From sjbryan@athenet.net Tue Apr 15 14:07:12 1997 Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: Perfect Clarity, XF/H:LotS/EQ crossover From: "Stephen Bryan"

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Disclaimer: I don't own 'em, I just borrow 'em. The characters of Scully, Mulder and Skinner belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, and Fox Broadcasting. Kay Howard, Al Giardello, John Munch, Mike Kellerman, Meldrick Lewis, Tim Bayliss, Frank Pembelton, J.H. Brodie, and Julianna Cox belong to Paul Attanasio ,NBC, and Baltimore Productions. Robert McCall, Mickey Kostmayer, Control, Sterno, and Pete O'Phelan belong to Michael Sloan, Richard Lindheim, and Universal. I have used these wonderful and complex characters without permission and no infringement is intended. Nick Shaw, and the other characters with names you don't recognize belong to me. Subliminal reads: Please don't sue! I have no money, and all you'll get is a complimentary copy of this story.

Title: Perfect Clarity
Author: Shannon (sjbryan@athenet.net)
Rating: R or NC-17 (violence, language)
Classification: Crossover (X-Files/Homicide:Life on the Street/The Equalizer)

Bonus: Mulderangst, Baylissangst AND Kostmayerangt!

Summary: An old friend contacts Mulder while Scully is on vacation. They-and the man trying to protect them--are drawn into a dangerous conspiracy involving an experimental drug. Can Scully find Mulder before the drug is tested on him? Scully is assisted by Detective Tim Bayliss and Robert McCall.

It helps to have read my previous XF story, Illaqueate, but is not necessary. You might want to read Twilight to find out how Scully and Mulder became involved with Bawlmer's favorite Homicide detectives. This story takes place after Max on the X-Files and after Kaddish on Homicide.

Perfect Clarity is the result of Homicide's long hiatus. With no H:LotS, The Equalizer helped fill the void...until the A&E network decided to yank it from its schedule. Wanting to keep McCall and Kostmayer in business, I took matters into my own hands...uh, keyboard. I know this crossover might sound like a strange mix, but give it a try. :-D

Please send feedback, praise, and (merciful) criticism to: sjbryan@athenet.net Flames will be promptly extinguished.

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Part 1/10

Nick Shaw stands in the doorway.

He can feel his world--his life--slowly imploding, sucking inward, until his vision narrows and he can focus on nothing but the figure on the couch. A trembling hand reaches blindly for the wall. A scream forms in the depths of his soul and spirals up and out until the room echoes with his voice.

Angela.

Dead.

Her face is gone. Her beautiful blond hair matted and red, bits of skull and brain matter paint the wall behind the couch. Her body lies slack and empty. Seventeen years of happiness gone. She stares blankly through one glassy eye. He stumbles toward her, hoping, praying, that this is only a nightmare and in a moment he'll wake up and pull her warm body closer beneath the quilt.

He tries, *tries*, but cannot wake up. This is real. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. A litany of horror reels through his mind. Her blouse is a bloody shred, he counts three bullet holes to her chest. He drops to his knees and buries his face in her lap, his cheek pressed to the soft fabric of her skirt, sobbing her name. He can't breathe. He can't see. He is dying. Let me die. Let me see her again. Please God, take me. But another breath shudders through his body and there is no peace.

A new terror hammers his heart and he stumbles to his feet. "Justin!" He screams the boy's name again and again, even when he sees the crumpled body on the kitchen floor. "NO!" Nick puts his hands to his head, desperate to block out the vision of his murdered wife and child. But their broken images are burned into his brain, etched beneath his eyelids.

He sits by his son for a long time, not moving. Gradually, he becomes aware that the telephone is ringing. Slowly, Nick unfolds himself from the floor and shuffles to answer it. He feels thick and numb. He holds the receiver to his ear, too tired to speak.

"Nick." His brain, working through shock and grief, takes several seconds to identify the voice. "Why did you kill them? Did you really think we wouldn't find out?"

Nick shakes his head, tears squeezing from his eyes. "No."

The voice is calm, soothing. "Listen, Nick. You've been under a lot of stress. A man can snap. I understand that. I'll help you. Just tell me where the research is."

Nick blinks. He swallows thickly, the taste of horror and betrayal bitter in his mouth. He rubs his eyes with the palm of a hand. His breathing slows. Everything is clear. He can see the truth for the first time.

He's barely aware of the words as he says them. "This isn't over. You can kill my family. You can kill me. But you'll never get the vial. You'll never get the journals." His voice rises with rage. "I'LL ROT IN HELL BEFORE I HAND ONE PAGE OVER TO YOU!"

The man's voice is very quiet. "That can be arranged."

Nick slams the phone down and runs upstairs. He digs the key out of his wallet. He scribbles a brief message on a sheet of paper, wraps the key tightly inside and stuffs it into an envelope. He addresses it and finds a stamp in the den.

There's a noise downstairs. The front door. Nick takes the steps two at a time and pulls open the door to see Kevin, their paperboy. It takes the last of his strength to appear sane and rational.

"Hi Kevin. Could you do me a really big favor and drop this in the mailbox around the corner for me?" He fishes a five dollar bill out of his pocket and smiles. "This, you don't have to mail. I just don't feel very well, but I need to get that in the mail. Think you could do that for me?"

Kevin grins, reaching for the money and envelope. "No problem, Mr. Shaw. I'll do it right now."

"Thank you," Nick says, and watches the boy run down the street. When he is out of sight the first faint cry of sirens reach his ears. Within minutes two squad cars, flashing blue and red, screech to a halt in front of his house.

He is barely aware of the uniformed men who burst through the front door. He does not see the looks on their faces or hear their repeated questions. Minutes later two more men appear wearing long coats. One is very tall with dark brown hair, the other man is shorter, black, and wears a hat.

Hat pulls a gun out from beneath the couch. He holds it in Nicks's face, barking questions, but Nick is somewhere safe now, beyond their accusations. He barely feels the handcuffs circle his wrists.

"You have the absolute right to remain silent," Tall tells him. "Anything you say or write may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to talk to a lawyer at any time--"

Nick lets them guide him into one of the cars. Their words roll off him, harmless.

***

"Five days, Mulder. That's all."

Mulder nods. "I know." He manages a smile. "You deserve it. In fact, lets see, doesn't four years with me qualify you for some kind of bronze plaque? You deserve *more* than five days, Scully."

She chuckles. "I don't trust you alone for more than five days, Mulder."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, Scully."

"My pleasure."

He watches her slide a few files into her brief case. She spends the next ten minutes tidying her desk. She senses Mulder watching her. Looking up, she asks: "What?"

"Nothing."

She lifts an eyebrow.

He shrugs, sheepish. "I'll just..." he sighs. "It'll be...quiet here without you."

Scully hides a smile. In Mulderspeak, his statement is akin to a declaration of love. She stares down at the top of her desk. She knows, on some level, he does love her. Respect, trust, friendship...isn't love just another word for those same qualities?

She sees the two of them, standing in the hallway at Beth-Israel Hospital. His arms around her, comforting, protective, supportive. It was then that Scully understood how fragile life was. And just how unfinished hers was. How necessary Mulder's support was. And how significant their search for the truth had become.

But she also understood the need to step away for a few days to be with her mother. It's been a long time since they've shared any quality time. When Charles extended an invitation to visit the family in Shreveport, mother and daughter accepted his offer. She is looking forward to a very long weekend of jazz, Cajun food, and her little nephew.

"What are you going to do while I'm gone?" she asks. She smiles wickedly. "Go over the new budget proposal figures?"

"Ha ha." Mulder makes a disgusted face. He sighs. "I'll finish my report on the Stacy Lamott case. Skinner's been breathing down my neck for the past two days."

She frowns. "But that case was a fraud. She was lying about the visions, the stigmata, everything." Scully gives her colleague a warning look. "We proved that, Mulder."

He holds a hand up. "I know, Scully. I know. There won't be any extra credit pages. Don't worry. I've just been busy with...other things."

"What other things? Cases?" Cases I don't know about?

He motions to the chaos piled across his desk. "A few requests have come in. And Skinner's been pressing me to take some more time off." He shrugs. "There's just too much to do..."

Neither of them mentions his recent failed vacation attempt. The memory of their strained relationship, his callous words, and her silence still lingers. Most of his drive to Memphis had been spent on the phone trying to reach his partner. Scully had spent most of his absence trying not to think about him. It would have been so much easier just to confront him, to point out how often he took her for granted.

But none of that really matters now. She knows he needs her. She knows he values her work. Put two people in the same room who would rather face mutant creatures than their own feelings, and you were bound to have problems.

"You have Charles's number, right?"

Not looking up: "Yeah."

She glances at her watch. Clears her throat. "Well, Mulder. I better get going. I'll see you Tuesday."

Scully stands and walks over to her partner. She puts a hand on his shoulder. "Riley's not giving you grief again, is he?"

He smiles up at her, points to his forehead. "Can't you see the gold star?" The smile doesn't quite reach his eyes and something about the tone of his voice troubles her.

"Mulder..."

"Scully. Go. Get out of here. Have a good time." This time the smile is real. "The FBI's most unwanted will still be here on Tuesday."

Scully nods and steps back. "Have a good weekend, Mulder."

He waves his hand, shooing her to the door.

When she is gone he watches the doorway for several seconds. The room seems suddenly smaller, darker. Almost suffocating. He sighs, stretches mightily, and turns back to his computer. He opens the report document Skinner is waiting for and stares at the screen, not seeing the words.

Strange...he never would have predicted he would grow so dependent on a partner.

What about Jerry?

What *about* Jerry?

You depended on Jerry.

No, I worked with Jerry. There's a difference. I could never trust Jerry the way I do Scully. She's the only one who understands.

Five days. Not a big deal. She deserves the vacation. Let her have fun. Let her stay healthy. Bring her back safe.

He starts typing.

***

"Your arm still hurt?"

Detective Tim Bayliss looks up at the sound of Frank Pembleton's voice. He stops massaging his arm and shrugs. "Sometimes." The good news is that he has full range of motion back. He passed the fire-arms test on the first try. The bad news is he still sees Katie Deveroux's face each night in the dark corners of his nightmares.

Frank stares at him a moment, trying to gauge Tim's expression. After a few seconds he decides it's not worth the trouble and nods toward the Box. "You ready?"

Tim offers a crooked smile. "Let's go." He follows Frank. A faint excitement curls in his belly. Back in the Box with Frank. No longer his partner, but not quite ex-partner, either. After all, they're working the Shaw case together, right? So what does that make them? Pseudo partners?

Frank opens the door of the small interrogation room. Nick Shaw is handcuffed to an abused-looking wooden table. His arms are folded and he is resting head down, like a third grader being punished for talking in class.

Pembleton smiles broadly at the top of Nick's head. "Mr. Shaw. Feel up to answering a few questions for Detective Bayliss and myself?"

Tim walks past the table and leans against the wall, directly behind Shaw.

Shaw doesn't raise his head. He speaks to the table top. "I didn't kill them."

Frank's eyes bulge, aghast. "You didn't kill your wife and son?" He frowns at Tim. "Did you hear that? He didn't kill them."

Tim nods, thoughtful. "What do you know." He shrugs. "Well. I guess that's that, Frank. If he says he didn't kill them, then I guess he didn't. We might as well go home."

Frank crosses his arms and moves next to Shaw. He bends down and speaks softly into Nick's hair. "Before I take out a full-page apology in the New York Times, I have one question for you." His voice is steel. "Whose gun was beneath the sofa in your living room?"

Nick looks up slowly, his eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot. He wears a slightly confused expression, as if struggling to solve some complicated equation. He looks into Pembleton's eyes. "The gun...is mine."

"The gun is yours." Tim smiles. "And it's even registered, good citizen that you are."

"But he didn't kill his wife," Frank points out.

"Of course."

Nick closes his eyes. "You don't have to play with me. I'm not some damn baseball you can hit back and forth. I'm not a murderer." His voice wavers. "I loved my wife more than either of you stupid, mislead detectives will ever know."

Frank's mouth opens at the word 'stupid' but Nick continues. "You don't understand what I do for a living. What the risks are. Angela and Justin's deaths were a warning. The fact that they used my gun is my punishment.

"Let me guess, Detective Pembleton, my fingerprints were the only ones found on the gun. The bullets some cold-fingered ME pulled out of my wife's chest came from my gun." He glares. "What a surprise."

Frank claps his hands, an appreciative audience. "That's a very good speech, Mr. Shaw." His smiles a wolf's smile.

"Maybe we'll see him at the Oscars this year," Tim says.

Nick pounds his fist against the table. "I did not kill my wife!"

"Just your son?"

Nick's face flushes red. Spittle flies from his mouth. "I did not kill my wife and I did *not* kill my son!"

Tim strokes his chin. "Is he trying to tell us he was framed?"

"Do you watch a lot of movies, Mr. Shaw?"

Nick shakes his head slowly, staring at Pembleton. "You're really something, you know that?"

"What I am," Frank says flatly, "is the best."

"If you're the best then why don't you find out who killed my wife."

"I'm looking at him right now."

"You mean Detective Bayliss killed my family?"

Frank chuckles. "Hey, that's funny! That's pretty good..." His eyes narrow. "Unless...is there anything you're not telling me Detective Bayliss? Where were *you* this afternoon around three-thirty?"

Tim rubs his forehead. "Let's see...let's see. Oh yeah! I was with you. Eating doughnuts."

"That's right, he was with me. Had one of those powdered jobs with jelly filling. That's what homicide detectives really do. Eat doughnuts all day long. Just like on television."

Nick puts his head back on the table. He speaks quietly now, his anger deflated. Their constant games wear what little energy he has down. "I didn't kill them."

Frank leans against the door, hands behind his head. "I talked to your employer, Mr. Shaw. A very helpful man named Roy Jacardi. He says you've been acting jumpy lately. Says you and the missus were having a few problems. Says you've been making a lot of mistakes at work." Pause. "He says you were fired last Monday."

"That's a lot of stress," Tim observes. "That kind of stress could make any man crack, right Frank?" He whistles. "In light of that information, I can hardly even blame you, Nick."

"I didn't kill them. And I wasn't fired. I quit."

"Ah. He quit."

"So I hear."

Nick raises his head, glowering. "SHUT UP!"

Tim steps forward and puts a hand on Nick's shoulder. His voice is friendly. "We're the homicide detectives here, Nick. We have the guns. We don't have to shut up. Understand?"

Nick's voice is bitter. "Oh yeah. I understand. I understand you don't give a damn about justice. Do they teach you guys about that word anymore? You care about your clearance rate. That's all."

"Now that hurts," Tim says, putting a hand to his chest.

Frank scowls. "He gives me a pain all right, but it's in my ass."

"Excuse us for a minute, Mr. Shaw. You've been stinking up this room for quite some time now. My part-" Frank catches himself. Some habits are hard to break. "Detective Bayliss and I are going to get a little fresh air. The lies are getting a little too thick in here."

Nick closes his eyes. "You don't have a clue what's really going on, detectives."

Frank clenches his jaw. "We have a number of clues, Mr. Shaw. And so far, they all point to you."

***

They don't understand. They live in a different world. It's a place Nick lived himself, a long time ago. But no longer. His world is built on secrets and more secrets, so intricate and dangerous he could live a hundred lifetimes and never be free of their web.

But he doesn't have a hundred lifetimes. Only one. And it's nearing the end. He understands that now. Accepts it, even. This is his punishment, not for leaving New World Labs, but for joining in the first place.

This is his punishment for not having peripheral vision. It was his shortsighted, naive belief they would let him go that got Angela killed. Angie. Gone. And Justin. A sob bubbles in his throat, but he chokes it down. He can't give in to the pain. Not yet. Before he dies there is something he has to do.

Tell Fox Mulder the truth.

***

They're back. Bayliss and Pembleton, buzzing around his head like a pair of insects. Bayliss, with his short hair and weary face, takes his post behind him like a solitary guard. And Pembleton. There's a controlled anger in his Shakespearean voice that would have made Nick's stomach tremble just two days ago.

But Pembleton-and certainly not Bayliss-doesn't scare him. Their theatrics, their threats are only so much air. There are worse threats than prison. In fact, if he wasn't so sure they would find him, he would gladly confess and waste what was left of his life inside the confines of Jessup.

But they will find him. Because their men are everywhere, placed in the highest echelons of society and in the lowest gutters. Somehow, he's become embroiled in something he doesn't understand, something he can't escape. If he killed himself right here, right now, in front of these two ineffectual cops, they would find some way to bring him back to life long enough to get his research.

He smiles grimly. Never. They'll never get what they're looking for now. They've changed him, irrevocably. They've taken his identity. No longer is he husband, lover, friend, father. He is a man with nothing left to lose. He is dangerous.

Something sparks deep within Nick Shaw. Not hope.

Revenge.

"I want to talk to her," he finally says, cocking his head toward the small window.

Pembleton's face contorts, half annoyed, half curious. "Who?"

Nick points. "The red head. She reminds me of...of Angie." His voice breaks.

Bayliss moves swiftly and pulls the blinds shut. "Why do you want to talk to Sergeant Howard?"

"I just told you."

The two men eyeball some kind of cop code to each other for a few seconds. Before they can answer him Pembleton grimaces and fumbles something out of his pocket. A small beeper, set to vibrate, rests in the palm of his hand. He holds it up triumphantly. "Well, well, well. The ME calleth. We'll see what your wife and son have to tell us, Mr. Shaw." Frank turns to Bayliss. "Coming?"

Bayliss frowns. "Nah. I'm not done talking with our good friend, Nick. I'll keep him company while you're gone, Frank." He smiles apologetically. "I know I'm not as good looking as Sergeant Howard...guess you'll just have to use your imagination."

Nick stares at the wall, tight-lipped and silent.

***

"How's it going in there?"

Frank breezes past Kay's desk. "Fine."

"He confess yet?"

"No."

"Frank."

Pembleton stops reluctantly. "What?"

Kay sighs. "Do you think he's guilty?"

"He's definitely guilty of being a squirrel. Paranoid. Conspiracies. Blah, blah, blah."

"But is he guilty of killing his wife and kid?"

Frank purses his lips, considering. He exhales loudly. "I think that he is playing a game." He grins suddenly, teeth showing. "And I'm going to win."

Kay leans back in her chair. "You want me to talk to him?"

Frank snorts. Annoyance brings out his stutter. "And w-why would I want you to talk to him?"

She spreads her hands, palms up. "Just trying to help."

"Tell you what, Kay. When I need your help, I-I'll ask for it. Okay?"

Kay waves him off. "Whatever you say Frank."

Pembleton leaves the room. After a few seconds she stands and moves over to the observation window. Arms folded, she watches.

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

Part 2/10

Tim pulls a chair over to Nick and sits down. "You know, it's really for the better that Frank had to go. He can be a little...demanding sometimes, if you know what I mean." Tim smiles, relaxed. Friendly.

He leans one elbow on the table, casual. "You don't mind if we have a little chat, do you? A little heart to heart? You're a reasonable guy, right?"

Nick says nothing. He wanted the woman cop. Maybe he could have overpowered her. Got her gun. Escaped. But now...

Now he was stuck with another lecture from Detective NYPD Blue.

Tim speaks softly, a co-conspirator. "I can understand why you killed your wife, Nick. But why Justin? Why did you have to kill your son?"

Nick's fists clench. "I didn't kill Justin."

Tim's voice is still low, but the openness, the sense of camaraderie is gone. "You're telling me you didn't take your gun and shoot your son twice in the head at point blank range?"

"No!"

"Nick, Nick, come on! I know you did it! You can tell me the truth--was he crying? Did he beg you to let him live? You didn't want to kill him, but you had to because he knew what you did. He *saw* you kill his mother. And the last thing that fourteen year old boy saw was the barrel of your gun. Am I right, Nick?"

"NO!"

Tim bolts to his feet, sending the chair skittering across the floor. "No? I don't know what cop shows you watch on television, Nick, but this is real life. I'm not stupid. Your gun is the murder weapon. Your fingerprints are on the gun. You have zilch for an alibi. If you want me to believe you, you're going to have to try a lot harder."

The look in Tim's eyes unnerves Nick. There's something...a madness buried deep within. Hidden.

Nick repeats the mantra. "I didn't kill my son."

"The hell you didn't!" Tim's voice is thunder. "He was just a kid. A KID! How could you kill your own kid? How could you shoot him IN THE HEAD? TWICE?" Tim grabs Nick by the shirt collar and yanks him to his feet. "Did it make you feel GOOD? You didn't get enough out of killing your wife?"

Nick jerks in the bigger detective's grasp. His words are a terrified babble. "No! No! I didn't-I didn't kill him! I'd never hurt them! Never!"

Tim roars in Nick's face. "SHUT UP! You had no right, you son of a bitch! You had no right to take your son's life." Bayliss shoves Nick into the wall, the table dragging, still attached to Shaw. "How'd you like it if your father made you look death in the face, huh? How did it feel to pull the trigger? Did you like it? Even while he begged and begged, the tears falling-"

"BAYLISS!"

Kay stands in the doorway. Her voice holds an unmistakable warning.

Tim swallows, eyes wide, adrenaline still pumping. With great effort he relaxes his grip on Nick. The man slides down the wall into a heap, one arm raised, handcuffed to the table leg.

"I didn't kill my wife," he sobs, "and I didn't kill Justin! I didn't! I didn't-" he looks up, fresh tears tracking his face. "I didn't-" The words catch in his throat. He makes a choking sound. He tries to speak, but barks out a tight cough instead. His eyes unfocus and he slips sideways, arms and legs jerking in some kind of seizure. He continues to choke, and his chest pumps frantically for air.

"What the hell did you do to him?" Kay yells. "Get out of here. Call 911."

Tim stands frozen, his jaw working. For one moment he sees Frank lying on the floor, helpless, instead of Nick Shaw. A thousand memories flood over him. Helplessness. Guilt. Another boy begging his father to listen, crying so hard he could barely breath and-

"Bayliss! Now!" Her voice is rife with disgust and Tim moves. He rubs his face, dazed. What has he done? He stumbles back into the squad room, running for the phone at Kellerman's empty desk.

Kay removes her corduroy jacket and wads it under Shaw's head. She speaks softly to him, soothing, and unlocks the handcuff. His hand jerks out and touches her hair. Pulls it.

His eyes are huge and terrified, she tries to calm him. "Can you hear me, sir? Help is on the way." He gags again and his back arches off the floor. Goddammit, what did Bayliss do?.

His hands flail against her, useless, knocking against her holster. No. Not useless. Kay kneels next to him, one hand still holding his head, and stares down at her own gun. "I need some air," Nick hisses. "Get me outside right now or I'll paint this room with the inside of your head." The terror is still in his eyes, but heightened by a fierce desperation. This man is not afraid to die.

Staring down at her gun, Kay realizes she is. Not afraid of death, but of the bullet. She remembers the hospital. And her father's face. The slow recovery. Being so weak and dependent. If he shoots her in the head and doesn't kill her, what then? She'll be a vegetable. A worthless body. She takes a deep breath, stalling.

He taps her forehead with the gun. "Help me up. Now." His eyes burn her. "If you so much as breathe wrong I'll kill you." Maybe he's bluffing, but Kay can't take the chance. She pulls him up, and puts an arm around him, as if supporting him. "Pull out your shirt. Hurry up."

Kay untucks her shirt. He snakes an arm around her waist, just beneath her blouse and presses the gun tight against her side. The gun is cool against her bare skin. Her heart beats faster, but she struggles to stay calm. She'll get through this. Just walk out of the building. He won't kill her. Just walk.

"An ambo's on the way," Tim says softly. He stands in the doorway, hovering.

Kay inches forward with Nick, praying Bayliss doesn't do something that will get her killed. Nick sags against her, playing the part, and Kay drags him out of the Box.

Bayliss watches her struggle. "What are you doing?"

"Getting him some fresh air. He's having trouble breathing." Kay says a silent prayer and takes a chance. "Are you just going to stand there or are you going to help me?"

Tim moves quickly. "Sorry."

Nick groans and moves his face into her neck. He whispers against her skin: "He touches me and you're dead."

Kay drags Nick another step forward. Sweat rolls off her in sheets. She backpedals, struggling for an excuse. "Forget it, Tim. You caused enough trouble. It's your fault he had a seizure."

"No it's not!" Tim snaps, defensive. "I didn't do anything."

Kay ignores him. They move down the corridor and out the side door. Tim still hovers, preparing to follow them outside. The gun is pressed so tight against her ribs she can barely take a breath. Or maybe it's just the fear. She stops him. "Wait for the ambulance. Tell them where we are."

Tim shakes his head, plaintive. "I didn't *do* anything, Sarge."

Nick pushes the gun further and pain blossoms through Kay's ribs. She backs out the door, pulling Nick with her.

Munch appears at the end of the corrider, Styrofoam cup of coffee in hand. "What's going on?"

Bayliss runs both hands through his cropped hair. "Shaw had some kind of seizure. Kay took him outside. EMT's are on the way."

Munch blows at the hot liquid and takes a sip. "Kay need help?"

"Probably." Tim studies the scuffed floor. "But I don't think she wants any from me."

Munch raises an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Bayliss jabs his thumb at the door and walks back toward the squad room. A second later Munch calls his name. The wiry detective stands in the open doorway. "I thought you said they were outside."

Tim stares at Munch, white-faced. God. Oh God. He runs past Munch, making the older detective spill his coffee. "Thanks a lot, klutz. Kellerman's right. You are snarky."

"Shut up, John! Find Gee and alert the station. I think we've got a possible hostage situation on our hands."

The coffee cup drops to the ground, a brown puddle pooling on the pavement. "What!" Panic quickens John's movements. "You find Gee. *I'll* find Kay."

Tim glares. "Come on, John."

"No. *You* come on. You want to stand here and argue? Go." John draws his gun and sprints into the parking lot.

"John! Wait for back up!"

"Then you better hurry the hell up!" Munch retorts. He turns in a slow circle. No sign of Kay or anyone else.

Tim runs back down the hallway and almost collides with Frank. "Where's the fire?"

"Where's Gee?"

Frank notes the edge of panic in Tim's voice. "I don't know. In a meeting, I think. What's wrong?" He sees that the Box is empty. "Where's Shaw?"

"He might have Kay."

"What do you mean he *might* have Kay?"

Tim reaches for the phone, dread heavy in his stomach. "It's pretty self-explanatory, Frank."

Frank steps close to Tim and leans into his personal space, face to face. "What did you do while I was gone, Bayliss?"

"I didn't do anything! Why-" he waves Frank off and puts a hand to his ear. "Yeah. This is Detective Tim Bayliss from Homicide. We may have a situation here. I need to talk to-what? Yeah. Okay." He puts a hand over the earpiece. "Why do you think *I* did something, Frank? Why is this my fault?"

"Because I know you, Bayliss. You're famous for your rational thinking."

"Meaning what?"

Frank leans even closer, eyes flashing. "Whatever you want it to mean."

***

He's not going to stand there like some fence post this time. No way. John Munch is a man of action. Walking up and down the rows of cars, his gun steady, he calls Kay's name. He has plenty of help. Lewis, a few detectives from Vice, a couple of uniforms, even a few schmoes from Burglary have come out to play recess and lend a hand.

So far, there's no sign of Kay or Shaw. He refuses to panic. Kay is smart. She's tough. She's no pushover. She'll be fine. That's right, Johnny-boy, you keep telling yourself that.

They've spread out to the parking ramp as well as the administrative lot. How far can Shaw get in ten minutes? You'd be surprised.

"John!" It's Meldrick's voice. "Over here." There's something about the way Lewis says his name that he doesn't like.

Kay lies next to an empty parking space, her red hair fanned out over her face and dirty concrete. Her hair is too red.

John drops to his knees, brushing at her hair. "Is she hit?" He looks up at Lewis, his resolve slipping away. "Is she hit?" His heart rockets in his chest. Not again. Not in the head like Stan. Don't let her be shot. Please.

Kay turns her head and raises a hand, slapping at John's inquisitive fingers. She opens her eyes. "It's okay, John. I'm fine."

John takes off his glasses and rubs at his eyes. "God, Kay. God." He finds it hard to manage anything beyond those two words.

Kay gives him a lopsided smile and holds out a hand. "Help me up." He and Lewis comply. "I'm touched, John." She puts a hand to her bloodied forehead and grimaces. "I didn't know you cared." Munch hears the slight tremor beneath the thin layer of sarcasm. He squeezes her arm briefly, understanding.

"Nice lump ya got, there, Sarge."

"You're gonna have an even bigger one, Meldrick, if you don't find me some aspirin right now."

John turns away, hiding a smile.

***

"Agent Mulder."

Mulder looks up to see Assistant Director Skinner standing in the doorway. "Let me guess. You want me to resubmit the Lamott report."

Skinner holds out an envelope. "The report is fine. I came to deliver this."

Mulder takes the envelope and looks up at Skinner. "It's marked personal."

Skinner nods. "You're right, but it set off the metal detector." He shrugs. "Would you feel better if I taped the envelope back up?"

Mulder chuckles. "I'll pass."

Skinner walks toward the door, smiling faintly. "Seems a bit quiet in here, Agent Mulder."

Mulder searches for an appropriate response, but the Assistant Director is long gone by the time he can think of something suitable. He turns the envelope over and inspects the handwriting. Sloppy. All caps. No return address. He shakes the contents out and something shiny clatters to the floor. Stooping, he picks it up. A key. Small enough to open expensive luggage or maybe a storage locker. He unfolds the letter.

I NEED YOUR HELP. IF YOU DON'T HEAR FROM ME WITHIN A FEW DAYS, I'M PROBABLY DEAD. PLEASE INVESTIGATE. THEY ALREADY KILLED ANGIE AND JUSTIN.

PLEASE HELP ME, FOX!

NICK SHAW

Mulder rereads the letter several times. Nick Shaw? Good God! It's been at least ten years. And who are "they"? Who killed his wife and son? Tapping the letter against his thigh, Mulder realizes he doesn't even know where Shaw lives anymore. He checks the envelope again. The postmark tells him the letter came through Baltimore.

Throughout their years of friendship and gradual separation, there is always one memory that comes to mind. The fire.

He'd been sleeping over at Nick's house when the fire started. In the basement. Bad wiring or something. Ten year old Fox had smelled smoke first. He woke Nick and his parents in time to find the kitchen and half the living room engulfed in flames. They jumped out a second story window and Nick's mother broke her leg. Neighbors on both sides of the house were gone so Mr. Shaw went to get help. Nick and Fox were left with Karen Shaw for ten minutes. In Fox Mulder's mind it was an eternity. He watched while the fire ate more and more of the house, devouring furniture, pictures, memories.

The next day Fox had returned to help pick through the rubble. There wasn't much left to salvage beyond ashes and blackened beams. A sandal. A few dishes. Melted jewelry. A few burnt photos. The wreckage still smoldered and the smell made Fox ill. It was one of the longest afternoons of his life.

That weekend was Fox Mulder's first real exposure to fire. It terrified him.

It still did.

Mulder studies the key and wonders if his friend is dead.

***

He drives Kay's car with extreme caution. Now is not the time to be pulled over. He'll go home, get some clothes, pack a few things, and find Fox.

Nick parks the car three blocks away and walks to the house. He gets the spare key from the garage and unlocks the back door. Nick steps into the living room. The blood is still there, but Angie's body is long gone. He was almost afraid she would still be here. Or that someone else would be waiting for him.

He runs through the house, pushing the memories of anniversaries, birthdays, lazy weekends away. He has no time for the past. He doesn't deserve the past. It's your fault they're dead. Don't you forget that.

He strips out of his clothes and pulls on a clean pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. Another set of clothes goes into the worn duffel bag. He takes the money from the bottom of the sock drawer and stuffs it into his pocket. The Sergeant's gun goes into the other pocket, and he pins her badge to the neck of his shirt. He's almost ready. Almost free.

He hurries downstairs and back through the kitchen. He grabs the keys to Angie's Mercury Tracer off the refrigerator. That's when he hears the soft footstep behind him. He reaches for the gun.

"Don't even try it, Nick. If I wanted you dead, you'd have never made it through the door. Now turn around slowly, hands up."

Nick closes his eyes. So close. He'd been so close to freedom. He raises his hands and turns.

"That's good. Now put the gun on the table. Along with that shield."

Nick opens his eyes. A man in a camouflage jacket stands with an extremely lethal looking weapon trained on his head. "Gun" is too kind a word. He fights an intense urge to laugh. Everything he'd gone through to get out of the police station...for what? So he could die here?

"Slow," the man warns. He nods toward the table.

Nick obeys. He places the gun and gold shield on the tablecloth. He feels little fear now that death is so close. He just wants the nightmare to end. He wants to see Angie.

"Have you got any identification?"

Nick stares at the man. He has sandy brown hair and dark eyes. His voice is low, a mixture of gravel and honey. Nick struggles to understand the question. "What for? Just kill me." His hands drop to his sides. "Get it over with."

The man laughs, a surprisingly mirthful sound. "I'm not going to kill you, Nick. I need some ID to plant on a body. Somebody that's going to be *you*. Understand?"

Nick blinks. He doesn't move.

The man mutters under his breath and grabs Nick by the arm. He shoves him into the dining room. "Move it. Find something. Anything. Go get a ring, some kind of jewelry. A credit card."

Nick shakes his head. "My wallet is still at the police station." He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Who are you?"

"I'm a friend." He lifts the gun. "But I'm running short on patience, so hurry it up. Find something. Now."

Nick puts a hand to his head, trying to think. "I have an onyx ring that Angie gave me for our tenth wedding anniversary...?"

Camouflage nods. "Wonderful. Go get it. You have ten seconds."

Nick swallows. "And then?"

The man smiles. "And then I come get you. And you'll wish I hadn't. Okay?"

Nick goes upstairs again. His mouth is dry. Who is the man? Why hasn't he killed him yet? Is he really a friend? Nick's hands shake as he searches the jewelry box. Dammit! Where is it-there! He grabs the ring and slips it over his knuckle. The ring brings more memories, but he fights them back. If he gives in, he'll collapse right here, right now.

He runs down the steps, almost tripping. Camouflage is waiting in a chair, hands crossed behind his head, the gun in his lap. He holds one hand out.

"What?"

Camouflage makes a face. "The ring."

"Oh." Flustered, Nick pulls it back off and hands it over.

"Much obliged." He lifts himself out of the chair and crosses back into the kitchen. He pockets the gun, shield, and ring. "Come on, Nick."

"Where...where are we going?"

"*We* aren't going anywhere. But I believe you're on your way to see a friend. Am I right?"

Nick licks his lips. "I...yes."

Camouflage motions to the door with his gun. "You better hurry up. A lot of people are looking for you. And they aren't all your friends."

"I don't understand," Nick says, clutching the car keys.

"You don't have to."

"Who are you?"

"I already told you. You better go."

Nick nods slowly. "Okay." He puts a hand on the doorknob and turns. He waits for the sound of gunfire. It doesn't come. He opens the door. He walks outside. Still no gunfire.

He runs to the garage, not looking back. It takes him three tries to unlock the car door. He crawls inside the car, amazed to be alive. He almost laughs. The garage door opens with assorted creaks and groans and he backs the Tracer out of the driveway.

Camouflage stands in the front window watching. And then the figure is gone.

Nick drives.

***

He parks the car and walks to a pay phone. He unscrews the phone's receiver and removes the device from the pocket of his camouflage jacket. He screws it in place. He drops the correct change into the slot and dials.

A man with a British accent answers on the fourth ring.

"Mission accomplished," Camouflage says, leaning his head against the dirty metal structure. Fatigue pulls at the edges of his mind.

"No problems?"

"Not so far. I wish you could have seen the look on his face."

"Surprised, was he, Mickey?"

"You could say that. Better check the Baltimore Sun tomorrow morning." Mickey's gloved hand grips the phone chord. "I wish you were with me on this, McCall."

"I am, Mickey."

"You know what I mean."

"You'll be fine. You don't need an old man tagging along after you."

Mickey laughs. "Yeah, right." Silence stretches across the phone line for a moment, a friendly, familiar space. He says quietly: "I don't know what I'm doing here, Robert. I'm in the dark on this one."

"Be careful," his friend warns. "No unnecessary risks."

Mickey watches a school bus go by. A group of children from a different world. A different planet. "Right."

McCall's voice is urgent. "I mean it, Mickey. I'm not in a position where I can help you. You must be very careful."

"Aren't I always careful, McCall?" Before his friend can answer, Mickey hangs up.

He pats a pocket deep inside the coat. The shield, gun, and ring are still there. Time to get to work.

***

"He jeopardized a homicide investigation and endangered a fellow detective's life!" Frank's voice ricochets around the small office like a bullet.

Tim glares at the black detective. "Really, Frank? Explain to me how I did that. Give me a little of *your* rational thinking."

Frank takes a step forward, his fist itching to smash Tim's nose.

Kay moves between them. "Hey!" A white square of bandage covers her forehead. "Tim did not cause what happened to me. Nick Shaw gave me this headache." She offers Pembleton a tight smile. "But you're not doing much to make it go away, Frank."

Frank stares at her, eyes narrowed. "You said-"

"I *said* that I didn't appreciate Tim's technique with Shaw."

Tim crosses his arms. "And why not?"

Kay shakes her head. "You were too heavy-handed, Tim."

Tim throws his hands up, frustrated. "Frank goes ballistic all the time and no one bats an eye. Why is it different with me?"

Frank and Kay look at each other.

Tim catches their glance. "What? WHAT?"

Lieutenant Giardello sighs. "Frank can step back when he has to."

Tim feels the room grow smaller. "Meaning?"

"Meaning you have a problem with certain cases, Detective Bayliss."

Bayliss doesn't speak. He's not sure he can. He feels a tightening in his gut. It feels suspiciously like panic.

Gee continues. "You have a problem with child murders, Tim. You take them too personally."

Tim stares, incredulous. "How can I not take them personally?"

Kay's voice is quiet. "It takes a lot of practice, Tim, but you can do it. You *have* to do it."

Tim stares at Kay, for a moment. He feels as if he's been sucker-punched. Emotions flicker across his face. Anger. Despair. He opens his mouth. Shuts it. Tightens his lips into a thin line. "Fine. You think whatever you want." His gaze turns to Frank, daring him to tell the others about...his past.

Frank meets his gaze. Silent.

Tim turns and storms out of Gee's office, slamming the door behind him.

Giardello watches the troubled detective stalk out of the squad room. The Lieutenant's anger is already spent, he feels only a dull, lingering sadness. "Did Shaw murder his wife and child?" he asks.

"You think he'd go to all the trouble to take Kay hostage if he didn't?" Frank demands.

"Do you think he'd go to all that trouble if he was guilty?"

"What, Kay? What? Did he tell you the secret password? How do you know he didn't do it?"

Kay shrugs. "I don't know that he's innocent, Frank. I just don't know if he's guilty."

"I suggest you find him, Frank. And then find out if he's guilty."

"And how am I supposed to do that, Gee? Click my heels together three times and wish him back here?"

Gee rests his hands on top of his desk. "Whatever works, Frank. You do whatever works."

***

Mickey Kostmayer sits in the hotel room. The room is rented under the name David Johnson. The driver's license in his wallet reads David Johnson as well. The driver's license and passport in his bag reads Thomas Kitt. The door is locked and chained.

He sits on the bed, whistling softly, while he cleans his 9mm Uzi. Those Israelis sure make some damn fine firearms. He's got a .45 Colt nestled in his bag, and an M16 safety tucked in the trunk of the car.

He finishes with the gun and removes a thick padded envelope from his bag. He empties the contents onto the purple bedspread. Mickey pops open a can of soda and takes a long drink. He studies the face of Special Agent Fox William Mulder for a long time. He flips through the other photographs. After a few moments he reaches for the dossier and begins reading.

Tomorrow his team will rendezvous at eleven hundred hours. He leans back against the headboard and waits.

Waiting is the easy part.

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

Part 3/10

Gee hands him the yellow sheet silently.

Tim takes the paper, glances at it, and looks up at the Lieutenant. A tiny line creases his forehead. "What is this?"

"Your vacation request form. I approved it."

"I didn't request any vacation."

Gee smiles. "Sure you did, Bayliss. Go ahead and take it."

Tim clenches the form in his hand, wrinkling it. "Gee. Please..."

"Take your vacation, Bayliss."

Tim stares at the top of his desk. He takes a deep breath, fighting for control. "Don't do this to me."

"I'm not doing anything, Bayliss. You deserve some vacation. You've had a rough couple of months. You just came back a few weeks ago. Take it easy. Give your arm some rest, huh?"

"I've had enough rest."

Gee stares hard at Bayliss. He lowers his voice. "No, Tim. You haven't." He taps the vacation request form with a finger. "You have one week off. Starting now."

Tim grins suddenly, shaking his head. "I get it. This is a joke, right?" But Gee's expression tells him it isn't.

He wipes a hand across his forehead. "What...you're suspending me?"

Gee sighs. "No. I'm giving you a vacation."

Tim laughs bitterly. "A mandatory vacation."

Gee shrugs. "Have it your way." He leans against the corner of Tim's desk. He cocks his head toward the hall.

Tim leans back in his chair, eyes wide with disbelief. "I have to leave *now*?"

"Have a nice time."

Tim stands slowly. He pushes the report he was reading to a corner of his desk. He grabs for his coat blindly, his face compressed with anger. He glances around the room. The other detectives busy themselves, trying hard not to notice Bayliss and his humiliation.

Except for Frank. Frank watches him calmly. Impassive.

Tim passes Frank's desk on the way out. "Thanks a lot," he says, furious.

Frank's lips curve. "Anytime."

Tim stalks out of the squad room, betrayed.

***

Lewis swivels in his chair. "Yo, Frank! We got us a floater!" There are days when he sees Crosetti in every doorway, hears his voice just across the room. And there are days he never thinks of the rotund detective once. Thankfully, today is one of the latter.

Frank takes another bite of his sandwich. "Suicide?"

"I don't know. Guy's head is all bashed in. No ID, but Vance says he's wearing a shield."

Frank drops the sandwich. "A cop?"

Lewis grins. "Nope." He lays the ace on the table. "Shaw. It's Kay's shield."

Frank reaches for his hat. He flashes a shark's grin at Meldrick. "Don't just sit there, man. Let's go."

***

He doesn't look up from the autopsy report to answer the phone. He fumbles for the receiver. "Mulder."

"Agent Mulder, there's a man in the lobby who says he knows you. His name is Nick Shaw. Do you want me send him down?"

The case is forgotten. "No, that's all right Lisa. I'll be right up."

Mulder folds Nick's letter in half and in half again. He slides the square into his pocket. He feels a brief spark of excitement at seeing his old friend again. The spark fades quickly. Nick brings too many memories of the Vineyard with him. Too much of the past. Mulder walks out of the office, wishing-not for the first time-that Scully were with him.

Nick sits in a corner of the lobby, immersed in a year old copy of Time. Mulder smiles. "Nick!"

Shaw doesn't look up.

Mulder draws closer, suddenly wondering if that familiar profile is so familiar after all. He tries again. "Nick?"

Shaw looks up from the magazine, eyes wary. He glances furtively around the busy lobby, then back to Mulder. "Can we go somewhere and talk?"

Mulder studies his friend's sallow face, the haunted eyes, the stooped set of his shoulders. A passage from the letter flashes in his mind: They already killed Angie and Justin.

Subdued, Mulder nods. "We can go to my office." Then: "What's going on?"

Nick balks. "Not here. Can we go to your apartment?"

Mulder's well-developed sense of paranoia responds to Nick's fear. Mulder guides Nick to the parking ramp. The two men walk quickly, heads down, talking softly. "What's going on? You said Angie and Justin-"

Nick's face contorts, but he regains his composure almost immediately. "Yes. They killed them."

"Who's they?"

Nick looks over his shoulder. "Wait until we're in the car."

Mulder unlocks the passenger door and Nick slides into the front seat. Mulder unlocks his own door and climbs behind the wheel. He turns the ignition and the engine idles. He turns to Nick. "Well?"

Nick puts a hand to his face. "I'm sorry, Fox. I didn't plan to drag you into this...but I don't know anyone else who could help me. Who would help me. I know that you have a certain...appreciation for things that are...unusual. You're willing to believe when others aren't." Nick stares through the windshield. "There's something I have to tell you. Something I want you to tell the world."

Mulder licks his lips, grips the steering wheel tighter. "What?"

"The truth."

***

"I had my doubts," Shaw tells him. "I should have known at the time, but God help me, I didn't." He glances out the window for perhaps the tenth time. "I don't think we're being followed."

Mulder checks the rearview mirror. "Why would we be followed?"

"The police think I killed Angie and Justin." He slams a fist against the dashboard. "They think I shot my wife four times and my son twice." He squeezes his eyes closed, shutting out the memory of his bloody living room. "I can already read the headlines. 'Mild-mannered scientist kills family in a fit of rage.'" His voice is acidic.

"What caused the fit of rage?"

Nick sighs. "He was fired."

"So what."

"A jury doesn't need a screenplay, Mulder. If they don't like your haircut they'll convict."

"You've got nice hair, Nick."

Nick strikes out at the dashboard again. "Is this a joke to you? I thought you'd help. Mr. FBI, with his big quest for the truth. You'd rather make fun of me?"

Mulder checks the traffic and pulls over. "I'm not making fun of you, Nick. I'm sorry." He stares into Shaw's face, sincere. "I'm sorry about Angie and Justin. I want to help you." He smiles awkwardly, self-consciously. "I have a habit of cracking jokes when I don't know what else to say."

"Then maybe you shouldn't say anything," Nick snaps. "This is my life, you know? This is what's left of it."

Mulder nods, placating. "Okay, okay. I won't say anything." A car passes them. "*You* talk, Nick. Tell me what really happened. Who killed Angie? And why?"

Nick begins slowly, searching for the right words. "I started at New World about three years ago. They read a few of my papers and decided I'd be perfect to finish a big project they were working on. At the time, I wasn't very happy at the CDC, so I listened. They promised a bigger paycheck. Moving expenses. The whole nine yards.

"Angie was excited. She was tired of Atlanta and thought Baltimore sounded exciting. She wanted a change."

"What's New World?" Mulder asks. "Another disease center?"

"Not exactly. It's a subsidiary of a large Japanese firm. New World Labs is basically a free lance research facility. A hired gun. They were about three years old when I came on board."

"What were you brought in to finish?"

Nick worries at his lower lip. He looks out the window before answering. "I signed three different releases when New World hired me. Everything is classified. Especially my project." He laughs softly, a hollow sound. "Guess it doesn't really matter now.

"The code name was Perfect Clarity. Dr. Jesse Stevens began the preliminary research in 1993. He died the following year in a car accident. At least that's what they told me. Until recently, I never had any reason to doubt them."

"What's Perfect Clarity?" Mulder asks. Excitement tightens his belly. Images reel through his mind: A glass bottle labeled Purity Control, bodies submerged in tanks, a child with Samantha's face on a mysterious farm in Canada. Max Fenig's backpack. Each time, proof was within his reach. And each time it slipped through his fingers, lost, leaving him with darker nightmares and the knowledge he was always two steps behind. Maybe not this time.

Nick is silent.

"Who sanctioned the project? Who was your client?"

Nick answers weakly: "I don't know."

Mulder presses him. "The government? The military?"

"I told you-I don't know. All I can tell you is they're powerful. They own New World. They own me."

Mulder glances at his friend. "They don't own you."

"The hell they don't! They took everything!" Nick bows his head, fighting tears. Despair whispers in his ear. "I just wanted to get out...to get out of the project. I resigned. But they wouldn't let me go..." his voice dissolves.

"Why did you want to get out?"

"Perfect Clarity is a mistake. A terrible mistake." Nick turns to stare out the window. He watches the other cars drive past, wishing he were someone else. Anyone else.

"And no one at New World agreed with you?"

"Apparently not."

"Can't they get someone to replace you? Like you replaced Stevens?"

Nick releases a long sigh. "Not exactly."

"Why not?" Mulder asks. He blinks and casts a quick look at his friend. Realization dawns. "You sent me a key. You took the research, didn't you? They *can't* continue." He looks at his friend with a combination of admiration and amazement.

"Yes. I took the research. And I got my family killed."

"It wasn't your fault, Nick."

"Right. You certainly don't know anything about blame, do you?"

Mulder's jaw clenches. Nick's statement is salt on old wounds. He fingers the thin chain around his neck. A small silver ring shaped like a dolphin hangs beneath his shirt. He can still see the look of joy on Samantha's face when she opens the box and sees the ring, so long ago. Yes, he knows a lot about blame. And guilt.

"Why was Perfect Clarity a mistake?"

"The *concept* of Perfect Clarity isn't wrong, it's the application."

Mulder checks the side mirror and changes lanes. "But what *is* Perfect Clarity? Some kind of wonder drug?"

"Are you familiar with Lysergic Acid Diethylamide? LSD?"

Mulder laughs, taken aback. "Personally?"

"It's a hallucinogen, meant to alter perception. To supposedly *enhance* perception. Similar to Phencyclidine-"

"PCP. I can't say I've used it, but I know about it. I have copies of some of the MKULTRA documents. Our government's been making us proud for a long, long time."

"The MKULTRA experiments were terrible, but the concept, that hallucinogenic drugs could be useful, has merit. Not in the manner the CIA intended, to disorient or manipulate foreign leaders, but to help the military.

"Think about it: originally, what were hallucinogens like LSD used for?"

"To heighten physical senses. Achieve supposed insights into the universe. They were supposed to be the answer, with a capital A." Pause. "You were working on some kind of LSD derivative?"

"Sort of. Do you know what ergot is?"

Mulder sees Scully's face, bruised and silent after the incident with Ed Jerse. "I've, ah, heard of it."

"My composition-and Stevens's-was originally based on an ergot alkaloid. I was working on my own synthetic alkaloid by linking lysergic acid and amino alcohol dexaldramine instead of butanolamine--"

"Whoa, Nick. Try it in English this time."

"Suffice it to say the test subjects didn't respond. We hadn't found the password yet. Everything we came up with didn't match the necessary criteria. Instead of a higher awareness, all we got was a high. Until about five months ago."

"What changed?"

"We changed the whole chemical base of the formula. Ergot out. Orange Juice in."

"Excuse me?"

Nick offers Mulder a brief smile. "You heard right. I don't mean orange juice, as in breakfast drink. It's something I've never seen before. Something remarkable. We gave it the code name Orange Juice." Nick's fear recedes, replaced by the excitement of his discovery. "At first I thought it was Secale cornutum-that's still ergot of rye--but then I realized it had too many unknown properties. We spent weeks analyzing it, cross-checking, cross-referencing, and came up with nothing. Do you realize the significance?" He continues talking, not giving Mulder time to answer.

"We discovered an unknown alkaloid! The powder was faintly magnetic. It was like the Second Coming! One of the lab technicians brought it in, said it came from Level Three. That's where the really big stuff went on, chemical and biological weapons, infectious diseases."

Mulder's mouth drops open. To hear Nick speak so openly, so blatantly about the goings-on at New World Labs makes him wonder if there is a God after all. Finally, after years of denial and stone-walling, here is a whiff of truth! I wish you could hear this Scully... He considers her reaction. Would this information hit too close to home? Her cancer still casts an uncertain shadow on their future.

"No one would tell me what the compound was, where it came from. In fact, Level Three denied ever seeing it before. They took their own sample."

"What about the technician who brought it in?"

"He conveniently disappeared. When I asked about him, they said he transferred to one of the other Labs in California. I requested a fellow colleague from the Center for Disease Control to assist me. Together we spent another three months documenting, experimenting. We worked, literally, days at a time. And then I struck gold." The light goes out of Nick's eyes. "Or so I thought."

"The mysterious appearance of the Orange Juice, do you think they were using you?"

"Probably. I served a purpose. I was a glorified lackey. I had the biggest credentials, the most bits of framed parchment on the wall."

Mulder watches the car in front of them pull into the exit lane. "You still haven't told me exactly what Perfect Clarity is. Why it's worth killing for."

"Take a bunch of mice and put them in a maze. What happens?"

"They wander around until they find their way out."

"Maybe. Maybe not. Sometimes they go in circles or go back to the beginning. Now, what happens what I inject them with Perfect Clarity?

"I'll tell you: They find the exit every time. Straight for it, not one wrong turn. We upped the ante, increased the size of the maze. Still no problem. The mice showed marked signs of improvement in all skill areas.

"The monkeys were even better. They could tell when someone was coming seconds-maybe minutes-before the technician. Every sense was sharpened tenfold." Nick shuts his eyes, remembering. "It was like a miracle. It was Christmas morning.

"The project supervisor, Roy Jacardi, was ecstatic. Our client was already promising another long-term job." Nick pauses. "And that's when the animals began to die.

"I'm telling you, Fox, Leon and I tried everything. But we didn't know what we were dealing with, not for sure! What could I do? Every day, another mouse, another monkey went into convulsions and died." His voice drops. "I couldn't save one. It was...like a bomb dropped. My greatest achievement was unraveling before my eyes.

"But the worst part-the unbelievable thing-was no one else considered Perfect Clarity a failure. Not even Leon. He was caught up in the possibilities. One night, after I went home, Leon injected himself."

Nick swallows dryly, remembering. "He was...astounding. He was the same man, but improved. His hearing, his vision were off the charts! He showed signs of telepathic abilities. It was as if he had unlocked some hidden part of his brain.

"The dosage began to wear off after about six hours. He was fine. But everything went to hell after the second dose. He began seizing. His blood pressure soared. It was almost as if his body were rejecting the drug like a bad organ.

"And the most horrific thing was: Jacardi wouldn't let me call an ambulance. They locked us in, demanding I figure out what had gone wrong. They demanded that I save Leon." Nick's voice sinks lower. "But I couldn't. When he died, I told them to shelve the project. I told them it was a failure. They didn't care. Leon was just a part of the 'greater process' they said. I wanted to vomit, Fox. I can't tell you what I felt when Jacardi looked me in the face that day.

"They wanted to bring in more human test subjects! They rounded up a group of homeless people from below the I-95 overpass. They led them in like a group of half-clothed guinea pigs. Those men and women sat there, completely oblivious to what I was going to do!"

Mulder's heart beats faster. "What did you do?"

"Reading about MKULTRA is one thing, participating in it something all together different. I wanted to be able to sleep at night. I gave them a placebo and filled my preliminary findings with twelve different flavors of b.s." Nick shakes his head. "I couldn't do what they wanted, Fox. I still can't. Not until I figure out how to stop the side-effects."

Mulder says nothing. There are no words to describe the horror and disgust that he feels.

"Fox, I came to you for help for two reasons. One, because you're my friend. You're an FBI agent, and I trust you."

"What's the second reason?"

"The mystery alkaloid-Orange Juice. I know I'll sound crazy, but I think...I think it's an unnatural substance. I mean, it doesn't come from nature. Our nature."

Mulder's heart pounds in his ears. He's afraid to believe. "What are you saying?"

"What I'm saying Fox, is that it's not found on this planet. I think it's some kind of alien compound."

Mulder can barely concentrate on the road. A manic excitement pulses through him. "Do you have proof?"

"I heard about experiments going on in Level Three. Clandestine experiments. I only caught a few pieces here and there. I think they're working on cloning and hybridization." Nick studies Mulder's profile. "You don't seem surprised."

"I'm not. What else do you have? What about your notes?"

Nick fidgets with the strap of the safety belt. "Take Exit 37. We'll stop and get them. And then go someplace safe."

Evening paints the horizon soft shades of pink and purple. "I know where we can go," Mulder says.

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

Part 4/10

"It's on the house, Kay." Munch pushes the glass of amber liquid across the bar with a practiced hand. "Congratulations."

Kay grins. "For what? Getting smashed upside the head?"

"For not getting killed," Lewis says, raising his beer bottle in a toast.

"I didn't have much to do with that," she says.

Munch changes the subject. "Shaw's the one who's dead. That's fine by me."

"Don't you find that just a little strange, John? It seems a little too convenient to me."

"In this line of work, I'll take all the convenient I can get."

Frank takes a long drink of Club Soda. "You don't think we fished Shaw's body out of the Harbor? Maybe he traded your shield and gun to somebody else?"

"I don't know, Frank. All I'm saying is...it's a little weird."

"This whole week's been weird," Munch complains. "That bagel shop on Seventh and State? They closed." He shakes his head in disbelief. "How am I supposed to start my day without a garlic bagel? They made the perfect bagel, still warm, just a hint of crunch, the aroma..." His long fingers tap the bar. "What was the name of that place?"

"Bagel Heaven," Brodie answers.

"Yeah. Now what do I have? A big stinking void, that's what."

Lewis laughs. "It's just a bagel, Johnny. You'll pull through."

Munch glares. "Don't give me lip, Lewis. I'm hanging on by a thread."

Meldrick grins. "So what's new?"

The detectives sit in relative silence for a few minutes, lost in their own thoughts. "His sister identified the body," Frank finally says.

Kay turns her head. "What?"

"Shaw's sister identified the body. He was wearing a ring from his wife. An anniversary present. Meyers did the autopsy."

Meyers is still a new face among the ME's, but competent. Meyers was one of the first people Cox had brought in. "You think Meyers would make a mistake? Would lie so that we'd sleep better tonight?"

Kay stares into the bottom of her empty glass. "No. I can't explain it. It just doesn't sit right with me. If Shaw killed his wife and kid, who killed Shaw?"

Munch pours a refill. "Maybe he was overcome with remorse. You know, 'so what that I killed my wife and son, I just made that Sergeant Howard mad. Better end it all right now.'"

Kay rolls her eyes. "I'm sure that's what happened."

"Let me remind you, Kay. I've been on the receiving end of your anger. It's not pleasant. Makes me want to inspect a few bridge railings, every time."

Kay raises an eyebrow. "Keep talking, John, and I'll push you off the Pier myself."

Frank finishes his soda and rubs his eyes. What a day. Two hours after Shaw was fished out of the water a seventeen-year-old girl decided to strangle her baby. The girl put the infant in a garbage can on Washington Avenue. A twelve-year old boy looking for aluminum cans discovered the body. Frank crunches on an ice cube. Tell me God, where's the sanctity in that?

Munch removes his glasses and wipes them clean with the sleeve of his shirt. "So. How many of you believe Tim Bayliss took a voluntary vacation? Let's see a show of hands, please."

Frank crunches another piece of ice.

"You never know," Kellerman says. "He could be on his way to Miami Beach right now."

"That's right, Mr. Vacation Expert," Lewis laughs. "Ain't you the man who sat around Fells Point on his vacation?"

Kay checks her watch. "I have an early court appearance for the Silvio case tomorrow. I'm going to head out, guys."

Munch nods at her. "See you tomorrow, Kay."

Brodie smiles, suddenly shy. "Have a good night, Sergeant Howard."

She returns his smile, amused. "You too, Brodie."

Munch curls his lip at the young man. "Stop it. You're making me feel all soft and mushy inside." He adjusts his glasses. "I *hate* soft and mushy."

Lewis rests his beer bottle on one knee. "Tough words, John. Guess you don't care too much for, what do they call it...? You aren't a Hallmark moment kind of guy, huh?"

Munch deadpans: "Maalox moment is more my style."

***

Mickey reaches for the cold comfort of his Uzi and slips into the black uniform. He sits on the edge of the bed and laces up the heavy combat boots. He is now Tom Kitt, ex-Navy Seal, and leader of the covert Black Eagle Reconnaissance Team. Their mission: to deliver Nick Shaw and his research back to New World Labs.

Mickey and two other members of the Eagles have a private agenda: ensure that Nick Shaw passes his information to an FBI Agent named Fox Mulder. From what Mickey's read, Mulder appears to be a wild card, not your average G-man. But this mission is no longer average, either.

There's a leak.

He had dropped the dealer's body in the Harbor yesterday. Sure enough, the papers ate it up. Reporters read the news that Nick Shaw was dead with practiced sincerity on both nightly newscasts.

Mickey kicked back in his hotel room and waited for the phone call. Black Eagle would be a no-go and he'd get to go home. The call had come five minutes ago, but with a twist. Rendezvous in ten minutes to pick up the package. The "package" was Nick Shaw.

He runs both hands through his hair, trying to think. Somehow, they've learned about Shaw's meeting with Mulder. Someone on his team? Mickey considers. Impossible. He's got two good men with him. Neither of them are McCall, but they're professional. Disciplined. Then who? Someone at the FBI?

Five minutes later he's in the car, black beret pulled low over his forehead. The M16 rests next to him, hidden beneath a blanket. A faint thread of worry winds though his belly. The situation is suddenly messy, and he doesn't like it. He takes a deep breath, staying calm, centered. It's time to get creative.

Creativity is one of Mickey Kostmayer's specialties.

***

"Dana? Are you coming?"

"Be right there, Mom!"

Charles, his wife, and Margaret Scully are sitting on the back patio. They're drinking honey-lemon iced tea, cradled in the warmth of each other's company and the evening humidity.

Scully wraps the phone cord around her wrist once, twice, waiting for Mulder to pick up. She checks her watch against the Ethan Allen clock on the wall. Mulder should be home by now. Maybe he's working on a new case. She dials his office number and is rewarded with his terse voice mail message. As usual, no answer from his cell phone.

She sighs and puts her own cell phone away. It's not like she has anything important to tell him. Just that her vacation is going fine it's boring and you know it!, her nephew is adorable tell the truth Dana, he's a spoiled brat and that the relaxation is doing her good. Mulder, it's so humid down here my brain's turning into oatmeal.

Oh yeah. Dana Scully is having a wonderful time.

***

Mulder leafs through the notes. The cramped pages of computations and technical jargon mean little to him, but the knowledge that he has something tangible-real proof-is enough.

A small glass bottle rests on the coffee table. There is no label. Next to the bottle is a small vial of powder that looks suspiciously like cocaine. Mulder pulls himself off the floor and goes to Scully's desk. He turns on her computer and inserts one of Nick's disks. He scrolls through the document, barely reading. He copies the disk onto her hard drive.

As soon as the document is saved, he begins scanning key pages of Shaw's notes. In all, he saves ten pages, each one named after one of Scully's relatives. He saves the documents in a new directory called XMASCARD.LST. Mulder stares at the computer screen for several seconds. Biting at his lip, he changes his mind. He rummages through her desk drawers until he finds a box of blank disks. He inserts an empty disk and zips the files he just saved to the hard drive and transfers them to the disk.

He prints the words 'from George Hale' on the identification sticker and leans the disk against her answering machine. The entire process takes about twenty minutes. When he's finished, he turns the equipment back off.

"What are you doing?" Nick asks. He is surrounded by papers, revising notes.

"Trying to make sure we're safe instead of sorry."

Digging through Scully's bathroom cabinet, he finds an empty perfume bottle. Rinsing the pear shaped container out, he pours in a few drops of Perfect Clarity. Next, he pours a sampling of the pure alkaloid into a ziploc bag and puts it in her refrigerator.

Finally he sits down on Scully's couch. He returns Shaw's research to the table.

Shaw watches him. "Now what do we do?"

Mulder runs a hand over his stubbled face. "I know someone at the Washington Post. I'll call him tomorrow morning." He stands back up, unable to sit still. "And I should call Skinner. We'll have to get you into some kind of safe house. Get you a new identity."

Nick leans back and rests his head on a pillow. He stares at the ceiling. "I still can't believe this is really happening."

Mulder doesn't have a chance to respond. The door bursts open and six uniformed men stream into Dana Scully's living room. The first man raises his gun and fires several silenced shots before Mulder's weapon is even drawn. Nick slumps sideways against the armrest and Mulder drops to the floor, still.

The man who fired the gun moves silently to Nick and checks his pulse. It's strong. He watches Eagle Two check Mulder. Eagle Two nods. "He's out."

Eagle Three begins organizing the papers on the coffee table and places them inside a black bag. He stares at the bottle and vial. "This is it?" Eagle Three asks.

Mickey nods. "Put them in the bag." He motions to the computer. "Erase the hard drive." He bends down and pulls the unconscious FBI agent to his feet. He glimpses a silver chain around Mulder's neck and deftly pulls it off in one quick move. He clenches it in the palm of his leather glove. He nods to Eagles Three and Four. "Get Shaw. We've got five more minutes, max. Go.

"Eagle Six, take Mulder. Two and I are going to make a quick sweep of the premises, make sure there's nothing left. Hurry." He motions Eagle Two into the kitchen/dining room area, and Mickey moves into the bedroom. He glances around the room, heart pounding. He drops the necklace onto the bed and moves back out into the hallway. "Is the package ready?" he asks.

Eagle Three nods. "Affirmative. The computer is clean. Let's go."

"What's this?" Eagle Two holds up a plastic bag. "Found it on the top shelf of the refrigerator."

Eagle Three looks closely. "Looks like the stuff in the vial. Bring it."

Mickey stifles a curse. Good try, Mulder. The necklace will have to do. He nods to the men. "Now."

They back out of the apartment. The complex is quiet. If anyone heard the noise coming from Apartment 731, they've decided to keep it to themselves. Mickey turns the lights out and shuts the door. The latch is broken, but the door stays closed. Now for the hard part.

***

Sunday morning.

The neighborhood is quiet. Most houses are silent, families sleeping in.

Tim Bayliss stands in front of Nick Shaw's empty house. He stares at the blank windows, waiting for the sick feeling in his stomach to go away.

Shaw is dead.

He tells himself again that the man was a useless murderer, the world is a better place without him. Unless he didn't kill his wife and son.

Tim is lost. Adrift. He is a detective without an investigation. A man without a job. He has spent years convincing himself that his fellow detectives are his friends. The reality is they are little more than vague acquaintances. Share a few beers, a few stories, and that's that.

Even Frank.

Frank, who doesn't understand him. Who will never understand him. Who doesn't *want* to understand him. Tim accepts this. But Frank's oh-so-righteous anger at Tim's behavior in the Box is unforgivable. How often has Frank reduced a suspect to a blubbering mass of nerve endings? How often has he verbally flayed a confession out of some sweaty, pimple-faced kid?

But that's okay. Because Frank Pembleton is a step above the rest. He is, apparently, above reproach. But not Tim Bayliss. Good ol' fly-off-the-handle Tim. Snarky Tim. They see nothing more than an obsessive, insecure cop. Maybe he does obsess over certain cases, but with good reason. Asleep in the cold ground, Adena still waits for him to find her killer. Maybe he is insecure, but when his Lieutenant forces him into an unwanted vacation, how can he not be?

But Tim Bayliss has other qualities. He is stubborn. No matter what they think-Frank in particular-he is a good detective. He has an eye for detail. He is patient. He is honest.

And he is tired. Again, the thought creeps up on him, a familiar shadow. Maybe. But it's too late. Now there is something to prove.

He stands outside Nick Shaw's house, unsure why he has come. The neighborhood was canvassed days ago. The trail to Shaw's killer-if he was killed-is stone cold. Hands in his pockets, Tim watches the house and wonders what really went on in Nick Shaw's living room.

"No one's home."

A young boy, maybe eleven or twelve, stands next to him. A heavy sack of newspapers rests on one shoulder. The boy nods at the Shaw house. He speaks with faint reverence. "They're all dead."

Tim smiles at the boy. A nice, friendly kid. A glimpse of who Tim might have been. "What happened?"

The boy stares at Tim's detective shield. "Are you a cop?"

Tim nods. "I'm trying to find out what happened to Mrs. Shaw and her son, Justin."

The boy looks at the house. "A lot of people think Mr. Shaw killed them. But I don't. He was a nice guy. He used to give me money to do little errands now and then." The boy slides the bag to the ground. "As a matter of fact, the day of the...uh...murders," the boy is uncomfortable with the word, "he gave me five bucks to mail a letter."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I try not to be nosy...but it was kind of cool. The letter was addressed to the FBI."

Tim looks at the kid sharply. "You're sure."

The boy nods, eyes wide. "Yes, sir."

The detective grins. "My name is Tim. What's yours?"

"Kevin Kryder." He points down the block. "I live in the blue split-level. With the fence."

"About the letter. Was it addressed to the FBI in general, or to someone specific?"

Kevin's forehead creases. "To an FBI agent, because it was a funny name. An animal's name." He frowns. "I'm sorry, I can't remember."

"Did you talk to Detective Munch or Officer Vanzin earlier this week? They came around to a lot of the houses in your neighborhood, asking questions. Nobody mentioned anything about a letter."

A scared look crosses Kevin's face. "I was staying overnight at a friend's house. I'm not in trouble am I?"

"Oh, no." Tim shakes his head. "You've been a really big help. You might help me solve this case."

The boy's expression tells Tim he doesn't quite believe him, but he nods and reaches for the bag of papers. "Wait a minute, Kevin. Let me give you my card. If you remember anything else, just give me a call, anytime. Okay?"

The boy takes the card, stares at it a moment, and slips it into his pocket. "Okay."

The boy continues with his paper route and Tim walks slowly back to his car.

"Hey!"

Tim turns to see Kevin Kryder running toward him.

Tim holds a hand up, shielding his face from the morning sun. He squints at the boy.

"I remember the name on the envelope!" The kid says, excited. "I don't remember the last name, but I'm almost sure the first name was Fox. Agent Fox Something, it said."

Tim ruffles the boy's hair. "That's terrific, Kevin."

Kevin grins and runs back down the street.

"Thanks!" Tim calls to the boy's back.

He gets into the car. He sits behind the wheel for a moment, considering the boy's statement. According to Gee's mandate, he should not have come here this morning. But since he *did* continue an investigation he is no longer part of, he should inform Pembleton or Lewis of Kevin's information.

'Should', being the operative word.

Tim taps the steering wheel thoughtfully. Maybe Washington D.C. would be a nice place to start his vacation. Inside Agent Fox Mulder's office.

***

Bright light. He can't see. Fox Mulder stiffens involuntarily, panic jerking his body forward. He brushes against something.

Make that *someone*. The shape next to him slides into focus. Nick.

They're in some kind of cell. The blinding light comes from the rows of fixtures, high above. Mulder releases his breath slowly, staring up at the steel cables and beams. Where are they? A warehouse?

"Nick."

Shaw doesn't answer. Mulder feels for his friend's pulse. It's steady. He recalls the moment of terror at Scully's apartment, followed by...nothing. Darkness. The men must have been armed with tranquilizer guns. He shakes Nick's shoulder. "Nick," he whispers again, urgent.

"Shut up."

Mulder peers through the metal bars. Two guards stand outside the door. "What do you want?" Mulder demands.

Both men wear black military dress. They carry what look like small Uzis. Their dark berets are marked with the emblem of an eagle clutching a small globe in its claws. "Nice outfits," Mulder says. "Which covert branch of the military do you represent?"

One of the guards walks close to the bars and glares in. "I told you to shut up."

Mulder speaks with a courage he doesn't feel. He musters a cocky smile. "I guess you'll just have to shoot me with another tranq."

Nick moans and stirs on the floor.

The man's lip curls. "Don't tempt me. I might use real bullets this time." He turns to Eagle Five. "Go get Jacardi. Tell him they're awake."

Eagle Five nods once and walks out.

Mickey Kostmayer pulls a key ring out of his pocket. "Okay. Listen, and listen good." He speaks low and fast. "I'm going to unlock this door. Get Shaw to his feet and follow me. This is your one chance to escape. Don't blow it."

Mulder stares into the guard's hard eyes, shocked. He stands frozen, unsure what to believe. Mickey turns the key and the steel door slides open. He raises his Uzi. "Come on. *Now*. If you blow this, you'll get us all killed."

Mulder hauls Nick to his feet. He slings an arm around Nick's shoulders. He hesitates. Why should he trust the guard? This is just another trap. Mulder swears, frustrated. There is no choice. He's dead if he stays and dead if he goes.

Mickey prods Mulder with the gun. "Move it!"

Glaring, Mulder takes a step forward. Nick opens his eyes. He blinks, still groggy. "What's happening?"

"I'm trying to keep you alive," Mickey growls. "I'm on your side, all right? Follow me." Mickey sprints to the door. He looks over his shoulder, realizing he's alone.

Mulder and Shaw wait in the doorway of the cell. Shaw stares. "You're the man who was-"

Mickey grits his death. Holy God, we're gonna die. "NOW!" he hisses.

The look on the guard's face breaks Mulder's paralysis. The two men follow Mickey.

Mickey punches in the door's code and the heavy lock snaps free. He pushes the door open, shoulder first, Uzi ready. He glances down the hallway. Clear both ways. The video camera at the east elevator has been turned to record the ceiling.

Perspiring heavily, Mickey guides the two men down the hallway and into the stairwell. "We've got three flights, gentleman. If you value your lives, I suggest you run like you never have before."

Mickey quickly outdistances them. Mulder, still suffering the effects of the sedation, struggles for balance. Nick lags behind, one hand trailing the wall for support.

They clear the first flight. Mickey hardly dares to breathe. Get me out of here and I swear to God I'll retire. Looks like McCall had the right idea after all. His heavy boots pound the steps with unbearable noise. Come on come one we're almost there almost almost...

They clear the second flight.

Mulder's lungs scream with strain. Keep running. The pain is nothing compared to a bullet hole in your head! Nick breathes raggedly, desperate to keep up.

Footsteps. Directly below. Coming *toward* them. Mickey's gut goes into free-fall. Fight or retreat? Two lives depend on him. He grabs the railing and swings himself around. Mulder nearly collides with him. "Go back," he hisses. "GO BACK!"

Mickey runs. Footsteps and muted shouts follow. He grabs hold of Shaw's arm and pulls the scientist along faster. They reach the second flight door. Two men in white lab coats stare at the trio, open-mouthed.

He doesn't want to risk the elevator, but can they make it to the west fire escape in time? The decision is made for him. Three of his Black Eagle team members wait around the corner, faces blank, guns raised.

Mickey squeezes off a round before leaping back to safety. He's rewarded with a sharp, agonized cry. Eagle Five, the second guard from the holding cell, falls to the floor, dead. Blood pools beneath him. Mulder and Nick press themselves to the wall.

"What the hell are you doing, Kitt?" Petri's voice. Eagle Three.

Karl Jansen spits out an order: "Drop. Your. Gun." Eagle Four.

Mickey closes his eyes, leans his head against the wall. This is it. Game over. Damn! He hates failure.

The footsteps are loud behind them now. The door slams open and Eagle Two and Eagle Six stand ready.

Jansen repeats the order: "Drop the gun. Hands up, Kitt. Last warning."

Mickey lays the gun on the floor, very gently. He raises his hands. There are regrets, but he always knew there would be. A lot of men have been sacrificed over the years. His turn has finally come.

The fire door opens a second time and Roy Jacardi appears, flanked by two men in dark suits. Jacardi nods at Shaw, a smile splitting his tanned face. "Nick. It's good to see you again." His attention shifts to Mulder. "And Agent Mulder. It's a pleasure. I've heard quite a lot about you."

Jacardi's eyes flick to Kostmayer. "Well done, Kitt. You had me fooled." He bows slightly. "Not an easy trick, I assure you." He face takes on a pained expression. "Raise your guns!" His voice is steel. Four weapons rise in unison, trained on Mickey.

Jacardi nods and two of his entourage pull Nick and Mulder to safety. Mulder struggles briefly, but a sharp cuff to the head stills him. He closes his eyes, unable to watch.

"Aim!" Three safety mechanisms click off. A split second later, a fourth.

Jacardi glances from Karl Jansen to Mickey. "Are you alone in your adventures, Mr. Kitt, or do you have help?"

Mickey's face is stone. "I'm alone."

Jacardi nods. "Now."

Eagles Three, Five and Six turn as one. They fire on Jansen. His body drops like a stone. Mickey stares at his fallen comrade, shocked. He struggles to keep control his expression. Jacardi smiles, satisfied. "You're alone now."

Eagle Five, Will Tompkin, steps forward. His eyes bore into Mickey's. He raises the butt of his 9mm and cracks it against the former Team Leader's temple.

Mickey falls against the wall, but he doesn't cry out. He raises his head, defiant. "Your aim always was a little off, Tompkin." A dark line of blood snakes down his face.

Tompkin's aim improves the second time.

***

She sits on the porch swing, head back, eyes closed, enjoying a moment of quiet. A dog-eared Margaret Atwood novel rests in her lap.

"Hey Shorty."

Dana opens her eyes to see her brother standing in the doorway. "There's a Walter Skinner on the phone for you."

Scully frowns. Why would Skinner be calling her? Unless something was wrong--? She leaves the paperback on the swing and follows her brother inside, worry niggling at the back of her mind. Charles points to the kitchen extension. She picks it up. "Hello?"

The Assistant Director's deep voice booms into her ear. "Agent Scully? I apologize for interrupting your much deserved vacation. But some news has come to my attention that you should be aware of."

Scully stretches the cord and moves into her brother's pantry in an attempt at privacy. "What is it, sir?"

"I got a call this morning from your landlord, a Ms. Deanna Todd. A neighbor of yours noticed your apartment door ajar early this morning. She went in, realized you weren't home and contacted Ms. Todd. Ms. Todd called the police. And myself."

Scully puts a hand to her temple. The beginning of a headache throbs behind her eyes. "Was anything taken?"

"I don't know. The television, VCR, your computer, they're all still there. Beyond that, I'm not sure."

Scully sighs. "Okay. I'll give Deanna a call or see if I can book an earlier flight home."

"I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Agent Scully. If you want to extend your vacation time, that's fine. I'm sure Agent Mulder can muddle through in your absence."

The smile in Skinner's voice cheers Scully. She pictures Mulder at his desk, lost in an ocean of papers, memos, and files. "Thank you, sir, but I plan to be back Tuesday."

"I'll see you then, Scully."

"Goodbye, sir."

Dana hangs up and calculates. Her mother is still at church with her sister-in-law. If she calls the airline now and packs in less than fifteen minutes, maybe she can be on a plane in...say, a little more than an hour.

***

"Easy or hard, Mr. Kitt?"

Mickey hangs his head, silent. Petri and Tompkin stand on either side of him, holding him upright. Jacardi stands outside the cell.

"Who do you work for?" Jacardi demands for the second time.

Mickey grimaces. He raises two blackened eyes to the slender, well-dressed man. "You."

Jacarda sighs. "Hard, then." He gives Petri and Tompkin a warning look. "No permanent damage, gentleman. I have a use for him."

Jacardi turns and leaves the large sparsely furnished room. It resembles a laboratory. Beyond the workstation and computer area are a series of cots, a small bathroom, and Mickey's cell. The cell is a duplicate of the one he released Nick and Mulder from approximately two hours earlier. A twelve by twelve space with a low cement platform and a small toilet half-obscured by a white plastic curtain.

Petri's voice is low in his ear. "Why did you do it?"

Kostmayer smirks. "Just wanted to make sure you boys were paying attention."

Petri shakes his head in wonder. "You're some kind of idiot, Kitt." His foot lashes out and connects with Mickey's knee.

Mickey collapses against the cold cement. "Hey," he reminds them, "no permanent damage."

Tompkin's eyes register disgust. "Shut up."

He does.

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

Part 5/10

"What do you mean you're leaving?" Margaret Scully stares at her daughter's suitcase in alarm.

"I'm sorry, Mom. Skinner called and said someone might have broken into my apartment. I'd just feel better if I went home and checked things out myself." She smiles gently. "I've had a great time with you."

Margaret sighs. "And I've had a wonderful time with you, honey. I was just hoping it didn't have to end yet." She opens her arm helplessly. "This is the first time we've been together like this in so long. It almost makes me forget...forget that..." her eyes cloud and she turns away from her daughter.

Scully moves to her mother and wraps the older woman in a hug. "Shh. It's okay, Mom. *I'm* okay." She smiles. "You know me, I'm a fighter. I've got a good dose of Ahab in me, Mom."

Margaret holds her daughter tightly. She blinks back tears. "I never did stand much chance against you or your father." She steps back and looks into Dana's face. "Then I'll come home with you."

Scully refutes her mother's offer. "No, Mom. There's no reason you have to leave early. I don't want to spoil your vacation. I've had my rest and relaxation. If I have too much, poor Mulder won't recognize me when I get back."

This brings a smile to Margaret's face. "Dana..."

"I'm serious, Mom. It's okay. I'm going to go home, make sure everything's all right. I'm sure it will be. But if I don't go, I'll just make myself and everyone else miserable worrying. I'll call you tonight, I promise."

Margaret nods. "You better." The two women embrace once more. Scully turns to Charles and gives him a kiss on the cheek. He pulls her close in a bear hug. "You take care, junior G-Woman," he whispers in her ear.

Scully smiles. "I will."

Five minutes later she is in a taxi, on her way to the airport. The niggle of worry has blossomed into something larger, something close to fear. Something is wrong. She's not sure what, but she can feel it. For the umpteenth time, she pulls out her cell phone and dials Mulder. There's no answer.

She leans against the window, watching the rainbow blur of traffic. Where is her partner?

***

He dreams. He and McCall are eating dinner at O'Phelans. But when he looks closely at Robert, he sees that it's not Robert after all, but Control. Control is telling him something, something important, but he can't quite figure it out.

Mickey shakes his head, frustrated. His face grave, Control points. Mickey turns and gasps. Serena stands behind him, crying. Mickey looks from Control to Serena. "What's going on?"

He turns back to Serena, disbelief and joy pulling his heart in two different directions. Roy Jacardi holds a gun to the woman's head, his eyes dark and flat. "Who do you work for?" he demands.

Panic propels Mickey forward. He runs to Serena.

She pulls away. "No! No! I won't do it! I won't do it!" Her voice changes. A man's voice.

Mickey turns his head and opens his eyes. The last fragments of his dream dissipate. Nick Shaw is screaming at someone.

"I won't do it!" he cries.

Jacardi sits on a small stool, smiling through the bars. "You have no choice, Mr. Shaw. It's already done." He nods to Tompkin. "Let Mr. Shaw out, please. He has work to do." Jacardi gestures around him. "This is your lab, Nick. Everything you might need is here. Your notes are on the table. The computer is set up. Will Tompkin is your new lab assistant." Jacardi's smile fades. "Concentrate on the work at hand, Nick." He gestures to Petri. "Petri doesn't like short attention spans. Don't let yours wander."

Tompkin pushes Nick out of the cell and into the laboratory. He relocks the door. Mulder sits at the far end of the cell, glaring.

Jacardi continues. "Mickey Kostmayer, alias Thomas Kitt, is your test subject. We'll see how Mr. Kostmayer benefits from Perfect Clarity. If you don't have much luck the first time, don't worry, Nick." He smiles at Mulder. "You have a second test subject."

Jacardi stands and approaches the cell. He smoothes his rumpled suit jacket carefully. "Mr. Kostmayer. I find a great sense of irony in this situation. To think we can test Perfect Clarity on a member of the CIA." He chuckles. "It's quite amusing, actually."

Mickey pushes himself into a sitting position. "I'm laughing already."

Jacardi's expression shifts. "Don't be flippant with me. I don't like liars, Mr. Kostmayer."

"You must not look in the mirror very often."

Mulder chuckles at Kostmayer's response. Jacardi turns his anger on the FBI agent. "Go ahead and laugh, Mr. Mulder. Your time will come."

Mulder holds Jacardi's gaze. "So will yours."

Jacardi smiles thinly. "We'll see about that." He exits the room. The door clangs shut behind him, locking Nick inside with Petri and Tompkin.

Nick rushes to the cell. "I'm sorry, Fox." He aims a futile kick at the bars. "I'm so sorry..."

Mulder summons a tired smile for his friend. "If we're going to be spending this much time together, call me Mulder. I don't go by the name Fox."

Nick nods dumbly. Petri's strong arm grips his shoulder. "It's time to get to work, Doctor Shaw," he says quietly. "The rest of your equipment is on its way. I suggest you get things started."

Nick stares at the dark skinned soldier. Petri gives Nick a helpful push. "Now."

Nick closes his eyes. This isn't happening. This isn't happening. He boots up the computer, feeling violently ill. They have him. They have his research. He's trapped. And there's no escape. As much as it hurts to admit, maybe it's better that Angie is gone. That she can't see what he's become.

***

The two men sit at opposite ends of the cell.

Mulder glances at the other man. "You're with the CIA?"

Mickey shrugs. "What's Perfect Clarity?" He rolls his shirtsleeve up, inspecting the small red needle prick in the crook of his elbow. He feels vaguely sick. His head is killing him. And the knowledge that he's been injected with an unknown drug doesn't do much to improve his mood. His mind tries to go back to the last time he was kidnapped and tortured with drugs, but he refuses. That door is closed.

"Why does The Company want me alive?" Mulder persists.

"Why not?"

Mulder rests his head against the bars. "Most secret factions of the government want me dead. It's a pleasant surprise knowing there's one that doesn't." He taps his head against the metal. "Not that it does me any good now..."

Mickey pulls himself to his feet. He sways for a moment before gaining his balance. "Shaw!" he bellows. "What the hell did they stick me with?"

Shaw glances from Petri to Tompkin nervously. "It's an experimental drug..."

Mickey closes his eyes. Great.

"It enhances your senses. You'll hear and see better. More accurately. It induces telepathic capabilities."

Mickey almost laughs. "So I'll know they're on their way to kill me before they actually get here?"

Nick blinks rapidly. "Something like that."

"Who hired you to protect us?" Mulder wants to know.

Mickey shoots the agent a harsh look. "You know, between your questions and Jacardi's, I have one hell of a headache. Do me a favor and shut up for a while."

Mulder glares back, irritated. "You were supposed to get us out of here, right? Well, it looks like you screwed up big time, pal. The least you can do is answer a few questions." His eyes smolder. "You owe me."

Mickey ignores the agent's tirade. "I don't owe you a thing," he says coldly. "I was doing my job." He turns his back on Mulder. End of discussion.

Mulder glares at Mickey's back, but he remains quiet. He sinks to the floor, his back pressed against the bars. He buries his head in his hands.

I need your help, Scully. Like never before.

***

The man takes a long drag on his cigarette. What a mess. What a Goddamn mess. He stares at the top of his worn desk, disgusted. What were they thinking? What could they *possibly* have been thinking? He takes another drag before dialing.

A smooth voice answers. She sounds like a recording. "New World Laboratories. We make the world a better place. How may I direct-"

He interrupts her prepared speech. "Extension 1121."

The cool voice hesitates. "May I tell Mr. Jacardi who's calling?"

He comes close to hanging up in her ear. He blows a ring of smoke into a dim interior of his office. "No, you may not."

The voice lacks its previous confidence. "One moment, please."

She puts him on hold. He stares at the wall while insipid music plays in his ear. The seconds tick by and his anger grows. Finally Jacardi comes on the line. He plays the part of annoyed businessman. "Roy Jacardi here. I'm sorry but-"

"But nothing!" he snarls into the receiver. "What do you think you're doing? You're making one hell of a mess and I'm not about to clean up after you."

Jacardi is silent for a moment. "What are you talking about?" he asks cautiously, testing the water.

"Why did you involve Agent Mulder?" the man asks through clenched teeth. He fumbles for the silver lighter and lights another Morley. "You know better than that!"

On firmer ground, Jacardi chuckles. "Ah, yes, the golden child. Isn't the sacred cow bit a little old by now? Bill Mulder is dead. There are no more debts. You know that." Jacardi's voice is ingratiating. "I have little interest in the Mulder boy. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"He knows too much. It's better we keep him safe."

"Did you give him the drug?"

Jacardi hesitates. "No."

He tamps the half-smoked cigarette into the ashtray and lights another. "You've given all of us a very big headache, Roy. We won't soon forget this."

"Empty threats, old boy, and you know it. You're part of the Old Guard. How much longer do you think they'll keep you around? You're all doddering towards social security. Pretty soon your inner sanctum sanctorum will be the television room at Golden Hills Retirement Home." Jacardi laughs brightly, amused by his own wit. "You should thank me for taking Mulder off your hands.

"I'm a very busy man...unlike you." The unctuous tone of Jacardi's voice makes the older man's fist clench. "I have to go now." He pauses. "Some friendly advice: Try learning some knew tricks. Before it's too late."

The connection breaks and the man is left listening to dial tone. He stares at the phone for several seconds before hanging up. He brings the Morley to his lips, inhales. He exhales slowly, watching the smoke spiral up and away. Insubstantial. Meaningless.

Just like Roy Jacardi's veiled threats.

He rubs a hand over his lined face. Jacardi is an impudent fool. Projecting the importance of his project onto himself. Concentrating on his petty desires instead of the greater good. He stubs out his cigarette and stands.

He may be an old dog. But he still knows a lot of tricks.

***

"I told you to be quiet!" Mickey lifts his head and glares at Mulder from beneath bruised, swollen lids.

Mulder returns the glare, petulant. "I didn't say anything."

Shaw pulls his gaze away from the columns of information on his computer screen. "What's going on?"

Neither man answers.

Shaw rolls his chair back from the workstation. He feels a mixture of triumph and despair. "Mr. Kostmayer? Are you...are you picking up on Mulder's thoughts?"

Mickey gives the scientist a withering look. "Yeah, right. As if..." his words trail off. He blinks and slowly turns to Mulder. He opens his mouth. Closes it. He swallows. "Who's Scully?"

Mulder's eyes widen. "How do you-" He runs to the door of their cell and grips the bars. He calls to Nick. "You were right! It's working!" Excitement makes him forget the momentary feeling of invasion.

Mickey stands, wincing at the pain in his knee. "What's working?" He has a good idea, but thinking it and saying it out loud are two different things.

Nick looks haggard. Dark circles ring his eyes. He puts both hands to his face. He speaks through the self-made barrier. "You're showing signs of extra sensory perception, Mr. Kostmayer. Perfect Clarity is working."

Mickey struggles to digest the information. A flash of fear jolts him. He's a laboratory rat again. More experiments. What are they going to turn him into this time? He shudders, trying to block out the memories, only half succeeding.

The scientist lowers his hands and walks toward their cell. Concern is etched into his face. "How are you feeling, Mr. Kostmayer? Are you all right?"

No, he's not all right. Mickey bows his head, searching for some Way Out. McCall can't save him this time. He glances up, feeling Petri's eyes on him. Petri looks away. He calls to the guard. "Get me out of here."

Petri lifts his gun, a warning. "Be quiet."

Mickey motions to Shaw. "Hey doc, why don't you give Petri a little shot of your wonder drug."

Petri's eyes narrow. He turns a glare on Shaw. Any glimmer of hope Shaw had of overpowering Petri and injecting him evaporates.

Tompkin punches in the exit code and hurries from the room.

Mickey puts his face close to the bars. "Come over here, Petri. I want to talk to you."

Petri ignores him.

"Petri!" Mickey continues the game, baiting the guard for the next five minutes.

Eventually, Petri's patience ends. He stands slowly, a thick hatred coiling inside him. Kitt is a coward. A liar. And a traitor. He walks quickly toward the cell, his face flushed. And it's time to teach the traitor a lesson. He rams the gun through the bars, narrowly missing Mickey's head. "Traitor!"

The words have a powerful effect on Mickey. He reaches out for Petri, eyes wild. "I'm not a traitor!" Petri lunges with the gun again, smashing Mickey in the shoulder. Kostmayer reels back, still screaming.

Swallowing his fear, Nick takes a stand. "Step back, Mr. Petri. I would thank you not to harm Mr. Kostmayer. Physical damage could jeopardize the outcome of my study. Would you like me to tell Mr. Jacardi that you're interfering with my experiment?" It takes all his will power to meet Petri's furious gaze.

Seconds pass like days. Sweat rolls down Nick's back. Petri backs away grudgingly. He pulls a chair over to the door and studies the floor, sullen.

Mickey puts his hands to his head, squeezing. He's desperate to shut out the memories that war with his current overflow of emotions. He can't keep up. He feels Petri's rage, Nick's fear, and Mulder's apprehension. Which emotions are his, which belong to the men around him? An image of a red-haired woman with crystal blue eyes invades his thoughts.

"Are you all right?" Mulder takes a tentative step toward Kostmayer.

Mickey sinks into a corner of the cell, as far from Mulder as possible. "I'm fine." He looks up at his cellmate, eyes hard. "I'm *not* a traitor."

Mulder nods, accepting this. "I didn't say you were."

With effort, Mickey slows his breathing. He concentrates on sorting his feelings. Breathe. Control. Stay calm. Think. Think. He rubs his bruised shoulder absently. It's hard to formulate a plan when he keeps picking up this much...interference.

"Have you been here before?" Mulder asks. The psychologist in him recognizes the look on Mickey's face. He noticed the man's stiff, panicked movements during the exchange with Petri. He clarifies. "In a situation like this?"

Kostmayer shrugs. "Maybe." A sudden image of Mulder in a small stone cell invades his thoughts. Russian guards hold him down and inject him with something. They drag him out of the room, screaming, to someplace worse. Kostmayer cocks his head, studying Mulder. "*You* were held captive. There was some kind of experiment...?"

Mulder's face closes off. He struggles for composure. He doesn't think about the labor camp. Or the test. Or Krychek. "Yes." He offers no further explanation.

Mickey sits quietly, trying to separate his thoughts from Mulder's. "You miss your partner," Mickey says after a few minutes. He weaves his fingers together, resting his hands on his knees. He focuses on the curve of his knuckles instead of Mulder. He doesn't see Mulder and Nick exchange glances.

Mulder, apprehensive: What's going to happen?

Nick looks away, guilty, one finger tracing an invisible line across a fresh page of notes. I don't know.

"She has red hair, right?" Mickey continues, still watching his hands. Fatigue seeps into his bones, a cold, gray poison. "I keep seeing an image of a woman..."

Mulder smiles faintly. "That's Scully. She's amazing." He struggles to find the right words to describe her. "She's-"

"Sick."

Mulder's throat closes. He struggles past the panic. Defiantly: "She's getting better." He doesn't care if Kostmayer believes him or not. It's what he believes. He *must* believe...

Mickey runs a hand through his hair, an unconscious gesture. "You're an FBI agent?" He knows more about Fox Mulder than Mulder will ever know about him, but it's something to say. Something to keep his mouth moving, to keep him from feeling-absorbing-the thoughts around him.

"Yeah."

Charcoal sketches. Hundreds of them taped to walls. Each page bears the face of evil. A man digging deep into the mind of madness. Mickey glances at Mulder, then away. "You're a...what do you call it? A profiler?"

Mulder laughs. It starts slowly, but builds momentum until he can't stop. He laughs for a long time, riding out the hysteria, until tears stream down his face. Mickey waits for the outburst to end.

"Fox?" Nick corrects himself. "Mulder? Are you all right?" He slides off his stool, not sure what to do.

Mulder wipes his eyes roughly. "I'm great, Nick," he says, his voice unsteady. "Just great. I've dedicated the last six years of my life to investigating paranormal phenomena. I've spent years searching for the truth, and now I find it, locked inside a laboratory where I'll probably die." His laughter turns harsh. "That's the story of my life."

"Searching for what truth?" Mickey asks.

Mulder sighs and stretches himself out on the floor of the cell. He stares up at the ceiling, counting beams. He doesn't answer. Why bother?

Mickey doesn't need an answer. He knows. He can sense that Mulder lost someone important. Someone he loved. A daughter...? No. A sister. She disappeared in a bright light. A mystery, never solved. The young boy left alone with his sister still carries the guilt of not saving her. Mickey closes his eyes, looking deeper. Save her from what?

"What happened to your sister?"

Mulder rolls onto his stomach. He rests his chin on his arms. "You can't tell?"

"It's not clear. I can't tell what happened."

Mulder snorts. "Neither can I, and I was there."

"What do you think happened?"

Mulder inspects a thin crack in the floor. "I think she was abducted." He lifts his head slightly, gauging the response. "By aliens."

The look of disbelief on Mickey's face is fleeting, but noticeable.

Petri guffaws from across the room. "Little green men, huh?"

Mulder winks at the guard. "You'd know, wouldn't you?" He shifts his attention back to Mickey. "Come on. You work for the government. You're telling me you don't know what's really going on?"

Mickey shrugs. "There's a lot I don't know. They don't pay me to know, they pay me to be a soldier. I don't want to know. It makes things a hell of lot easier."

Mulder pushes himself into a sitting position. "Maybe not knowing helps you sleep better at night, but it doesn't work for me. I ask questions. I *want* to know. I need to know the truth about what happened to my sister. I need to know what role the government's playing in all of this."

Mickey leans forward. "What if there is no truth?"

"Of course there's truth! You're part of it! We both are! What do you think this Perfect Clarity is? It's not even a man-made drug! It's-" The tortured look on Kostmayer's face stops him cold.

Mickey holds a hand out, pushing Mulder's words away. He shakes his head. "No." His eyes seek out Nick, frantic. "What did you do?"

Nick bows his head, mute.

Mickey's voice rises. "What did you do?"

Tentative: "They made me..."

Mickey smiles, a deadly show of teeth. "I'm sure."

"Don't play holier than thou, Kostmayer. Are you proud of every job you've done? Just how easy do you sleep?" Mulder asks the soldier.

Kostmayer's eyes follow Nick across the room. "When does it start?"

Nick's voice is weak. "What?"

"You know what!" Mickey screams, rattling the bars. "How much longer until I die?"

Nick takes a faltering step. "I don't know. I'm trying...trying to find out what the problem is. You might not...you might not die."

Kostmayer laughs bitterly. He looks up at the ceiling. "That's reassuring." He limps back and forth across the cell. "A bullet I understand. A bullet makes sense. I *expect* it, even. But this..." he shakes his head, lost. "This I don't understand." He continues pacing. Back and forth. Back and forth.

Mulder crawls back to his side of the cell. All three men lapse into silence. He stares at his watch. Somewhere between Scully's apartment and this cell, it was broken. The watch face is cracked, the time set eternally at nine-forty two. Missing time he thinks. Giddily: This time, *I'm* missing. He touches the cracked glass, traces the stilled minute hand. Find the information, Scully. Solve the puzzle.

"What's that noise?"

Mulder pulls his gaze away from his watch. Listening: "What noise?"

Petri moves in the chair, restless. His grip tightens on the gun.

Nick pauses over the microscope, ears straining.

Mickey moves to the front of the cell. "It sounds like...wheels. Someone's coming." An odd look crosses his face. A mixture of awe and regret. The knowledge he possesses a gift he cannot keep. A gift that will inevitably kill him.

Gradually the others hear what Mickey does. The outer door opens and Tompkin, Jacardi, and two of Jacardi's associates enter the room. One of the associates pushes a metal cart. The cart is stacked with medical equipment: electrodes, lead wires, heart rate monitor, portable electroencephalogram monitor, blood pressure cuff. A hospital on wheels.

Jacardi looks pleased. "I understand things are progressing well."

The two associates approach the cell with the cart. Mickey watches them, wary. They're going to hook him up. Study him like a caged rat. "Get away from me."

Jacardi signals Tompkin. "Some help, please." Tompkin unlocks the door and slides it open, his face impassive. The two technicians step inside.

Mulder circles the perimeter of the cell, edging closer to Mickey. "What are you doing?"

Tompkin shoves the FBI agent to the back of the cell. "This isn't your concern."

Jacardi smiles. "Easy or hard, Mr. Kostmayer?"

***

"I'm really sorry, Dana. I don't know what happened. No one reported anything. I hope nothing is missing."

Scully smiles weakly. "I hope so too."

Deanna Todd pulls the padlock from Scully's broken door. She pushes the door open and steps aside. "There you go."

Her apartment looks the same. Nothing out of place. She checks the jewelry box in the bedroom. Nothing missing. Her emergency cash is still hidden beneath the silverware tray in the kitchen. She scans each room, searching for something missing or moved.

And then she sees it-the disk next to her answering machine. When reads the inscription, she snatches it up, turning it over. 'From George Hale'. What is Mulder trying to tell her? There's only one way to find out. She turns the computer on.

"Maybe it was just a prank," Scully suggests. "There doesn't seem to be anything missing." She smiles. "No damage done."

Deanna is visibly relieved. "I'm so glad! The door will be replaced in the morning. They're supposed to come around eight, but you know what that means..." she rolls her eyes.

Scully smiles, no longer listening. She offers a mechanical "Thank you."

"Call me if you need anything," Deanna says. "Or if you do discover something's missing. Okay?"

Scully nods. "I will."

Deanna leaves, pulling Scully's door closed behind her. Scully inserts the disk and scrolls through the document names. She smiles thinly. Only Mulder would think of saving documents as a Christmas Card list. She opens the document named MARGRET. It looks to be a scanned document, some kind of notes. She squints at the screen, trying to decipher the handwriting.

She clicks the mouse, ready to open the next document, but she clicks too many times. She's out of the A: drive and back at the main directory. She blinks at the screen. Her C: drive is empty.

There isn't one document. The original copies of her field reports, her journal, all gone. Scully jerks to her feet. She scrutinizes the room with new eyes. Still nothing out of place. She reaches for the phone and dials Mulder's number. No answer. She slams the receiver back down. If this is his idea of a joke...

Agitated, she returns to the bedroom. The empty Blue Morning bottle stands in the middle of the dresser. She approaches the bottle. How had she missed that before? She notices the bottle is no longer empty. Pulling out the glass stopper, she sniffs the contents cautiously. No odor. She holds the tinted bottle to the light.

She recalls the open document on the computer screen. Notes for some kind of drug research. A hallucinogenic derivative, according to the little she had read. Did Mulder leave this for her? Had she just exposed herself to something dangerous? She hastily recaps the bottle and returns it to the dresser.

Now what? Where are you, Mulder? What are you involved with this time?

If only Pendrell could help her analyze the mysterious formula. A familiar sadness fills her. Agent Pendrell. Another casualty in a pointless war. One of the few people she had trusted besides Mulder. Who could help her now?

She sinks down on the bed. Why hasn't Mulder called? Surely something is wrong. A glint of metal catches her eye. She leans forward and picks up the silver chain. Scully stares at the small ring for several seconds while her heart compresses inside her chest. Mulder needs her. This is a sure sign. She clutches the necklace in her fist.

There is only one thing to do.