So you think that Curran's own people killed her?" Skinner asked
doubtfully, shaking his head as he tried to make sense of it. 

Mulder looked out the window again. "Yeah, that's what I think," he
murmured, nodding to himself. "Not Curran's people specifically --
but IRA, yeah."

He nodded to himself. It was the only reason the mother of a baby
would find herself dead in an incident like that. 

"No one claimed responsibility for the bombing," Granger read aloud
from the ending of the file. "So it still could have been her." He
glanced up at Mulder.

Mulder shook his head. "I don't think so. I wonder when this was in
relation to when Curran began his split with the IRA..." His mind
turned the possibilities over as Skinner scrolled up to the beginning
of the file. 

The load bar at the bottom of the screen had disappeared. 

"Let's print all this out," Skinner said. He hit the command to do
just that, and the printer sprang to life, pulling in a piece of
paper and running across it noisily. 

They hit the top of the document. 

All three men froze, confronted with the graphic in the upper right
hand corner of the screen. 

Mulder stood up straighter, taking in the photo. Curran and a woman.
Her face was turned towards the camera, as though she were aware she
was being photographed.

She was small, a few inches shorter than Curran. Big luminous eyes,
sky blue. Red hair pulled back, strands curved around her cheek. Full
lips, thin, Roman nose. 

She could have been Scully's sister. Or Scully herself, as she'd
look if she'd lived a different life. 

"Oh shit." It was Granger who spoke first. 

Mulder was struck dumb, still, for a few seconds. He could feel his
blood pressure rising. His heart beginning to race, anger roiling in
him. Fury. 

"Mulder--" Skinner began, turning to him. 

But it was too late. Mulder had grabbed the first page of the
printout and was halfway to the door before either of the other two
men had a chance to react. 

"Mulder, wait!" Skinner called to his back. But he ignored them,
grabbing his coat from the chair beside the door, heading out of the
room. He could vaguely hear the commotion behind him as Granger and
Skinner sprang into action, struggling to catch up.

He hit the stairs, spiraling down nine flights so fast he wasn't
even aware of how long it took, how many turns. He burst onto the
lobby in a dead run, headed out to the street in front of the huge
hotel. 

There were several cabs there, waiting. Mulder caught the eye of the
driver of one of them, sitting there listening to music and smoking a
cigarette. 

"Take me to the Jefferson," Mulder called, climbing into the back
seat, the photo still clasped in his fist, crinkled. "And step on
it." 

"You said it, not me," the driver replied, and pulled away from the
curb, leaving the motel behind in a blur. Mulder could hear Skinner
and Granger behind him, calling to him. 

"Don't do anything stupid!" was the last thing he heard from
Skinner's mouth, and then he was too far away, his voice lost in the
traffic. 

Mulder stared straight ahead as the cab turned onto 24th, pushing up
the steep hill from Shockoe Bottom into the heart of the city. He
stared as though the force of his gaze alone were propelling the car
forward, his will the only cause for the vehicle's speed. 

As they bumped over the cobblestones that marked the historic
district, he looked down at the printout in his hand again, staring
at Elisa Curran's face. Fury boiled over in him again. And just
beneath that, panic as a realization struck him. 

What he had told Scully about standing up to Curran... 

Oh fuck, he thought, his hand going to cover his mouth as he looked
out the window.

He'd known Curran would try to control Scully, the way he controlled
everyone and everything in his world. But this was different. The
resemblance was so close that Curran couldn't help but project some
of his feelings about Elisa onto Scully. Those projections would
become more real to Curran than Scully was herself. 

If Curran's grief was as great as Mulder imagined it would be --
given the way she'd died, the age of Sean at her death, his and
Elisa' shared history and purpose -- then Curran's need to see Scully
as Elisa would be very important to him. 

His need to control her would be that much more acute because of
this. And Scully standing up to Curran would force him out of seeing
her as Elisa. Curran would resist this. 

As the cab swung into the circular drive of the Jefferson Hotel,
Mulder shook his head, the rage piqued again at him having not had
this information before. Before he'd told Scully what he did. 

Because Curran would do anything to keep Scully from destroying
those projections, those images, of her as Elisa in his mind. 

Even if it meant destroying Scully herself. 

The cab stopped and Mulder dug in his pocket, tossed a handful of
bills at the cabby and told him to keep the change. Then he was out
of the cab, in the foyer and up the stairs, taking them two at a
time, his anger building with each step.

Mulder reached the Presidential Suite, banged on the door with the
side of his fist. 

"Slow down, Mulder, where's the fire?" Hirsch patronized as he
opened the door to the suite. Mulder glared at him, brimming, as he
looked at Hirsch's smirking expression. Then he caught sight of
Padden just in view in one of the seats in the dining room area. 

"Get the hell out of my way," he rumbled, pushing past Hirsch
roughly on his way through the room. 

"What did you say to me?" Hirsch was saying behind him. Mulder
ignored him, stampeding into the dining room. Hall, Anderson, Jessup.
They were all there, unaware of his entrance, talking to each other. 

Mulder went to the edge of the table across from Padden and slammed
the printout down in front of him and on top of a neatly stacked pile
of printouts, sending half of them into Padden's lap. Padden looked
up at him, shocked and already angry.

"Agent Mulder, what--"

"You want to tell me who this is?" Mulder asked, his voice pitched
loud enough to get the attention of everyone in the room, and the
next. 

"You can't come charging into here like this--" Padden began, but
Mulder slammed his fist down on the table, right on top of the
picture, stunning Padden into silence.

"Tell me who this is!" he repeated, shouting, and now Padden looked
down at the printout. Jessup and Anderson were looking at it, as
well. Only Duncan Hall was not. He was looking at Mulder. 

"I don't have the slightest idea who this is, Agent Mulder," Padden
said, levelling his gaze at Mulder. 

"You fucking LIAR!" Mulder spat. Padden opened his mouth to speak,
but Mulder continued. Jessup and Anderson had risen from their seats. 

"It's Elisa Curran," Mulder continued. "Owen Curran's *wife*. Notice
any resemblance to someone we know, Padden?" He held the photo up,
pushing it into Padden's face so that Padden was forced to lean back
or be struck. 

"Some resemblance, yes," Padden said quietly. His eyes bore into
Mulder's now as he ignored the photo. 

Mulder put the piece of paper back down on the table, leaned back,
his hands on his hips. Behind him, he was vaguely aware of Skinner
and Granger coming into the room, coming up behind him. Granger
reached out and got a hand on his arm. 

"Mulder, calm down..." Granger was saying. 

Mulder pulled it away sharply, his eyes not leaving Padden's. They
were staring each other down as though trying to see which one of
them would blink first. 

"Why was this information about Elisa Curran sealed?" Skinner said
through clenched teeth from just behind Mulder. "You knew this all
along, Bob, didn't you?"

Padden spared Skinner a look, but said nothing as Mulder rushed to
continue. 

"That's what you were betting on, weren't you?" Mulder rumbled,
breathing hard with fury. "That Curran would take one look at her and
she'd have an in with him. He'd be more willing to trust her because
she seemed familiar. Am I right, you bastard?" 

"You had better get hold of yourself, Agent Mulder," Padden said,
the warning clear in his voice. 

"And then you suppressed the information so that she wouldn't know.
So that I wouldn't know." His hand came up, his finger pointing
accusingly, his face flushing scarlet. 

"You used her body for BAIT, you son-of-a-bitch!" His voice was a
roar, and everyone seemed to freeze at his words. 

"That's it!" Padden said, slapping his hands on the table and
standing. "I"m sick of your theatrics and your insults, Mulder!
You're off the case! I want you out of here *today*." 

"Bob, you can't do that--" Skinner began angrily, and Padden glared
him down.

"I just did it," he interrupted. "Mulder clearly can't keep his
personal feelings in check enough to be of any use for this. He's
endangering Agent Scully further with his lack of perspective."

"*I'm* endangering her?" Mulder repeated incredulously. "Padden, do
you realize how hard it's going to be to get her out of there? He's
not going to let her go. He might even kill her rather than let her
get away from him." 

"That's no longer your concern, Agent Mulder," Padden replied, his
voice rising. "We'll take care of getting Agent Scully out just fine
without your help." 

His voice lowered. "Now I want you out. I don't want to see you here
again. If I do, I'll bring you up on charges at the FBI for
violations of procedure and insubordination so fast your head will
spin. I'll have your shield before this is done." 

"And I'll fight you on that," Skinner replied instantly, stepping up
beside Mulder now. "And if something happens to Agent Scully at this
point I'm going to hold you personally responsible for it. You can
bet your life on that." 

Padden said nothing to Skinner. He was still staring at Mulder. 

"Out." Padden pointed at the door.

Mulder stood there a few seconds longer, his face flushing even more. 

"Come on, Mulder," Granger said calmly from behind him, putting a
hand on Mulder's arm again. "We'll figure this out." 

Padden looked at Granger now. "And I suggest you be careful about
your allegiances, Agent Granger, or you'll find yourself in the same
boat as Agent Mulder." 

Granger looked away, said nothing. He simply tugged on Mulder's arm
again and managed to turn him around. 

Skinner and Padden faced off now, and Mulder really wanted to stay
to hear it. But he withdrew, Granger beside him. 

Halfway to the door, Hirsch stood in front of Mulder, his arms
crossed at his chest. 

"Back off," Granger warned. 

Mulder and Hirsch stared at each other. Hirsch was smiling. 

"Way to go, Spooky," he said. "Off the case and everything. Nice
piece of work." 

"Fuck you, Hirsch," Mulder said, and tried to push him aside. 

Hirsch stopped him with his hand on his arm. Mulder looked down at
his hand, then up into his face again.

"Oh, and about Agent Scully," Hirsch continued, pretending to brush
at Mulder's sleeve. "I don't know why you get so upset about Padden
using her body for bait. I'm sure she doesn't mind, the little
cherry. I mean, hell, look how well it's worked on you --" 

In retrospect, Mulder didn't remember his fist coming up. 

Only the sickening sound of bone breaking, the small bones at the
bridge of the nose. A sudden spray of blood, and Hirsch going down in
a heap on the floor. Then Skinner's voice telling him to get the hell
out of there, and Granger hussling him to the door before he got a
chance to lean down and hit him again.


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


END OF CHAPTER 18. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 19. 


***********

THE GREY MOUSE 
8:36 p.m.


Owen Curran sat in his usual chair in the nearly empty storeroom
that he used as his office, where he'd come to get away from the
music and the crowd outside in the bar. He'd even managed to lose
John, who was arguing politics with some American. It all made him
tired and he wanted none of it tonight.

Finally, in the relative quiet, he closed his eyes, indulging the
vision once again...

The hillside wasn't as steep, it seemed, as he walked toward the
farmhouse, the breeze somehow warmer, more inviting as it came in off
the water. She was standing right where she always was, there at the
top of the rise, beside the stone wall where he used to play with
James and Mae when he was just a boy. 

The world around was a blown-back blanket of green and smelled of
the sea. 

She was turned away from him, looking out over the field beside the
house that was dotted with his father's sheep. He felt lighter as he
made his way up to the path that led to the house, smiling, his eyes
taking her in. Her flowered skirt had blown against the front of her
thighs, revealing the curved outline of her body to him. 

As he stood before her at last, his hand came out to nestle in the
warm red strands of her hair. His fingers curved around the back of
her neck, turning her face toward him. 

Blue eyes looking back at him, the corners touched with the smile
she gave him. He stepped closer to her, closing the distance between
them, put an arm around her middle and pressed her against him. He
looked with longing into her face. 

Katherine's face. 

Her lips were new to him, but felt as familiar as Elisa's, her mouth
opening beneath his...

A knock at the door. 

He pulled himself up straighter in his seat, confronted once again
with the reality of his office.

"Come," he called wearily, regretting the loss of the daydream, and
looked up at the door as it opened. 

Mae entered, her cheeks flushed from the cold night air, her scarf
still wrapped tightly at her neck. Her hair was pulled back into a
loose ponytail, her eyes bright but somehow worried. He smiled as he
looked at her, though the sight of her also made him sad.

Things were going to change so much, so soon. There would be a lot
for her to deal with, to adjust to. He hated that part of all this.

"How goes it then?" he asked, hiding what he was feeling behind the
easy greeting. He gestured to a chair across from him. 

"I'm fine," she replied. "But I think we've got a problem." She
pulled at her scarf and coat as she settled into the chair. 

"What's that?" he asked. "Where have you been all day, anyway?"

"I went up to Washington," she replied, leaning forward. "To check
out the embassy one last time. Did you know they've been put on some
sort of alert? That it's crawling with security, and that there are
roadblocks up at the entrances, front and back now?" 

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Mae, you didn't need to go up
there to do that," he said, shaking his head. 

"I thought it wouldn't hurt to have one more look," she replied.
"And plus, I needed to drive, to get out of town for a day to clear
my head." She looked down at the admission, then up at him again, her
expression grave. 

"What are we going to do about this? We won't be able to get the
truck up anywhere close to the building with all the roadblocks." 

Owen shook his head, pushing at a piece of paper on the table in
front of him absently. "It's nothing to worry about, Mae" he said
firmly, and with a finality that seemed to close the subject. 

He was looking away from her, down at the table, but he could feel
her surprised gaze on him. "What do you mean it's ^^nothing to worry
about'?" she replied. "Don't you realize what this could mean?
Besides the fact that it interferes with the execution of the
operation itself, it could mean we've got a leak somewhere. Doesn't
that concern you a bit?"

The latter of those two facts did concern him mildly. It seemed a
little odd that there would be heightened security at the British
Embassy right when he was planning this thing, but he dismissed it as
simply being an unfortunate coincidence. 

"Everything's going to be fine, Mae," he said, and leaned back in
his chair. "Don't fret so much. It's all under control." He glanced
to the side, unable to meet her eyes. 

"What are you up to, Owen?" she asked quietly, cocking her head at
him as she did so. 

He looked at her, kept his face blank. "I don't know what you mean,"
he replied flatly. 

"Don't give me that," she replied, shaking her head. "You've been so
cagey about this whole thing, since the start. Doing the surveillance
yourself, hand-picking the people to actually carry it out. And then
this business with the drug. I've never seen you act like this
before." 

He looked away. A part of him wanted to tell her everything so
badly. But he couldn't risk her not understanding this thing he knew
he *had* to do, couldn't risk her interfering with his intricate
plans.

Once it was all done, she would understand why he had kept so much
from her. And she would agree with him, stick by him. As she'd always
done. 

"I just want this done right, that's all," was what he said aloud,
sounding earnest. "It's our first major operation here in the States.
It's a different situation, a new one. I'm just trying to be
careful." 

She continued looking at him. He could see that she still doubted
him. It worried him, in that way he'd always been worried when she
didn't approve of something he did. He was annoyed at the feeling,
since it made him feel like a child again. 

There was another knock at the door. He was relieved at the
interruption.

**

Scully heard Curran call for her to come in and gathered herself up,
moving her hand away from the doorframe, which she'd been using for
support. She noted with some dismay that her hand was trembling. She
stood up straight, her chin out defiantly. 

Taking in a deep breath, she opened the door. 

Mae and Curran looked at her, Curran coming to his feet slowly. He
glanced at Mae.

Yes, Scully thought with some satisfaction. I'm going to do this in
front of her. See what she thinks about *this,* you son-of-a-bitch.

It was Mae who spoke first. "Katherine?" she asked, concern in her
voice and expression. "You look like you're still ill. What are you
doing out of bed?" 

"I am still ill," Scully replied quietly, stepping into the room.
Her eyes didn't leave Owen's. "Why don't you ask your brother what's
wrong with me?" 

Her hands clenched into fists, both in anger and as she willed her
body into control as best she could. She was only marginally
successful. The room was swimming in and out of focus around her.

"Ask Owen?" Mae asked, looking from one to the other in confusion.
"I don't understand..." 

Then Mae looked at her hands, took a long look at her face. 

Her mouth dropped open and she stood, spun to face Owen. 

"Owen, you didn't," she whispered. "God, tell me you didn't." 

"He did," Scully said calmly. "But he won't anymore." 

"Jesus Christ, Owen, you *promised* me," Mae continued, her eyes
boring into him. Scully watched the exchange, satisfied with being
the wedge that was quickly sinking between them. 

"You can't stop taking the drug now," Owen said, ignoring Mae for
the moment, facing off with Scully. "You know what will happen if you
do." 

"I don't know what will happen," Scully replied, keeping her
emotions and her voice under fierce control. "I just know that I
won't take any more of the drug. And I know that I'm leaving. I have
a flight out on Friday at eleven in the morning. I'm going back to
Boston. I've already written the scripts for you and put them in at
the hospital pharmacy." 

"You can't leave," Curran said, and anger had begun to creep into
his voice. She could sense his frustration rising as she wriggled out
of from under his grasp with her words. 

"I'm leaving," she repeated simply, staring hard into his eyes,
meeting the challenge there. She knew she was in perilous territory,
but was mindful of Mulder's advice, of the precariousness of her
situation and the urgent need to get out as quickly as possible. 

"You'll be dead before you can get on the plane," he said softly,
dangerously, raising the bet. He came around the table as he said it. 

Scully swallowed, hiding the wave of fear that pushed through her.
She didn't know if he meant that the drug would kill her or if he had
something else in mind. 

"Owen, don't you dare," Mae said, and her tone was eerily similar to
her brother's. They looked at each other. Curran's face flushed. 

"Stay out of this," he snapped. "This isn't your affair."

Mae closed the distance between she and Owen in a few steps, her
hand shooting up, her palm catching him across the mouth soundly.
Owen's head was turned aside by the force of the blow, then he
snapped his face back towards her, fury and shame in his eyes. He was
stunned into silence, his hand going to his mouth. 

"Like hell it's not," Mae said softly. "Since when isn't any part of
the work ^^not my affair'? Don't you forget what we've been through
together, Owen. Don't ever forget that." 

Scully watched all this, amazed. She was simultaneously pleased by
it, and, despite herself, embarrassed for Owen. She stood by
silently, averting her eyes.

Owen continued to stare at Mae, dropped his hand, stood up
straighter, regained his composure. Then he looked toward Scully,
ignored Mae again. 

"You understand what I'm saying about you not being able to go,
don't you, Katherine? You better than anyone." His voice was forced
casual as he attempted to pull his control back over him. 

"I don't believe you," Scully replied softly, doing her best to
appear unruffled. "I don't believe that the drug will be lethal with
this little exposure." 

She watched for Mae's reaction. She got it.

"Wait a minute..." Mae said, looking from one to the other. "That
drug is lethal?" She turned to Owen. "You've got them on something
that could kill them?"

"It *will* kill them," Scully said. "I'm sure that's what happened
to Danny Conner. That's where he's disappeared to." 

"Goddamnit, Katherine, shut up!" Owen took a few steps toward her,
his hand raised. She stood her ground, pleased to see Owen losing his
control over the situation again, and over his temper. 

Mae stepped between them quickly, her hand up towards Owen, pointing
in warning. Her movement halted his advance towards Scully. 

"Stop right there," she said angrily. "Enough of this. I don't know
what the fuck has come over you, Owen, but I'm saying *enough*." 

She kept her eyes on Owen, but spoke to Scully. "How did the drug
kill Danny?" she asked.

"He died because the drug was kept from him," Scully replied. "If
the drug is withheld from the people who are taking it, every one of
them will die." 

Mae stared at Owen now, her hand dropping. "It's almost all of them,
isn't it? You've done this to almost all of them." 

Owen looked between Mae and Scully, his cheeks scarlet with rage,
his fists balled at his side. "They're fine, Mae," he said tersely.
"They stick by me and they're fine."

"Fucking hell, Owen, most of them would have stuck by you anyway,"
Mae said, and her voice rose in anger. 

"Enough!" Owen shouted into her face. "I don't owe you shit, Mae! I
don't owe anyone SHIT!" He looked at Scully again. "And as for you,
Katherine -- the drug works fast. If you want to live, you'll have to
stay."

"I don't believe you," she repeated, her chin coming up again
defiantly. 

Before he could reply, Sean appeared in the doorway, pressing in
behind Scully and standing beside her. He looked up at all three of
them, and Scully could see by his expression that he had heard at
least some of what had transpired. 

"Daddy?" he asked softly, nervously. "Why are you shouting at Aunt
Mae and Dr. Black?" 

Owen looked down at him, his eyes still flashing with anger, his
chest rising and falling heavily as he tried to contain his emotions. 

"It's okay, Sean," Mae said as gently as she could muster. "We're
just having a little discussion, that's all." 

She reached a hand towards him and he went to her immediately. She
pulled him against her, her hand resting on his chest protectively.
She looked at Owen, accusation in her eyes, daring him to say another
word in front of his son.

Scully felt herself relax some, knowing their discussion was over
now -- Mae would make sure of that. 

"Why don't you come home with Dr. Black and me, Sean?" Mae said,
forcing a cheerful tone. "We'll make some popcorn and watch a film
and leave your dad to his *business.*" She nearly spat the last word
out. 

Sean looked to Owen, his expression a little afraid. Scully ached
for him, caught in the middle of all this. It was no way for a child
to live.

"Is it all right, Daddy?" he asked uncertainly. 

Owen took another deep breath, then withdrew behind the table again,
sat, pretending to shift through some papers in front of him. 

"Aye, go with your aunt, Sean," he said gruffly, staring down. "I'll
see you tomorrow."

Mae turned and started to lead Sean out. Owen's eyes came up again
as they went towards the door and glared at Scully, his expression
dark, dangerous. 

"Goodbye, Owen," she said quietly, and with conviction. 

"Oh, you'll see me again, Katherine," he replied softly. Then, as
Mae went out the door with Sean, he lowered his voice and added.
"You'll be *begging* to." 

Scully looked at him a beat longer, refusing to appear to back down.
Then she followed Mae and Sean out the door.


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

MEDICAL COLLEGE OF VIRGINIA OUTPATIENT CLINIC 
JANUARY 14 
(THURSDAY)
9:43 a.m.

Paul Granger pushed back the hood of his sweatshirt as he entered
the double doors to the clinic, pausing amid the small clusters of
patients seated in the waiting room area. Unzipping his jacket, he
scanned the patient's faces, trying his best to appear casual and not
draw attention to himself. None of the faces from the files back at
the hotel were in attendance, he decided. Satisfied, he made his way
to the large nurse's station at the back of the room. 

He was a little early. His appointment wasn't until ten. With that
in mind, he signed in on the clipboard, wrote "Dr. Black" in the
"Physician" column, and took a seat in a chair close to the station. 

He hunkered down in his seat, avoiding the faces of the few patients
around him, and picked up a magazine, a copy of Sports Illustrated
with the playoffs preview on the cover. He was glad to actually be
interested in the article the magazine promised. Though he was less
nervous than the last time he'd met Agent Scully here, he still had
the jitters and needed some sort of distraction. 

He couldn't shake the feeling that something would go wrong or that
someone would recognize him for the imposter he was, as unlikely as
that might be. 

Flipping open the magazine, he tried to settle down. He knew where
part of his anxiety was coming from. It was the fact that he'd just
finished going with Mulder to a cheap motel outside the city, moving
him in for the duration of Agent Scully's assignment. 

This done, of course, without Padden's knowledge. 

Padden was expecting Mulder to return to D.C., to quit his work with
the task force as ordered, and Mulder had tried to make it appear
that he was doing just that. He'd checked out of the Marriott to get
out of Padden's sight, and then requested a week off from an
apparently large pool of vacation time in a phone conversation with
Skinner that morning. He'd heard only one side of the conversation --
a very no-nonsense, official request for the time off. He'd even told
Skinner where he'd be spending the time, here in scenic, balmy
Richmond, completing the formality of the request. 

Granger smiled to himself and the unspoken agreement between A.D.
Skinner and Mulder -- Skinner wouldn't order Mulder away, no matter
what Padden had to say on the matter. 

Which all now made a Granger a spy on two fronts -- the task force
itself, and for Mulder. He would be feeding information to both
sources now, the information filtering to Mulder without the task
force's knowledge, he hoped. It was this added bit of subterfuge that
was rattling Granger's nerves at the moment. 

Because he would catch it in the ass but good if Padden found out
what he was doing. And though he was loyal to Mulder, a part of him
still cared if he got pitched off the case. 

"Mr. Griffin?" a nurse behind the desk called, and Granger stood,
went to the nurses' station still carrying the magazine. He wasn't
being called back to the examining rooms and the breakup in the
routine he expected sent his nerves up another notch. 

"Yes?" he said as he reached the counter. "Is there something wrong?"

"Well, yes and no," the nurse replied, holding the clipboard. She
was a short, heavy set woman with salt and pepper hair and her voice
was kinder than her expression. "It says here you have an appointment
with Dr. Black?" 

"Yes," Granger replied. "She's who's seen me when I've been here
before." 

The nurse looked at him apologetically. "Dr. Black is no longer with
the clinic," she said, shaking her head. "I thought you should know
that Dr. Sanderson, one of the other attending doctors, will be
taking her place for your appointment." 

"I don't understand," Granger said, struggling to contain the alarm
he felt from his voice. "Since when? Is something wrong?" 

The woman shrugged. "She apparently called in yesterday and said she
was no longer available. I don't know why, I'm sorry. It was all
rather sudden." 

She looked at him, and he knew he wasn't being entirely successful
at hiding his emotions by the concerned look she gave him. 

"Will it be all right for you to see Dr. Sanderson?" she asked. 

Granger's mind was still racing with the possibilities of what could
have happened, his eyes now on the counter as he considered them all. 

Realizing she expected an answer, he was struck out of the thinking
long enough to say, distractedly: "No, no. I'll...just find another
doctor somewhere else, thank you." 

"I'm sorry," she offered again. 

"It's all right," he said, smiling tensely, and went to the chair
he'd been sitting in, replacing the magazine on the table beside it. 

With that, he headed quickly to the door. 


*********

End of chapter 19a.  Continued in 19b.

*********

CROSSROADS MOTEL 
10:12 a.m.


Mulder was just closing the door to his tiny motel room with his
foot, a bag from Burger King containing a bacon, egg and cheese
Croissandwich in one hand and a piping hot cup of coffee in the
other, when his cell phone began to chirp from his coat pocket. 

Hurrying to the small pressed-wood table beneath the garish wicker
light, he set both the bag and the cup down and dug in his pocket for
his phone. He glanced at his watch as he did so, confused at the
time. He was expecting Granger, but certainly not this soon. His
appointment had started only a few minutes ago. He stabbed the talk
button.

"Mulder," he said, his voice already tense.

"Hey, it's Granger," came the reply. He could tell from the slight
hiss in the background that Granger was in his car. 

"What the hell's going on, Granger? Why aren't you with Scully?" 

"Mulder, something's happened," Granger replied. Mulder froze, his
back straightening. 

"What? What's happened?" he demanded quickly, his voice rising with
his alarm.

"Scully's apparently trying to get out," Granger replied, a bit
breathless. "She's quit the job at the clinic. She wasn't there when
I got there to see her. I called in and Padden ran a check on her
credit cards while I was on the phone. Apparently, she's bought a
plane ticket. Jessup ran a check through the USAir and found out
she's booked herself on a flight out to Boston at eleven tomorrow
morning." 

Mulder spun towards the window, his jaw clamping down, his fist
balling as he felt the sudden urge to DO, to go somewhere. 

Something had gone wrong. Something with Curran. He'd told her to
get out if he made a move and now she was suddenly going. 

Shit....

"They're contacting Flaherty now in Boston, to see if he's found a
replacement for her and didn't bother to tell anyone," Granger
continued.

"I don't think that's likely," Mulder said tersely. "He's got too
much at stake in this to make an oversight like that." He paced a
couple of steps towards the window, back again. "She's in trouble." 

"I was on the phone with Skinner. He said that we shouldn't jump to
any conclusions at this point. That she might have everything under
control." 

Granger was clearly trying to soothe him -- as Skinner had been when
he relayed that message through Granger for his benefit -- but Mulder
would have none of it. 

"She might be making a clean exit somehow but I don't think she's
got everything under control. Curran's done something, I'm sure of
it. Scared her somehow. Forced her to go so quickly." 

Granger blew out a breath into the phone. "Yeah, I'm afraid I agree
with you. It's not like her to do something this fast, is it?" 

"No," Mulder snapped. "She's much more cautious than this." He
shouldered out of his coat, threw it viciously across the chair back.
"Where are you anyway?" 

"I'm just leaving the city center now. Padden sent me out to the
Grey Mouse to see if anything unusual was going on there." 

"Well, when you get done there, come back here, will you? I want to
go over these files again with you, everything we've got on Curran,
Fagan, Mae Curran, Elisa, Danny Conner. See if there's any clue about
what might be going on that we're overlooking somehow." 

"But what do we do about Agent Scully?" Granger asked. 

"There's nothing we can do," he said angrily. "We're just going to
have to wait and see if she gets on the fucking plane tomorrow.
There's no way to contact her, and trying to do surveillance on her
at her apartment would be too risky. With any luck you'll see her at
the pub and be able to tell if she's all right at least." 

"I hope so," Granger replied somewhat doubtfully. 

Mulder shared his feeling that a sighting at the pub was a long shot. 

"Just get here as soon as you can, all right?" he said quickly. 

"I will," Granger replied as Mulder hung up. 


**********

2233 GRACE STREET 
12:35 p.m.


Scully sat in the living room, curled on the battered, thrift store
couch, her hands over her ears, her eyes alternately opening and
closing as the vision washed over her. 

Outside the windows on either side of the television, the glass was
being battered by the muffled thumping of a hundred white wings, a
storm of barn owls bashing themselves against the windows, trying to
gain entrance into the room. 

Scully watched them, the black curves of their talons, the snow
white of their wings, the heart-shaped moons of their faces shot with
the shock of dark beaks, the sound of their screaming....

She tried going into another room, but the birds just followed her
to whatever room she went into, clamboring at the windows, including
the cramped bathroom where she'd hidden just after the hallucination
started. Finally, she'd given up on hiding from it, found her way
back to the couch, the television on for distraction, but the sound
overpowered by the hammering of the soft, white bodies. 

She kept her ears covered as she stared at the television, the local
noon news flashing across the small screen, which fuzzed in and out
of focus as she looked at it. She cringed at the intensity of the
hallucination, wondering about it. 

She'd been fine through most of the night, though she had not slept
at all once again. Only a few times did she find herself inside some
vivid imagining, the room blurring out around her to be replaced by
some other time, some other place, for a few seconds. She'd closed
her eyes and rode them out as best she could. 

Mae had risen twice in the night to check on Sean on the couch and
had cracked the door to check on her. Both times Scully had pretended
to be asleep to avoid any conversation, though she had to admit to
taking great comfort in Mae's vigilance and protectiveness towards
her. It made her feel like it was unlikely she would end up out in
the night once again, lost on some strange street in the darkness,
haunted or pursued by God only knew what from the depths of her mind. 

Mae had come in again in the morning around ten. She and Sean had
been up for some time, Scully knew, Sean watching television, the
bright sounds of it reaching Scully all the way in the back bedroom
as she lay staring at the dull white light out the windows for hours. 

When Mae came in, Scully was sitting up in bed, already dressed, her
legs thrown over the side, her head bowed from exhaustion.

"I've made you some breakfast," Mae had said, looking at her in
concern as Scully's chin rose from her chest slowly so that she could
meet Mae's gaze. "I know you probably don't feel like eating, but you
should try to have something. Just some toast and some juice, maybe
some coffee if you can do it. It might help you ride this out a bit
easier." 

Scully had thanked her, risen, and gone into the living room,
situated herself on the couch beside Sean, trying to draw comfort and
a sense of normalcy from his small presence as he caught her up on
what was happening on the cartoon he was watching. Mae brought the
toast and the tall glass of juice, and Scully had consumed both
silently, fighting off the nausea that the toast produced. 

At around 11:30, Mae had departed with Sean with a promise to return
as soon as possible to spend the day with her. 

"Thank you, Mae," Scully had responded, smiling faintly. "I'd...I'd
like that." 

"All right then," Mae replied, returning the smile. "I'll be back
straight away." 

And she and Sean had departed. 

It only took about 20 minutes for the hallucination to begin. Scully
wondered in some dim part of her mind if Mae's absence contributed to
its onset, as though being left alone gave her mind too much ability
to concentrate, to become suceptible to the drug as it worked its way
out of her tissues, flooding her body once again as it had done to
Danny when he'd been going through the withdrawal from it in the
hospital. She remembered how the drug had spiked as the residue
became more active in his brain, and assumed that was what was
happening to her, as well. 

It will pass, she told herself as one particularly large owl flapped
against the windows, its talons scratching loudly on the glass. All
of it would pass and she would be all right. There was no sign of
headache. No pressure in her head, no nosebleed. 

She watched the owl, shook her head as if to clear it, fighting down
the fear at what her mind could produce. 

She just hoped the hallucinations didn't get any worse. This odd
vision had rattled her taut nerves badly enough. Another sighting of
her father, or anything like the vision of the night before last, and
she felt she might not be able to handle it without breaking down,
which she was trying hard not to do as it was. 

She just kept telling herself that it wasn't real, that it would
pass soon enough as the time since her exposure lengthened. She
recited it to herself over and over as she closed her eyes. Her hands
trembled slightly against her ears. 

This is not real...she thought. It's not real...

She opened her eyes again at the faint sound of keys in the lock, as
the deadbolt clicked over. Scully watched the door come open, terror
gripping her at what she might see if this, too, wasn't real. But
then Mae came in, pulling off her scarf and coat, meeting Scully's
wide-eyed look with deep concern. 

Scully could only imagine how she looked, clenched into a ball on
the corner of the couch, her hands covering her ears. 

Mae hung her coat and scarf up, came forward until she was kneeling
in front of Scully. She reached up and took hold of Scully's wrists
gently, drawing her hands down, holding both of Scully's between both
of hers. 

"It's all right, Katherine," she said softly. "It's all right.
Nothing's going to hurt you. What you're seeing...it can't hurt you."

Scully closed her eyes, her brows squinting down. "That's hard to
believe," she replied. "It all seems so real..."

"Aye, but it's not," Mae responded instantly, giving Scully's hands
a tight squeeze, as though trying to force her into the present
moment, into the real, with her touch. Scully found herself
disentangling her hands from Mae's so that she could grip the other
woman by the wrists. Mae did the same. As though Mae was holding her
over a cliff's edge, Scully thought. Barely keeping her from falling.

Scully opened her eyes again, looked at Mae. It was like looking at
a photograph, Mae in focus in the forefront, and the entire
background lost in a blur, like Mae was the only real thing in the
room. The sounds of the owls grew fainter as Scully held her
attention on Mae, drawing in a deep breath. 

"All right," Scully said, nodding. She released Mae's wrists, though
Mae held on for a beat longer. 

"I'm going to make you a cup of tea then," Mae said firmly. "Then
we'll sit together for awhile." 

"Okay," Scully replied. Mae could have told her they were going to
fly to the moon and she would have agreed to it. Mae was grounding
her so well. She would do anything she said. 

With that, Mae released her hands and stood, going into the kitchen.
Scully could hear the kettle filling, the heavy metal on metal sound
as Mae placed it on the burner, the clicking of the gas stove as the
burner lit. She concentrated on all the small noises. 

The sounds of the birds got fainter, then finally disappeared
completely. 

She chanced a look at the windows. Nothing there. Only the oblique
light of the winter day coming in through the old, distorted glass.
Relief drifted over her. 

Thank God, she thought, and felt herself beginning to relax. 

The sounds of the television filtered back into her awareness, a
commercial for Rob Roberts, the traffic helicopter pilot, an overhead
view of the city swooping across the screen. The view made her
vaguely nauseated again, like vertigo. She reached for the remote and
switched the television off. 

Leaning her head against the couch, she watched Mae at work in the
kitchen across the counter that separated the two rooms. 

"How was it, seeing Owen?" she asked quietly. 

"We're not what you would call ^^getting along' at this point, let's
put it that way," Mae replied, setting two saucers and two teacups on
the counter, Twinings tea bags trailing out of the cups' sides. 

"I'm sorry," Scully replied. Part of her felt for Mae, at war with
her brother, her only family left besides Sean. But another part of
her was, of course, glad for the schism. Mae wasn't like Owen. She
had too much humanity left in her to be like her bastard of her
brother, no matter what she might have done in the past. Scully was
sure of that.

"Don't be sorry," Mae said, her voice hard, her eyes down on the
cups. "You of all people shouldn't be sorry. Look what he's done to
you." 

"Yes," Scully replied softly. She thought about it for a moment.
"You're so angry with him...like he hasn't done something like this
before. Is he acting differently than he usually does?" 

Mae seemed to consider for a moment whether to respond or not, then
put her hands on the counter, blew out a breath, shaking her head. 

"He's never been like this before, no." Her tone was quiet, as
though she were confiding in Scully. Which, Scully realized, she was.
"I mean, he's always had plans for things, always had something in
the works, but he's never been as guarded, as paranoid, as he is
right now. And he's never done things to his own people that were so
purposefully cruel and distrustful. I don't know what's come over
him." 

She paused, shook her head again. "And he won't discuss his reasons
with me, which is strange in and of itself." 

She paused for a moment, and Scully watched her, blinking slowly.
The sound of her own slow breathing was very loud to her ears. 

Then Mae looked at Scully, something imploring in her expression.
"You have to understand something about Owen," she said, and Scully
was uncertain whether Mae was about to try to convince Scully or
herself to understand and accept what she going to say. 

Both, she decided. 

Mae continued. "After our parents died...and then when our brother,
James, was killed...Owen made the Cause his entire life. It's
consumed him, and in a very personal way. I'd like to say that he
does everything he does for Ireland, but I think it's more than that.
Or maybe less." She hesitated. The words were already coming from her
haltingly, and she seemed to be forcing herself to continue. Scully
waited patiently. 

"Though it pains me to say it, I think there's a fair bit of pure
revenge in Owen," she said finally. "I think he's spent his whole
life making people pay for what he's lost. It's what drives him deep
down." She looked sad as she spoke. "It's not something I'm proud of
for him. It makes me sad for him, in fact, because I think he's spent
his entire life in a rage. The only time he was happy...well...was
when he was married to Sean's mother. Elisa. And then she was killed,
too. He's never been the same since then. Not even Sean has made that
up for him."

She met Scully's eyes. "You favor her a great deal, you know," she
said softly. "A bit too much, in fact." 

Scully blinked again, pieces of the puzzle of Owen falling into
their places slowly in her addled mind. That certainly explained his
attraction to her, she thought. 

"That's why he felt the need to try and control me with the drug,"
Scully said, lifting her head off the couch. "He doesn't want to lose
me, too." 

Mae considered. "I think you're right about that. I think that's a
big part of it. The other part is that he just doesn't like people
leaving him at all. Once he becomes attached to them. I think that's
why he started using the drug when he first found out about it. About
a year ago." 

"Where did he find out about it?" Scully asked. This was a question
that she'd been wanting to ask for quite some time.

Again, Mae seemed to hesitate, but continued just the same. Scully
realized how much Mae truly trusted her. It pleased her in an off-
center way. That Scully could find out information, but it also made
her glad that Mae trusted her on a personal level. Because some part
of her trusted her, as well.

"We have...some affiliations with some other groups...some in the
Middle East. We exchange supplies with each other, information when
we can. One of those groups had developed the drug, but never used it
for what they intended it for. The production of it takes a good bit
of energy and resources. Which this group didn't have. Owen traded
the information about it for some...supplies." 

The kettle began to whistle behind her. She seemed glad for the
distraction, turned to get it. Scully sat still, taking in what she'd
said. After a moment, she spoke.

"What happened to Elisa?" she asked softly. "Did the British kill
her?" 

Mae turned back towards the cups, pouring the steaming water slowly.
She shook her head. 

"No. It would have made thing more simple if they had, though." She
finished pouring the water, turned to replace the kettle. Then she
went to the refrigerator for the milk, poured it into the small,
chipped creamer on the counter, replaced the milk. 

"Elisa went to a market to do some shopping one day. Owen had been
having some...problems...with other members of the group, enough that
he was being left out of meetings about some things." She sighed, as
though the memory pained her. "Well, there was a bombing planned for
the market that day, and Owen didn't know. So Elisa didn't know."

Scully gaped. "The IRA killed her?" 

Mae nodded. "It was an accident. People were very sorry about it.
But I don't think Owen's really ever let it go. Or ever will." 

Mae gathered up the creamer and the sugar bowl, came around the
counter and set them both on the coffee table. Then she returned to
the counter, picked up both steaming cups of tea by the saucers. 

While she did this, Scully considered what she'd said.

The Path's split with the IRA suddenly made a lot more sense to her.
A lot of things did. Curran's need to control her. Even the tension
between Mae and Owen. Mae's past showed someone loyal to the Cause,
to her brother's part in that. Owen's was starting to point toward a
loyalty only to himself.

"Now I've got the whole day cleared out to help you through this,"
Mae said quietly, setting the saucer in front of Scully and going to
a chair caddy-corner to the couch. She sat, her cup and saucer held
delicately in front of her. "What should we do?"

Scully leaned forward, took the cup, bobbed the tea bag up and down
slowly. She shook her head. 

"I don't know what to do," she said honestly. "I don't know what to
expect." 

"Well then," Mae replied, crossing her legs. "We'll just play it by
ear, as they say. Just relax." She smiled reassuringly. 

Scully smiled back, pulled the teabag out of the cup and set it on
the saucer. She leaned back, blew across the steaming surface of the
tea and took a sip, trying her best to do as Mae said. 


********* 

THE GREY MOUSE 
6:34 p.m.


Owen Curran sat in his office in the back room of the pub, his arms
crossed over his chest, his eyes on the table. He was a dark, lone
figure in the room, his black sweater and deep blue jeans matching
his mood to a tee. Outside in the pub, another band was playing, the
pub already crowded, even though it was early in the night. 

But no sign of Mae, he thought broodily. The bartender had strict
instructions to come get him the minute Mae showed up, even if she
didn't come back to see him in the office. He would find her out in
the pub, try to make things better between them. Tomorrow was going
to strain things between them enough. He wanted them to be on firm
ground when the events of the day unfolded. 

He shook his head as another thought entered his mind. 

There was no word from Katherine, either. 

He wondered how she was faring. Truthfully, he didn't know what
effect her withdrawal from the drug would have. He didn't know much
about how long it took to addict someone to the point that going off
it would kill them. No one had tried to stop taking it this soon
after being exposed. 

She was so fucking stubborn, he thought bitterly. Just like Elisa
that way. Part of him wouldn't be surprised if she let herself die
rather than come back to him to get more. 

But then there was the drug he'd planted in the juice. He was
satisfied to think that she might not be going through withdrawal yet
at all. 

She would come to him, he decided, and picked up his beer, taking a
swallow. He reached for his cigarette, smouldering in the ashtray,
and took a long draw off it, forcing himself to relax. 

He just needed to be a little more patient. Keep his wits about him.
And concentrate on tomorrow. Try to stay focussed on that. 

There was a knock on the door, and though he'd just pledged to think
only of the bombing, he found himself sitting up straighter,
wondering if it was Mae or Katherine after all. He called for
whomever it was to come in, forcing the anticipation out of his
voice, set the cigarette back in the ashtray quickly. 

John Fagan entered, holding a file folder, still bundled up in his
long dark coat and gloves, clearly having not stopped at all on his
way through the pub. He looked at Owen seriously as he closed the
door behind him. 

Owen's shoulders fell a bit as he saw Fagan, and he leaned back in
the chair again. 

"Owen," Fagan said softly, and came forward into the circle of light
thrown by the single bulb over the table. 

"What is it, John?" Curran replied tiredly. "I'm not in the mood for
much company tonight, to be honest with you." 

Fagan held the folder in front of him, not quite offering it to
Curran. "I think you'll want my company right now," he said quietly,
his voice grim. "I think you'll want to hear me out, though you're
not going to like what I've got to say one bit."

Owen glared up at him, took another sip from his beer. "What are you
crapping on about, John?" he grumbled. "I'm not in the mood for any
gaming. Out with whatever you've got." 

Fagan nodded, though Curran could see he had flushed a little over
his tone with him. "All right, Owen. Out with it then." 

He opened the folder, looked at the contents for a few seconds, then
turned it and slid it across the table towards Curran, into the
bright light of the lamp.

Curran looked down at it. A computer printout of some sort, with a
picture of Katherine in the corner. He glanced at it, then away.

"What's this then?" he asked, looking up at John accusingly. 

Fagan shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably. "I did a check on
her, like I told you I wanted to do. I ran her fingerprints through a
cop here in Richmond, that Detective Shanahan we met in Baltimore,
remember?" 

Owen pursed his lips, anger boiling in him as his voice rose. "I
told you she'd already been checked, John. Goddamnit, you never
fucking listen anymore, do you--"

"Will you read the bloody file, Owen?" Fagan shouted, interrupting
him. "She's a fucking FBI agent!" He pointed down at the file,
jabbing a finger at the printout. "Read the fucking thing!" 

Owen was stunned into silence, his eyes remaining on Fagan for a few
seconds, as though waiting to be told that he was kidding. Then his
eyes fell on the folder. He noted the FBI logo on the corner of the
page, beneath her picture. Her vital information scrolled beside the
clearly dated picture. 

Special Agent Dana Scully, he read silently. University of Maryland
Medical School...FBI Academy...current assignment: "classified." 

His hand came up to rub his temple and his forehead as he continued
reading. Fagan stood before him, waiting. 

"My God..." Curran said softly, fingering the pages. He didn't turn
to the next page. He'd seen enough. 

"She could know about the bombing, Owen," Fagan said into the quiet.
"We might need to call this thing off tomorrow." 

Curran was silent for a long moment. He could feel color rising in
his cheeks, rage beginning to come up in him. Indignation. Shame at
being told this by Fagan, at being so easily duped. 

And something else. A very deep sense of personal betrayal that he
was finding difficult to even tolerate. 

He struggled to hold it all down, forced his voice to a calm, flat
monotone, forced himself to concentrate. "No, I don't think she would
know about that. Nobody knows but you and me and a couple of
others...I think that's all right." He swallowed, looked to the side,
away from the file and from Fagan.

"What do you want me to do, Owen?" Fagan urged softly. He was
standing there, poised to do something, whatever Owen told him to do.
As he'd always been, Owen realized. 

God, what a fool I've been...he thought, closing his eyes. 

The image came to his mind again, completely unbidden. Elisa -- or
was it Katherine? -- on the hillside again, him walking towards her.
He reached her, her face swimming in and out of focus, turning first
from one woman to the other. 

Then the memory came crashing in. He winced against it. 

At the wake. Alone in the drawing room of his parents' house...going
to the coffin, the tears streaming from him as he pushed open the
lid, the choked cry that came from him as he looked her, half her
face blown away, her body torn so badly she was wrapped entirely with
a tight, uneven sheet...

He covered his eyes for a long moment, then his mouth, hoping Fagan
wouldn't notice the suspicious shine in his eyes. He clenched his jaw
down, cleared his throat, dropped his hand to the file, fingered the
pages again. 

The rage warred against the anguish, turning him cold. Ice cold. 

"Owen?" Fagan looked at him uncertainly. "Are you all right?" 

"Aye, I'm fine," Owen said softly, his voice still monotone, all
business. He cleared his throat. 

"Here's what I want you to do for me, John," he began. "Mae is
coming to get Sean in the morning, early, around eight or nine. She's
keeping him for the day while we drive up to D.C." 

"All right," Fagan replied, waiting. 

"Once Mae is out of the house..." He reached into his pocket,
drawing out his keys. He slowly pulled one off the ring as he spoke.
"I want you to go in there with this... " 

He pushed the key across the table, looked up at Fagan, his eyes
deathly still and serious as he spoke again.

"...And I want you to kill her. I don't care how. Just get rid of
the body before Mae comes home with Sean, then meet me back at the
warehouse. We'll go from there." 

Fagan reached down and picked up the key, looking at Owen almost
warily. 

"You sure about this, Owen?" he asked softly. 

Owen nodded. "Aye," he said quietly, returning John's gaze. 

Fagan nodded. "All right then," he replied, and, fingering the key
in his black gloved hand, he tucked it into his coat pocket. 

Owen dismissed him with his eyes, and Fagan withdrew, closing the
door silently behind him. 

He sat for a long time, unmoving. 

He looked down at the file folder, trying to gauge the way he felt
at that moment. Nothing. It was as though something in him that he'd
kept barely kindled had died out, gone to dust. As though it had
never really been there at all. 

Reaching out once again, he fingered the corner of the folder,
slowly turned it over, hiding the picture as he pushed the file, and
his emotions about it, shut. 


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

END OF CHAPTER 19. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 20. 

*********

MALCOLM FLAHERTY'S HOUSE 
OUTSIDE BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS 
JANUARY 15
(FRIDAY) 
3:47 a.m.


The spotlights threw the shadows of the falling snow against the
stone of the Celtic cross in the center of the low maze of bushes,
the amber light throwing the ancient carvings of saints into stark
relief and dotting them with falling shadows. Around the cross, night
hung heavily, the stars obscured by the thick clouds, the moon
straining a faint light in one corner of the sky. 

For a long time all was still, quiet. The snow fell silently, only
the faintest wind disturbing its slow spiral. 

Then, from behind one of the cross' shoulders, a gloved hand
appeared, gripping the edge of the sculpture as a dark shadow of a
head appeared in the sharp bend. A warm fog of air puffed out in
front of the man's face, slipping out from the small hole in the
black ski mask. The man's keen eyes used the higher vantage point to
scan the grounds, to take in the stone path lined with dark skeletons
of trees that led to the back of the house. 

Seeing no one around, his other hand came up. He gestured forward
once, twice. 

Three other dark shapes moved quickly through the maze, around the
sides of it, moving as silent as the snow. The man leapt down from
the cross and followed the other three down the path, hugging the
edges where the dim gas light was faintest. 

They gathered, a huddle of shadows, at the house's rear entrance, a
set of wide French doors that opened onto the stone patio. The man
gestured to one of his companions, pointing to the security system
keypad set into the brick beside the door. His companion nodded,
reached into his black jacket, pulled out a set of tools in a small
zippered case, tiny tools designed for intricate work. 

In a few seconds, he had the keypad off its base, the pad trailing
multicolored wires that still connected it to the wall. 

The alarm began to beep in warning, ticking off what the man knew to
be a thirty second countdown before it activated the house-wide alarm
and alerted the police to the presence of an intruder.

The man was not fazed by this. His companions weren't either. They
simply stood close to the house, glancing around through the eye
slits of their identical masks. 

The one with the tools worked carefully, snipping a blue wire, a
red. He loosened two screws that held the two remaining wires to the
base with a small screwdriver. Then, pulling out two small pieces of
tin foil from his kit, he folded them carefully into paper thin
squares, slid them gently between the heads of the wires and their
contact points. 

The beeping of the alarm ceased immediately, the light on the panel
going from red to green. 

Reaching into his pocket again, the one with the tools produced a
small gun-like device, placed the business end of it into the lock
beneath the scrolled bars of the doorknobs. There was an audible
*click*. He withdrew the instrument and pulled open the door. 

The man entered first, the other three following behind, their feet
barely making a sound on the floor. The house was dark except for a
light on the foyer, throwing a dim glow onto the large staircase that
led up to the house's second and third levels. 

He stopped in the mouth of the foyer, in the darkened hallway that
they'd followed from the back of the house. He put a hand up to halt
the movement of the others, which they did in unison. 

He held up a finger, pointed down one corridor that radiated off the
round foyer. One servant, he conveyed silently. At the end of the
corridor. Probably the butler, asleep in his quarters. 

He pointed down the opposite corridor, the one that led to the study
and another hallway toward the front of the house. He held up another
finger, pointed down that way. Another servant. He put a finger over
his lips. The other men nodded, understanding their leader's
instructions.

Now he pointed up the steps, his hand flat, then tilting as it
indicated the incline of the stairs. His hand veered sharply off to
the right, stopping suddenly against the palm of his other hand,
indicating a door. He pointed to his palm, nodded. The others nodded
as well. Their target was behind that door. 

They were all on the same page, and the man was pleased. 

Drawing his gun, which was fitted with the smooth cylinder of a
silencer, he came out of the shadows quickly and began his ascent up
the carpeted stairs, the others close behind, their weapons also
drawn as they made their way up onto the landing. Their bodies were
mere outlines against the hallway windows, gauzy shapes in the lights
at the back of the house. 

They moved slowly, the target nearly in sight now, as they inched
toward the closed bedroom door at the end of the long hallway. 

**

Malcolm Flaherty came awake suddenly, his head turning towards the
door to his room instinctively. His breathing was a bit fast as he
looked around the room, looking for anything amiss. Nothing seemed to
be. The fire crackled in the fireplace on the far wall, sending a
play of yellow light around the room. His grandfather's clock ticked
on the mantel, and as he sat up in bed, it struck ^^four^^ in a light
series of bells. 

He could swear he heard something out in the hallway. He had always
been a light sleeper. 

He swiveled, slipped his feet out from beneath the covers, then his
legs, stepping into the bedroom shoes he kept there, side by side. He
reached for his robe at the end of the bed, blue pin-striped silk,
like his pajamas, slipped it over his shoulders, and rose. 

For a long moment he stood beside the bed, tying closed his robe
fastidiously, just listening to the familiar sounds of the house at
night. All the usual sounds were there, even the breeze against the
windows, the slight creak of wood and glass as the wind caressed
them. 

But there was something else there, as well. He felt sure of it. He
had not become the man he had without being innately cautious.

He watched the door to his bedroom, watched the crack beneath it.
Nothing. No movement, no shadow, no sound. 

The door was locked, he knew. It always was at night. And only
Maureen and Michael, the maid and butler, had additional keys to the
room. 

He waited a moment longer and still heard nothing. He was beginning
to feel he might have imagined the whole thing, or if the soft noises
had been some holdover of a dream. He felt himself relax a little
with that thought. After all, the house was a fortress, alarmed at
every entrance, every window. 

It was probably Michael moving around downstairs to the kitchen. He
decided on that as the answer. He would go downstairs to make sure,
however. He might even have a word with Michael to urge the man to be
more quiet in his late night (or early morning) roamings. 

Reaching for the key on the nightstand, he went to the door, pushed
the long skeleton key into the lock, gave it a turn. He pulled the
door open and stepped out into the chilly hallway beyond. 

He stood there for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the play of
shadow and light on the long corridor.

Suddenly the shadows against the walls came to life.

They moved in on him so quickly he didn't even have time to cry out
before there was a large, gloved hand over his mouth, an arm across
his chest, pinning him against a large body behind him. Then a masked
man standing before him with a pistol pointed at the center of his
forehead. 

His eyes were wide in their sockets, the sound of alarm he'd
intended to make at the first sight of motion lost in a moan in his
throat as the man behind him hustled him backwards, nearly dragging
him, the man with the gun taking measured steps forward to keep the
pistol's barrel almost flush with his skin. 

They reentered the bedroom, two other figures coming in behind the
man with the pistol, closing the door silently behind them. 

The entire proceedings -- from the moment he'd stepped out of the
bedroom to his return to it under restraint -- had taken less than 10
seconds. 

The house returned to quiet as the men waited, listening for any
sign of life from downstairs. Flaherty started to make another sound,
but his head was jerked back hard by the hand over his mouth,
silencing him. 

They were military, he knew this. There was too much control and
precision in their actions, too much of an ability to act as a unit,
for them to be petty thieves after his television, his wallet. 

No, these men wanted something far more valuable that any of that,
he thought calmly. They had come for him. 

British spies. M16, no doubt. 

He smirked beneath the hand over his mouth, meeting the man before
him's eyes challenge for challenge. The man cocked his head, noting
this, nearly smiled. He jerked his head to the side, signalling for
the man holding him to remove his hand. He cocked the pistol,
however, to ensure that there would be no outburst.

"I wondered when you might get here," Flaherty said quietly,
attempting to pull his regal composure over himself, despite how
precarious his position might appear.

The man cocked his head to the other side, clearly puzzled by
Flaherty's words. 

"Oh yes, I've known you were coming for quite some time," Flaherty
continued, gaining confidence with each word. He even managed to draw
himself up a bit against the man holding him. The other two men had
flanked the one with the gun (clearly the leader), standing still as
stone. 

"Go ahead and name your threat, the price you demand for me to stop
the work I've been doing. Not that it will do you any good, mind you.
My loyalty is and always shall be to Ireland and her freedom from
your tyrannical control. Your threats mean nothing to me. But go
ahead. Out with them." 

He felt strength in saying the words, reassurance that he was taking
some bit of control over his situation. They were just here to
frighten him, he said to himself. To *try* to frighten him. The
British had no stomach for assassination, and certainly not the
assassination of American citizens, no matter what they were involved
in. 

The man seemed surprised for a moment, then he smiled widely beneath
his mask, glanced back at the two men behind him. They smiled in
return, as if on cue. The man behind him chuckled once quietly. 

The gun did not move from just in front of his forehead as the man
continued the same wide smile. He gestured with the gun, jerking it
down. The man behind him crushed Flaherty to his knees on the thick
rug, just in front of the fireplace, then tussled him around until he
was facing the fire, his arms pinned at his side. 

One of the other men came forward with something. Electrical tape.
He wound it around and around Flaherty's wrists behind his back. He
did the same to his ankles. 

Flaherty endured it all silently, still trying to maintain his
certainty that they were simply attempting to frighten him. That he
was just getting the full show, the full effect. 

But if he let himself feel it, somewhere in the back of his mind,
fear was beginning to gnaw at him. The men's silence engendered it.
He expected intimidation, even perhaps torture as they threatened
him. 

But not this silence. 

The clock continued to tick on the mantle. The sound seemed to be
getting louder to Flaherty's ears. The fire popped, hissing into the
room with its heat and amber light. 

"Why don't you tell me what it is you want?" Flaherty tried again,
and some of the haughtiness had come out of his voice. There was a
slight tremor there, just beneath the surface. 

The man with the pistol had come up close behind him again. 

"We don't want a thing from you, Mr. Flaherty," the man said softly. 

Flaherty's face fell, his heart leaping into his throat. 

Irish. They're Irish. Oh my God....

"I just came up to deliver a message is all," the man continued.
Flaherty felt the round muzzle of the silencer against the back of
his head. 

"Why?" Flaherty found himself saying. The word was so alien to him,
the pleading tone of it, that he didn't recognize it as coming from
his own mouth at first. 

"I think you'll understand the ^^whys' of this when you hear the
message, Mr. Flaherty, sir," the man said lightly, conversationally.
"Are you ready for the message?" 

The gun pressed into his skull harder. He clenched his eyes closed,
his tongue growing thick in his mouth. 

"Well, are you?" The light conversational tone was gone now,
replaced by something lower, darker. "Say yes or no, Mr. Flaherty." 

Flaherty pulled in a shaky breath, his eyes still closed, attempting
to compose himself as best he could. He decided that if he was going
to go out on his knees, he could keep a shred of dignity. Meet the
man word for word. 

"Yes," he said softly. He opened his eyes, looked into the fire. A
log fell slightly, sending off a small cloud of sparks that blinked
in the air in front of the fire and then vanished. 

The man leaned close to his ear, as though he meant to whisper a
secret. "Here it is, then..." he said softly, then his voice did drop
to a whisper. 

"Owen Curran sends his best." 

The man leaned forward a bit more to he could look into his face.
Flaherty met his eyes. "You got the answer to your ^^why' now, then,
Mr. Flaherty?" 

Flaherty pulled himself up more. The Ireland he'd fought for his
entire life was now in his bedroom, about to end his life. "Yes," he
murmured. "I understand."

The man stood again, the muzzle of the gun returning to the back of
his head. "That's good," he said. "He wanted you to understand." 

He pulled the hammer back on the gun, the sound cold, efficient. 

Flaherty closed his eyes against shot. 


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


CROSSROADS MOTEL 
8:32 a.m.


On the night table, beneath the cheap lamp that Mulder had left on
the night before while he'd been reading and watching television, the
cell phone began to ring. 

Mulder's eyes came open slowly as he drew in a deep breath, turned
his head toward the sound. The file that was open and lying flat on
his chest shifted slightly, paper slipping from it to rest on the
mattress and floor. He put his hand on it as he sat up a little more
against the headboard and reached for the phone, pressing the talk
button on its way to his ear.

"Mulder," he called, sleep still in his voice. The television was
playing softly on the bureau against the far wall, Katie Couric and
Matt Lauer yukking it up over something. He grimaced at them,
reaching for the remote to mute the sound. He felt like he had a
hangover from having so little sleep. 

"Mulder, it's Granger," came the somewhat breathless reply. "We've
got a problem." 

Mulder sat straight up now, instantly awake. Files rained down on
the floor. "Is it Scully? What's happened?"

"Malcolm Flaherty was killed in his house last night. A professional
hit. He was found in the middle of his bedroom, his wrists and ankles
bound with electrical tape. A single shot to the back of the head." 

Mulder swung his legs over the side of the bed quickly. "Flaherty's
dead?" he repeated, his voice rising. 

"Yes," Granger replied. "They're not sure when. The medical examiner
is still working on him. The butler found him this morning. Nobody
heard anything. The house alarm was shorted out. The people knew what
they were doing, that's for sure." 

"They know about Scully," Mulder said with conviction, and swore
under his breath. 

"Padden's not so sure about that," Granger replied, trying to sound
hopeful. "It could just be another splinter group. There are so many,
after all. It could have been someone pissed off with Flaherty for
something else. He had dealings with a lot of questionable people,
Padden said. It could have nothing to do with Scully or Curran at
all." 

"That's damned unlikely," Mulder spat back, standing now, looking
around for his pants. The room with its cinderblock walls was chilly,
and as Mulder stood there in his grey boxer briefs the hairs on his
legs rose up in goosebumps. "We've got to get her out of there," he
said tersely. "We've got to get her out right now." 

"There's no way for us to do that, Mulder, without risking blowing
her cover," Granger replied reasonably. "We're not sure it's been
blown, and storming into that apartment with a bunch of agents might
just endanger her more. She's got a ticket out at 11:00 a.m. Padden
thinks the best thing to do it to simply see if she gets on that
plane. He says if she doesn't, then we'll know if we need to put an
extraction plan into effect. She's going to be fine. Just be
patient." 

"Patient my ass," he said angrily. "Padden's got a little too much
patience about this whole thing. He's willing to risk her too much. I
bought a ticket to be on that plane with her. If she doesn't get on I
AM going to that apartment to find her. I don't care about any
^^extraction plans.'" 

Granger was silent for a moment as Mulder pulled on his jeans,
balancing the phone on his shoulder. Mulder could almost feel the
man's tension at being privy to his unauthorized plans, but he gave
the man credit for not arguing with him about it.

"It just wouldn't make any sense, Mulder," Granger continued
finally, sounding genuinely puzzled. "Curran killing Flaherty, I
mean. Flaherty's the one who supplies him with everything he needs,
isn't he?" 

"Curran's been doing nothing *but* kill his own people for months
now," Mulder replied, buttoning and zipping his jeans. 

"But why risk killing Flaherty now?" Granger replied. "I mean, even
if he did find out about Scully, wouldn't it be detrimental to him to
just kill him that suddenly? Like shooting himself in the foot?" 

"Not unless..." Mulder stood up straight, still, his mind sifting
through the massive amount of information he'd read the night before,
and in the days previous. Things were beginning to fall into their
place in his mind. 

"Not unless he was sure he wouldn't need him anymore," he said
softly. 

"^^Wouldn't need him anymore?'" Granger repeated. "How could that be?" 

Mulder nodded to himself, paced a couple of steps. "I think the
bombing's going to be today," he said, a little breathless himself
now as he raced through the possibilities, the facts. 

"What?" Granger said, alarmed. "How do you know that?" 

Mulder turned toward the window that looked over the balcony, the
cheap curtains slightly cracked to let the grey morning light in. He
nodded again, feeling certain of himself. "That's the only way he
would be able to kill Flaherty. Because he didn't need him anymore.
To get ready for it. Because it's today." 

"Mulder, begging your pardon, but you're making a big leap here,"
Granger said dubiously. 

"I'm not, I'm not. Hold on...hold on just a second..." Mulder went
back to the side of the bed, pulling files off the floor, flipping
through them, looking for the right one. He'd been looking at them
for so long he felt like he had them memorized. He rifled through the
stack until he found the file on Elisa Curran. "There's something in
here...I remember reading it but I didn't make the connection until
you told me about Flaherty..." 

Granger was silent as Mulder skimmed the file, his finger running
down across the text, the phone on his shoulder again.

"Dammit, what's today's date, anyway?" Mulder asked quickly. "The
fourteenth?" 

"No, it's the fifteenth," Granger replied impatiently. 

Mulder's finger continued down the paragraphs, suddenly stopped.
"Here it is," he said. "Elisa Curran was killed on January fifteenth
in Belfast...the bomb went off right at 3 p.m." 

Granger was silent for a beat. "But why would he want to bomb the
British Embassy to mark the anniversary of Elisa's death? And why
kill Flaherty now? He didn't have anything to do with that."

Mulder's mind raced, his eyes focussed on the picture of Curran and
Elisa on the corner of the file. He thought of the bombing in the
market, Elisa Curran in the wrong place at the wrong time, a fact of
which he was certain. Curran cut out of the loop. He thought of
Danny. Of Mary Rutherford. Hugh Cromes, the body that had washed up
on the beach at the river. All the others. 

The last puzzle piece -- Flaherty's death -- clicked into place in
his mind. He smiled through his tension. 

It all made perfect sense now.

"Because he's not going to bomb the British Embassy," Mulder said at
last.

"What?" Granger asked incredulously. 


**********


End of chapter 20a.  Continued in 20b.


**********

2233 GRACE STREET 
8:53 a.m.


Scully's hand shook as she poured her second glass of juice of the
morning, emptying the carton. Mae was at the stove behind her,
fetching the kettle for tea, the television chatting in the other
room, laughter from a studio audience leaking into the room and
seeming strangely at odds with the silence of the apartment's two
occupants. 

Scully looked at her hand with concern as she set the empty carton
down, making a fist in front of her face as she studied her hand's
tremble. The shaking was getting worse, not better, as time wore on.
She was at a loss to explain the drug's symptoms in her, and it was
beginning to worry her. They were lingering on too long. 

And she had spent another entire night awake, for awhile staring out
the windows, lying still in her bed. Finally, she'd risen and gone to
her closet, bringing her suitcases out and laying them on the bed,
carefully packing her things in preparation for leaving. It had taken
her a long time, but she had been glad for the distraction. 

That was three nights now without sleep. And it was beginning to
take its toll on her. Concentration was difficult. Her emotions were
close to the surface, threatening to overwhelm her. 

She remembered that Danny had told her he'd gone over two weeks
without sleeping. 

No wonder the man had cried all the time, she thought, taking a sip
of the juice. 

And she stopped.

Held it in her mouth. 

There was something strange about it, something in the texture, the
taste. As though something had been collecting at the bottom of the
carton and had just been poured out with the last of the juice. 

Mindful of Mae, whose back was still turned, she spit the mouthful
of juice back into the glass, set it back on the counter. She reached
for the empty carton, reopened it, gave the interior a sniff. 

Orange juice and something else. Something faintly chemical. 

Oh God...

"Mae?" she called, keeping her voice soft, steady. 

"Uh huh?" Mae replied, pouring the tea and pulling out two pieces of
toast from the toaster. 

"Has...has Owen been here in the past few days?" She tried to sound
as casual as she could, but panic was starting in her, her heart
pounding.

"Um...yeah," Mae said distractedly, buttering the toast. "He was
here a couple of days ago, I guess, dropping Sean off." Then Mae put
the knife down, turned to her, her eyes widening. "Why?"

Scully turned slowly, held the carton out toward Mae's face. Mae
locked eyes with her, took the carton, smelled the contents deeply. 

"That son-of-a-bitch," Mae whispered angrily, reaching out and
gripping Scully's upper arm, as though she meant to keep her from
falling. "I'm so sorry. I didn't think of it at all." 

Scully nodded, her hand going to her mouth. "It's okay," she said
softly, putting a hand on Mae's arm. "Just...just excuse me for a
minute."

She brushed past Mae, heading down the long hallway to the bathroom,
entering the room quickly. As she passed the sink, she grabbed her
toothbrush, knelt in front of the toilet. 

Within a few moments her stomach was empty. It wasn't even difficult
because the thought of what she'd consumed made her feel so sick. 

At least one dose of the drug would not be completely absorbed into
her system, she thought with some relief. She stood in front of the
sink, brushed her teeth, then wet a wash cloth and pressed it to her
face, the cool water feeling good against her flushed skin. 

"Are you all right?" Mae asked from the doorway, where she'd poked
her head in shyly. 

"Yes," Scully replied immediately, her voice stronger than she felt.
She put the wash cloth down and pushed her hair behind her ears,
trying to put her reflection back together. 

"Katherine, I'm so sorry." 

Scully looked at Mae in the doorway, nodded simply. "It's not your
fault, Mae," she said quietly. 

"You're still going to leave today? Even knowing you've been exposed
to more of the drug than you thought?" 

Scully nodded. "Yes," she replied. "I'm going to go before any of
this gets any worse. I still don't think I've had enough for it to be
lethal, but if I stay Owen will keep trying to get more of it in me.
I have to get away." 

Mae nodded, looked down. "I understand," she murmured. 

When she looked back up, there was determination in her eyes. "I'm
going to talk to Owen this morning about whether there's a cure for
all this. I've never heard him speak of one before, but he may know
something that he hasn't talked to me about. He's kept so much about
the drug from me, that could be the case."

Scully nodded, feeling a little hopeful at that. "Thank you, Mae...I
hope that's true. I don't know if he'll give the information to you
even if he does have it, but I appreciate you trying." 

Mae nodded. "You're welcome," she said softly. "It's the least I can
do for you."

She hesitated, as though she needed to work up her nerve to say
something. Then she looked up, met Scully's eyes. 

"I'll miss you, Katherine." She smiled sadly. "You're the first real
friend I've made in I don't know how long." 

Scully returned the sad smile. "I'll miss you, too, Mae," she
replied, and meant it. Despite her cover, despite Owen, all of it --
she did consider Mae a friend. No matter how strange the
circumstances of that friendship. 

She did, however, feel a little guilty about Mae calling her a "real
friend." Mae didn't even know her real name. 

Mae looked away, then back at her earnestly. "I'm glad you're
getting away from all this, though," she said with conviction. Then
she looked away again, her eyes shining. 

"This bloody mess..." she added under her breath angrily.

Scully was surprised by her words, but only nodded. She'd known Mae
had her regrets about some of the things she'd done, but she didn't
realize she felt this strongly against the work she was doing. She
supposed the falling out with Owen had a lot to do with that, his
treatment of her, his deception. 

It must be hard, Scully thought, to believe in something that seemed
to be based on so many lies.

Mae shook her head, drew herself up a little straighter, looked at
her watch, brushing the conversation away. 

"I've got to go get Sean," she said. "I'm late doing it already.
I'll be staying there for a bit, but I'll be back in time for us to
take you to the airport." She forced a smile. "We were the first ones
to see you when you got here; it seems only fitting we'll be the ones
to see you off." 

Scully smiled back. "Okay," she said, nodding. "I'm just going to
take a shower, get cleaned up. I'm already packed for the most part.
I just have to put a few things in the suitcases. But I'll be waiting
for you when you get here." 

"All right," Mae said. "Have a good rest of your morning. I'll see
you in a bit." And she withdrew down the hall. Scully heard her put
on her coat and go out the door, bolting it shut behind her. 

Scully looked at herself in the mirror, her shoulders falling now
that she was by herself. The exhaustion she felt was intense, bone-
deep. She noted the dark circles beneath her eyes, the paleness of
her skin. She was leaning on her hands on either side of the sink,
but she could still feel the slight tremor in them. 

She was going to be sick. She knew that. She might even need to go
into a hospital when she got back to Washington to monitor her as she
went through the withdrawal.

Closing her eyes, she prayed that was all she'd be in for. 

Scully sighed, pushing the thought away as she stood and headed into
the hallway, going down towards her room. She looked with relief at
her suitcases laying open at the foot of the bed. 

Going to the bedside, she began to slowly undress, pulling the loose
shirt she wore over her head, stepping out of her sweatpants and
underwear, which she tossed on the bed. Her white robe was on a hook
behind the door, and she reached for it, slipped it on quickly to
avoid the chill in the room. She returned to the bathroom.

Pushing back the cheap shower curtain, she turned the old handles on
the claw footed tub until she got the water good and hot, popped on
the shower. She took off her robe, lay it across the sink and stepped
into the tub, let the steaming water beat over her, clearing her
anxious thinking temporarily away.

**

In his black car on the corner, John Fagan watched Mae come out the
door to the building, fumbling with her keys as she headed toward her
dilapidated pickup parked just out front. He noted with satisfaction
that she seemed too distracted to look around as she unlocked the
door, climbed in and edged out onto the street. 

He waited for several minutes after she'd disappeared around the
corner to make sure she wouldn't return for something, finishing his
cigarette calmly, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the door to the
building, studied the upstairs windows for any sign of activity. He
saw none. 

Finally he opened the door, snuffed out the cigarette with his boot,
then made his way across the street, going in the building quietly,
walking carefully up the steps of the landing. 

He unzipped his jacket, reached for the key in his pocket with one
hand while the other glanced over the pair of handcuffs in their
holder at his belt, then finally went to the holster at the small of
his back, unclipping the strap that was holding the gun securely in
place. A roll of electrical tape bulged out of the other pocket.

He wouldn't need any of them, he thought, smiling to himself with
anticipation. Not right away, at least.

He stood outside the door for a long moment, listening. He heard the
television through the thin door, and something else. A hissing.
Water running. 

Pleased with this, he slipped the key in the lock, turned it slowly,
almost silently. Then he pushed the door open a crack, stuck his head
in to look into the living room. Seeing no one there, he entered the
apartment, closed the door gently behind him. 

Steam was drifting out the bathroom door in the middle of the
hallway that led to the back of the apartment. He could hear
Katherine in there, bumping and squeaking in the midst of her shower.
Edging down the corridor, stepping carefully, quietly, he went to the
doorway. 

He peeked around the corner slowly, the sink coming into view, a
white robe draped over it. Then the toilet, the battered radiator
beneath the curtained window. Finally, he'd craned his neck enough to
see the side of the tub, the shower curtain gaped open a bit at the
foot of it. 

Katherine stood with her back to him, close to the showerhead,
rinsing shampoo from her hair, smoothing her hands over the top of
her head. 

He watched raptly as the bubbles from the shampoo made their way
down her body, over her creamy back, the soft curves of her buttocks.
He followed them all the way down her body for a long moment,
mesmerized. 

She began to turn and he ducked back behind the doorway quickly,
taking a step back for good measure. He held still. 

He was a patient man, particularly when it came to tasks like this
one. Knowing he had the element of surprise in his favor, he relaxed,
pressed against the wall. 

He waited. 

** 

Scully finished rinsing, reached down and flipped the shower off,
turned the handles of the tub, both squeaking loudly, until the flow
of water had stopped. The sound of the television talking to no one,
the drip of water, filled the air around her as she stepped out,
reached for a towel and began to dry herself. 

She stood before the mirror and shouldered into her robe, tying the
belt tightly as she rubbed the towel through her hair. Once she'd
gotten it down to damp and smooth against her head, she draped the
towel around her neck and stepped out into the hallway.

From the back, a sudden sound of movement, then something crashing
into her with all the force of a train, an arm going around her waist
tightly, pinning her arms and lifting her slightly off her feet. The
cry of surprise she'd been about to let out got caught in her mouth
behind the gloved hand that clamped down over it with enough pressure
to bruise. Her eyes widened in terror. 

Though she couldn't turn her head to look, she knew from the size
and the strength that it was Fagan. Two words came up through the
fear that welled in her:

They know.

She was sure of it. 

He began to hustle her forward, towards the bedroom. Gaining her
wits about her, she kicked back with her legs. Her feet caught him in
the knees hard and he stumbled. She took advantage of the break in
his concentration and balance to free her hand. She clawed his face,
skin coming up beneath her nails. 

"Fuck!" he swore, and dropped her. She hit the floor on her feet,
fell forward onto her hands and scrambled up, running for the
bedroom. 

She could hear his heavy footfalls coming after her as, panting with
exertion and fear, she slammed the door closed behind her and turned
the lock. Immediately she heard his body hit the door, him cursing,
the wood rattling on its hinges.

Frantically, she looked around the bedroom for something to use as a
weapon, wishing for all her life that she'd violated Padden's order
and hidden her gun in her suitcase. 

Fagan's body hit the door again, and she could hear wood beginning
to give. 

She knew she had to take him out first. There was no other choice.

She moved quickly, stepping up beside the door, every muscle in her
poised to attack. As he hit the door again, she swallowed down the
fear and steeled herself, the wood finally splintering. 

Fagan burst into the room, and Scully sprang, screaming to shock him
for an instant. She got both arms around his neck and squeezed. 

His hands grabbed at her wrists as his breath wheezed in his throat.
She held on, though, her arms shaking with the effort. 

He staggered, choking. Then he backed up suddenly, driving Scully
into the wall beside the door with a grunt. She gasped but managed to
hang on. He took another step forward and drove her into the wall
again, and this time the pain was bad enough that she let go,
tumbling to the floor. 

"Come here," he snarled, and reached down, grabbing her by the hair
and hauling her up. Wincing, she drove her knee up into his groin and
when he let go again, she took off. 

She had to get out of the apartment, she chanted to herself as she
tore down the hallway. Or at least to the phone, barring that. She
had to get out, or get somewhere here, now...

She raced for the door, got a hand on the doorknob, but Fagan
grabbed her, pulling her back, crushing her against him. She kicked
back again, struggling, and got away, flinging herself toward the
kitchen with Fagan only a few steps behind. She grabbed for the
phone, began to dial. He slammed into her, knocking her against the
counter hard, the receiver flying. His hands closed down around her
throat. 

She couldn't breathe at all, his grip was so tight. Desperately, she
groped in the sink behind her, felt the smooth handle of a knife.
Grasping it, she swung wildly. 

The point made contact with his cheek, sunk in. She could hear it
hit his teeth as he screamed, the knife sticking in his face and
slipping from her grasp as he turned away from her. He let go of her
again, his hand going for the knife and drawing it out as she
staggered toward the living room once again. 

She made it three or four steps before she felt him knock into her
legs. She hit the floor, he first thing striking the hard wood was
her face. Her vision fuzzed, blood immediately coming from her nose.
She tasted blood in her mouth, as well. 

He flattened himself on top of her, pinning her to the floor, his
ankles over hers, immobilizing her legs. Clearly in a rage now, he
lifted her head up, turned it to the side and slammed it down on the
floor viciously once, twice.

The world shrank to a tunnel as her eyes lolled, her body going
limp. She turned her face against the floor, fighting off
unconsciousness. She felt the cold bite of a handcuff on one wrist,
then the other as he pulled her arms back hard. 

"No..." she cried, the side of her face and temple throbbing, her
vision blurring. She could barely breathe with his weight on top of
her. He leaned up for a moment, his knee digging into the small of
her back, and she could hear something ripping. She gasped for
breath, drawing in a lungful of air and shouting the word again. 

The cry was cut off as a thick piece of electrical tape was drawn
across her mouth, a hand pinning her head down onto the floor. His
other hand pulled at her robe, pushing it roughly up her back. 

God, no...she thought as more and more of her skin was exposed to
the air, his hands moving over her body freely now.

Not this... 

She closed her eyes, swam in a muddy pool of pain and near-
consciousness. 

She prayed for the darkness to come. 


***********

END OF CHAPTER 20. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 21.

*********

2233 GRACE STREET 
10:03 a.m.


In the background, the sound of someone slamming around in the
kitchen, drawers opening and closing. The television just behind her.
Heavy footsteps going down the hallway and coming back again, the
occasional sound of cursing. 

But the sounds were distant, as though she were underwater and was
hearing things happening on a surface she could not reach. 

She blinked slowly, watched the light shine in dusty beams against
the countertop, the light bending, shifting as her eyes opened and
closed. 

The loudest sound, loud as a slow, low drumbeat, was the tap of
drops of blood coming from her nose. They ran down the slick surface
of the tape over her mouth in a thin stream to the floor, gathering a
tap at a time in a small, thickening pool against her jaw and the
side of her face. 

Then her breathing, wet and slow. The faint sound of her heartbeat
as it pulsed in her ears, throbbed across the side of her head. It
felt like something was being shattered across her temple, her cheek,
with each beat, the pain coursing, tunnelling her vision now and
then. 

It was all she could feel. The rest of her body was a mystery to her. 

She closed her eyes, her brow squinting down as she shifted her head
against the hard floor. A small noise came from her throat at the
slight movement. For an instant it felt like she had fallen lightly
asleep. The pain vanished into the ether.

Then she was hovering over herself, seeing her body at the center of
a hazy tunnel of light, weightless, as though she hung from the
ceiling on a thin white string. 

She was on her side, her legs curled up against her chest, her arms
locked behind her back, her upper body turned toward the floor. Her
robe was high up on her thigh and had slid off one shoulder slightly,
exposing the pale of her arm and back. The white of the robe was
spotted with blood across the back. There was a huge red smear across
her bare shoulder. 

The side of her face that she could see, her temple, the curve
around her eye, was red. Already swollen. 

She looked down at herself in the vision for a long moment, watched
the slow, shallow rise and fall of her chest. It was the only thing
that assured her she was actually still alive somewhere below her. 

Then a figure entered, standing before her. She looked down at the
top of his head, his hand up beside his face, holding something
against his cheek. 

"You *bitch*," he said to her body, his voice low, as though it had
gravel in it. His words were slightly stilted, as though he couldn't
move part of his mouth. "Look what you did to my face." 

He reached out with a foot and put his boot on her upper arm, gave
her a hard shove, nearly pushing her over onto her back... 

And with the touch, the string snapped and she crashed back into her
body, the pain rushing in. Not just from her head now. From her
entire body. Memory, awareness came with it. She wanted to scream
with all of it. 

Instead, she pulled in a huge breath, opened her eyes and looked up
at Fagan. 

Blood had run down the side of his face, his throat, into his
collar. The towel he held to his face was matted with it, his hand
and wrist covered. 

For a long moment they simply stared at each other. She met his gaze
steadily, defiantly. 

"No fucking tears, FBI?" he asked, shaking his head slightly.
"You're just going to try to tough it out then, aren't you?" 

She blinked slowly. 

In her mind, she suddenly saw Mulder, sitting beside her on a bench.
He was looking at her with a smile that touched his eyes, making them
warm, inviting. He reached out and put a hand on the side of her
face, cupped her cheek, his thumb running lightly over her temple...

She returned her attention to Fagan, her eyes hardening. 

Yes, she said with her eyes. Yes, I am. 

He must have heard her, because his rage flared, his mouth going to
a thin angry line. He dropped the towel, exposing the wide gash in
the side of his face. Reaching behind him, he took out his 9mm
pistol, pulled back the hammer. Then he bent quickly, grabbed Scully
by the ankle with his free hand. 

She pulled against him, kicking with her legs uselessly. Her head
was spinning with the movement. She was too weak to fight much
against him anymore. 

He dragged her across the floor, through the living room and then
down the hallway towards her bedroom in the back.


*********

OWEN CURRAN'S APARTMENT 
1903 KENSINGTON AVENUE 
9:21 a.m. 
(40 MINUTES EARLIER)


Mae Curran pulled up outside her brother's apartment building,
parallel parking carefully into a space just outside the old
Victorian building. Breathing out slowly, she leaned her head against
the steering wheel, closed her eyes, steeling herself. 

She had felt uncomfortable with her brother in the past, small
disagreements over small things. But she had never felt this way
about him. 

This was as if she were going to visit a stranger. The distance
between them had grown that wide. Katherine stood between them,
certainly, but there was something else, as well. Something she
couldn't quite name. 

Leaning back, she pulled the keys from the ignition, climbed from
the truck, the suspension creaking tiredly. She checked her
reflection in the salt-covered side window of the truck's battered
cap, pushed her hair behind her ear self-consciously. 

She wanted to look strong, stronger than she felt, and she wasn't
sure she was going to pull it off. It was all the stressors of the
day piling on her that gave her the tired, troubled air she saw
there. Katherine and her illness, and the thought of her leaving that
morning. The conflict with Owen she felt so deeply, certainly.
Knowing all of them would be going into hiding for awhile after the
bomb went off today, that they might even be forced to move again if
the authorities became suspicious. 

She didn't want to do that. She was contented where she was, as
contented as she could be this far away from her real home, a place
she wondered now if she would ever be able to return to. The thought,
which she'd had often in the past few months, filled her with sadness.

Then, gnawing at the back of her mind, was the potential loss of
life caused by the bombing itself. There was a time when she had a
stomach for casualties, believed in the inevitability of deaths in
the name of the work they were doing.

That time had, at some point, passed. 

She sighed, wondered when it was exactly she'd lost her tolerance
for the life she had chosen. When she'd lost her belief that the
sacrifices had been worth it. 

She pushed the thoughts away as she went towards the house, climbed
the wooden landing to the door. Once inside, she walked slowly to the
first floor door that marked the entrance to Owen's apartment. 

She knocked, though she had a key. The door did not seem to be open
to her enough to use it. 

Sean opened the door in his jeans and a flannel shirt, his shoes on
but untied. He was holding an action figure in one hand and looked up
at her silently. 

There was something in his eyes, in his silence, that concerned Mae
immediately. She went into the apartment and knelt down in front of
him to embrace him. 

"You look like you've lost your best friend, little man," she said
softly, rubbing his back, forcing her voice to be light, teasing.
"What's the matter then, eh?" She could hear Owen in the back
bedroom, moving around. 

"Daddy's packed up all my things," Sean replied quietly as Mae
pulled away to look into his face again. 

"He's done what now?" she asked, and then she looked around her. 

Sure enough, there were suitcases by the door. Five of them, enough
for all of Sean and Owen's things. 

"He says we're going to go far away," Sean said, and his lip
trembled slightly. "That we're leaving today." He put the action
figure's arm in his mouth, something she hadn't seen him do since he
was a little child. 

Something sunk in her as she listened to him, her fears about what
Owen wasn't telling her boiling up and threatening to show on her
face. Instead she forced a thin smile, stroked Sean's hair. 

"I'm sure he means that we're all just going away for a few days,"
she soothed. "Try not to worry, all right?" 

She stood, not wanting to leave him, but wanting to talk to Owen.
She walked a few steps to the small television, turned it on, then
returned to Sean, led him by the hand and settled him down on the
couch. 

"You just watch a little television while me and your dad have a
talk, all right? I'll be right back." 

He said nothing, his eyes on her, wide and wet. She turned away from
him reluctantly and went down the hallway to the large bedroom in the
back. 

Owen was standing in front of his chest of drawers, dressed in black
pants and a turtleneck and his black leather jacket and boots. In his
hand, a pistol, another one lying on its side on top of the dresser,
bullets sprinkled about. He was loading the gun in his hand, paused
as he looked up at her, his expression unreadable. 

She stood in the doorway, her arms crossed in front of her. She
wanted to appear angry, but she knew that she probably looked afraid. 

"I want you to tell me what's going on," she said quietly. "And I
don't want any bullshit this time. What have you been keeping from
me, and why?" 

He looked away from her now, down at the gun as he pushed another
bullet into it. He sighed, hesitated for a moment, shaking his head. 

"I've wanted to tell you for a long time," he replied finally,
matching her volume. "But I was afraid you would interfere, try to
stop me from what I know has to be done." 

"What are you talking about?" she pressed, impatient with his
quietness, with his unearthly calm. Usually on days before an
operation he was keyed up, nervous, careful. This was different 

"And where are we going?" she continued, unable to stop the
questions now that they had started spilling from her. "Why haven't
Ian or any of the others told me that we're going? As far as I know
everyone's still at their work, still--"

"They're not coming with us," he said flatly, interrupting her. He
still would not look at her. "It's just you and me and Sean and John.
The others are staying here." 

She was stunned into silence for a beat. 

"What?" she asked softly. Her eyes had widened. 

"We're leaving them," Owen replied, cocking a bullet into the
chamber as he finished loading the gun. There was a strange tone in
his voice. Something almost dreamy to it, content. "All of them." 

She simply stared at him, her mouth opening and closing for a second
as she struggled to find words, for her mind to catch up with what
she was hearing. "But Owen...none of them know, do they?" 

He shook his head immediately. "No, they don't," he replied calmly.
"There's a lot they don't know. But it will all become clear to them
today. Everyone will know today." 

She replayed his words in her mind, wondering at the strangeness of
them. What was there for them to know about the operation that they
didn't already? Unless...

She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry.

"We're not...we're not bombing the British Embassy today, are we?"
she asked softly, and hated the tremor in her voice. "That's why you
were so unconcerned about the security there. Because that's not
where you're going today at all." 

He shook his head. "No," he replied, meeting her eyes. She looked
into their darkness. They seemed bottomless. 

My God, she thought, terror gripping her. Somewhere along the way,
quietly, without her noticing it, he had gone insane. 

"Where are we bombing, Owen?" she pressed carefully. 

He looked out the window. She watched the strange smile in his
profile, stood still, waited for him to answer her. 

"Do you know what today is, Mae?" he asked softly instead of
answering her. "Do you remember?" 

She thought about it, rolling the date through her head. The answer
came immediately to mind. "It's the day Elisa was killed," she
replied, and now a tear did escape down her cheek. She brushed it
quickly away. 

He nodded, looked down. "Yes," he said, and his voice was suddenly
tinged with anger. "And it's time for them to pay for that. And not
just that. It's time for them to pay for their betrayal of me, of the
work. All of them. The Americans, too, for the part they've played in
this, brokering this peace that will destroy everything we've fought
for." 

Time for them to pay... 

The words seemed to echo in her mind, and she closed her eyes as
what he was saying sunk into her, burning in her like acid. 

It wasn't the British he was after. Not anymore. The Cause had
become tangled in his mind somehow with the death of Elisa, she
realized. His loyalties were now confused, the things that motivated
him corrupted with rage, with grief. 

He was going after the ones responsible for Elisa's death, for the
compromises for peace. It was the Irish themselves who were the
targets now, she realized. The Irish and the Americans. 

And there was only one place close by where the two intersected.

"The Irish Embassy then?" she choked out. The tears were flowing
freely now. She wiped at her face quickly, fighting for control.

He looked at her, nodded once, seemed pleased she'd come to the
answer herself, as though her being able to do that made it make more
sense. 

She cleared her throat, looked down. She had begun to shake as the
madness of what he was doing washed over her. It went against
everything she believed in and had spent her life fighting for. 

And she'd been a party to it all this time and not even known it.
As, she suspected, most of them had been.

She struggled for calm as she looked at him warily. She was
uncertain now of what he might do should she make any move against
him, say anything that might displease him. It was as though she were
an owner of a dog that had suddenly, silently, gone rabid. 

"Who...who knows about this?" she asked. 

He shook his head. "Hardly any of them know. Danny knew. Hugh
Cromes. John knows. A few of the others. The ones driving the truck
today, of course. But the rest of them don't know a thing about it."
He drew in a breath, looked at her. "It's better that they never
knew." 

She covered her eyes as she listened to him. He talked about these
people, her friends, people she'd known for years, as though they
were dead. 

Which perhaps they were. 

"They're all going to die, aren't they?" she whispered, lowering her
hand, her eyes freshly washed with frustrated tears. "When we leave
them...there's no cure for the drug, is there?" 

His eyes were lifeless as he looked at her. Like a doll's eyes. Or a
shark's.

"I suppose they will," he said gruffly, indifferent. "I needed them
on the drug to make sure they would stay to do the work, to not turn
their back on me like so many were doing before I put them on it.
They're all IRA anyway, or used to be. I'm finished with them now.
With all of this." 

Mae felt something in her give with that, something tearing away.

"But Owen," she said shrilly, stricken, her emotions taking over.
"They were loyal to you! To the work! Jesus, they're our *friends*!
How can you do this to them?" 

He turned to her quickly, took a fast step toward her. He got an arm
across her chest and pushed her up against the doorframe roughly. She
cried out as her back hit the wood, Owen's face pressed into hers.
His eyes were wild, and whether he intended it or not, the gun was
beside her face. 

"You and John are the only ones I trust to stay loyal to me, the
only friends I've got!" he roared. "And the work is OVER! The Yanks
and the Sinn Fein are seeing to that! So they'd all leave! They'd all
leave me soon enough anyway!" 

His forearm was across her throat now. She looked into his eyes
desperately, terrified. 

"Owen...you're hurting me..." she said softly, trying to keep her
voice level. "...and don't yell with Sean in the next
room...please..." 

He held her for a second longer, then withdrew, releasing her. He
was looking at her, anger still in his eyes, as though daring her to
raise her voice to him again. She saw it and looked away, deferring
immediately. He'd grown too unpredictable, too dangerous. 

She was actually afraid for her life. 

She closed her eyes, feeling her world breaking apart around her.
When she reopened them, her face was a blank mask, her emotions
buried. 

"I'm going to take Sean back to my apartment and wait for you
there," she said softly. 

"You can't do that," Owen said instantly. "At least not right away." 

Her heart skipped another beat. "Why?" she asked, her voice still
calm, level. 

He tucked the gun in the holster at the small of his back, opened
the drawer and set the other gun inside it, pushing all the bullets
in with the side of his hand. 

"I've sent John over to kill Katherine," he said. There was no
regret in his voice when he said it. There was no inflection at all. 

Mae went cold all over. 

"Why did you do that?" she murmured. She felt suddenly sick. 

He finished gathering things off the dresser, putting things in his
pockets. "Because your *good friend* Katherine is an FBI agent." 

She gaped for a few seconds.

"That can't be," she said incredulously. 

"It's true," he said flatly. "John fingerprinted her. We got the
information last night. So don't you be going over there for an hour
or so. Give John time to clean up his mess before you take Sean over.
Then go and pack your things and get ready to go."

Mae swallowed down the knot in the her throat, looking down at the
floor, as though the answer to all she was feeling was there around
her, somewhere just out of sight and reach.

"Where are we going?" she asked faintly, unable to meet his eyes.
Her voice sounded strange to her. Like a little girl's. 

"I don't know yet," he replied. "I've been taking money out of the
Free Ireland account a bit at a time over the past few weeks -- I've
got about $20,000 now, lining those suitcases. After today we won't
have the CFI to rely on anymore, that's for certain. But this should
be enough to get us all settled in someplace."

She was silent, forcing her face into some semblance of a normal
expression as her emotions reeled. 

"Anyway, " Owen continued, oblivious to her plight. "I've got to get
down to the truck. John's meeting me there when he's done."

When he's done...

She nodded, numbing inside. "Okay, Owen. Sure." She forced a smile. 

He came up to her by the door, standing close, put a hand on her
shoulder. "It's really going to be all right, Mae," he said. "You've
wanted to leave the work for a long time. I've known that. Well, now
we'll be done with it. Get a fresh start. Just the four of us. I'll
be better this way. Better for Sean." 

He leaned over and kissed her cheek softly. She recoiled a bit from
his touch and prayed he wouldn't notice. He didn't seem to. Then he
was out the door, going down the hallway. She heard him say goodbye
to Sean for a long moment, telling him he'd be back that afternoon.
Then he was gone. 

She stood for a long time in the doorway, staring down at the floor,
listening to the sound of the television, to Sean's silence. Her mind
kept going to the Path members -- Ian and the others -- who would be
dead soon. She thought of the people at the embassy in Washington, so
vulnerable and so unaware. 

She nearly drowned in her own helplessness. 

Then she thought of Katherine, their friendship, which she believed
was more than a convenience. She didn't know how she knew that for
certain, but she did. 

Then she thought of Katherine with Fagan. 

Her hand shook as she checked her watch -- she'd been gone from
Katherine about 25 minutes. She didn't know if it was too late. 

Inside her, something released, like a fist slowly opening. She
heaved in a deep breath, let it out. 

She knew now what had to be done, and quickly. 

"Jesus Christ..." she breathed, and wiped roughly at her face. 

Going forward, her feet moving as if of their own will, she went to
the dresser, threw open the drawer and pulled out the other gun, a
Sig Sauer. She dropped the clip out of it expertly, fumbled for
bullets one at a time, clicking them into the clip efficiently. Then,
using the palm of one hand, she slapped the clip home, put the safety
on. 

Beside the bullets in the drawer, the blunt cylinder of a silencer.
She screwed it carefully onto the end of the pistol and stuffed the
gun in the deep pocket of her coat. 

Moving swiftly into the living room, she saw Sean still sitting on
the couch. He was looking up at her expectantly, that same wide-eyed
look on his face. She went to the sofa, knelt down, tied his shoes
quickly one at a time. 

"I'm going to put you and your dad's suitcases in the truck, Sean,"
she said, urgency in her voice as she did so. "I want you to get a
few of your toys and games and such and put them in your little
knapsack, all right?" 

She finished tying his shoe, the bow a little too tight. She left it
though. "Now hurry. We're going to go back to my apartment for a
little while and then we're going to go for a little drive." 

"All right," Sean replied, wiggling off the couch. There were
several action figures, cards, strewn on the floor in front of the
television. He knelt and began gathering them. 

Mae eyed the suitcases, steeling herself. Then she took hold of the
biggest one by the handle, opened the door. 

***********

End of chapter 21a.  Continued in 21b.


*********

2233 GRACE STREET 
10:15 a.m.


Mae parked at the corner, though there were spaces in front of her
building. On the opposite corner, she could see John Fagan's car. 

So he was still here. Maybe it wasn't too late...

She put the car into park, adjusted the heat up a touch and looked
over at Sean, who was fumbling with his seatbelt. 

She took his hand, stopping him from releasing it. 

"I'll tell you what?" she said to him. "Why don't you just wait in
the truck for me? I've just got to get a few things together, and you
can stay here and play with your cards and listen to the radio until
I get back. Will you do that for me, Sean? Stay right here?" 

He was still, looking up at her. She cursed, for the first time, his
sensitivity. It was so difficult to lie to him and him not know it. 

"I don't want to stay in the car," he said, shaking his head. 

She blew out a frustrated breath. "Sean, I really need you to mind
me right now, okay? I need you to stay in the car." 

"I want Daddy to come home," Sean said softy, his lip trembling. 

Dear God, she thought, her hand pushing back her hair. 

"Your dad's busy, Sean, you know that. He'll be back later. We'll
see him later. Now can I trust you to sit right here? Not get out?
Just sit here and play with your things?" 

Sean seemed to consider, the tears coming still. Finally he nodded. 

She reached out and brushed at his tears, cupped the side of his
head. "I'm sorry to be so short with you, Sean. Things will be better
when I get back, I promise." 

"Okay," he said quietly, folded his mittened hands in his lap. 

Mae smiled at him, a strained, nervous smile. "That's a good boy,"
she said softly, and reached for the radio knob, turned it on, music
wafting through the cab. She turned it up just a bit, to make sure
any sounds from the outside didn't come in.

She opened the door, stepped out, and looked at her building from
her vantage point on the sidewalk. She took in a calming breath, let
it out, her hand going to the gun inside her pocket and fingered it,
rubbing gently over the barrel, gathering herself. Then she made her
way down the street. 


**********

In her mind, Scully was with her mother. The family together at
Christmas, the crystal out, light shining off the faceted glasses as
though they were made of diamonds. Her mother sat beside her -- black
sweater, pearls. Across the table, Charlie continued his story, his
hands in the air as he punctuated a point with a sharp jab of his
fist. Scully's mother laughed, and Scully along with her. 

It felt so good to laugh. 

She picked up her wine glass -- it seemed to glow, filled with
something as golden as light. She put it to her lips... 

Her face hit the nub of a nail top on the floor and she moaned,
lifted her head as best she could. Her hair dragged out behind her.
The pressure around her ankle tightened, the pace of her movement
quickened. She looked up, reorienting herself. The ceiling spun
around her and then she stopped suddenly, her leg dropping.

Above her, Fagan was panting with the effort of dragging her, fresh
blood coming from the wound in his face. His face was still filled
with rage, the corners of his mouth turned down in a scowl as he
looked at her, hatred flaring in his eyes. 

Scully lay very still. He swam in and out of focus, and for a
moment, she was not certain if he was really there, or if he was part
of some terrible vision. 

If it all had been.

Vision or not, she met his stare, her breath heaving in and out hard
with pain and fear. She was silent, however, which only seemed to
enrage him more. 

"Fucking get up!" he shouted, and reached down, grabbing her by the
arms and twisting her around. 

She remained limp, her head lolling painfully on the floor. He
continued to pull her up until she was crouched on her knees, the
undamaged side of her face against the floor. Then he reached out and
took hold of her hair, hauled her backwards until she was kneeling.
He kept his hand clenched in her hair as she swayed unsteadily. 

The pace of her breathing picked up as she felt the muzzle of the
pistol press into the back on her head, just above where his hand
held a fist of her wet hair. She held still, her mind racing despite
the cloud of pain that had settled over her. 

Around her the room seemed to shift suddenly...

Then she was with Mulder in their basement office. The first day
they'd met, his glasses glinting in the fluorescent light as he
swivelled in his chair and looked at her. He said something, but only
his mouth moved. No sound came out. 

The only sound she could hear was her own breathing. Fagan speaking
faintly, as thouigh from a great distance, in the background. Angry.
Taunting. 

Donnie Phaster being hustled away as Mulder's finger tilted her chin
up and she lost herself in his embrace. As she pressed her ear
against his chest, she could hear his heartbeat...

Or perhaps it was simply her own, here, now...

The feel of Mulder's body inside hers, his chest pressed against
hers, his eyes closing...

Fagan jerked her head back again, but the pull of vision, the
memory, was too strong...

Then they were on the bench again, his hand coming out to caress
her, his rough thumb moving across her temple. She wondered vaguely
why that moment kept returning to her. She couldn't even remember the
day, what they were talking about...nothing. 

It was his eyes. She could see in them at that moment how much he
loved her. It was as real as he was.

Her vision flashed bright and she closed her eyes against it, as
though she were looking at a city made of entirely of light...

She could feel tears welling again, but she would not let them come.
She heaved in a huge breath, swallowed them down with the blood that
had gathered in her mouth from the tear on the inside of her cheek.
Both nearly gagged her. 

Fagan jerked at her head back again, leaned down to her ear, the gun
beside her face now. He was screaming at her, asking her if she was
ready for something. She could not quite place what it was... 

Something hard -- his loose belt buckle -- clapped against the back
of her head. 

She kept her eyes closed, did not make a sound. 

Her mother laughing. 

Mulder's smile, the light playing on his face, sending half of it
into shadow...

A shot rang out, the ping of a silencer. 

She felt oddly light for a moment, felt Fagan's hand release her
hair. It had been all that had held her up and she slumped to the
side, the injured side of her head making contact with the floor
again. She sucked in a breath in pain. 

Then something falling behind her. The clatter of a gun bouncing on
the wooden floor. A cry of pain and surprise, a long stream of
curses. Then footsteps -- slow, even footsteps -- coming towards her. 

She opened her eyes, turned her head, disorientation and confusion
overwhelming her as she was suddenly *there,* forced back into the
present. It was like a door had been open and had just now slammed
shut. 

Mae walked behind her, towards the sound of the cursing. Scully
rolled slowly to her other side as Mae stepped past her, saw Fagan on
the floor, a widening circle of blood on his chest. He was on his
back, pushing backwards with his feet toward the wall, looking up at
Mae as she neared him. 

"What the *fuck* are you doing?!" Fagan nearly shrieked. 

Scully watched Mae's face. It was as though Mae were wearing a wax
mask. No color. No expression. 

"I'm sorry, John," Mae said softly and raised the gun again. She
fired. 

Scully flinched at the muffled sound, looked down at Fagan and his
head fell back, a hole in the center of his forehead, a blossom of
blood and brain on the wall and floor behind him. 

Scully heaved in breaths, hyperventilating. The strain was too much
for her already taxed reserves and her head slumped back to the
floor. She kept her eyes on Mae, though, who was still standing over
Fagan, the gun still raised, as though she were frozen in the moment,
unable to move outside of it. 

Scully made a small sound in her throat, the beginnings of a sob.
The tears did come now, welling quickly and racing down her face. 

The sound seemed to snap Mae out of wherever she was. She turned her
head slowly towards Scully, looked down at her. Their eyes locked.
Mae was crying, as well now. She put up a hand to cover her face for
a few seconds, then covered her mouth. Then she finally moved,
pocketing the pistol and kneeling down beside Scully. 

"Katherine?" Mae said softly, her hand touching the rapidly swelling
side of her face. "Dear God..." 

Scully closed her eyes, a sob lurching her. Mae got her fingers
underneath the corner of the tape across her mouth, worked it up
gently, slowly, so as not tear at her skin. When she had it off,
Scully gasped for breath.

"Oh God..." Scully said, her voice weak, raspy, as though she had
been screaming for hours. 

"Shh...it's all right," Mae said quickly. "Let me find the keys to
the cuffs. Hold on...just hold on..."

**********

RICHMOND INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT 
10:47 a.m.


Mulder stood with his back against the column outside Gate 22,
watching the last of the passengers trickle onto the 11:00 a.m flight
bound for Boston. He checked his watch for the third time in as many
minutes, jammed his hand deep into the pockets of his leather jacket. 

In his other hand, his own ticket for the flight, the boarding pass
flapped out, ready to be taken and torn by the attendants guarding
the gate, all of whom had been watching him from time to time as he
stood there, waiting. 

Finally one of them, a young African-American woman in a crisp
uniform, came forward. 

"Sir, is your ticket for this flight?" she asked gently, standing a
few feet away from him. 

"Yeah," he replied, his anxiety making his reply terse. "Yeah, it
is." 

"Well, we're getting ready to close the doors. If you're going to
board, you need to do it now. We can't reopen the doors once we close
them." She looked down at the suitcases at his feet. "And those are
too large to bring on board as carry-ons. We'll have to check them
for you." 

He looked down at both his bags. He'd kept them with him in case
Scully didn't show for the flight. 

He closed his eyes, cursing to himself. He'd looked at every person
who had boarded that plane. Scully was not among them. 

He reached down to stuff the ticket in the side pocket of the
smallest bag, grabbed both suitcases by the handles, lifted them,
faced her. "No, thank you," he said flatly. "I won't be getting on
after all." 

She nodded. "All right, sir," she said, slightly puzzled, and
withdrew. He watched her speak into what looked like a CB mouthpiece,
heard her tell another attendant on the plane to close the doors. 

He looked down, shaking his head, hoisting the bags up as he turned
and started the long walk back to the front of the airport. If she
was going to try to get on the plane, he would see her come through
this way. 

But he knew she wasn't coming. Something had happened. He was sure
of it now. And he was going to Mae Curran's apartment whether Padden
liked it or not. 

Surely there would be some clue as to what had happened to her there.

With that thought in mind, he stepped onto the escalator, pushed
past several people as he kept walking down the moving stairs to
quicken his pace. 


***********

2233 GRACE STREET 
10:54 a.m.


"Okay, hang on, just hang on..."

Scully leaned heavily on Mae as they made their way slowly down the
steps to the apartment. Scully's head rested against Mae's shoulder,
her eyes down on her feet as though she could will them to stay under
her with her gaze. 

"Just a few more," Mae was saying. "Stay with me now." 

Scully took the last few steps too quickly, Mae holding her up as
she nearly fell. 

The concussion was bad, she thought, though her thinking was
strangely detached, her mind seemingly far away from her body. She
held still while Mae opened the door, urged Scully through it. 

"Four more," Mae said, and Scully negotiated them a bit better than
the more narrow ones going up to the apartment. 

Then she found herself standing on the sidewalk, Mae's arm still
tight around her waist. The collar of her black coat was turned up,
but the chill of the January wind made her shiver instantly. She was
too close to shock for it to be otherwise. She looked at Mae's truck
on the corner, small puffs of vapor coming from it as it idylled in
the cold.

"Don't let..." she began softly, swallowing hard against the bruises
coming up on her throat. "Don't let Sean see me like this." 

"He won't, Dana," Mae said patiently. "We've talked about
this...he's not going to see you." 

Scully had told Mae, haltingly, who she was while Mae had steadied
her in the shower, a shower that Scully had insisted on taking
despite Mae's vehement assertions that they had to go right away. 

"So what do I call you then?" Mae had asked tersely, her bare arms
wet as helped Scully wash the huge smear of Fagan's blood off her
shoulder. 

Scully could hear the hurt in Mae's voice and was sorry for it. She
turned her face away from the spray of water, looked back at her. 

"My name is Dana Scully," she said softly. "And I'm sorry to have
lied to you all this time about who I am."

"You were just doing your job," Mae had said quickly, helping her
turn around so she could rinse. "I know all about doing your job." 

Scully met her eyes, though the vertigo was threatening to overwhelm
her again. 

"My friendship with you...wasn't part of my job," she said quietly. 

Mae held her gaze for a few seconds. Finally, she had nodded. 

"We've got to hurry," she'd said then, brushing the subject away. 

Now they made their way slowly down the street. The glass window of
the back of the truck's cap was open, the tailgate down. When they
reached the back of the truck, Mae helped Scully sit down on the
tailgate. She glanced inside the dim enclosure.

Sean was standing up on the front seat, peering through the back
window into the truck bed. 

"Sean, sit down!" Mae called. "Dr. Black's just not feeling well and
is going to have a little rest in the back. Now sit down." 

He hesitated, but did as he was told.

Inside the truck bed, Mae had made a makeshift pallett of blankets
off both their beds, their suitcases all pushed up against the back
of the truck's cab. 

Scully began to shift slowly backward, her head throbbing with the
exertion. 

"Let me help you," Mae said, and climbed in, took Scully under the
arms and hauled her back. Scully imagined she was trying to be as
gentle as possible, but in the interest of speed she was a bit rough.
Scully's head rolled against her shoulder as Mae pulled her, settled
her down on the blankets and pillows. 

"It's cold back here, but at least you can lie down," Mae said. "I
just wish we'd had time to dry your hair so you wouldn't be so cold." 

Scully nodded. "I'll be fine," she said softly. "Don't worry about
me. Just get us out of here." 

"All right," Mae said softly. "You knock on the window if you need
anything." 

With that, she scrambled out of the back of the truck, slammed the
tailgate up and the cap flap down and disappeared from sight. 

Scully lay in the near-dark, pulled the blankets up closer against
her chin, her teeth chattering. She felt the truck begin to move as
Mae pulled out, driving fast.


*********

11:24 a.m.


Mulder looked up the steep stairs to the second story landing at the
door to Mae Curran's apartment, reached beneath his jacket and pulled
out his gun. Then he quietly went up the stairs, stood before the
door. 

He put his hand on it, leaned in, listening. There wasn't a sound
from the apartment. No television, nothing. 

He reached down, tried the knob. It turned and the door opened a
crack. 

Pushing his face in first to glance around, the gun following right
behind, he looked around the living room of the apartment. Nothing
seemed out of place. 

Until he saw the spot of blood on the floor, the faint streak of it
leading toward the hallway. 

He stepped in quickly now. "Hello?" he called, every muscle in his
body tense. He could feel sweat beading his brow, though it was very
chilly in the apartment. 

He stared down at the blood spot again, edged his way around it as
he walked slowly, soundlessly, through the living room to the
corridor beyond. 

He checked the first bedroom. Nothing in there, just some clothes
and things thrown around, the bed stripped, the dresser drawers open
and empty. 

It looked like somebody had left in a big hurry, he thought. 

He returned to the corridor.

It was like following a trail of breadcrumbs, though it was smears
and droplets of blood. He stopped at the bathroom, his gun still
drawn and out before him. He looked around it, as well. The shower
curtain was wet. There was water on the floor. Someone had just taken
a shower, he realized. Then his eyes caught sight of something on the
floor. 

Scully's white robe. He'd know it anywhere. 

He knelt, picked it up, studied the folds of it. The back of it was
stained with blood, the shoulder, the arm. 

"Shit," he whispered. He stood again and went back into the hallway. 

The trail of blood led to the back bedroom. He swallowed hard, his
mouth suddenly dry as he contemplated what he might find. He closed
his eyes against the images coming into his mind. 

This could be it, he realized. He could walk into that room and find
her body just like that. His breathing picked up a couple more
notches as the thought went through his mind. His heart was racing. 

Stepping carefully around the blood, he went to the bedroom, peaked
around the door. 

His gaze fell on John Fagan's body between the two windows. He was
lying in a huge pool of blood that had run in small streams across
the floor. 

Swallowing again, licking his dry lips, Mulder entered the room,
went to Fagan's body. He holstered his gun as he saw the hole in the
man's head. It was the size of a grape. 

A wound on his face, too, he noted. And in the chest. Then the shot
through the head, execution style. 

He tried to piece together what happened, his mind turning over the
evidence of the crime scene he'd gathered so far. He struggled to
remain calm while he did it. 

There'd been some sort of struggle, he realized. Most likely between
Fagan and Scully. It was Scully who had wounded Fagan's face, he
decided, and it was that wound that had spread the drops of blood all
over the floor. 

But someone else had done the shooting. He knew this for several
reasons. First, he knew that Scully didn't have her gun with her.
Second, the 9mm handgun that was laying against the wall was the
wrong size bullet to have made a hole that size in Fagan's forehead.
And third, Scully would never simply execute someone. The shot in the
chest, maybe, but not the one in the head. 

Mae had been here, he decided. It was the only thing that made any
sense.

He went to the closet quickly, threw the door open. It was empty. He
looked around the room, still breathing hard. Nothing to show that
Scully had even been here at all. 

Except....

His gaze fell on the night table, the silly snowglobe he'd given her
still resting there beside her alarm clock. 

He went to it, picked it up, gave it a shake absently. As he watched
the snow fall inside the plastic globe, he tried to quell his
anxiety, his thoughts racing along with his heart. 

Mae had Scully, he decided. She'd killed Fagan.

But why? 

Perhaps they argued over her and the shots ensued? 

Or had Mae done it to save her?

Either way, he knew they were together -- it was just a question of
whether Scully was a passenger or a hostage. 

He would go to the Grey Mouse, see if anyone had seen Mae there.
That was as good a place as any to start. 

Pocketing the snowglobe, he stepped carefully out of the bedroom,
headed out the hallway and back out into the street. 


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

END OF CHAPTER 21. CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 22.